dark_sinestra

Julian

The Infirmary

The entire situation seemed unreal. Murder aboard the station was extremely rare, usually the result of some underhanded or illegal dealing gone bad or the occasional result of domestic violence. He performed the autopsy with his usual sense of detachment because it was his job. However, it didn't stop him from thinking about the circumstances of the death and the ugly climate that had permeated the station in just a matter of days from Akorem's announcement. He didn't buy the will of the Prophets rubbish. In his private opinion, non-linear aliens simply had no concept of time or the consequences of jumbling the time line. Who knew why they brought Akorem to the present, or if they had any reason at all other than to see what might happen?

It didn't take him very long to be able to determine the cause of death for certain, broken neck from the fall leading to rapid asphyxiation from total body paralysis. Fortunately, it seemed as though he lost consciousness upon impact. He entered his official findings for the record, stripped out of the red scrubs, and put the body in cold storage for evidence in the murder case. He was down to one nurse and one medic for the shift, both of them grim and silent. He wondered if they'd try to put in for a transfer soon. He wondered if Starfleet would pull all of them out of the sector within the year. The only positive he had to focus on in the moment was knowing Garak was with Leeta. He couldn't think of anyone better suited to keeping her safe.

“Sir,” his nurse approached him hesitantly.

He glanced up from the report he was writing. “Yes?”

“Aside from the murder, we had an incident at lunch,” she said.

“What sort of incident?” he asked, thinking silently, What now?

“You remember a family had an appointment to bring their two children in for routine vaccinations?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding.

“Someone from a higher caste walked in complaining of a rash and became irate when we refused to see him first. He said he's going to file a complaint with the Bajoran government. I was wondering what our official policy is going to be on this?”

He wanted to hit something. He genuinely wanted to hit something, his fists balling tightly. “Our official policy, Nurse, is that Starfleet doesn't operate under a caste system. Since the majority of our Bajoran staff has quit, this is a Starfleet medical facility, and it will be run as such. Tell them next time if they have a complaint to tender it to Starfleet, because we don't look to the Bajoran government for guidance on how we conduct our business.”

She smiled slightly and nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, Sir!” she said. “Before I forget, we also received three more Bajoran resumes.”

“This should be good for a laugh,” he said. “Are they in my office?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He retreated to the back and sat at his desk. As he expected, all of them were Belans, Belan Dar, Belan Rasheek, and Belan Pema. Healer caste. “Oh, this is promising,” he said wryly. “Thirty years on a farm in Lonar Province. Experience with wild herb craft, harvesting and preparation. Or how about this one? No formal education, but eager to learn. Oh, quite possibly my favorite yet. 'I've always known I had a special calling. It's the Prophet's blessing that I now know what it is. Please give me the chance to fulfill my pagh path. You won't regret it'. Perhaps not, but I imagine my patients soon would.”

The male medic ducked his head into the office. “Sorry, Sir, did you say something?”

“I was just talking to myself,” he sighed, “apparently loudly. I'll try my best to keep it down.”

An hour later he was summoned to the wardroom. He felt guilty about it, but he was relieved to get out of the oppressive environment of the infirmary, if only for a little while. He met up with Dax on the way. She wasn't her usual mischievous self, rather quiet and looking tired. “You've looked better,” she told him.

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” he said. “Short staffing?”

She nodded. “In the worst way. We've now got a backlog of at least half a dozen necessary experiments. That's not counting things that are lower priority. For some of the work, we don't have enough people to man all the stations, so we're having to double up and hope we don't miss anything important. I can't imagine what it's like for you in the infirmary.”

“You don't want to,” he said. “I'm down to a skeleton crew. I had three nightmares last night, all about the same thing. We're overrun with Jem'Hadar and Klingons, and there's a constant stream of people with horrific injuries being brought into the infirmary. The only instrument I have is an old fashioned scalpel which I keep waving around like a concert director, trying to get three zombies to do my bidding.”

Dax tried not to laugh but couldn't quite stop herself. “Oh, Julian, that's awful,” she said, wrapping an arm at his waist and lightly bumping the side of her head against his.

“If I weren't really that anxious, I'd find it funny, too,” he said. “I'm glad at least one of us can get something of entertainment value out of it.”

She released him before they entered the wardroom. He had been glad of the comfort. They both took their seats and realized they were only waiting for Chief O'Brien, Major Kira, and Captain Sisko. Commander Worf, Lieutenant Commander Eddington, and Odo nodded to them. None seemed inclined to speak, so Julian took his cue from them.

Captain Sisko arrived with the major and quickly took a seat. “Chief O'Brien can't get away for this, unfortunately. He's a bit understaffed.” He nodded his understanding at the various grunts and displeased looks from around the table. “I'm aware we're all suffering the same problem.” Kira looked strangely guilty and refused to meet anyone's gaze. “In light of this recent murder and the Bajoran government's inadequate response, I feel as though I have no choice but to fly with Akorem Laan into the wormhole and find out what the Prophets really want.”

A chorus of protests immediately rose from everyone else at the table with the exception of Kira. Julian couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Captain, as Chief Medical Officer I really must object. What you're proposing...”

Sisko cut them all off with a sharp chop of his hand. “I know,” he said sternly. “Every single one of you has a valid point, and I'm well aware of the risk I'm taking. I can't just sit by and watch three years of hard work and progress flushed down the toilet in a matter of days based on the words of some ancient poet from two hundred years ago. Now, the way I see it, the only ones who can tell us what they're really thinking are the wormhole aliens themselves. If I don't do this now, Bajor and this station are going to descend into chaos and possible civil war. I will be leaving within the hour. Commander Worf, you'll have the station.”

Although he looked reluctant, Worf nodded. “Aye, Sir.”

“As for the rest of you, I expect you to continue doing your very best with your short staffing and aid Mister Worf in any way you can. For good or ill, I'm hoping I can bring us an answer within the next twenty-six hours. Dismissed.”

No one lingered after the meeting, as none of them had the luxury of the spare time. Julian was in no mood to talk on his way back to the infirmary. He had no reason to trust the wormhole aliens not to do away with the captain altogether if they had decided to back Akorem. While he knew Worf was capable of short term command, he worried about the long term effects on morale of everyone being under such a stern, unapproachable task master, particularly with the staffing issues. He really wished that Miles could have made it to the meeting. The bluff engineer had a way of putting things into perspective that made even the worst case scenarios not look quite so bad.

They saw two more patients before his day was done. Fortunately neither arrived at the same time, so caste wasn't an issue. One had a broken finger that seemed to have gone untreated for a few days. He was less than talkative about the circumstances. Julian gave him an antibiotic for a mild bone infection that had set in, broke and set the bone properly, and gave him pain medication. He noticed a suspicious cut across his throat, long since scabbed over and healing. Of that the man refused to speak at all. The other patient was another rash case. He wondered if stress might be getting to some of the people, because he could find no easy cause of the skin irritation. He prescribed a cream and sent the itchy woman on her way.

As soon as his relief arrived, he hurried back to Leeta's quarters. She was dressed for work, and she and Garak had their heads bent over a game board. He drew closer and discovered they were playing kotra. “I had no idea you knew how to play kotra,” he said to Leeta.

“I don't,” she answered. “Garak is trying to teach me. Operative word, trying.”

“You're too hard on yourself, my dear. It's a complex game that takes years to master. You grasped the rules more quickly than many I've instructed in the past. Improvement comes with time and practice,” Garak said. He straightened his back and twisted a stretch, looking at Julian. “You seem to have news,” he said.

“I do.” He pulled up a chair and straddled it backward, resting his forearms on the back in a loose fold. “I can't say I think it's good news, I'm afraid. Captain Sisko is going to enter the wormhole with Akorem so that they can ask the wormhole aliens directly what they really want for Bajor.”

“Well, that's good,” Leeta said, glancing sharply at him. “If there's confusion, go straight to the source. Why do you think this is a bad thing?”

“What if their answer is that this is what they actually do intend for Bajor?” he asked. “What if they decide the captain is a dangerous distraction? They could do anything to him. We could never see him again.”

Garak broke in before things could get heated. “Let's...not excite ourselves with what ifs,” he suggested. “Captain Sisko has returned from all of his encounters with the aliens so far. They've never seemed particularly malicious or spiteful, just...mysterious, correct?”

Julian grudgingly agreed.

“Regardless of the outcome, one thing we will be able to say is that there will be no more confusion or potential for varying interpretations, assuming they return with an answer at all. In its own way, that is progress, Doctor.”

Leeta gave a satisfied nod. “I'm glad he's doing it,” she said. “I'm glad somebody has the guts to challenge the status quo. Considering you look like somebody dragged you down the Promenade behind a rampaging rakazo, I'm going to ask Garak to escort me to work and ask you to get some sleep,” she said, leaning over and kissing Julian's cheek.

He was too tired to argue. The three of them left the quarters together and parted ways in the H-ring. Julian promised he would talk to both of them later. At home he was too tired to remove his uniform, simply flopping into his bed and going dead to the world within minutes. The last waking thought he had was, Two straight days in this uniform without a change. Somebody's about to get a little ripe.

Garak

The Promenade

Garak had an odd sense of symmetry of events as he watched Captain Sisko ascend the podium before the Bajoran temple. His arrival back on the station the evening before without Akorem sent shock waves through the Bajoran populace that still hadn't settled. He imagined this speech was designed to do just that, settle the people and get them back on track, whatever that might entail.

As he listened to the mellifluous voice, he also watched the captain's expression and body language. He was relaxed, serene. He was a man no longer divided within himself. For good or ill, it seemed that Sisko had finally accepted his role as Bajor's Emissary. Although he wasn't sure what that meant for Bajor or indirectly Cardassia, Garak couldn't help but to believe that this was better than the alternative that had been presented. Seeing a caste system from the outside had opened his eyes to some ugly truths about his own people. For one of the first times ever, he felt grateful to be at a distance from his home world so that he would have the luxury of processing his newfound insight without being accused of sedition. At the end of the speech, he applauded right along with the Bajoran throng no less enthusiastically than the least among them. The caste system was no more.

Julian

Quark's Bar

Julian accepted his ale from Quark with a grin and turned to survey the crowd from his vantage. He still felt a small thrum of adrenaline from the fracas in the holosuite, he and Chief O'Brien against the entire court of the King of Leinster in a brawl to end all brawls. Others could say they looked ridiculous if they liked. He thought that he and Miles cut fine figures in their Irish warrior regalia. He couldn't believe how quickly everything had turned around. If anyone had asked him two days ago if he thought he'd be spending a fun evening with his friend, have a full staff at the infirmary, and no longer have to worry about some hothead murdering his girlfriend for looking at him wrong, he would have scoffed.

Keiko's intervention on behalf of her depressed husband just couldn't have had better timing. Of course, he would never let Miles know that he had been told how he felt. That would just embarrass him. The stress release of being able to cut loose and just have fun was pure balm to his spirit. He slouched shoulder to shoulder against the engineer and toasted Leeta with his tankard. She smiled brightly at him from her place at the dabo wheel and rolled her eyes playfully. You look silly, she mouthed.

“Looks like things are better for you,” Miles observed. “Bein' honest paid off, didn't it?”

Julian beamed at him. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

The End

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Julian

The Infirmary

Julian rubbed at his eyes and sat back in his office chair with a deep sigh. So far it was shaping up to be a completely wretched week, the fights with Leeta and Garak, never seeing Miles, the captain's strange orb shadow experience, and now this. He re-read the notice given him by Nurse Frendel, as though the power of wishful thinking alone could change the text. “A carpenter?” he asked aloud, tossing the notice back onto his desk. He was losing his best nurse because the man's birthright was carpentry? He wasn't the only Bajoran to depart the infirmary since the new Emissary's decree, but he was by far the most valuable one. The worst part about it was he had already been instructed by the captain not to interfere with any of these departures. He wasn't even allowed to speak to the man about it except to wish him well. It was a waste of natural talent and an education. It was a travesty.

He ended his shift in a foul mood and tramped down to Quark's. What he needed was a good game of darts and a drink. What he found instead was Morn, who couldn't seem to hit the dart board to save his life. He had to give the Lurian credit for trying. However, he suspected he was doing it out of a sense of pity more than a desire to play. He could think of few worse things than being an object of pity of a bar fly. He held out hope that Miles would be able to make their usual holosuite reservation. Maybe they wouldn't be able to stay as long as normal, but it would be a nice way to unwind. He kept an eye toward the door while playing.

“Chief!” he called the moment he saw him. He turned to Morn and the two dabo girls who had been watching their woefully mismatched game. “Excuse me, please? I haven't seen Miles in a few days.”

Morn waved him off with an air of amusement and turned, putting an arm around each woman to guide them with him toward the bar. Julian hurried past him to meet the engineer further down the counter. They caught up with small talk. He felt a surge of hope when his friend ordered a drink. It meant he didn't intend to run off right away. He was going to bring up the holosuite when Quark saved him the trouble. He tried his best not to let his face fall at Miles' polite refusal. He didn't care about the waste of money. He wanted his friend back. Feeling selfish for it didn't help, nor did thoughts of Garak's accusations about how he used the man. Miles drained his drink in a hurry and left for his family.

Julian wondered if he shouldn't just get rip roaring drunk and let Morn help him stagger home at closing time. It seemed the right sort of night for it. Morose, he propped an elbow on the bar and rested his cheek on his fist. Mercifully, Quark left him alone except to take his drink orders. A couple of hours later, he caught a whiff of a familiar perfume just as Leeta discreetly claimed a seat next to his. She was dressed in one of her more conservative outfits, and he remembered she had this night off now. She rested both hands lightly on the counter, and he noticed a bandage on her left wrist. “What happened?” he blurted.

She glanced at him. “It's fine,” she said, tucking it into her lap self-consciously.

Quark took her order of spring wine and shot Julian a withering look as he said, “If he bothers you, let me know.”

“He's fine,” she said. “I can handle things myself.”

The Ferengi nodded and retreated a couple of seats down from them, making a point of showing that he was well within earshot as he washed a few glasses and restocked various garnishes from jars on lower shelves. Julian was in no mood for Quark's posturing. He turned to stand and find himself a table.

Leeta stopped him with a light hand to his arm. “Are you sober enough to talk?” she asked.

He nodded and glanced over his shoulder toward the bartender. “Not with an audience, though.”

“No, of course not.” She accepted her glass from Quark and tipped her chin toward the balcony. “There are plenty of empty tables up there.”

“Lead the way,” he said, now regretting the number of ales he had already consumed. He wasn't drunk, but he wasn't exactly sober, either. He followed her up the stairs and forced himself not to watch her as she ascended. He pulled her chair out for her and seated himself against the wall, a habit he picked up from Garak somewhere along the way.

“I had a long talk with Garak a couple of days ago,” she said after he settled.

He tightened his lips slightly. He could only imagine what the tailor had to say after their last exchange. It couldn't have been good. “Oh?” he said as neutrally as possible.

“Yes,” she said, taking a dainty sip of her spring wine. “He's a hard person to stay angry with.”

Just great, he thought sourly. He won her over again so the two of them can present a united front. “Is he?” he asked more harshly than he intended. “I wouldn't know.”

She smiled faintly, her uninjured hand starting forward over the table top but stopping short of touching his. “I don't believe that. If anything, I think you know it better than anyone else.”

“I'm deeply ashamed of what I did to you,” he said. “I should have talked to you first. I shouldn't have used your trouble at the bar as an excuse to hide things.”

“You should be ashamed,” she agreed. “What you did was despicable. I have to think I share at least some of the responsibility for it, however.”

“What?” He frowned deeply. “No. You can't blame yourself.”

“I don't blame myself,” she clarified. “I do think that my stress and some other factors contributed to your feeling that you couldn't approach me about your doubts and confusion.”

Guilt made him want to deny that, too, but it was the truth. He looked down into his pint glass and shrugged slightly. He couldn't bring himself to agree aloud.

“I don't need you to spare my feelings. I think we've moved a little beyond that, don't you?” she asked, seeking his gaze. “What I want right now is your honesty.”

“All right,” he said quietly. “It's true. I didn't know how to broach the subject with you, and I was afraid that if I did, you wouldn't understand. You'd think I was trying to go back to Garak. I was afraid of losing you, but I didn't have the right to hang onto you under false pretenses or deny you the choice of whether you wanted to be in a relationship with someone who couldn't just stay completely away from his ex.”

Now she did touch his hand, her palm warm and soft. “If I hadn't talked to Garak, I'm not sure how much of what you just said I'd be able to believe. I'm not going to pretend I understand whatever bond the two of you have, but I do believe you when you say you're not trying to go back to the way things were for you. I don't think either of you understands it any more than I do, and that makes me feel bad for you. Being confused like that is difficult.”

“Thank you,” he said. He didn't know what to think of what she was saying. He couldn't tell where she was going with it, and he was afraid to ask after everything he had already put her through. “I really am sorry,” he said, sincere and pained.

“I know. I'm sorry, too. There haven't been many people in my life that I've ever trusted. You betrayed my trust. I need you to understand that.” Her grip on his hand tightened.

He wondered if it would be possible to feel any lower than he did in that moment. He shut his eyes and nodded. “I understand,” he said. He wanted to get out of there and away from her. He stayed put because he felt he owed her that.

“I really believe you do,” she said, releasing his hand and sitting back in her seat. She lifted her wine for another swallow. “I want to give us another chance.”

“I'm sorry. I don't think I heard you correctly,” he said, his head spinning from more than ale.

“You did. I don't want to leave you. I think what we have has potential. I'm not going to lie and tell you it's going to be easy or that I'll be able to trust you unquestioningly. You're going to have to be very open with me, particularly about the time you spend with Garak. Don't hide it from me or lie to me about it, and if your feelings change, you need to tell me.”

“You don't have to worry about that,” he said, his turn to reach for her hand. “I don't think he'll ever have anything to do with me again, and I'm not even sure I'd want him to.”

“For a doctor you can be very dim,” she chided him. “Neither of you is through with the other. I'm not sure what it would take for you to be. I don't think either of you knows.”

“Why are you willing to accept this?” he asked, reeling inside. It was beyond any expectation he ever had, and it genuinely didn't make sense to him.

“I know you're not spiritual, so I don't expect you to grasp my reasoning. It's...wrong...to interfere with the pagh path of another. You run the risk of stunting their spiritual growth and derailing them from their entire purpose. You and I have an enjoyable relationship, or at least we did before this came to a head. I get a lot out of it, and I like to think that you do, too. You and Garak have something else. I believe it's deeper than either of you realizes or is capable of acknowledging. I think it has to do with your souls, as your people might put it, and I don't care one whit if you don't believe in that sort of thing. I do, and it's why I can accept this. What I can't accept is more dishonesty. Are you willing to make another effort, or do you want to part ways?”

For a moment, he didn't trust his voice. Had he ever been treated with such genuine kindness and a lack of selfishness? He truly didn't believe so. She deserved so much better, and yet she wanted him. “I want to be with you,” he said. “I never stopped wanting to be with you. You have my word that I won't hurt you like that again.”

“I'm going to hold you to that,” she said, giving his hand a final squeeze and withdrawing from him. “We can talk more tomorrow. I'd like for you to try to talk to Garak tonight so that you can tell me what to expect then.”

“What if he won't talk to me?” he asked.

“Then you can tell me that,” she said, standing and moving to lean over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for being willing to talk to me and work through this. I know it wasn't any easier for you than it was for me. Come by my quarters around noon. I'll be awake by then.”

“I will,” he said, also standing. If he was going to try to talk to Garak, he didn't need any more ale in his system. “I'll walk you part way.” She nodded, and they left together from the upper level exit. He still could hardly believe the conversation they just had, and he couldn't help but to wonder if he was possibly being played in some way. He quickly set that thought aside. Leeta was intelligent enough to do something like that, but she wasn't spiteful or petty. She wasn't the first Bajoran he had met with a stunning generosity of spirit. It was just the first time he had been the direct beneficiary of it.

His stop on the turbolift came first. He cupped her cheek lightly, bade her good night, and stepped off onto Garak's H-ring. He had no idea what he was going to say. He hesitated outside the quarters, finally biting the bullet and triggering the hail. What's the worse that can happen? He asked himself. The thought wasn't nearly as reassuring as he meant for it to be.

“Enter,” came Garak's voice, the tone the neutral equivalent of his business face.

Julian stepped inside, certain only of the fact that he didn't want to deal with Garak's facade. He took him in at a glance, the lounging robe, the PADD in hand, the tea to the side, and the bright, inquisitive gaze that revealed nothing whatsoever. He tried to call to himself the feeling he had the night he made love to the man, but it stubbornly refused to come. There was a thick wall between the two of them, and the top of it was barbed. So I impale myself, he thought grimly. “Leeta came to me,” he said.

“Is her wrist broken?” Garak asked.

“No,” he said, not having expected that. Garak had something to do with that? He narrowed his eyes slightly. “At least I don't think it is. She didn't come to me for treatment. She came to talk. What happened to her wrist?”

“You'd have to ask her,” the tailor said off handedly.

“I did. She was less than forthcoming.”

Garak shrugged and set aside his PADD.

Don't let him pick a fight, he told himself. “She said she talked to you. You can imagine my surprise when it seemed as though it wasn't another unpleasant conversation.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I imagine you were quite surprised.”

Sarcasm. Joy. “She didn't come out and expressly say it, but I have the impression that in part I have you to thank for the fact that she's not leaving me,” he pressed on with determination.

“So you're here to thank me?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

He wasn't fooled by the mild tone of voice. He saw the glint in his eyes. “No. I'm here to find out if that last fight of ours was more than just another stupid fight.”

“She sent you?” he asked drolly.

“Yes,” he said, crossing to sink into the chair catty corner to the sofa. “If I had my preference, I would've stayed away from you at least a week before finding some pathetic excuse to crawl back into your good graces.”

“It's not like you to be so bitter,” Garak said, eying him curiously.

“It's been a rough week,” he said, coming off the ale enough to feel bone tired.

“The return of Bajor to the old ways?” the tailor asked.

Julian nodded, leaning forward and resting his face in his hands to shut out the light. “I think I'm going to lose my entire Bajoran staff to it before all is said and done. I just found out I'm losing Frendel. He was a lifesaver after Decla left, easily as competent as she was without the personality problems. Thanks to the Dominion threat, there aren't many in Starfleet medical willing to put in for an assignment here, and so far, brass isn't pushing the issue. That means an overworked, cranky staff who may or may not be able to handle a large influx of casualties should the worst happen.”

Garak sighed through his nose. “As much as it pains me to have to do this, I'll remove myself from your list of worries. I still think you were stupid to tell Leeta what you did, and some of the things you said to me afterward were ridiculous, but it looks to me as though you're experiencing enough of a coal raking that I don't have to do it myself.”

He laughed into his hands and finally lifted his gaze, squinting against the light. “You're insufferable, easily one of the most infuriating people I've ever met. I'd remind you, I'm a Starfleet officer saying this. I'd remind you further this is coming from me.”

“Two things I will keep firmly in mind,” Garak said, his eyes twinkling. “I'd offer to let you spend the night, but I think that would be pushing things with dear Leeta. If you hurt that woman again, I'm going to be more than a little angry with you.”

“You and I both,” he said, shaking his head. “I can't believe she wants anything to do with me. Or you, for that matter. I don't think I'd be able to be so forgiving, or allowing.” Garak eyed him oddly. “What?” he asked.

“Considering what you've forgiven and allowed me, I believe you may be underestimating yourself, dear.”

“Help me up,” he said, holding both hands out toward him.

Obligingly, Garak stood and pulled him to his feet. Julian allowed the momentum to carry him forward so that he rested against him, wrapping his arms beneath Garak's about his broad ribcage. He smiled against the side of his head when Garak returned the gesture and held him. “Leeta was right about you. You're difficult to stay mad at.”

Garak grunted softly. “Both of you are entirely too sentimental for your own good.”

“Then I suppose you're fortunate,” he said, turning to kiss his temple lightly. “Now, be a gentleman and send me on my way so I can go collapse into bed disreputably still in my uniform and sleep off the ale I drank while feeling sorry for myself.”

The tailor tangled fingers into his hair and kissed him so tenderly it stole his breath. “Get out,” he said without a trace of heat. “I don't like uninvited guests. You've bothered me enough for one night.” He kissed him a second time and guided him toward his door with an arm snaked low at his waist.

“You're a dreadful host,” he retorted in kind, fighting the smile trying to toy with his lips. “You didn't even offer me a drink.”

“You had more than enough before imposing on me,” he said.

Julian couldn't resist a nuzzle at the hollow of a neck ridge, one of his very favorite places. “All right,” he said as the door slid open, straightening and pulling away. “You've succeeded in kicking me out. I'll try to talk to you tomorrow.”

“Make sure you're sober first. I can't abide a drunkard,” Garak said very primly just before the door shut.

Smiling to himself, he started down the corridor. How an evening could begin on such a miserable note and end on such an uplifting one was a complete mystery to him, as was how he somehow managed to circumvent both of their defensiveness enough to get through to the tailor. “It's much harder to understand than temporal mechanics,” he said aloud and chuckled. Perhaps he'd sleep well that night after all. It would make dealing with the infirmary woes a little easier.

Garak

The Promenade

Taking a slightly late lunch, Garak had just left his shop when he heard a shriek. He trotted back through his doors to grab his weapon and advanced cautiously in the direction of the sound. Several Bajorans and a few other aliens were gathered in a small knot around something he couldn't see. He noticed the head of the station temple serenely descending the stairs just as the security detail arrived to drive everyone back.

Making himself inconspicuous, he waited and listened. When the crowd parted, he saw a vedek lying on the deck of the Promenade, his head at an angle that left no doubt his neck was broken. Garak's gaze tracked back to the temple head, Vedek Porta, he believed. He narrowed his eyes. He had seen that sort of serenity before, the calm conscience of the self-righteous.

Captain Sisko and Major Kira arrived. Garak didn't stay to hear the totality of Porta's confession. He didn't need to. Tucking his weapon discreetly into the back of his belt, he made his way past the crowd and ducked into the infirmary. A weary looking Starfleet nurse he knew by face but not name said, “If you're looking for Doctor Bashir, I think he went to have lunch with Leeta.”

“Thank you,” Garak said and beelined for the turbolift. Normally, he wouldn't consider intruding upon them. What he had seen filled him with an urgency he hadn't known in some time. By the time he reached Leeta's quarters, he had begun to jog. He rang the chime twice in rapid succession.

“Enter,” Leeta's voice came through the comm, sounding a little perplexed.

Garak stepped inside to see both of them seated at her dinner table, halfway through a meal. “I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your lunch, but both of you need to know Vedek Porta just murdered another vedek.”

“What?” they both said in tandem.

Julian started from his seat, and Leeta went pale. “Why wasn't I called?” Julian asked.

“Because it's a crime scene, and a dead man doesn't need a doctor,” Garak snapped harshly. He reined himself in. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“I thought Vedek Porta was a good man,” Leeta said, completely stunned.

“I think he thinks so, too,” Garak said dryly. “He showed no remorse either to Odo or Captain Sisko. I believe we're seeing more of old Bajor coming back to life.”

He was glad that both of them seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation. Julian glanced at Leeta. “I'm worried for your safety,” he said.

She looked as though she might be sick. “I am, too,” she said, lifting a hand to her throat.

Garak took his pistol from his belt and offered it to her. “I believe you'd do well to carry this.”

She shook her head. “No. I don't think I could hit the broad side of a telgos' behind if I was dead calm and had time to aim. I'd be more danger to myself than anyone else with one of those, but thank you, Garak.”

Garak glanced at Julian, silent communication passing between the two of them. “We're going to keep you safe,” Julian said.

She looked between the two. “Won't that get both of you in trouble? You're not supposed to interfere in local matters,” she said to Julian. “And your people have a treaty with mine,” she added to Garak.

“I don't consider your safety a local matter,” Julian said tightly. “If that means I get in trouble, then fine. I get into trouble. I'll sooner resign my commission and face the consequences than stand by and allow some pompous idiot to abuse you just because you don't have a D'jarra.”

“I'm not known either for being particularly cooperative or obedient among my people,” Garak said lightly. “They've come to expect me to be an embarrassment. I'd hate to disappoint them.”

“This is all so insane,” she said, clasping both hands tightly in her lap and twisting her fingers. “I've always been proud of my people and how it seems like no matter what happens, we manage to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and keep going. This going backwards is shameful. I can't imagine that this is what the Prophets intended for us, separation from potential allies like the Federation, subjugation of large segments of our population, not by an outside threat, but from within, people turning away from life paths they find fulfilling and rewarding to follow the dictates of their names. Maybe it was different when it had always been that way. People were used to it. But this?”

“I can't see Captain Sisko standing by and allowing this to go unanswered,” Julian said.

Garak joined them at the table without having to be asked. “What can he do? He willingly stepped aside as Emissary. He no longer has any more influence than any other Starfleeter on the Bajorans. The way I see it, things are going to get much worse before they get better. Those who can't or won't abide by this return to the old ways will be pitted against those who have something to gain from it. It'll be a holy war before all is said and done.”

Leeta nodded reluctantly. “He's right. We were only just starting to unify a little bit under First Minister Shakaar. A large part of the reason my people were willing to accept progress toward Federation membership was because of Captain Sisko's status as the Emissary. Now that Akorem is back, Kai Winn's influence has expanded by leaps and bounds. She has never been supportive of outsiders interfering with Bajor's development.” She glanced at Garak. “You'd better keep that weapon of yours close for your own sake. I don't know how much longer the treaty with Cardassia will be honored at this rate or what they might decide to try to do to you if it's broken.”

“My safety has never been much of a certain thing,” he said with a shrug. “I'd advise you not to travel alone. I'll make myself available to you while Julian has to work. My schedule is more flexible than his. You should also have a talk with Quark. I know he won't allow that nonsense in his bar. It would be bad for business.”

“When I'm off, I'm at your disposal,” Julian added.

“Normally, I'd find this whole, 'protect the woman' attitude annoying,” she said, trying to smile and not quite succeeding. “Considering the situation, all I can say is a heartfelt thank you. I mean...I can't live like this indefinitely, but I can start saving up money to leave. Lissepia isn't such a bad place, I've heard.”

“Give Captain Sisko a chance to try to resolve this before making plans to move,” Julian said. Garak privately thought his faith in the captain might be overblown but was wise enough to keep his own counsel about that. “As you said, your people have weathered terrible times and come out stronger in the end. Maybe this won't go as badly as it seems it might.”

“Maybe,” she echoed as uncertainly as Garak felt.

Julian looked to each of them. “I hate to do it, but I need to get back to work. I'm sure they're going to want me for the autopsy. If I hear any news one way or the other, I'll let you two know.” He stood and hurried out of the quarters.

“Would you like some lunch?” Leeta asked.

“Strangely enough, I've lost my appetite,” he said.

She nodded. “Me, too. Would it bother you if I went to the back and rested for a while? I feel a headache coming on. I want to try to head it off before I have to get ready for work. You're welcome to help yourself to the replicator if you get hungry later, and I've got all sorts of books on PADDs. I feel...ungracious...leaving you out here like this when you're doing me such a favor.”

“Nonsense. I'm not here in the capacity of house guest, so don't feel as though you're obligated to treat me as such. I may rest, myself, on your couch. If I'm asleep when you come out to leave for work, awaken me.”

“I'll do that,” she said, standing and quickly clearing the table. Garak got out of her way and settled himself on the sofa. She paused behind him, pressing a light hand to his shoulder and giving a squeeze before heading into the bedroom and shutting the door. Despite what he told her, he knew he wouldn't sleep. His supposed safe haven was no longer safe. For all of his cleverness, his refuge had become a trap, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Current Mood: dorky
Current Music: Laura Sullivan, Chaco Canyon

Garak

The Promenade

He didn't often have reason to use the skills he developed at the Bamarren Institute, the rare ability to hide in plain sight, but it was exactly what he did as more and more Bajorans gathered outside the temple to hear their new Emissary for the first time. Someone needed to keep an eye and ear out for Cardassian interests. Who knew which way the wind might blow with a different hand guiding the hearts and minds of the volatile and sometimes fickle people? He didn't see Captain Sisko in the crowd, wise of him, he thought, yet Odo and Major Kira stood above the throng on the second floor. Of the Starfleeters, all he saw were a few in security gold. He didn't buy this feigned indifference. He imagined there were several nervous officers scattered throughout the station, probably watching the activity through the security feeds.

The crowd broke into applause. Garak saw the man of the hour emerge from the temple doorway and ascend the podium set up for him. After the applause, a hush fell over the gathered, and Akorem began to speak. The more Garak heard, the more disquieted he felt. Here we go again, he thought, his reptilian eyes going flat at the talk of the great wound of the occupation and the return to the old ways.

The old ways, he thought contemptuously, the last refuge of the unimaginative and those lacking vision. You can't erase the past. If you try, you'll never even learn from it. As uneasy as the old man's words made him, the crowd's reaction was worse. They were divided, some shouting and clapping their enthusiasm, others whispering and glancing at one another with furtive body language.

He had heard and seen enough. For all the good it would do him, he determined he would report this back to the civilian government. They needed to understand that the climate on Bajor was shifting abruptly, not for the better. If they were wise and truly serious about the treaty, they should have sent a permanent liaison or made use of him for the job. He knew the people. Some of them even trusted him.

When he reached his shop he closed and locked the doors. He didn't want interruptions. He quickly compiled his report and sent a scrambled, encrypted transmission. After he was done, he decided to leave the shop closed for the day. He didn't like what his instincts were telling him. He hadn't survived as long as he had by ignoring them. He made good use of the time in his stock room, working on orders until quitting time.

On his way past the Replimat, he heard raised voices. His first instinct was not to get involved, but he recognized one of those voices as Leeta's. Stepping around the tables and chairs that were scattered at the entrance, he made his way further in just in time to see a man shove her out of her chair. “Hey!” she cried out more in surprise than pain, glaring at the man from the floor.

“It's not my fault you don't know your place,” the Bajoran sneered.

Garak approached so swiftly and silently that neither noticed him until he was practically on top of the now seated man. “Do you know the place for those who physically assault others on this station?” he asked pleasantly.

“If you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of it, Cardassian,” the man sneered.

“Or what?” Garak asked. “You'll shove me, too?” Although his tone of voice didn't change, he bored a hole in the man with his gaze. He noticed Leeta climbing to her feet in peripheral vision, not breaking his eye contact with the antagonist.

“I don't need this,” the man said, standing abruptly and flinging the chair aside. “Who wants to eat here with the stench of spoonhead in the air?”

Garak caught himself committing the features and clothing, even the earring, to memory and watching his path on his way out. Shaking himself from a bad habit and a worse impulse, he turned to eye Leeta. Although she attempted not to look shaken, he could tell that she was. She was also rubbing her wrist. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded tightly, her expression conflicted. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“Leeta,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Garak, please don't,” she said. “I'm not ready not to be angry with you.”

He nodded. “I understand. At least let me have a look at that wrist.” She bit her lip, indecision flickering in her eyes, glanced toward the infirmary, and suddenly thrust it toward him without a word.

He probed carefully with his fingers and manipulated it in its full range of motion. She winced painfully as he bent it back. “I think you have a sprain,” he said.

“Can you wrap it?” she asked.

It was on the tip of his tongue to send her to the infirmary. He knew she wouldn't go before it ever got out. He nodded assent. “You'll have to come with me to the shop.”

She gestured for him to lead the way. He could feel her at his back as they walked, an angry presence, a burr of rough edged energy in his bio-electric periphery. Had he not known her as well as he did, he believed he couldn't have tolerated allowing her to stay behind him. He led her into his stock room and pulled out his emergency med kit.

“Have you talked to him?” she asked the question to his back.

“Yes,” he said, turning with the self-adhesive wrap.

She held her arm out to him. “I'm sure the two of you will be very happy together,” she said, her voice brittle and glass edged.

He carefully began to wrap the already swelling joint. “You'll have to tell me if it's too tight,” he said gently. He sighed, the conversation unwelcome but owed to her. “We're not together. We haven't been together since he left me.”

“Don't lie to me, Garak,” she gritted. “It's insulting.”

“I'm not lying,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet hers and holding it as surely as he held her wrist in one hand while wrapping with the other. “You're more angry at the deception than you are at anything else. I can tell that much.” He finished with the bandage and tested the hold then settled his free hand atop hers, sandwiching it between his. “I wasn't pretending to be your friend. I don't expect you to understand or to forgive me, but I do want you to know that.”

“You lie to all your friends?” she asked, pulling her hand back gingerly.

“Yes,” he said, “particularly the ones of which I'm fond.”

“I don't understand that,” she said, sounding more confused than angry.

“I know you don't,” he said, having no intention of explaining or justifying himself to her.

“I wish I could tell when you're lying and when you're telling the truth. If you're actually some huge jerk pretending not to be, I know this isn't going to matter to you, but I don't want things to be this way. I don't want to feel knotted up inside or like I was used and made a fool of.”

“I don't believe that Julian was using you. If he has been using anyone, it's me,” he said without any self-pity or rancor.

“Why would you allow that?” Her anger returned, but he wondered if it was directed at him at all.

“I prefer it to the alternatives,” he said simply.

“I really want to stay mad at you,” she said. “It's harder than it should be, particularly when you save me from self-righteous fanatics.”

“Was that incident because of Akorem's speech this morning?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I'm caste-less, the lowest of the low. It didn't matter that he had almost the entire place to choose from. He decided he wanted my specific chair and table. According to the old ways, that means I'm supposed to turn it over to him without a word of complaint. I shouldn't even make him sully himself by having to address me or look directly at me.”

He frowned, no stranger to social stratification or what being at the bottom of the heap was like. He recalled all too well his work with Tolan in the Tarlak sector and the way they were so often ignored as though invisible by those paying their respects at the grand statues of the legates. “I think you need to be careful,” he said. “It may be different on Bajor, but on Cardassia, it's very difficult for those of low to no status to get justice for wrongs done by those who outrank them in importance. Today it's shoving out of a chair. Tomorrow it could be shoving out of an airlock.”

“I've worked hard for everything I have. All my life I've worked hard. Now, some poet from the past comes along and declares none of that matters. I don't matter, just because I don't know my family name. The very occupation he says we need to heal from produced that situation for me, and hundreds if not thousands more just like me. Pretending it never happened may work fine for those of a D'Jarra they find desirable. It does nothing for the rest of us except piling upon yet another indignity and unfairness.” She stopped talking abruptly and focused on him again. “I have no business bringing all of this up to you. I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry,” he surprised himself in saying. It emerged from a part of him that rarely voiced itself, a part that Tain had never touched but Tolan had carefully cultivated, so carefully that not even Mila was aware of his efforts.

She seemed to sense that he spoke of something larger than either of them or their recent division. “I didn't think I'd ever hear that from a Cardassian in a way I could believe.” She touched his cheek lightly with her undamaged hand and let it drop back to her side again. “If I ask you to promise me something and you do, can I trust you to keep your word?”

“You do realize that I could very easily lie about that,” he warned her.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“Ask,” he said abruptly, intensely uncomfortable with what had just happened and wanting to distance himself from it as quickly as he could. Tolan's path led to rocky ground and uncertain footing.

“Promise me that if you think Julian is getting serious about trying to come back to you, or you think you really want him back, you'll tell me,” she said.

“You're going back to him?” he asked.

“I haven't decided. I'm still furious with him and hurt, way more hurt than I was by you. I won't pretend to understand what it is that pulls you two toward each other, and I really don't want details.” She paced the confines of the stock room and turned back to face him from a greater distance. “But even angry, I know he wouldn't do something like this lightly or on a whim, and neither would you. What do you know of our beliefs?”

“A bit,” he said. He knew more than he wanted.

“Then you know that a pagh's path can sometimes be convoluted and confusing and that sometimes paghs can be bound in ways that are impossible to ignore. It doesn't matter if you and Julian believe in it or not. That doesn't mean you aren't bound in some way.”

He found the talk frustrating. It made him want to shake her. “Please, don't make excuses for us,” he said earnestly. “If you want to go back to Julian and give him another chance, do it because it's what you want. The same applies for if you wish to have me as your friend. See us for who and what we are. Don't use your beliefs to mitigate what either he or I did to you with the deception.”

“I'm not,” she said. “I know it sounds that way to you. As you said earlier, I don't expect you to understand. Will you just promise to do as I've asked? Can you respect me enough to be honest with me if things change or deepen between you two?”

“Yes,” he said. “I promise I'll do that if the two of you are together at the time it happens, not that I expect it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “May I ask one more favor for now?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Would you please walk me to Quark's? I know it isn't far, but I...I suppose I'm still a little shaky from being assaulted like that.”

“I will. I think you should press charges, though.”

She shook her head. “I don't even know who it was.”

“I got a very good look at him. I could easily identify him, and I saw what he did to you. That may be the new law of the land for Bajor, but there are still rules of conduct on this station that don't allow for that sort of violence. If you don't press charges, what's to stop the next one from coming along and doing the same thing or worse?” They walked out of his shop together, and he paused to have the computer lock up.

“I could do that, yes, and then he or his friends could find ways to retaliate. I know how these things go, and I suspect that you do, too. While I appreciate your indignation on my behalf, I think I'll be better off letting it drop.”

She had a point. More frustrated than he was that morning, he walked her in silence the rest of the short distance to Quark's. She visibly relaxed when they passed through the wide doorway. Garak knew that for all of his flaws, Quark wouldn't tolerate foolishness like what happened in the Replimat in his bar. She was safer there. “If you change your mind, just let me know,” he said.

“I will. I'll let you know if I decide to talk to Julian, too. Do you think he actually cares about me?” she asked, somehow looking younger in her sudden vulnerability.

“Yes, I do,” he said, not needing to lie.

She nodded and withdrew from him, heading toward the back to prepare to start her shift. He watched until he could no longer see her and turned to go, much warier on his way home than he had been in a very long time. The entire way he mulled the assailant and the situation, a plan forming that he was positive would earn Odo's ire should he ever learn of it. He supposed he'd have to make certain Odo never found out.

After ordering a mug of hot rokassa juice from his replicator, he sat at his terminal and got to business. The security files were harder to hack than the last time he poured through them. He had to credit Odo for staying on his toes and idly wondered if it was he or Quark who had tripped some alarm last time prompting the change, or if perhaps the changeling simply did it out of paranoia. He searched criminal files going all the way back to the end of the occupation and didn't see a mugshot of his man. It didn't mean he wasn't a criminal, of course. It simply meant he hadn't been caught for anything aboard the station and wasn't notorious enough on Bajor to be flagged.

“Going to make me do this the hard way,” he murmured, sipping from his mug. “I believe I'm going to take offense at that.” The next set of files was easier to access, but the database was tremendous, and he had no simple way to narrow it down other than to key in some very broad parameters, adult male, brown hair, brown eyes, Bajoran. Pictures flipped by on his screen at a speed that would suit a Vulcan. Garak never blinked, watching them all. Almost two minutes later, he said, “Computer stop. Go back ten files.” A slightly younger version of his culprit appeared on his screen. After all of that, it was nothing to discover where he lived. A search of information on his quarters told him that at least officially, he lived alone. It was no guarantee.

“Now,” he said, feeling very satisfied, “let's see where you work and who you work with. Family, either on the station or on Bajor...” Between speaking, he hummed lightly, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Much later in the evening, he left his quarters with a small satchel slung over his shoulder. All was quiet in the H-ring, the lights low, the deep rumble of the station a soothing background noise he barely noticed. It was convenient that they shared the same ring. It made his job of getting there less likely to draw attention. He felt alive all over, every sense keyed and heightened. This was always a dangerous game to play, regardless of the target.

Once outside the quarters, he fished a small tricorder from his bag and ran it. One life sign behind the wall where the bedroom should be, no movement to speak of, slightly lower respiration, temperature, and heart rate than one would expect of a Bajoran who was awake. Asleep. So obliging. It almost puts me in a more forgiving mood, he thought. Almost. He turned it off again and tucked it neatly back into its separate pouch, the entire bag compartmentalized to prevent anything from clacking together inside.

Cracking the door code and disabling the internal computer interface was nothing. He slipped silently into the dark quarters and waited. Did the hiss of the door awaken his quarry? He knew that some Bajoran's hearing was so keen as to seem unnatural to his people. He heard no stirring from the room beyond. The wait allowed his eyes to adjust to the starlight illuminating the quarters from the port and gave him time to take what he needed from his satchel by feel alone. Messy, he saw. He had to pick his way carefully around clutter on the floor. Oh, how he loathed disorder! His opinion of the man fell further.

The bedroom door was open. He stepped through it very quickly and to the side, hugging the wall. Doorways were a danger zone, the place where one was most likely to be spotted. He saw a pale face above a rumpled blanket, the man asleep on his back. He smiled closed lipped and stepped forward. The first magnetic clamp in his thinly gloved hand clicked very softly as he set it into place at the underside of the bed platform. He froze and watched the slack face. Not even a twitch, he thought, still waiting a bit longer to be certain. Extending a fine wire from its tight spool, he snapped it into place in the small slots on the clamp designed just for that purpose and circled the foot of the bed, allowing the wire to extend and retract again to accommodate his movements.

At the other side, he supported the wire gently beneath the fingers of one hand while setting a twin clamp with the other, still no reaction from his quarry. His next move was fast and precise, allowing the wire to pop down onto the bare neck while securing another end beneath the other clamp and using the snip on the spool to cut it to length. As expected, the man snapped awake from the sudden sting, only Garak's firm hand at his shoulder preventing him from slitting his own throat.

“I see I have your attention,” he hissed softly.

“Computer, lights!” the Bajoran croaked in a panic. Nothing happened.

“No,” Garak said, tutting him. “We can't have that. You see, there's a place and time for everything, wouldn't you agree? Darkness suits this sort of activity.”

“I don't know who you are, but I swear you'll pay for this,” the man growled. Although he attempted to sound menacing, Garak could hear the underlying waver in the bravado.

“Oh, how rude of me not to introduce myself,” he said. “I'm the spoonhead. I'm surprised you couldn't tell by the smell, but I suppose your sensory lapse is understandable due to the circumstances.” He saw the chest rise sharply with the man's semi-panicked inhale. Good. He did fear Cardassians. Garak honestly didn't care why. “I'm going to take my hand off your shoulder. You'd be very wise not to try to move much. There's a wire across your throat taut enough to slit it if you try to sit up and thin enough to slice your fingers off if you're foolish enough to pry at it. You are, of course, welcome to test this for yourself.”

He released his pressure and squatted back on his heels so that his face would be at the bed level, watching intently. “I'm glad to see you're not as stupid as your actions earlier this evening led me to believe.”

“So this is revenge for that tun'jarra?” He sounded incredulous and a little outraged on top of his obvious fear.

Garak chuckled low, an ugly sound. “Oh, no. You completely misunderstand. You see, I found the Emissary's speech quite inspiring. All that talk of a return to the old ways. Do you know that my people have something of a caste system, too? Hearing that talk made me homesick. It made me realize that I've been untrue to my calling, settling for the dull life of a simple tailor. Would you care to guess what my 'D'jarra' is?” he asked liltingly. Nothing but shallow breathing followed his query. “No?” He pressed gently on the wire with a gloved finger.

“Y-you're an assassin,” the man yelped.

Garak let up. “Rather crude, not entirely accurate, but close enough for my purposes, I suppose,” he said in a way that voiced disappointment. “You could, of course, report me to security. Once I leave this room, I have no real control over what you do. Knowing Odo, he's going to want more than your word to have me arrested, particularly after Leeta tells him how I prevented you from doing her further harm. As efficient as he is, a thorough investigation will still take him at least twenty-six hours, possibly more because I'm very good at covering my tracks. Do you have any idea what I could do in twenty-six hours? Think of the collateral damage of our little disagreement, your work detail in maintenance, cute little Jerra Revan in Dahkur Province.”

The man swallowed heavily and a thin line of black appeared on his throat, all color leached from the room in the pale starlight. It trickled downward toward the mattress, and Garak watched him twitch. “Please,” he said, all bravado gone, only naked appeal left. “What do you want from me?”

Garak leaned closer so that his breath would tickle the large curve of ear. “I've known people like you,” he whispered. “Frustrated little people who covet the power of others but don't have the...initiative...to seize any of their own. This return to the old ways must seem like a windfall from the prophets for you, an excuse to tread on those lower on the rung by accident of birth or misfortune of the occupation. The way I understand it, and please, correct me if I'm wrong. I'm hardly a scholar of Bajoran history.

“Yes, those of lower caste and the tun'jarra, those with no status at all, are expected to defer to their so-called betters, but you have a duty to them not to abuse them. I suggest you study your own texts, or I may find myself completely overwhelmed with nostalgia and have to pay your friends a visit before I come back to see you again. Do we understand each other?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man said, his voice now starting to shake. Garak could see a sheen of sweat on the pale face. The stress of the situation was beginning to wear his victim down.

“Another thing,” he said. “I find the term 'spoonhead' to be quite hurtful, and I can't seem to keep myself from lashing out when I'm hurt. Do you think I should see someone about that? Is it...normal?”

“N...no. I mean yes! I mean, you don't need to see anyone. I...I apologize for offending you,” he said in a rush.

“Apology accepted,” Garak said, sliding one hand down the man's arm until he reached his hand and bracing him at the shoulder with the other. He loosely clasped his fingers around his index finger and gave a sharp jerk. The Bajoran howled in pain, Garak's hand at his shoulder preventing further, graver injury to the pinned throat. “You sprained my friend's wrist,” he said coldly. “Shall I convey an apology to her as well?”

“Ye-es,” came the ragged reply.

“I'm happy to see you're more reasonable than I expected,” he said. He released the clamp closest to him and circled the bed to release the other, tucking everything neatly back into his pack. He wasn't at all surprised that the man didn't move. His eyes glittered as they tried to follow Garak's movements, but it was obvious to the Cardassian that it was too dark for the man to see him as anything more than a disconcerting shadow. “I'm leaving now. I do hope that you'll set a good example for all of your friends in how to behave toward those of lesser status than your own. The very best way to teach is by example. Good night.”

He exited as quietly as he entered and took as much care returning to his quarters as he did upon leaving them. He knew there was a possibility his victim might do something stupid and actually file a report. It would be a shame if it came to that, as he didn't make idle threats. All in all, he believed the excursion was successful, even if it truly had left him feeling a bit nostalgic.

Current Mood: dorky
Current Music: Loreena McKennitt, The Mummer's Dance

Author Notes: This story is set during the episode Accession. It was one of the creepier episodes to me, the whole idea that on the word of one person speaking with supposed divine authority an entire society could be taken back two hundred years and return to a form of oppression that rivaled the occupation in its own grim way. It seems to me that DS9, unlike some of the other Trek series, just keeps getting more relevant over time, not less.

Summary: Bajoran society is rocked to its foundations by the return of Akorem Laan from the distant past to replace Captain Sisko as Emissary to the Prophets. Not a single part of the station is left untouched. Julian battles staff shortages and his own internal demons as he attempts to set things right with Leeta. In a climate of hostility and paranoia, no one is safe, not even Garak who sought to make Deep Space Nine his haven, only to find that havens can quickly become traps.

Author: Dark Sinestra

Date Written: April 2010

Category: Slash, Het

Rating: PG-13 for adult situations and violence

Disclaimer: If I could claim them I would, but then you guys would get mad at me because they're really Paramount's. Paramount, I know the economy is tough and MGM is in huge trouble, but please don't sue. I have nothing but the voices in my head.

Word Count: 18,215

Don't throw the past away.

You might need it some rainy day.

Dreams can come true again,

when everything old is new again.

–Peter Allen, “Everything Old is New Again”

Julian

O'Brien's Quarters

After nearly an hour of packing away cable, burnt out parts, randomly appearing single socks and other articles of clothing Julian didn't really want to touch, much less look at too closely, he straightened and fixed Miles with a curious look. “Remind me again how I got roped into helping you clean up this mess,” he said.

The chief snorted. “You helped make it. Besides, how many times have I let you crash here, crash being the operative word, after so much drink you couldn't find your own quarters, much less walk yourself there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Julian sighed and reached for a bolt small enough to choke Molly, tossing it into a box with all the other junk. He was trying his best not to have a bad attitude. It wasn't about the cleaning, after all, but about the reason for it, the return of Keiko and Molly on a permanent basis, Keiko's botanical survey on Bajor over after its extension. Miles was the only person on the station who truly shared his sense of fun and interest in the history of the British Isles and the culture surrounding it. They both knew that their nights of spending hours in the holosuite fighting the Battle of Britain or Quark's playing darts were over. “You'll be glad to see them,” he offered. He realized he wasn't going to succeed in making himself happy about the situation. It didn't mean he couldn't make Miles feel better.

“Of course I will,” Miles said. “I'm tired of bein' shocked every time I see Molly at how much bigger she is and how many more words she knows. An' Keiko an' I have a lot of catching up to do. It'll be good for all of us.”

“Exactly,” Julian said, forcing a smile. “I suppose it means I'll be spending more time with Leeta, too, particularly now that she's not being worked half to death by Quark.”

Miles paused halfway in the act of tossing a part and pinned him with a keen look. “Y' don't sound too happy about that.”

“Nonsense,” Julian said, turning away from him and looking for something else to toss in the box.

The Irishman snorted. “Don't give me that. Julian, I know you too well. Every time I bring Leeta up lately, you act strange. Things not goin' well? The times I see th' two o' you out, you seem to be havin' a good time.”

There was no way he could tell him the truth about Garak and what he had been doing. Miles hated Garak too much ever to give him objective advice. Worse, rumors could spread. He didn't want Leeta hearing about his indiscretion from a third party. However, the temptation to say something, maybe something less specific, was strong. “We should lift the sofa,” he said, “and check under it. Molly could reach a hand under there and find something unsafe. Or Keiko might try to move it while cleaning and realize you weren't as tidy as she thought.”

“Uh huh,” he said, shaking his head. “Bein' cryptic won't let me help you. I have a successful relationship, even though we've had our share of problems. It's somethin' I do happen to know a little somethin' about.” The two of them lifted the sofa and set it back. The floor beneath seemed to be breeding its own special colony of dust tarantulas interspersed with random bits of circuitry, screws, and bolts. Both men made a face. “Hold that thought. I need to clean this up.”

While Miles went to fetch the cleaning tube, Julian picked out the bits of metal from the filth and tossed them. He mulled whether he wanted to say anything, and if so, what he wanted to say. He knew he'd have to take care. Miles read him better than he gave him credit for. Underestimating him had already once come back to bite him. He wasn't in the habit of making the same mistake twice, except when it came to Garak, apparently. As far as the Cardassian was concerned, he had long ago lost count of their myriad mistakes or how many times they repeated them with creative variations.

After the mess was clean and they had the couch back in place, he said, “I suppose I'm just a little confused. On one hand, I really care about her. On the other, I don't know that I want the same level of commitment she does.”

“You're not confused,” Miles said with a shrug. “It sounds like you're clear about what you want. Have you been that clear with her?”

He shook his head, his eyes sliding guiltily to the side.

“Well, that's the problem,” Miles continued. “You can't lead somebody on in a relationship like that. If y' don't feel what she feels, you owe it t' her t' tell her and let her make her own decision about whether t' stay or move on.”

“You're right,” he said, nodding. “It's not fair to keep her focused on me with a false premise. I just...how do you tell somebody that?”

“Th' same way you told me,” Miles answered. “Straightforward an' honest. An' don't sit there an' feed her that line about bein' confused. I have yet t' meet a woman that doesn't have a bullshit meter that'd put any one o' ours t' shame. Now, I appreciate all th' help.” He turned and walked over to his sideboard, opened the cabinet beneath, and pulled out an unopened bottle of single malt. Turning, he offered it to Julian with a smile. “Been savin' this one for a while. I want you t' have it.”

“Thank you, Chief,” he said, genuinely touched and taking the bottle.

“Be off wit' you, then,” O'Brien added humorously. “I need t' start gettin' ready. These clean quarters won't mean a thing if I show up at th' airlock lookin' like a wild heathen.”

“No, I imagine not,” the doctor said with a low laugh. “I'll catch up with you soon. Congratulations about their return.”

“Thanks,” Miles said.

If both of them were slightly forcing their smiles, Julian wasn't about to be the one to bring it up. He left in a hurry, the cool neck of the Scotch bottle a comfortable feel in his hand. He let the bottle swish against his leg as he walked for the turbolift, deep in thought. He contemplated what Garak would do and immediately set aside that line of thought. He already knew what Garak would do, the same thing he had been doing, carry on as though nothing was wrong or going on, a lie of omission. If asked, no doubt he'd come up with a very facile lie of commission, too. That wasn't the way to go, and he knew it.

He was almost to the turbolift when he realized he had left behind his bomber jacket. “Damn,” he said aloud. He decided he'd go back for it some other time. Miles was probably already in the shower. He didn't need to delay him any further than he already had by staying hours longer in the holosuite than they intended. He returned to his quarters to change into more appropriate clothing and put away his gift before going to Leeta's quarters for dinner. She always teased him about his costumes to the point that if he could avoid wearing them around her, he did so.

He dressed nicely and went through several speeches in his mind while he got ready. None of them sounded right. Was hurting her the right solution? Wasn't there some way to be somewhat truthful without blurting it all out? It wasn't as though Garak was a threat. He was perfectly fine with their arrangement, not pushing him to leave Leeta or make a decision. What if she pushes? He wondered. Would he be willing to give up what he was doing with Garak to stay with her? He didn't know, and he suspected that his uncertainty was a self created smoke screen to shield him from an uncomfortable truth.

By the time he reached her quarters, his palms were sweating. He hailed her and stepped inside to find the table set and food being put out. She smiled brightly. “You have perfect timing,” she said. “I didn't want to try to hail you since I knew that the chief's family is coming back tonight, but I was really hoping we could eat together before I had to go on shift. Did you have a good time?”

“We did,” he said. “We stayed too long and almost got Miles in a bind with cleaning up, but it was worth it. Do you want any help with anything?”

“Just eating the food,” she said. “Go ahead and have a seat.”

“You're in a good mood,” he observed, unsure if that was a good or a bad thing in light of what he wanted to say. She might receive things a little better being in a good mood, but he'd feel worse for having destroyed it.

“Things have been so much better at the bar lately. You have no idea how much stress that was off my shoulders. I'm even going to be able to start setting aside a little every month now. A few of us are talking about trying to start an investment pool. Just us Bajorans. I know better than to try to do business with any of the Ferengi. They'd rob us blind and smile at us while doing it.”

“Couldn't Rom give you some pointers?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Rom is a brilliant engineer. Money isn't his strong suit. If it was, he wouldn't have been stuck working for Quark all those years. Once we have enough saved up, we intend to contract with somebody from the Ministry of Finance to help us decide what parts of the economy would be the soundest investments. I've heard that exports stand a chance of becoming a large growth sector.”

She was so animated and enthusiastic, her dark eyes shining like twin gems. He struggled with himself to start the conversation he knew they needed to have. “I hate to change the subject abruptly,” he said, “but there's something that has been on my mind for a while now that I need to talk to you about.”

“I'm listening,” she said, her expression growing more wary at his tone of voice. “I hope this isn't about my not wanting to borrow money from you or not wanting to talk much about my past.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Although...I wonder if my attitude hasn't contributed to that reluctance.”

“What attitude?” She tilted her head and took a bite of her food.

He supposed he had been too good at hiding his distance and keeping his secrets. She really hadn't noticed anything, which made it all much more difficult to discuss. He had two false starts before asking, “Do you ever get the feeling we may be taking things a little too quickly?”

“Not really,” she said with a one shouldered shrug. “We haven't even talked about moving in together or anything that drastic. Until recently, my work schedule kept us from seeing more than a couple of hours of each other at a time. Have I done or said something that makes you think I have unusual expectations of you?”

“No,” he said carefully. He took a bite, too, and chewed it slowly, stalling as much as working up his courage. “We've never discussed...being exclusive, though.”

She set her fork down and wiped her mouth with a frown. “You're right. We haven't. Julian, my job puts me in contact with a lot of men, and there's a level of flirtatiousness that's required of me to do the job well. I haven't extended that flirtatiousness beyond the parameters of the job or accepted any invitations to dates, not to say that there haven't been plenty. I was under the impression you wouldn't be happy if I did, and quite frankly, since we've gotten a little more serious, I haven't been tempted. Have you?”

“I...” He took a deep breath and held it a moment before letting it out in a whoosh. “Actually, yes, I have,” he said.

She folded her arms. “How long have you felt this way?”

He wasn't sure how to answer that question. “For a while now,” he said. “I've wanted to bring it up before, but while you were going through everything with Quark, I didn't feel like it was the right time.”

She seemed to give that some thought, the direction of her focus turning more inward. “I suppose I should thank you for that,” she said. “I was under enough stress then. That's true. What do you want? Why are we having this conversation? Are you asking me for permission to see somebody else while you're seeing me, wanting to find out where I see us heading? I'm having a hard time understanding where you're going with this.”

“I wanted to be honest with you,” he said, barely able to hold her gaze.

“I got that. To what end? Julian, this vagueness isn't like you, and given the subject matter, that makes me uncomfortable. Are you trying to break up with me? If you are, just say so.”

“No, I'm not trying to break up with you. I don't want to. I like what we have, but...I just...I'm not sure I'm ready for it to be exclusive.” He knew he was bungling this badly, knew he was being a coward.

“Who is it?” she asked the question he had desperately hoped that she wouldn't. “Dax?” Her voice sharpened with the name.

“No, not Dax.” He had a sneaking suspicion she'd find that easier to swallow than the real culprit. “It's...Garak.”

She let out a little bark of a laugh that didn't sound even slightly amused. “Wow,” she said, staring at him. “You do realize that's a bit more than just not being exclusive, don't you? Wanting to go back to your ex?”

He shook his head. “I don't want to go back to him. I...I know that doesn't work.”

“You know what else doesn't work?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “How do you humans put it? Having your bread and eating it, too?”

“Cake,” he muttered.

“Right,” she said, her eyes flashing hotly. “Thank you for that. I'd hate for you to misunderstand me. Having your cake and eating it, too. You want to string me and Garak along until you can make up your mind what you want. That doesn't work for me. Not at all, Julian. Garak doesn't strike me as the sort who'd accept that, either. He deserves better.”

“He...has accepted it,” he said, wincing inwardly.

Her mouth dropped open with an utterly incredulous look. It took her a few moments to gather herself enough to speak. “You discussed this with him first?” she asked, her usually soft voice whip crack sharp.

“It wasn't exactly a discussion,” he breathed.

She stood abruptly. “What exactly was it? No, on second thought, don't you dare answer that. I don't need details.” She marched for the door.

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing also and stepping away from the table.

“None of your business, but I can tell you one thing. I want you gone by the time I get back, and take your things with you if you don't want them incinerated.”

Garak

Private Quarters

Garak hadn't been home five minutes when the door chime drew him from changing his tunic to something more comfortable. He finished tying the lounging robe before inquiring who was at the door and admitting her. “Ah, my dear, what a pleasant surprise. I was just...”

She didn't let him get more out than that, crossing to him swiftly and striking him open handed on the cheek. The sharp crack of it seemed to ricochet in the close quarters. Her fury was palpable. “How dare you?” she said through gritted teeth. “How dare you smile at me and pretend to be my friend while doing Prophets know what with Julian behind my back?”

Garak worked his jaw and surreptitiously tongued his lower molars to make sure none of them were loose. She packed quite a belt. He was glad it hadn't been a fist instead. “Do you want a facile justification,” he asked, “or would you simply like for me to allow you to vent your rage?”

“The sad thing is,” she said, drawing herself up ramrod straight, “that I really liked you. I truly believed you were my friend. And while it hurts me that you would do something with my boyfriend behind my back, what hurts the most is that you'd keep smiling at me to my face and acting like nothing had changed. I'd at least be able to respect you if you spited me openly. The thing that makes me sick? I've defended you. You have no idea how many times the other girls have said things to me about the time I've spent with you, how many times I've said, 'He's not like the other Cardassians. He's a truly decent man.' I guess the joke's on me, and I really am as stupid and naïve as they said I was for ever trusting you.” Without another word, she turned on her heel and left him there, the hiss of his door an anticlimactic punctuation to her departure.

He sighed and rubbed absently at his still stinging cheek. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, and if Julian had been able to keep his mouth shut, it wouldn't have happened. “Humans,” he growled under his breath. “Sentimental fools, every last one of them.”

Too annoyed to focus on reading, he set up his kotra board so that he could run through several advanced strategy exercises. He needed something interactive and challenging to keep him from stewing over the situation. He was certain that Julian would be along, if not that night, then some time soon, to bemoan what had happened. If he was to get through such a conversation without a completely venomous attitude, he knew he had to distance himself from his reaction. The sad thing is, he thought as he moved the first piece, I liked her, too. He had no expectation that she would ever understand or believe that he could view someone as a friend and do underhanded things to or around them. Few ever did understand such things about his people.

As he moved the pieces across the board, he envisioned warships in three dimensional space, strikes and counter-strikes, bold captures, unconventional maneuvers. How differently might his life have gone had he been in Central Command? Despite the fact that he loathed so many of the old money military leaders, there was a certain appeal to a well executed plan, simple on the surface and layered beneath. Such thoughts led to a memory of Tain's last moments aboard the bird of prey before Odo knocked Garak out and stole him away. “He overreached,” he murmured to himself, knocking one of the last pieces gently off the board with the one he held in hand. “Forgot what he was. Who he was. There were many reasons for the Order not to possess military equipment, not simply because it would've made us too powerful.”

That Cardassia was gone. Frustratingly, he didn't know enough of what had risen to take its place to know whether this was a reason to be glad or worried. He hadn't been impressed by what he had seen so far. They seemed too mired in internal power struggles to deal decisively with external threats. They had never been more weak or vulnerable in his lifetime, quite possibly. He realized he had lost taste for his exercise and set his piece aside. Going to the bar was out of the question. Leeta deserved her space without having him in her face. He'd have to give her some time to heal from that hurt before returning to Quark's during her work shift.

Luckily, he kept himself stocked with kanar, rising and crossing to pour himself a drink. He was on his third when Julian chimed his door. It crossed his mind to leave him out there. Such passivity, however, really wasn't his way. “Enter,” he said more sharply than was his wont.

Julian crossed his threshold and stopped just within, letting the door shut at his back. “I suppose she came to confront you,” he said after taking a quick look at his demeanor.

“Yes,” he said.

“What did she say?” he asked hesitantly.

“She thanked me for taking you off her hands, because she has secretly been wanting to date Rom for months,” he answered with cloying sarcasm. “What do you think she said, you idiot?”

Julian winced. “I deserved that,” he said.

“Oh, please,” Garak sighed, throwing up a hand. “If you came here to feel sorry for yourself or to use my anger as a way to flagellate, I'd just as soon you left. I'm not interested in coddling you or satisfying your masochistic urges to flay your conscience. You are quite possibly one of the most selfish people I have ever known.” He paused to let that sink in. “I would remind you that I am Cardassian as I say this. I would remind you further that this is coming from me.”

“I know cheating on her was selfish,” Julian snapped.

“Cheating on her? Yes, that was selfish, but I'm talking about telling her. Why would you do such a thing? You hurt her for no good reason except to assuage your own guilt.”

“That's not true. I...I wanted to give her the choice,” he said.

“What choice?”

“I didn't want her being with me on false pretenses. If she wanted to be exclusive, and I didn't, it wasn't fair of me to trick her into staying in an arrangement that wasn't what she thought it was.”

“I see,” Garak said, shaking his head in disgust. “Much preferable for her to be miserable and know this truth of yours than happy. So, what brought this on? Did she ask you to move in with her? To marry you? No, wait, I know. She wanted you to move to Bajor with her.”

“I don't appreciate your sarcasm. She didn't do anything. This was my decision. Miles said...”

“Ah, Miles. It all makes such perfect sense now. Did you tell him about us, too? Should I put a call to Dax so that the entire station can get in on this?” So much for kotra taming his fires. He just had to get contemplative about Cardassia before the doctor arrived.

“No, I didn't tell him about us. I just told him I didn't think I wanted to be exclusive to Leeta. Look, I don't understand why you're acting like this. If anything, I thought you'd probably be relieved,” he said, his brows low over narrowed eyes.

“Relieved that you hurt an innocent woman who never did anything to either of us? If that's your view of my habitual emotional state, I'm shocked you want to be in the same room with me alone,” he said, setting his empty kanar glass down on his table. “I realize this may be difficult for you to understand, but try. You and I have both said on numerous occasions that when we step into the confines of a relationship, it doesn't work. Did it ever occur to you part of the reason I allowed what I allowed in the dressing room was because you were in another relationship, not in spite of it?

“I can tell by your expression that it did not,” he continued. “I have no intention of flaunting a connection to you in front of Leeta, or anybody else on this station. The only thing this changes is that I'm now concerned that I made a mistake in allowing what I did, both because of its consequences for Leeta and your appalling lapse in discretion. I trusted that you'd be able to handle yourself. I couldn't have been more wrong.”

“I can't believe you! How dare you stand there and get self-righteous with me? You're as guilty as I am.”

“No, Doctor, I'm not. I would never have told her just so that I could make myself feel better about deceiving her, and that's where you and I differ tremendously.”

“Don't 'Doctor' me, not right now,” Julian snapped, his eyes flashing.

“Fine, Julian,” he said, already tired of this and wanting him to leave. “I can only surmise that you came here either hoping that I'd be glad to hear the news and therefore amenable to offering you...comfort,” he laced the word with a subtle hint of contempt and innuendo both, “or to attempt damage control. Either way, I have no interest in being cooperative tonight.”

“You're not the only one thinking I made a mistake,” Julian said spitefully.

Garak's smile was more of a sneer. “Now it's my turn to get some honesty?” he asked. “You're wanting to take a little kilo of flesh on your way out the door?” He spread his arms. “Do your best. Take a parting shot.”

“You'd have to have a heart for me to hurt it,” he said. “I'm done with this. Sorry I bothered to try to give you the courtesy of being informed.”

The tailor laughed harshly. “That's rich. The day I need to get my intelligence from you is the day I'll make sure somebody puts me out of my misery for being useless, ineffectual, and blind. If I wanted to spy on your people, do you honestly think I'd have ever approached a mere doctor? You didn't even have the foresight to understand your own girlfriend well enough to know she'd come straight to me after your pathetic confession. Why don't you run along while you still have a few tatters of dignity to trail behind you, or is it already too late for that?”

Julian stalked from the quarters without another word, his face stiff and pale. Garak snorted another soft, derisive laugh at his back just as the door was closing. Not six hours after Julian's breach with Leeta, and already the two of them were back in familiar territory. He hoped the little idiot had it in him to patch things up with her. It was the only way he saw himself being able to abide his company at all after this.

Julian

The Infirmary

Julian watched Major Kira and Captain Sisko escort his most recent patient out of the infirmary, the three still deep in conversation. “Akorem Laan,” he murmured. He had read the man's poetry when he was working to familiarize himself more with Bajoran culture. He was quite good, but more remarkably, he was a tremendously important literary figure in their history. Having seen Kira's reaction to meeting the man, he likened it to getting to meet Sir Francis Bacon, or perhaps Lord Byron.

“Do you think it's true?” one of the Bajoran day nurse's questions cut into his thoughts.

“What?” he asked, glancing away from the door and over to her.

“That he's the Emissary,” she said a bit breathlessly, her hazel eyes wide.

“I don't know,” he answered honestly. To the best of his ability, he had avoided talk of the captain's role in Bajor's spiritual life. As an officer and a member of Starfleet, the entire thing made him somewhat uncomfortable. He couldn't imagine how much worse it had been for the captain for these past few years. If Akorem's story was true, perhaps the wormhole aliens had decided that a Bajoran would make a better Emissary after all. “What I do know,” he said, offering her a slight smile, “is that whether he's the Emissary or not, we still have work to do today.” Taking the hint, she smiled and nodded, getting back to her duties.

The rest of his work day was relatively uneventful, although he believed he'd be hard pressed to encounter anything else quite as remarkable as having a patient beamed into his infirmary not just from a solar ship like the captain and Jake had piloted to Cardassian space but from over two hundred years in the past. It was events such as this which reminded him of one of the main reasons he chose Deep Space Nine as his post. For a little while that day, he felt as he did the first time he set foot on the station, excited about all of the possibilities.

As the end of his shift drew to a close, Nurse Frendel arrived. Julian told him of their unusual patient and stressed the need for discretion. Frendel seemed quite excited by the news, but there was something else in his dark eyes, a sort of mirth Julian had rarely seen. “What is it?” he asked the man. “You look like someone with exciting news of your own.”

“Well,” the Bajoran said with an easy smile, “you didn't hear it from me, but I have it on very good authority that Mrs. O'Brien is pregnant.”

“Really?” Julian's eyes widened. “That's wonderful news! Thanks for telling me, and mum's the word. I don't know where the rumor came from.” Grinning, he signed out and left for the evening, heading down to Quark's. He knew that Miles would be getting off soon, too, and likely passing by there. He wanted to have the opportunity to congratulate him. As soon as he saw him, he snagged him and dragged him into the bar for a drink.

As was so often the case when pregnancies were announced, it seemed practically everyone had an experience or opinion, from Quark reminiscing about Nog's childhood to Worf's incredible discomfort with memories of delivering Molly, something that surprised Julian to no end. Yet, it was Miles' attitude that surprised him the most. Instead of the excitement he expected, the man seemed more apprehensive, possibly even disappointed. He understood his reasoning, having wanted more time with Keiko for going out and doing adult things. At the same time, he recalled his own lonely childhood and how often he wished for a sibling. Molly would be happier in the long run. He suspected the chief would, too, once he became used to the idea.

He watched him leave and turned back toward the bar. Quark made his way back down and leaned closer. “For a man about to become a father for a second time, you'd think he'd show a little more enthusiasm,” he said, “instead of crying and moaning about not having enough time to spend with his fe-male. Don't get me wrong. Mrs. O'Brien is...delectable...”

“Quark!” Julian said, scowling.

“Oh, don't start,” Quark snorted and waved a hand dismissively. “Just because I hit on her that one time. I wasn't myself, mind you. Would you like for me to start reminding you of what they said about you and Major Kira after that little incident?”

“No, I wouldn't,” he said firmly. “Besides, I wasn't talking about that. You don't go talking about another man's wife that way. It's disrespectful.”

“Almost as disrespectful as cheating on your girlfriend with your ex,” Quark whispered, widening his eyes for emphasis. “Oh, yes, word gets around quickly on this station, Doctor. I don't think I need a lecture on morals from you, thank you very much. Hurting one of my best workers. If her productivity drops, I should find a way to charge you for it. I've been looking into the possibility.”

Julian dropped his voice low, too. “Don't stand there and pretend you give a damn about Leeta, or anyone else in this bar,” he hissed. “You were more than happy to let her get evicted before your entire work force rebelled. I wonder what the FCA would think about your real solution?” He glared daggers.

Quark put a hand up to his chest. “No need to get riled,” he said. “Nobody else will hear about what you did to Leeta from me. I was just making a point.”

Julian glared a moment longer. “So was I,” he said tightly, slapping payment to the bar top and walking away. He needed to get out of there before Leeta came on shift anyway. He didn't want to upset her worse than he already had.

Just as he exited, Nurse Frendel hailed him over his comm. “I'm sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but I need to speak with you in the infirmary.”

“On my way,” he said, actually glad of the distraction. He found the man waiting for him in his office. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, having the door shut behind him so that they could have some privacy.

“It's not a problem, Sir, but we've just been informed that the new Emissary is scheduled to make his first public speech tomorrow morning on the Promenade in front of the temple. I know that usually at least twenty-six hours are expected for non-emergency rescheduling of personnel, but I thought, well...I hoped that we could make an exception for the Bajoran nurses and medics scheduled for tomorrow.”

Julian nodded. “Yes, in this case, I don't see why not. Call Nurses Walzcek and Dubois and Medic Tarsen, and see if they can come in and cover for Jondell, Rankar, and Pol for the morning. If not, we can probably get away with being understaffed for an hour or two, unless there's an emergency.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Frendel beamed.

He turned for the door and paused. “This really means a lot to you, doesn't it? I don't think I've ever seen you so enthusiastic about anything.”

“Permission to speak freely?” the man asked.

“Of course,” Julian nodded. “You know I prefer my staff to speak their minds.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I also know you're not entirely comfortable with our belief system, particularly as it pertains to your captain. I've always tried to respect that.”

“I appreciate the consideration,” he said, “but it's not necessary. If I've given the impression that I don't want to hear your opinions regarding the captain, then I apologize. You're a damned good nurse. I wouldn't be able to keep this place running the way it does without you, which means I respect your opinions, even those that don't pertain directly to the infirmary.”

The Bajoran relaxed somewhat and smiled again, this time with more warmth. “Thank you, Sir. That really means a lot to me. I respect you, too. Like most of my people, I've been pleased with the fulfillment of some of our prophecies of late. Your captain is important to us, but not without some controversy. I'm...relieved...that it seems perhaps the Prophets have sensed our confusion and division and sent us someone that all of Bajor can rally behind. No offense, Sir.”

“None taken,” Julian said. “I confess the concept has caused me some personal discomfort and is also controversial with Starfleet. If Akorem is the new Emissary, there's a good possibility that many of these problems and conflicts will be solved.”

“That's what I'm hoping,” the nurse said fervently.

Julian smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “On that we're in full agreement. Make the schedule shifts, and contact me if there's any major hitch or an emergency. Otherwise, good night for real this time.”

“Yes, Sir,” the man said, following him out of the office much more relaxed than when he entered.

Current Mood: dorky
Current Music: Aine Minogue, Blind Mary

The Promenade

The picket line outside Quark's that morning caused quite a stir. The entire area was abuzz with rumors and gossip. Julian saw Leeta prominently to the fore with Rom and gave her his most encouraging smile. He had to admire the workers for taking a stand, particularly the Ferengi for whom this could be an utter disaster. It quickly became apparent that getting any work done was going to be difficult, especially when Miles showed up, fired up and enthusiastic about the stir.

“C'n you believe it?” the Irishman asked. “A real, honest to goodness strike right here on Deep Space Nine, and it's all because of you.”

“Me?” Julian widened his eyes. “Hardly. You were there when he came in to talk about it. I didn't even remember saying anything to him about unions. I was probably just trying to make him feel better or get him to stop complaining. I was tired that night.”

“Whatever your intentions, it was the right fuel to throw on the right fire at the right time. Look at 'em. I bet we'd get a better look from the second level.”

Nodding, he followed the engineer up the stairs, the two of them positioning themselves with a good view of the striking workers below and the second level entrance. “I wonder why they didn't block this one off, too?” Miles said.

“I would imagine Captain Sisko had something to do with that,” Julian replied. “I don't think it would be legal to allow them to close the bar off entirely.”

“Probably not,” the engineer agreed. “I'm surprised he's allowing as much as he is.”

“It's a fine line to tread, not infringing on their rights or Quark's and not interfering with an alien society. Makes me glad I'm not a captain,” he said. “As upset as I've seen Leeta at Quark at times, I'd be tempted to run him off the station, the bar be damned.”

Miles snorted a chuckle. “So, you'd say you've started feelin' more protective of Leeta lately?”

Julian eyed him warily. “I said no such thing.” To get him off the subject, he pointed at a Tellarite walking past. “What do you think? In, our out?”

“Huh?” Miles asked.

The Tellarite walked into the bar from the upper level. “Oh, too late!” he said, grinning. Miles returned the grin, catching on. They made quite the entertaining game of it until Worf unexpectedly walked inside. Before he could even think to stop him, the engineer started off after him. “Where are you going?” he asked, hurrying to catch up and not liking where this was heading.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the lower light in the bar. The scene was almost surreal, as what few customers there were all seemed to be served by identical clones of Quark. It distracted him to the point that he tuned out Miles' conversation with Worf to try to see what was actually going on. One of the Quarks rippled with static, a tray he was bearing crashing to the floor in a messy spill of drinks. Another Quark cried out, “Not again!” and hurried over to the site with a large rag.

Holograms, he realized. He's using holograms. He had to give it to the bar owner for ingenuity, however flawed. Worf's roar snapped him back to his true reason for entering the bar. He looked over just in time to see the Klingon lunge at Miles. “Hey!” he snapped, quickly trying to interpose himself between the two before things got ugly. He couldn't tell who did it in the confusion that followed, but the next he knew, he was flying over a table and falling to the floor head first. He managed to get his hands under him at the last minute, taking a grazing blow instead of a full on face plant.

“No fighting in the bar!” Quark bellowed from the first floor. “Security! Security!”

He didn't resist the Bajoran officer who hauled him to his feet, gruffly checked his forehead, and snapped him in holding cuffs. To his relief, neither did Worf or Miles. Odo marched the three of them out of the bar with such a look of disgust that he felt like a misbehaving teenager. It was completely humiliating. The security chief held his tongue until he had them in his office, only then whirling on them. “If I lock the three of you in one holding cell, will you beat one another senseless?” he asked.

“No,” came three muttered replies, not a one of them able to look Odo in the eyes.

“Pity,” Odo said. He shoved them into a cell and removed their cuffs, leaving them without another word.

He knew that if he looked at either one of them, he'd say something he'd regret. Setting his jaw, he stood at parade rest in front of the energy barrier. The other two joined him, and that was how the Captain found them not much later. “I don't believe what I'm seeing,” Sisko said.

Julian could hardly believe it himself, particularly when Miles tried to blame him for his injury. It wasn't serious. His pride was hurt far worse than his head, but it was the principle of the matter. He didn't allow the accusation that he got in the way to stand unchallenged. In the end he wasn't surprised to hear that all three of them would be cooling their heels in the cell together overnight. “I hope you're proud of yourselves,” he said coldly after the captain had left, and he staked his claim to the bunk. Those two idiots could sleep on the floor for all he cared. Miles looked at him and seemed to think better of trying to talk. That suited him just fine. It was going to be a long sixteen hours.

Garak

Garak's Clothiers

Garak had to admit that what was bad for Quark's business had turned quite profitable for him. Deprived of the bar, people were more inclined to shop and gossip. He had only to look outside his door to see the picket line. What he had missed but was told about by several different customers with great glee was the arrest of several Starfleeters by security earlier in the day. The figure varied from two to seven, for reasons that ranged from brawling to vandalism of the bar. He found the latter claim difficult to believe. In nearly every story Worf was implicated, with the other officers and personnel changing with each wild tale.

The only name that truly interested him was Julian's. He left his shop for a late lunch, only to see Leeta beckon quickly to him. He veered her way, greeted Rom cordially, and leaned in close to listen to her whisper. “I heard Julian got hurt,” she said. “Could you find out for me, please? I'm worried, but I can't leave the picket line.”

“I was trying to find that out, myself,” he assured her and squeezed her shoulder. “I'll return when I have news.”

“Thank you, Garak,” she said, smiling and offering him a slip of latinum, “and thanks for not patronizing Quark's Bar.”

He held up a hand palm out, refusing the money. “You don't have to pay me for that.” Several strides down the Promenade had him at the infirmary. Not surprisingly, the nurses were completely mum about the rumored incident. They wouldn't confirm that Julian was injured or that he had been involved in anything, only saying that he wasn't there. Undaunted, he continued on to security. Odo stopped him at the office. “If I were you, I'd stay out of it,” he grated the moment he saw him.

“I have no wish to be involved in anything, I assure you, Constable,” Garak said smoothly. “Leeta is worried about Doctor Bashir. Someone told her that he had been injured. Can you at least tell me if he is all right?”

Odo nodded grudgingly. “He's fine. Anything else, you'll have to ask him in the morning.”

Both of Garak's brow ridges lifted in surprise. He was to be incarcerated for the entire night? That was something he never thought he'd see. He inclined his head respectfully and stepped back out onto the Promenade. Who would have suspected that this strike of Rom's would have such far reaching effects? He was dying to know who started it and how Julian got involved. That would have to wait. He returned to Leeta and told her what little he knew. She didn't seem to take the news that Julian would be held overnight well, her eyes flashing, but she thanked him nonetheless. He took his late lunch and cut it short so that he could be sure to be present for the heavier traffic of customers. He left for his quarters long before the picket line was due to dissipate, his curiosity not enough to override his hunger and fatigue.

Private Quarters

He was already in his pajamas when his door chime rang. Throwing on a robe, he asked the computer who was at his door and reluctantly answered when he discovered it was Rom. The waiter seemed more agitated than usual. Garak couldn't be quite sure if the agitation was for a good or bad reason. Ferengi grimaces could sometimes be difficult to read. He didn't let him in far. “I hope you don't intend to make a habit of this,” he said irritably.

“No, but Doctor Bashir and Chief O'Brien are locked up, and Odo won't let me talk to them,” Rom said.

So the rumor about O'Brien was true. It couldn't have happened to a better man, Garak decided, although he still wondered how Julian got tangled up in that mess. “What do you need?”

“Brother tried to bribe me,” he blurted excitedly. “That's good, right?”

“It could be,” Garak conceded. “However, consider your brother. If he's down to offering you money, it also means he's getting desperate. Desperate people sometimes do dangerous things.”

“I'm not afraid,” Rom said staunchly. “I think we're really making progress. I need to call a meeting. Sorry for barging in like this. I just wanted a little advice from someone I trusted. You may not know a lot about strikes like the chief and the doctor, but you've never led me wrong.”

Some of Garak's irritation receded. “Well,” he said a little less crossly, “allow me to offer you cautious congratulations on your progress, then. Remember what I said. Don't get over-confident.”

“Garak,” Rom said, “I don't think I'll ever have that problem. Good night!”

He couldn't argue with him there. “Good night,” he said, smiling faintly at the door for a couple of seconds after the man retreated. Interesting times, he thought. Interesting times indeed.

Julian

Private Quarters

The door chimed just as Julian finished zipping his new turtleneck. He took a deep breath and let it out. He had done a lot of thinking during his night of incarceration, and he knew he had a lot of things to explain to Leeta. “Enter,” he said, emerging from his bedroom and facing the door with resolve.

Leeta skip walked over to him and hugged him tightly then stepped back to look at him, both hands to his shoulders. “I'm glad you're all right,” she said. “I was worried about you. I wanted to come see you today in the infirmary, but Rom says it's really important we keep our united front.”

“I'm fine,” he said. “You didn't need to worry. I...there's something I need to talk to you about.”

To his surprise, she kissed him fully on the lips. “You don't have to explain, silly. I know why you were in the bar. I think it's really sweet that you and Miles were trying to keep Worf from crossing the strike line. I'm proud of you for standing up for what you believe in, even though it cost you. You're not in too much trouble, are you?”

He gave a weak smile. “No. No, I'm not.” There was no way he could approach her about Garak when she was looking at him that way. It would just have to wait. “So, are you hungry? And do you want to eat in, or go out?”

She smiled slowly and guided him back toward his sofa with her hands sliding down to his chest. “I'd say...” she said, pushing him down and straddling his lap with a grin, “let's eat...in.”

It wasn't until hours later that they got around to replicating food. By that time, he was ravenous but feeling no urge to complain. Her energy and enthusiasm had been very infectious. Smiling to himself, he loaded up a tray of finger foods and started toward the bedroom with it, still naked and feeling deliciously sated.

“Infirmary to Doctor Bashir,” Nurse Frendel's voice came over the comm.

“Bashir here,” he said. “Go ahead.” Leeta appeared in the bedroom door with a look of concern.

“We need you right away, Doctor. It's Quark. He's dying.”

Leeta hurried forward and took the tray out of his hands, staying out of his way while he rushed into the bedroom to dress in his uniform. “I'm on my way,” he said, hopping on one foot while thrusting a leg through the trousers. He was still zipping up as he said, “Bashir to Ops. I need a direct beam to the infirmary, now.”

The moment he arrived, he got straight to work. “Status report,” he said, moving to run his hands under the disinfecting beam. “What happened?”

“Constable Odo found him being beaten by two Nausicaans. One of his lungs is filling with fluid, and we haven't been able to stop it from collapsing.”

He nodded, barking orders left and right and taking a quick look at the biobed feed. “We're going to need to vent it. I want him fitted with a neural caliper right now. Let's induce a coma before shock finishes him off.”

As he donned his surgeon's uniform, he considered how fortunate it was that Odo found the bar owner when he did. Ferengi weren't the most hearty of species to begin with, and a beating from a Nausicaan was nothing to sneer at. It took close to three hours of careful, painstaking work to extract the rib and bone fragments that had been driven deeply into the lower lobe of his left lung. Only then did he feel comfortable trying to address the damage to his eye socket. Just a little more force, and Quark would've been blinded in one eye and possibly suffered brain damage.

He finished up and straightened his aching back. “All right,” he said, looking at his surgical team. “I feel it's safe to say he's going to make it, but let's not get cocky. Good work, all of you.”

They nodded and dispersed to their various stations, and he retreated to the back to strip back down to his uniform and clean up. Nurse Frendel joined him. “I've had word sent to his brother,” he said. “Is there anyone else we should notify?”

“No,” Julian said. “Let Rom handle that, and needless to say, no visitors right now. If Quark remains stable when we remove the caliper, I'll consider letting Rom see him. Make sure you let me talk to him first if he comes when I'm not in the front. I won't have him upsetting our patient.”

The nurse nodded and left him to finish cleaning up. He felt a twinge of guilt, considering he was the one who put the whole union idea into Rom's head in the first place, but he didn't actually blame himself. Quark had brought this on his own head with his behavior.

Julian checked back in on Quark before retreating to his office to work up his report. A couple of hours later, he believed his patient was stable enough to be awakened. They removed the caliper and monitored him closely. After another twenty minutes or so, Quark's eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes. “How are you feeling?” Julian asked.

“Like I've been trampled by Morn on his way to a two for one drink special,” Quark rasped.

Julian smiled wryly. “Well, it's good to see your humor is intact.”

“I'm not joking, Doctor,” Quark said.

“No, I imagine not.” He explained to him all of the damage he had suffered and told him of what he knew of the situation from Odo's end of things. “All in all, you're very lucky to be alive.”

“When can I get out of here?” the Ferengi asked.

Julian stared at him and shook his head. “When I say so, and not a moment before. No visitors, either. What you need to do right now is to rest. I'll check back in on you later to see how you're doing.”

He left the recovery room and heard Rom's raised voice from the entrance lobby. Hurrying down the short hallway, he shooed his people back to their stations. Rom drew himself up to his full height and met Julian's gaze squarely. “Brother and I have unfinished business,” he said.

Julian sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, beckoning Rom back with him to his office. He turned to face him once they had some privacy. “I'll let you see him,” he said, “on one condition. Don't get him agitated. Those Nausicaans nearly killed him. I won't stand by and let you finish the job with stress after operating on him for over three hours. Understood?”

Rom nodded. “I never wanted any of this to happen,” he said flatly, “but I'm not sorry for it.”

Julian nodded slowly. “I understand. Rom, I...admire...what you've done with this. I know it has been difficult, particularly with the Liquidator aboard the station making threats. As a Starfleet officer, I can't officially take sides or weigh in, but off the record...well, I think you should be proud of taking a stand, regardless of how it all turns out.”

The Ferengi eyed him a bit strangely before nodding. “Thank you, Doctor. I never expected to hear that coming from you.”

“I suppose we're all allowed to surprise each other now and then,” he said with a crooked half smile.

“I suppose so,” Rom said. “I'd like to see Brother now.”

“Of course,” Julian said, showing him the way.

Garak

Garak's Clothiers

Garak hummed to himself as he hung some of the newest wares in his window displays. The new fabrics were not only a joy to work with but were proving very popular. He hadn't been so busy with orders since the trouble started with the Dominion. It was past closing time. He should have left over an hour before, but it didn't hurt to put in extra hours now and then. He felt eyes on him from behind and turned to find Rom standing in his doorway, dressed in Bajoran maintenance worker's overalls. He finished arranging the dress he had in hand and stepped away from the display. “I wish you had told me you intended to do this,” he said smiling. “I could've given you a much better fit with that uniform.”

Rom grinned. “I'll get an alteration with my first paycheck,” he said.

“So tell me,” Garak said, beckoning him toward the back for some tea and privacy, “are the rumors true? The strike is settled, the Liquidator sent off with some...creative bookkeeping, and the workers' demands met under the table?”

“One of these days, I'm going to figure out your sources,” Rom said. “Yes, it's true. The union is dissolved, but they don't need it anymore.”

“They. So you've cut all ties to the bar?” Garak asked. “Two red leaf teas,” he ordered from the replicator and turned to hand Rom one.

“Yes,” Rom nodded. “I should've done it a long time ago.” He sipped his tea thoughtfully and took the stool Garak pulled out for him. “I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I just always held onto the idea that one day I'd be what's expected of a good Ferengi.”

“And now?” Garak asked, also taking a sip of tea.

“Now I just want to be paid for what I'm good at,” he said. “I'm a very good engineer. My methods may be unorthodox compared to what the Starfleeters or Bajorans are used to, but I can make do with a lot less than what they provide and do a lot more than what they expect.”

“I always did have faith in you,” he said, genuinely happy for the man and privately proud of his progress. It was a long time in coming.

“I know,” Rom said with a nod. “You're one of the first who ever did, and I won't forget that, Garak. I want to tell you something else. Leeta kissed me.”

He was thankful not to have been taking a sip of tea in just that moment. Rom might have wound up wearing it. “She did?”

“Not on the lips. Just on the forehead, but it's a start. She respects me now. You gave me good advice on that, too. If there's ever anything I can do in return, I want you to let me know. I mean it. You've been a good friend. I want to return the favor.”

“My dear man,” Garak said, “you already have, many times over. Now, please don't embarrass me any further with this...startling honesty. It's almost more than I can stomach.”

Rom snickered and stood, offering him the mug back. “All right,” he said. “It's time for me to go gloat a little to Brother, anyway, and let him serve me for a change.”

“That sounds like a marvelous idea,” the tailor said. “When I finish up here, I may even come watch the fireworks.” There were worse ways to spend an evening, he decided as he put the mugs in the recycler. If someone as tradition bound as a Ferengi could become a radical and throw off the shackles of his societal expectations to follow his dreams, who was to say that Garak couldn't practice being radical in his own way and seize contentment when it presented itself, even if only for an evening? A marvelous idea, indeed, he thought and hurried to finish his displays so that he could do just that.

The end.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Shawn Colvin, Sunny Came Home

Garak

Garak's Clothiers

He had no idea how late it was, and he didn't really care. The shipment of Deltan fabrics had arrived earlier that day. The colors and textures were so impressive that he had started to experiment with them right away and stayed through supper and beyond, peacefully ensconced in his stock room at his work table. His outer doors chimed, and he paused, scissors in hand. Who would approach him after hours? Glancing to the wall chronometer, he did a double take. Quark's would already be closed by now. Had he truly been so focused that he lost all track of time? It had been over two years since that had happened for a good reason. The door chimed again.

Frowning slightly to himself, he palmed the phaser he always kept close, tucked it against the back of his thigh, and approached the entrance. He relaxed when he saw Rom on the other side of the doors. “Computer, open shop doors,” he said. Rom hurried in, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. Not liking the look of that, Garak added, “Close and lock shop doors. Engage opaque mode.” The wide doors slid shut with a loud hiss, the lock clicked, and then the Promenade beyond was shut out completely behind a milky white sheen. “What is it?” he asked. “Is someone after you?”

“No,” Rom said, looking apologetic. “I didn't mean to make you nervous. I just wanted to be sure Brother wasn't watching.”

“It's very late,” he said, not in the mood for foolishness. “This couldn't wait until morning?”

“Uh, not really,” Rom said.

Sighing inwardly and reminding himself to be patient, he gestured Rom toward the back. “All right,” he said. “You may as well have some tea with me while you're here. How are you feeling, by the way? I heard about what happened to you.”

“I'm better,” he said. “Doctor Bashir fixed me up. Instead of tea, could you make it snail juice? Tea will make me jumpy.”

Garak privately thought Rom already looked jumpy. He wasn't sure what difference tea would make. “Of course,” he said and set aside his weapon. He replicated the vile smelling drink and his own preferred tea and passed Rom his mug. Once they were both seated on stools, he looked expectantly at his friend and waited to hear what all of this was about.

Rom took a couple of gulps of his snail juice first. “Have you ever done something you've always been told is wrong, but you know is right?” he asked anxiously.

A moral question? he thought with some surprise. He's asking me a moral question? He couldn't quite wrap his mind around that at first. “Are you quite certain you feel all right?” he asked.

“No. I feel terrible. My stomach is all in knots. I don't feel like I can get enough air, and it seems like the room might be spinning a little,” the waiter confessed.

Garak set his tea aside. “It sounds as though we ought to get you to the infirmary,” he said, concerned.

Rom shook his head. “No. I'm nervous. More nervous than I've been in my life. More nervous than I was when Nog was taking his pre-entrance exams for Starfleet.”

“That's pretty nervous,” the tailor said, eyes widening.

“You're telling me!” Rom exclaimed and took another gulp from his mug.

Actually, you're telling me, Garak thought, painfully slowly. He reached for his tea again and took a small sip.

“Brother has gone too far,” he said.

He should have known this had something to do with Quark. Garak held up a hand. “If you're about to let slip some dreadful arms deal or something that will get me questioned by Odo or Worf, please stop right there,” he said.

“No, much worse than that,” Rom continued in a rush. “He cut all our pay because of the Time of Cleansing, and he probably won't raise it again even when it's over.”

“I see,” Garak said neutrally. He had long thought that Quark deserved more than a little comeuppance for his treatment of his family and employees, but he had never felt it was his place to say much of anything, to Rom or anyone else about it.

“According to Ferengi law, I'm not supposed to do anything about it,” Rom added dejectedly.

“No,” Garak said agreeably, “I can see how workers' rights have the potential to eat into profits.”

“That's just it,” Rom said. “He's already making a ridiculous profit margin over the rest of us. He's...he's just being greedy.”

It took every ounce of self-control Garak had not to laugh aloud. The complete absurdity of the situation combined with the late hour and Rom's genuine outrage over Ferengi greed was almost too much for him. “What do you have in mind?” he asked, hoping he didn't sound too breathless. He knew Rom would pick up on it much easier than he would.

“Doctor Bashir mentioned...” the Ferengi paused and swallowed audibly. “He mentioned a union.”

Suddenly, it didn't seem so funny anymore. Frowning slightly, Garak leaned toward his friend. “Rom,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “far be it from me to...discourage anyone...from standing up for himself. We Cardassians are known for drawing lines in the sand and making those who cross them pay dearly. In the process, we understand that there's a good chance that we might be the ones to pay.”

Rom nodded slowly. “Go on,” he said.

Garak exhaled softly through his nostrils. “Once a line is drawn, you don't always have the option to erase it. If you're going to do something this drastic, think long and hard about what you have to gain versus what you have to lose. It's my understanding, limited though it may be, that you could lose everything doing something like this, not just now, but forever. Your people's...enforcers...could literally hound you to the far corners of the galaxy and make your life a living hell.” He knew more about what that was like than he cared to reveal.

“True,” Rom said with a thoughtful nod. “But...my life is a living hell now. I almost died because Brother wouldn't give me time to go see the doctor. This time, it's not just me who's suffering. Leeta could lose her quarters, and Frool's back hurts so much sometimes he can barely stand, much less walk. All my life, Brother has found ways to make me miserable. He almost ruined Nog's chance to get into Starfleet Academy. If I hadn't figured out what he did, he would've.”

“I remember that,” Garak said. “I'm not telling you not to do it. I'm telling you to be sure before you make the move. Drawing a line and holding it takes resolve. If you plan on bringing others into it with you, they'll be counting on you the same way your son has for most of his life.”

Rom's blue eyes glinted with a forcefulness Garak had only seen in them twice before, once on Nog's behalf and once on his when he was being kept from Julian by Lisane. “I failed my son too often,” Rom said quietly. “I made him ashamed of me. I don't want to be someone my own son is ashamed of anymore.”

“It sounds to me as though you've made up your mind,” Garak observed.

“I suppose I have,” he said, setting his mug aside and standing. “Thank you, Garak.”

“Don't thank me yet,” the Cardassian cautioned him and walked with him to the doors. He watched him leave with a purpose to his odd, shuffling gait. Smiling very slightly to himself, he decided that at that particular moment he wouldn't want to be in Quark's shoes.

Julian

Private Quarters

Pressing his lips together, Julian eyed the table setting. Was it too elaborate? Maybe the central pillar candle was a bit much. He plucked it out of the mixed greenery and flowers. Now the centerpiece looked a little flat and lopsided. “Damn,” he muttered, setting it back in place. Why couldn't it have been a little shorter? He decided to trim it down himself and was on his way to the back for his spare medkit when his door chimed. Garak was uncharacteristically a half hour early. “Damn,” he said again. He brushed his fingers quickly through his hair, tugged his navy tunic hem and called out, “Enter!”

Garak stepped into the quarters, an eye ridge rising at the sight of the decorated table. “Is this a special occasion?” he asked, offering Julian a small tin of Bolian krellfish, the delicacy wrapped neatly in decorative paper. “Am I under dressed?”

“No,” he said, taking the tin with a nod and smile of thanks. “And no, you look impeccable as always. I just...well, I realized that I've gotten a little lazy when I've invited you over. It doesn't have to be a special occasion for things to look nice.”

“I've often thought the same,” Garak said approvingly.

“You're early,” he said as he sat the gift aside and stepped toward the replicator.

“Am I?” the tailor asked innocently.

Julian glanced over his shoulder and snorted softly. “I can only assume that you wanted to catch me off guard.”

“That is one interpretation, isn't it?” he replied mildly as he moved to take a seat. “Don't mind me. I won't get in your way.”

Snorting another half laugh, he began replicating the meal and taking the dishes over to the table. “You'll never guess what happened today.”

“Rom started a union,” Garak said.

“You know, I am bound and determined one day to get my hands on a piece of news or gossip before you do,” he said with mock exasperation. “How did you hear about it?”

“I have my ways,” the tailor said smoothly. “I'm assuming Leeta told you?”

“Yes, well...and Rom. He came to ask me and the Chief for advice.”

“He came to the Chief as well?” Garak asked, glancing at him in surprise.

Ha! He thought triumphantly. At least one piece of the puzzle he doesn't have. “Not specifically, no. Miles was in the infirmary today, and apparently he knows a lot about the issue. One of his ancestors was in a famous labor dispute in the States.”

“I trust he's not ill?” Garak asked with just a little too much enthusiasm.

“You really don't like him, do you?” he asked, setting a final platter on the table and moving to light the candle.

“I'd be willing to say it's entirely mutual, wouldn't you?” Garak asked reasonably. “If you must know, I think he's a bigot.”

“Coming from a Cardassian, who thinks all other races are inferior,” Julian retorted. He was hard pressed to believe that Garak saw no irony in that.

“I never thought you were a bigot, too,” Garak said, standing and turning to face him. “What else are we Cardassians? Cruel, sly, underhanded, brutish, power mad. Am I missing anything?”

“I didn't mean it that way,” he said, frowning.

“Didn't you? There are very few races that I know of to be true hive minds, the Borg most readily coming to mind. Do you truly assume that after all the years I've spent living among others, not just here but across the galaxy, I have learned nothing? That my way of thinking has gone completely unchanged?”

“It's just the way you talk about my literature and culture in comparison to yours...”

“Please!” Garak scoffed. “You act as though you're handing me something rare on a gold pressed latinum platter and become offended the moment I don't value it the way you think I ought to. Have you ever once, even once, made serious effort to appreciate my people or my culture in their own context without painting it in broad strokes of judgment from your values?”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know you saw it that way. If I have done that, it hasn't been intentional.”

“Lack of intent is a flimsy excuse. The effects are the same.”

Julian nodded slowly. “Will you please come sit? If we're going to fight, we may as well do it properly, over food.” He saw some of the tension drain from the Cardassian's posture and inwardly smiled. He had learned a few things about Cardassians over the years, too, at least his Cardassian. Once they were both seated, he continued the conversation. “Are you saying you truly don't see Cardassians as a superior race?”

“I'm saying I'm capable of judging individuals based upon their own merits,” Garak retorted, tucking his napkin carefully into place to protect his rust and silver tunic. “Whenever your Chief O'Brien looks at me, it's painfully obvious that he is seeing an archetypal Cardassian, and not just any archetypal Cardassian, but a Cardassian during war time. He has never made the slightest effort to get to know me as anything else. Would you please pass the salt?”

Julian complied. “To be fair, Garak, you've never made any effort to get to know him, either.”

“What incentive do I have for that?” he asked, liberally salting his food. “He glares at me with those beady little eyes and gets red blotches on his cheeks.”

Trying not to laugh, the doctor said, “His cheeks are always red.”

“Never redder than when glaring at me,” Garak asserted and fixed Julian with a mockery of the expression he was referencing.

He couldn't help himself. That tipped him over the edge. Tossing his head back, he gave a hearty laugh. “That was actually quite good, which is disturbing given how little the two of you resemble one another.”

“It's all in the eyes,” Garak said primly.

Happily, he seemed content to move on to other subjects. Both were in agreement that while forming the union was the right thing to do, it seemed a risky venture. Julian was surprised to discover how much Garak actually liked Rom. Although he knew the two of them were on friendly terms, he had always assumed that Garak was simply being charitable, or perhaps accepting company he wouldn't otherwise if he wasn't so lonely. More than ever, he realized that he had allowed his sense of rejection to color the way he saw the waiter and wondered if it was too late to try to mend that fence.

“I've been meaning to ask you something, and I keep forgetting,” Julian said during a natural lull. Both of them were almost fully done with their meal, just picking lightly at the plates.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Dukat's daughter, Ziyal, has been asking me questions about you. What do you want me to say?”

“The same thing I always say, Doctor,” Garak said lightly. “Tell her I'm a simple tailor and really not all that interesting.”

“That's what I've been saying,” he said. “I don't think she believes me.”

“Then be more convincing,” the Cardassian said with a pointed smile.

“I'll try. So, did you save room for dessert?”

“I'm afraid not,” he said and pushed back from the table. “Shall we clear it off?”

“Yes, let's,” he agreed. The two of them made quick work of the dishes, and Julian blew out the candle, the scent of soot briefly filling the air. He glanced at Garak who was now heading over to take a seat on his sofa and felt a small twinge of misgiving. Short of trying to pick another fight or actually making a move again, he could think of no other way to pique his interest. Was it possible that Garak didn't want him much but was being accommodating just because it was better than always being alone? Did he think he was doing Julian a favor? It was a disturbing thought. He gave the table a quick wipe down and set the rag aside, moving to take up the other end of the sofa. “We haven't read together in a while,” he said.

“Did you have something specific in mind?” the tailor asked, perking with interest.

“Not really, but it's something we've both enjoyed in the past. I know you like poetry,” he offered.

“Some poetry,” Garak clarified dryly.

“We can stay away from Shakespeare,” Julian said. “There are plenty of poets to choose from. How about...I'll search the archive first, read one to you, then you can pick one you like and read it to me? You can read Cardassian poetry to me if you prefer.”

“You never seem to understand it,” Garak said. “We'll stick to Terran poets. Go ahead.”

“All right,” he said. He reached to his side table and picked up a PADD, hoping that Garak wouldn't be able to tell he already had something specific in mind. He couldn't comfortably express his unease with the one sidedness of their arrangement, but perhaps he could send him a message this way. “Here's one by Edna St. Vincent Millay called 'Ebb'.

'I know what my heart is like

Since your love died;

It is like a hollow ledge

Holding a little pool

Left there by the tide,

A little tepid pool,

Drying inward from the edge.'”

“How very dreary,” Garak said with a shake of his head, leaning over to take the PADD. “Why are so many Terran poems so pitiful and full of woe?”

“I don't know,” he said a little shortly.

“Oh, right. You liked that one,” the Cardassian said with a shake of his head. “What I meant to say, of course, is what a lovely expression of the destitution of broken love.”

“You don't have to be sarcastic. If you don't like it, you don't like it,” he said impatiently. “Will you please choose one now?”

It took Garak much longer, not surprisingly, for he was unfamiliar with most of the poets and poetry from which he was asked to select. To Julian's surprise, he chose Robert Frost. “Lodged,” he said.

“The rain to the wind said,

'You push and I'll pelt.'

They so smote the garden bed

That the flowers actually knelt,

And lay lodged—though not dead.

I know how the flowers felt.”

He offered the PADD back without further comment. Julian took it but couldn't help but to glance at him. Was he sending him a message the same way he had chosen to do? Without looking back to the PADD, he said, “Emily Dickinson. 'My River'.

'My river runs to thee.

Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?

My river awaits reply.

Oh! Sea, look graciously.

I'll fetch thee brooks

from spotted nooks.

Say, sea,

Take me!'”

“What are you doing?” Garak asked.

He frowned and set the PADD aside. “I was looking for a way not to be completely humiliated, but it looks as though that plan is a wash. Do you not want this? Would you rather I not...come to you?”

“Have I given any indication of that?” he asked.

“Aside from the fact that you haven't once made a move since our arrangement, despite numerous opportunities? No, you've given no indication of that. You were perfectly agreeable and cooperative several nights ago,” he said, disliking the sarcastic edge in his own voice.

Garak stood and crossed to the star port. “Your problem is you don't know what you want. Whatever you get isn't enough, until suddenly it's too much. The line is never in the same place. In fact I never see it until I've already crossed it. Don't speak to me about humiliation.”

I do know what I want. I simply can't have it, Julian thought. He knew Garak had a valid point. He stood, too, and moved to stand beside him, their reflections ghostly images against the dark star field, as though neither of them was truly there at all. “Did I humiliate you in the dressing room?” he asked softly. “Do you wish you had told me no?” When Garak didn't answer, he stepped behind him and slid his hands over his shoulders, clasping them loosely and drawing the Cardassian back against him. He breathed lightly over his right neck ridge and caressed his cheek to the side of his head. “You can tell me no now,” he murmured close to his ear.

He met Garak's gaze in the faded reflection, lowered his lids, and lightly lipped the shell of his ear. This was how he wanted it? The only way it would happen? So be it. If Garak could swallow his pride, Julian could, too. He caressed down his arms and tucked his hands beneath them to embrace him across his chest, hands spread flat and warm. He smiled to himself when Garak lifted his hands and caressed his palms over the backs of them, lightly twining fingers and holding him there. He continued to rub his cheek against the side of his head, feeling the ridges of lower ear and jaw and then the very outer edge of an eye ridge against his temple. His light growth of whiskers rasped scale so softly he wondered if he imagined the sound.

Garak turned his face into his slightly, and when he glanced back at the port, he could see the man had his eyes closed. He kissed the long dimple of his cheek, reached up to turn Garak's head more so that he could kiss the corner of his mouth. He tightened his embrace when Garak tried to turn. Not yet, he thought. His fingertips traced lightly down the long line of throat, from beneath his chin to the hollow. It struck him how much trust that took to allow without so much as a flinch or cracking an eye. He realized that Garak told him these sorts of things all the time, only he was too busy focusing on his many rejections to see where he was accepted.

All right, he thought, turning him. Talk to me... He pressed parted lips to parted lips, fit himself against his lover like a puzzle piece, and gave a languid twine of tongue. As their breath mingled and they fell in closer upon one another, he felt the slower rhythm of Garak's heart thrumming powerfully enough for the beat to penetrate both layers of tunics. Nothing about that rhythm spoke of apathy or humoring him. Nothing in the fingers digging deeply into the muscle of his back said that Garak didn't want. Didn't need.

This was the only way he could ever set aside the inconveniences of his genesis. Was Garak listening as closely? He carefully opened the throat of Garak's tunic, just enough to slide his tongue into the teardrop indentation of scale over sternum, his lips finding a perfect fit to their curves at its apex. Garak's breath stirred his hair, harsher now, and a broad hand cupped the back of his head, encouragement and affection both. He felt it as surely as he felt the fingers sifting the curls at his nape.

Taking the tunic open further, he slipped his hands into the warm air between cloth and flesh before it had the chance to dissipate, offered his greater warmth in its place. He knew every ridge and scale as well as he knew himself, but he relished these reintroductions and treated this one as though it were the first. Lightly scraping his thumb nails beneath the lower edges of each pectoral ridge, he gave Garak his mouth again. He could feel the wall of passive acceptance starting to crumble in the way the Cardassian devoured his offering. It wasn't his goal, but he had no intention of rejecting whatever was given, regardless of what he might be asked to pay for it afterward.

Garak unfastened his tunic, and he allowed it, helping him shrug it free, but when it seemed as though the tailor might pause to fold it neatly, he stilled his hands with a firm grip and smiled his approval against his lips when he tossed it aside instead. Those hands knew him, too, so intimately, exactly where and how to touch. He pressed into the palms shamelessly, arching and shifting. The slightly rough skinned touch was electric enough that at times he wondered if it was more than imagination, if there wasn't a physical difference that accounted for it.

He unfastened Garak's belt and held both loose ends, playfully pulling the tailor against him at the waist, went for a third dizzying round of deep kissing. Garak moaned and suddenly wrapped him so tightly in both arms that he could hardly breathe. He knew he had breached another barrier, but he felt no triumph. He dropped the belt and returned the embrace. Was Garak listening? Did he know he strove to meet him there, wherever he was?

“What are you doing to me?” the tailor whispered harshly against his lips.

Julian saw the same fierce eyes he had seen in the mirror that day and stilled in his arms. “Do you want to stop?” he whispered back.

“I ought to,” he murmured more loudly.

“That's not what I asked,” Julian said gently.

“No, I don't want to stop, damn you.”

Julian accepted the harsh kiss that followed, but instead of rising to it and meeting heat with heat, he did as Garak had several nights before, received until he felt the anger ebb. He unfastened the thick tunic the rest of the way and pulled the edges around his sides, once more trapping heat. He loved the slightly convex curve of broad belly scales against his skin and sidled in as closely as he could, tucking his face into the natural indentation formed by a neck ridge and nuzzling until he felt Garak shiver. “You smell good,” he murmured. “You always smell good.”

“Regular baths do wonders,” Garak said a bit breathlessly.

He smiled against his throat and nipped him lightly. It was good to see his humor returning. Whatever crisis point the tailor had just reached seemed to be on the retreat, or he was coming to terms with it. “I'm about to give you an excuse to take another one,” he said, taking the man by the hands and leading him into his bedroom. Somehow they always made do with the narrow bed and made it a big enough world to contain them.

Julian continued to listen, more attentively than ever before. He found care in Garak's control, ardor in the exploration of his pleasure, and as he kissed the closed eyes and allowed him to take him in the most intimate way, chest to chest and with his legs wrapped about the tailor's waist, he believed he understood why this was up to him. The secret lay in the closed eyes. Garak was vulnerable. He held him tighter in the realization. I'll take care, he thought silently. I will, even if you never know.

He gave himself over to the intimacy of the moment, and when it crested, he allowed it to fill and then empty him. He held to Garak when he tried to roll to the side, only relaxing after he was sure his lover would remain atop him. In long strokes, he trailed his fingers to either side of the dorsal ridge, each caress downward with the pattern of scale growth.

“I'm crushing you,” Garak protested quietly.

“Luxuriously,” he affirmed with a lazy smile.

“I should go soon.”

“Soon, yes,” he said agreeably, “but soon isn't now. Just relax.” Perhaps that was easier said than done. This time he allowed his partner to roll to the side, but he kept his hands on him, dropping one down for a languid caress of outer thigh, the strong leg draped over him as much by necessity as convenience. “You make me wish I was a poet. Then I wouldn't have to borrow others' words to bridge the gap that opens between us the times we forget ourselves.” He glanced over, relieved to see that Garak's eyes were open, not shut, and he was singularly focused upon him with almost unnerving intensity. It was better than the alternative.

“Being a poet doesn't help,” Garak said wryly. “Trust me. You'd just find other ways for inadequate appeal.”

He stopped himself on the cusp of taking the statement personally. “Believe me, my dear tailor,” he said, squeezing his thigh lightly, “there is nothing inadequate in your appeal.”

“And still you manage to surprise me at times,” he said, reaching to brush a damp curl from Julian's forehead. A moment later, he rolled to his other side and sat up.

Julian did nothing to prevent him. He watched him walk to the wash room and waited patiently for him to take his shower. Shifting to his back, he propped his head in a hand and considered what he had discovered just by letting go of his agenda for once. Garak was right. He never did consider his cultural concerns divorced from his own judgment. He spent so much time and energy being on guard against the constant barrage of barbs that he never realized that they could only pierce him if he gave them something to hit. This new approach of his had yielded some surprising results. He hoped that he could remember this in more heated moments of rancor.

When Garak returned to the bedroom, he sat up and reached out to him. “Come kiss me good-bye,” he said.

Agreeably, Garak did as he was asked, leaning over to do just that. “Not good-bye,” he corrected him, “but good night.”

He found the correction very encouraging and wisely chose to keep the fact to himself. He was sleepy enough that he was gone to the world by the time his door hissed for Garak to exit. He slept undisturbed until morning.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Shawn Colvin, Sunny Came Home

Julian

The Infirmary

It was slightly more than an hour since Garak had left his office, slightly less than three until what most would consider a decent lunch time. They had no patients, and there were no nuisance diseases currently circulating through the population. He couldn't focus on his routine record keeping. “This is ridiculous,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. “Why can't I just decide on a course of action and stick to it when it comes to him?” He had tried to be as gracious as the Cardassian had been, as mature and understanding. He had believed that he was once and for all setting all of that behind them, particularly after the holosuite incident. So why had it taken every ounce of his control to allow the tailor to leave without doing something horribly rash?

The thought of waiting three hours just to sit across a table at the Replimat from him and talk about things that didn't matter was intolerable. “Get a grip,” he muttered. He considered paying an impromptu visit to Leeta and immediately rejected the thought. She'd be deeply asleep right now and not appreciative of a surprise visit just because he was suddenly horny and frustrated. She was perceptive enough that she might even figure out that it had nothing to do with her. That would never do. Shaking his head, he stood and strode from his office. He found one of the nurses in the lab, unpacking new supplies and putting them away. “I'm stepping out. Call me if you need me.”

“All right, Doctor,” she said, never even looking over at him from her work.

That suited him fine. He wasn't sure what anyone would see if they looked at him too closely. He left the infirmary and paused on the Promenade. His initial intention had been to go to his quarters for quick relief, but Garak's open light caught him like a flame a moth. This is crazy, he told himself. You're crazy.

He crossed the flow of foot traffic and slipped into the shop. Garak had his back to the door, arranging older merchandise on the back racks. Julian watched him and allowed himself an unadulterated moment of pure enjoyment. Garak was graceful and precise in almost everything he did. It didn't matter if he believed that he had an audience or not. He found himself staring at the gray hands. Swallowing, he stepped further in. He wondered how close he could get before the tailor perceived him and then how much longer Garak would make him wait before letting him know he knew he was there. It was possible he already did.

He was a little over halfway to him when Garak said without turning, “It's early for lunch, wouldn't you say? Is there something I can do for you, Doctor? I am a bit busy at the moment.”

“I want a fitting,” he said without thinking.

Garak's hands stopped moving over the rack. He turned and glanced at Julian over his shoulder. “Now?” he asked.

“Yes,” Julian replied, glancing quickly over the merchandise. “That,” he pointed at something with four different clashing colors and random looking patterns. It was the first thing that really caught his eye, and he already regretted selecting it. Garak was critical enough of his fashion sense, or lack thereof as the man loved pointing out.

“You'll forgive me for saying it,” Garak said drolly, “but I don't think the latest in Andorian fashion is for you.”

“Yes, I forgive you for saying it. Now, are you going to help me or not?” he asked tightly.

The Cardassian eyed him for some long, tortuous moments before nodding and hanging what he already held in his hands. He walked the short distance to the Andorian outfit and plucked its hanger then gestured Julian ahead of him into the nearest fitting room. He hung the clothing on a wall hook. “When you've put it on, let me know. If you need any help with any of the fastenings, just say so.”

He knew better than to say he needed help with his uniform. His mouth now dry, he nodded and waited for the tailor to leave. What in the hell are you doing? he asked himself. He didn't have a good answer for it. Quickly stripping from his uniform, he started struggling with the loud outfit. It was more complex than it looked from the outside, very typical of most of Garak's creations. Either it truly wasn't designed for the human body type in any way, or he had done something very wrong. “Garak?” he called out hesitantly. “I think I need help.”

Did the tailor keep him waiting longer than usual, or was he just that eager to have him in the small fitting room with him? He was about to call out again when the curtain briefly whisked open just enough to admit Garak. Amusement and a little annoyance flashed in the blue eyes. “You really did make a mess of things,” he chided him, immediately reaching to a set of clasps Julian had fastened at his left shoulder.

Yes, I did, Julian thought. Garak's touch was nothing but professional and yet every brush of the cool gray fingers eroded his composure. He tried not to watch them while they sorted out his clumsy mistakes. There was no safe place to rest his gaze, neither on the tailor nor on the mirrors around them. Seeing their joint reflections was somehow worse.

“Now,” Garak said, taking him firmly by the shoulders and turning him to face his own reflection. “I have to say, the cut isn't bad on you. You're as slender as they are, but the colors are atrocious with your complexion. You look positively yellow.”

Garak was right, of course. The garish orange, purple, green, and gold brought out a sallow tone in his skin. He looked himself in the eyes. How could Garak not see what was blatantly there? His gaze shifted downward and stopped on the curved gray fingers still clasping his shoulders. The grip was tight. Was the tailor trying to prevent him from turning around? He couldn't see Garak's face in the mirror, just the sleek curve of his hair. He pressed backward subtly and felt his shoulder blades touch Garak's chest. The Cardassian didn't step away.

He then pressed not so subtly, and there was the resistance he had been expecting. Garak's grip tightened further and his arms stiffened, preventing any more backward movement. Julian held his breath. The silence between them had dragged for far too long. Any moment he expected admonition or an airy return to the professional charade of shop keeper with a difficult customer. When neither came and the silence continued to weigh upon him, he reached back between them, sliding his palm flat over the front of Garak's tunic beneath his belt. He gasped softly at the feel of a hard, unyielding bulge, unmistakable even through the layers of thick clothing.

Garak's grip grew vise-like, but he didn't thrust the doctor away. Taking the lack of outright rejection as encouragement of sorts, Julian fumbled his hand beneath the tunic hem, bunching it up against his wrist while he felt for the clasp of the trousers. With deft surgeon's fingers, he managed to work it loose one handed. His breath came more quickly, and he gasped again as he slipped his hand into the parted fabric, closed his fingers around the wet heat of Garak's cock, and stroked the entire length of it. The Cardassian's only concession to him came from a press of forehead to the back of his head.

He didn't dare to glance at the mirror. He didn't want to see his own expression while he took this forbidden pleasure from a reluctant partner or the obscene bulge in a body suit not designed to be accommodating of such displays. That Garak was reluctant to accept this he had no doubt. He could feel it in his profound tension and the absolute control he maintained in the face of the skillful ministrations. He squeezed and drew upward. He felt wetness coating his fingers and palm and the perfect weight and heat of something he had missed more than he realized until right in that moment. He circled his thumb at the sensitive opening and felt Garak's breath spill warm down the back of his neck. He tried to turn. The implacable grip wouldn't allow it, and the tailor gave him a small, harsh shake as though to insist that he stay put. He sensed that if he spoke, he would shatter the moment, so he didn't, furtive breaths and the rhythmic pump of his hand over increasingly slick flesh the only sounds in the dressing room, not loud enough to call attention to them.

The enclosed space grew stuffy from their combined body heat. Julian felt damp all over and flushed. He wanted Garak to touch him, too, to give him something besides his stillness and tacit agreement. More frustrated than before, he rubbed his free hand over the garish fabric, too closely woven and tight for him to get any sort of grip on himself. Garak suddenly released his shoulders, seized his wrist, and forcibly pulled his hand away from the front of his body. He stilled his other hand over the Cardassian's cock and held his breath again, wondering what he intended to do to him next. In the mirror, he saw one fierce blue eye reflected at him from over his shoulder. He couldn't look away, not when he felt deft hands unfastening the complex outfit, nor when he realized that Garak was undressing him.

Yes, he thought. Thank God, yes. He shrugged out of the clinging fabric, having to release the tailor to do it, and stepped from the pants legs. The garish bodysuit became a puddle of vibrant color on the floor, stepped over and forgotten. He turned and clung tightly to the man, pulling at the back of his thick tunic and knotting it in both of his fists. Garak twisted his face slightly so that Julian's hungry kiss met a jaw ridge instead of his lips. Undeterred, he lipped and bit at him, demanding a response, thrusting at him with his hips, grinding cock to cock. Damn you, he thought, I know you want this as much as I do.

He lifted both hands to the cool face, pulled it to him, and forced Garak to allow the kiss mouth to mouth. Unrelenting, he growled low, biting at his lower lip and tugging back, delving his tongue inward. He slid his hands further back and tangled them in the thick black hair, tugging sharply. Kiss me like you mean it, you bastard!

Garak moaned softly, a desperate sound from the back of the throat. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms tightly about Julian, his blunt cut nails digging and raking at his back. They staggered as they pushed one another, seeking leverage. Julian felt cold mirror at his back. It stung the shallow gashes. He didn't care. He welcomed the pain, all of it. He bit with abandon at Garak's neck ridges and relished every harsh shudder against him, knowing they were as much from pain as pleasure. He was too starved for this to show mercy or give quarter.

He brought shaking hands down between them to fumble at the fastenings of Garak's tunic. Garak grabbed his wrists and forced the backs of his hands against the mirror. No, he thought, not this time. You don't get your way this time. He jerked his hands from the grip, Garak's surprise only partially registering. Thrusting with his back against the mirror, he managed to turn them so that it was Garak who was pinned and went for the tunic a second time, working it open and only by some miracle managing not to burst any of the delicate hooks and eyes. He rubbed chest to chest, deliberately raking his nipples over the sharp ridges. The pleasure wracked him straight to his core.

He wanted inside that amazing, alien sheath, penetration that was tighter and sweeter than anything else he had ever experienced, before or since his last time with the tailor. It took him a few tries. It seemed almost as though Garak was trying to thwart him, and maybe he was. It didn't matter. He wanted what he wanted, and he was determined to have it. Both of them groaned and clung to one another just a little tighter when he felt the outer ridge shift and part and felt his cock nestle into a velvety space that was barely large enough to accommodate it beside the fullness of the base of Garak's erection.

He lifted his hands again, his palms against Garak's jaw, the gray face between the arch of his fingers, tilting the Cardassian's head back against the mirror. He held him there, looking deeply into the blue eyes that were so adept at holding secrets within secrets. They were as enigmatic as the blood streaked mirror. Had he been expecting more? Had he thought that if he could get Garak to yield to him like this, he would open him wide and obliterate all that stood between them? He kissed him extra harshly to shut those eyes and tasted blood, not his own. He ground his hips against him, drew back, and thrust again. Garak's jaw muscle rippled beneath the tiny scales of his cheek in a silvery gray flash, his teeth clenching.

Julian knew he was hurting him. He knew it wasn't like him to do this to anyone, much less someone he cared about, so why couldn't he stop? Why was he thrusting with all the mindlessness of a targ in musth? Why did he crave the knotted tension building in his partner? How much more of this can he take? he wondered, watching Garak's lips draw back in a grimace. He wasn't expecting him to open his eyes again or the feeling of exposure when recognition of whatever drove him and contemptuous amusement flashed in the blue depths. One look was all it took for the balance of power to shift, for his inexplicable anger to drain. Instead of twisting him or pushing him back, Garak simply shut his eyes again and clenched his hands at his hips, encouraging him to continue.

He leaned forward and laid his cheek against Garak's, biting down on his own tongue to keep from crying out. It felt too good. It felt as though his strength flowed from him right along with his seed in a wracking release that lasted twice as long as what he was used to. He slid down Garak's body and dropped to his knees. Heedless of the mess, he rubbed both cheeks and his parted lips over the man's soaked cock and the ridged scales to either side of it. He opened his mouth wider and raised up so that he could plunge downward over head and shaft. He gagged once, shifted himself and tried again, relaxing his throat. It had been too long. He had momentarily forgotten, but now he knew what he was doing and how to ease the way. He tasted himself on Garak, a strong, sharp musk over the milder but more pervasive glaze of thick lubrication. He lapped and sucked, only partially flaccid and wondering if he was going to work his way back up to full arousal with this. How long had they been in the dressing room now?

He didn't know and didn't care, a reckless attitude during work hours. He knew this, too, and allowed the thought to slip away. All that mattered right in that moment was Garak, his pleasure, the taste and feel of him, a scent that he realized he caught faintly from time to time when they lunched together and now wondered if he had been secretly aroused at those times, capable of hiding it when he concentrated and chose to do so, unlike his unfortunate human counterparts. There was no hiding it now. He came up for air and plunged down again, ground his nose against the raised ridge, and swallowed hard to caress him with his throat. As he pulled back, he felt Garak's cock swell and pulse. His mouth flooded, and he found himself wondering how long it had been for him last. He was slow to pull back, wanting to prolong the moment for as long as he could.

Panting, Garak braced himself against the streaked mirror, letting his fingers slip away from Julian's hair. He glanced down at him and reached to pull his trousers up. “You can clean up in the washroom,” he said. “I have a portable dermal regenerator in my emergency med kit. I'll get it for you.” Julian nodded and somehow managed to force his rubbery muscles to do his bidding, climbing to his feet, flexing his back, and wincing. Garak left and returned with the small device in hand. “Better let me,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. “If you miss a spot, I wouldn't want to be you answering the question of what that is or how it got there.”

He nodded again and turned his back so that Garak could erase his handiwork. He regretted the loss. That pain helped to anchor all of what they had just done in the reality of the here and now, a feeling that was already beginning to fade and slip away.

“Done,” Garak said.

Julian turned and took it from him. “Hold still,” he said, raising his free hand to brace Garak's chin so that he could run the regenerator over his ravaged lips. He kept his focus on the healing flesh so he wouldn't have to look into his eyes. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what expression would show itself now that they were re-establishing their barriers. “I'm sorry I hurt you,” he murmured.

Garak waited until he finished to answer. “No you're not.” He took the regenerator back and left the dressing room again. Julian knew he wasn't coming back this time. Sighing to himself, he carefully gathered the Andorian outfit and hung it back on its hanger, not sure if he fastened it all correctly or not. He zipped up his jumpsuit without his turtleneck and raced the short distance to the washroom so that he could clean up thoroughly before dressing. He was grateful no medical emergencies had come through and very aware of how lucky he was for that.

“You're an ass,” he told his reflection. Outwardly, he looked as respectable as ever. No one knew how deceptive appearances could be more than he. He stepped from the wash room into the stock room. Garak slipped past him wordlessly so that he could clean up, too. Unsure of what to do, he waited. He decided he'd let Garak set the tone for whatever came next.

When Garak emerged, he seemed somewhat surprised to see him there. “Aren't you supposed to be working?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” he said.

“Then I suggest you get back to it,” he said. After a short pause, he added, “I hope you don't mind, but I don't think I'm up for lunch today after all. Perhaps another time.”

Julian winced. “If that's how you feel, I'm not going to argue with you, but I would like the chance to talk about this later.”

“Talk about what?” the tailor asked, tipping his head. “Do you think this is the first time I've ever been used? It's not. There's really nothing to talk about.”

His angry denial died on his lips. Hadn't he done just that? He had an itch that Leeta couldn't scratch. He wasn't prepared to leave her. He couldn't give Garak what he felt he deserved, so he had no intention of trying to pretend. That always ended in disaster. “You're not upset with me?”

“Do I seem upset, Doctor?” he asked.

It was the dreaded polite businessman front, the expression that was the equivalent of tapioca, bland and utterly inoffensive. If he knew Garak as well as he believed he did, it meant he had cut him, but how deeply? He also knew that he wasn't going to get an answer in the shop, not during business hours, not when Garak could retreat into Cardassian virtuous industry. “We both know you never seem upset if you don't want to,” he said. “If it's all right with you, I want to stop by later after work and talk.”

“You're going to force this, aren't you? You can't just leave it alone?” Garak asked, irritation sharpening his voice.

“Yes to your first question. No to your second. I'll see you tonight,” he said, smiling slightly and turning to leave. Now he had an entire afternoon to brace himself for what might be a very unpleasant conversation and to sort out exactly why he had been so rash to begin with. He hoped it would be enough.

Garak

Garak's Clothiers

After Julian left, Garak returned to the fitting room to retrieve the outfit. It needed cleaning, as did the mirror. He removed it to the stock room and returned with a cloth and solvent for the mirror. With just a few spritzes and wipes, he had the polished surface gleaming. He dabbed up the few spots on the floor and gave the room a critical once over. Good as new.

The rhythm of his work day allowed him to calm the turbulence stirred by the unexpected visit. Public wasn't the place for sorting out messy emotions or having angry outbursts. He took a few of his pills to stave off anticipated trouble, not looking forward to having to renew the prescription. A few customers, evidently wanting to impress the First Minister, came to him to purchase Bajoran formal wear. Aside from the sporadic distractions, he was able to get his displays shifted in anticipation of the newest collections coming out within the week.

When he finished, he closed early. He wasn't eager to have the promised conversation, far from it. He wanted the time to settle himself and sort his uncharacteristically complicated reaction into something manageable. He made his way to his quarters quickly, hoping not to run into anyone who would want to talk to him along the way. There were few enough of them. Logistics were on his side.

The first thing he did behind closed doors was to strip from his clothing and take a long, thorough shower. Nothing physical could wash away the soiled feeling of being used; however, being clean always made him feel better. Afterward, he chose a dark tunic with little embellishment and a conservative cut. You allowed it. You actively participated, he thought to his reflection. It had been too long since he felt truly wanted. Holding himself apart from any who might have possibly taken an interest had been a mistake, made him vulnerable to his own needs. Of course the doctor was intelligent and perceptive enough to sense that. He had been foolish to believe he would never try to exploit it.

You weren't the only blind one, he addressed Julian in his mind. There are parts of you I failed to see. It had been flattering to think of a somewhat naïve young man enamored of his experience and wanting to learn what he had to teach. The doctor was a better pupil than he anticipated. He added pride to the list of internal casualties his isolation on Deep Space Nine had cost him, one more piece of what made him Cardassian taken away.

He ate an early dinner and allowed himself a small, seated nap. When he awoke, he felt more clear headed. It occurred to him that he could simply not be there when Julian arrived. That would only postpone the inevitable. It was a small station, seemed smaller all the time. There was nowhere he could go to avoid this confrontation. It wasn't in his best interest to do that, anyway. He allowed something in a moment of weakness. That didn't mean he had to remain in that position. No, there were specific things he could do and say, he knew, to leverage this to an advantage of sorts. He nodded slowly to himself. A setback was not necessarily a loss. He plucked a PADD from a side table and pulled up a new enigma tale. New literature out of Cardassia was growing rare. He savored it when he managed to get his hands on it.

His door chimed about an hour after Julian would have gotten off work, assuming a normal day. Garak called, “Enter,” casually and set the PADD aside as the doctor stepped into the room dressed in an outfit he knew Garak liked. Conciliation, or seduction? Garak wondered, maintaining his detachment. “Please,” he said without rising, “have a seat.” He gestured at the chair catty corner to his spot on his sofa.

“Thanks,” the doctor said, offering a fleeting, closed lipped smile and taking the seat. Garak noticed he sat straight, not settling in. He was uncomfortable. Just as well.

“May I get you anything?” he offered cordially, content to play the consummate host.

“No, thank you. I just finished supper. Garak,” he said, hesitating before adding, “I owe you an apology.”

“For what, precisely?” He felt it best to see how the doctor saw what had happened between them before trying to push his own agenda.

“For what I did to you today. For...re-opening old wounds and crossing a line we both decided some time ago we'd never cross again. I took advantage of...” He hesitated again, umber eyes searching Garak's.

Are you going to say it? Garak wondered as he watched him and listened. Are you going to point out blatantly that I'm alone?

“Your feelings,” he said instead.

“What feelings might those be, Doctor?” he asked mildly.

The man laughed nervously. “You're really intent on making me pay for this, aren't you?”

“How can I accept your apology if I don't know what it is you're sorry for?” he asked reasonably. “Or for that matter, what it is you think you've done?”

“I know you still love me,” he said quietly.

Garak laughed. He couldn't help himself. Of course he loved him, but that had nothing to do with what happened in the dressing room. Julian's angry, perplexed look just served to amuse him that much more. “What a world you live in,” he said, his voice still rich from his laughter. “Chased by so many, truly held by none. Yes, I can see how you'd believe you wounded my poor, yearning heart.”

“I don't understand what's so funny,” he said, sounding almost petulant.

“I know that,” Garak said. “It should set your mind at ease to know I'm not twisted in knots with longing or wanting a return to what we had. At our best, it still didn't work very well, did it?”

The doctor gave him a long, searching look. “You expect me to believe you're not upset?”

“Would it be easier for you if I were?” he asked. “Perhaps that's what you'd like?”

“Of course not,” he retorted, frowning deeply. “I don't want you hurt.”

“That's not the impression you gave me earlier,” he all but purred, satisfied at the instant color rising in the man's cheeks. After all these years, he was still ridiculously easy to provoke to a blush. “Please, Doctor, you're not the young ingénue on your first adventure. Why the coyness now, after the fact?”

“That wasn't like me, and you know it,” he replied, looking away.

“Wasn't it?” he asked, arching an eye ridge. “You see, I think it was very like you when you're conflicted. You were angry with yourself and taking it out on me. It was easy, because I allowed it. I didn't fight you, and I didn't answer in kind. To tell you the truth, I was intrigued, curious just how far you'd go.” He dropped his voice to an intimate whisper as he leaned toward him. “I should have kept my eyes closed.”

“You're enjoying this,” Julian accused. “You love the fact that when you look at me these days, I look more and more like you.”

Garak smiled. Well, that was an unexpected little gift, that revelation. It somehow made his own recent hit to his pride more bearable. It was true. Misery loved company. “Don't worry, my dear. You have a way to go yet before any of your friends would pick up on it.”

“It won't happen again,” he said stonily.

“That's entirely up to you,” Garak replied, spreading both hands and sitting back once more. “I told myself that I wouldn't interfere in your relationship, and I meant it. It never occurred to me that you'd come to me. I could have stopped you. Is that why you're angry with me, because I didn't stop you? Or is it that you want me to be as furious with you as you are with yourself? You want my scorn as a scourge for your guilty conscience? I let you use my body today. That's not enough for you?”

“You'll forgive me if I'm skeptical,” Julian retorted. “As manipulative as you are...”

Garak cut him off. “Yes, that would be easier for you, wouldn't it? Painting over the scene with an opaque glaze of delusion and denial. It must have been my pulling the strings, not your impulsiveness or selfishness at all. When I went to see you this morning, I must have slyly planted subconscious seeds of desire, my invitation to lunch a coded offer of a clandestine tryst. Imagine my surprise when the seeds bore fruit a full three hours before the appointed time!” Sarcasm sharpened his voice, anger dangerously close to returning in force.

“No, you're right,” he conceded unexpectedly. “I can't blame it on you.” He looked down at his loosely laced fingers resting between his thighs. “I have tried so hard to find...a balance point...when it comes to us. I've tried to let go the way you did. It seems I can emulate some of your less endearing traits a little too well, but when it comes to sacrifice...” he gave a small, humorless chuff of a laugh and glanced at Garak, “is it any wonder I just don't get Preloc?”

Was he reduced to being disarmed with a glance? He knew that wasn't quite accurate. It was the vulnerability behind it. It was one of the few traits in the younger man that penetrated all of Garak's defenses. Had he sensed even a trace of manipulation behind it, he would have happily thrown the doctor out on his ear and washed his hands of him. The doctor wasn't so jaded yet, though, and Garak, no matter how much he wished otherwise, wasn't immune. “This wouldn't happen if we weren't...stuck here,” he said carefully.

“You mean if you could leave?” Julian asked, lifting his head and meeting his gaze.

“Or you,” Garak said, nodding. “Practically everywhere we turn holds a memory. You may not be Cardassian, but I know you have excellent recall. I've explained to you before how my people process and experience the past. Not only are we trapped in the same places, but we travel in overlapping social circles. We're tied to each other in ways we wouldn't be on a planet, or if one or both of us could come and go at will.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting, that if you could get away from me, you would?”

“Must you always take everything I say in the worst possible way?” Garak snapped.

“It doesn't help that you rarely explain yourself,” Julian replied. Had he not been smiling faintly when he said it, Garak might have thrown him out anyway. His patience was running thin.

“You humans are mentally lazy enough. I would be a poor friend indeed if I encouraged such bad habits,” he retorted without heat. “I think getting back together is a colossally bad idea. If you have...appetites...we can work with that.”

“What are you suggesting?” Julian asked, his brow furrowing. “That I just...come to you when I get the urge, sneak around on Leeta, use you? You can't be serious.”

“What you do with Leeta is between you and Leeta. It doesn't concern me. If I'm allowing it, and we're both in agreement about what it is we're doing, it's not using, is it?”

“I don't understand,” he said, shaking his head. “Why would you propose something like that? Do you honestly believe I'd be able to do something like that?”

“You did it today with no prompting or encouragement on my part,” Garak said simply. “Am I to believe that you've already told Leeta, a little light supper conversation before leaving her and coming to see me?” At Julian's dark look, he continued. “I thought not. Now, you can sit there and tell me you'll never do it again and find yourself back in the same position you were in this morning a few weeks or perhaps even months down the line, or you can try to be sensible about this and manage your problem. You said it yourself, Julian. You've tried to find balance, and you've been unable to do so your way. Why should I not be OK with this? It's a very Cardassian solution.”

“I have to say, this isn't what I expected to hear when I came here tonight,” he said, sounding more than a little taken aback.

“No, that much was obvious,” Garak said dryly.

Julian sighed and rubbed his face. “I'll have to think about this. It may be normal for Cardassians. It's not normal for me.”

Garak conceded that point with a faint incline of his head. “No need to rush,” he said. “As I've already pointed out, I'm not going anywhere.”

Frowning, the doctor said, “You seemed to have a lot of contempt for Gul Dukat when he was hitting on Major Kira.”

“I don't need an excuse to feel contempt for Dukat,” Garak said, amused. “You're not married. If you decide you want to be, I trust you will tell me so that I can extricate myself from the situation.”

“I suppose I just have trouble believing you can be so casual about this.”

“If you're wanting me to pine for you or pledge undying devotion while you vacillate, there's the door,” he said, pointing. “It's insulting. If you need that from someone, I suggest you have a deep heart to heart with your good friend Miles. I am certain he will provide you with all of the heart wrenching drama you can stomach.”

“That was cruel,” Julian said.

“No, leading others on with no intention of follow through is cruel,” the Cardassian said without pity. “I think you know as well as I do how that man feels about you. I think you use him, in a different way than you used me, to be sure, but you use him, nonetheless. I've given you a choice, and I have been most charitably open with you about what it is and what it is not. I trust that when you've made a decision, one way or the other, you will at least have the courtesy to inform me.”

Julian drew a shaky breath and let it out. “You know what I'm going to say. You're such a bastard. You enjoy seeing me like this, knowing that you've gotten under my skin.”

More than you know, Garak thought, feeling very much as though he had gotten back a little of his own. Others wounded him at their peril. At least that hadn't changed. “One more thing then,” he said, standing to indicate that as far as he was concerned, the visit was at an end. “Don't come to me during work hours again. That was utterly irresponsible.”

“I know,” Julian said, also standing. “I won't.”

Garak almost thanked him for insisting on visiting, but he decided it would be a crass overplay of his hand. No matter what Julian might think, he knew that he had regained control of the situation. While he would be content to allow the younger man to determine when and how often he came to him, Garak would be the one to control how close they were. He wouldn't make the mistake of emotional intimacy with the doctor again. He was singularly capable of both love and distance at once. In fact he had almost elevated it to an art form long before ever meeting Julian. He took him lightly by the elbow as he escorted him the short distance to his door. “Have a pleasant evening,” he said as the door hissed open and the doctor stepped into the corridor.

He wasn't sure if he heard or only imagined, “Not bloody likely,” just before the door shut once more. Either way, he smiled.

Julian

The Promenade

He had never considered himself much of a voyeur before. Somewhere along the way, meeting Garak changed that, not in a fetishistic or titillating fashion, but in making him a much keener observer. Being superior among the average had made him lazy for a large part of his life. Garak awakened a piece of him that had slumbered, disengaged and unused. He watched the Cardassian now, seated at his breakfast table with Odo. It wasn't the first time he had watched the pair of them. They were fascinating at a distance in their complex and subtle choreography of feint and counter-feint. This morning was different. Odo's stiff posture and precise movements conveyed an odd sort of brittleness. Garak was a stolid presence without being solicitous. To be a fly on that wall, Julian thought.

Deep down he envied the ease with which the two came together. Outwardly, they were so different, yet they had found a way to bridge their differences with a common thread. None of Garak's other relationships seemed turbulent or terribly complex. Of course, none of Julian's other relationships were, either. No, because I'm able to keep them at a certain distance. I've never been able to do that with him, not the way I should.

He slipped away from his observation post—he hoped unseen—and retreated to the orderly world of his work environment. Just as things had changed in the holosuite, they had changed again in the dressing room yesterday. Small pieces of the person he had always thought himself to be were falling away to reveal a stranger, a dark reflection of the shiny facade he worked so hard to create that sometimes he forgot he wasn't that mask. Garak reminded him. Revealed him.

Was the tailor right? Would the two careen away from one another faster than light speed if freed of the traps, bonds, and obligations that bound them to the station and never look back, or would it be as Julian suspected and feared, that even freed of their external bonds, they would be tied to one another so tightly that they'd be doomed to return to the painful spiral until one of them was dead? He didn't have an answer to that, and he privately hoped he wouldn't have to find out any time soon. Having Garak back, even in such a tainted way, was a pleasure that for the moment outweighed any guilt of deception, and that bothered him most of all.

The End

Current Mood: awake

Garak

Replimat Café

The tailor listened with dutiful attentiveness to Rom's account of his part in the dramatic rescue. He knew that Rom had genuine reason to be proud. Even Quark could claim some small part in saving the crew. Garak was just surrounded by heroes. It made a not so insignificant part of him want to vomit. The Ferengi were acting more and more like Starfleeters. Rom's son was away at academy. There were rumors that Bajor was making moves toward joining the Federation. He had no escape anymore, his social walls becoming as claustrophobia inducing as his shop could be at times.

He was glad that Rom was too absorbed to tell how many pills he had taken that morning. His migraines, after a brief reprieve, had returned in full force, and that said nothing of his nightmares. So what if his pupils were a little wider than usual? So what if his words weren't quite so precise? He realized some time ago that with everyone he knew with the exception of Odo, he could feign a level of normalcy and interaction that satisfied their expectations. Such a thing would be almost impossible among Cardassians without much greater effort.

“Garak?” Rom said, coming to a sudden halt in his narrative.

Perhaps he wasn't quite as subtle as he thought. “Yes?” he asked, lifting his tea for a neat sip.

The Ferengi gave him a searching look. “If you'd rather talk about something else, that's OK.”

“No, please,” he said graciously, “continue. I rather liked your description of Eddington's face when the Chief saw the Defiant.”

Rom beamed. It was all the encouragement he needed. As Garak listened to the rest of it, he almost envied the waiter his simplicity. Almost.

Never had he been more aware of the passage of time. It thrust him and Julian away from their moment of divergence in an inexorable rush, each day of little to no contact adding its momentum behind the days before. At first he swallowed his pride and made attempts to bridge the gap, after giving Julian a few days to process things on his own. Every overture was met with polite denial. He either had too much work to do, a date with Leeta, or arrangements with O'Brien and their new war program. The reasons were always perfectly reasonable, nothing to which Garak could object. Did the doctor truly believe the tailor didn't know a freeze out when he experienced it?

He backed off. What choice did he really have? He could make a fool of himself to no effect, or he could accept the simple fact. Their friendship had changed. Given enough time, it would no longer exist at all except frozen in the past like one of those earth insects in amber. It was the natural way of things. Why did it have to happen so soon? Twice he composed messages to send to Mila to tell her the one thing he imagined that all mothers across the galaxy loved hearing from their children. You were right. You were so very right. They remained on his computer, unsent.

Partially to keep in practice, partially out of boredom, he monitored supposedly secure transmissions and stuck his fingers more deeply into intelligence files than he had since the end of the occupation. He avoided Odo before he left for earth with Captain Sisko, just in case he wasn't quite good enough at feigning surprise over their leaving. It was alarming, the thought of changeling infiltrators on earth. It made him wonder about and worry for Cardassia. With all of their troubles with the Klingons and lost colonies, would anyone there be as focused as he or she ought to be on domestic security? He knew that he could poke around forever in illicit government files and never find an adequate answer to that question.

Odo returned and resumed his breakfasts with Garak. Neither of them spoke of the growing changeling threat. Unlike Rom and Leeta, he watched Garak closely. The tailor could tell that the security chief cataloged his enlarged pupils, the nearly undetectable slur of his voice, and the clumsiness of his hands. For reasons unknown to him, Odo chose to keep his observations to himself. Perhaps he realized that Garak was not drinking to excess, not behaving as an addict, but trying to survive his excruciating migraines without losing his sanity in the process. Perhaps he wished to give Garak the only thing he had to offer him actively besides his friendship, his privacy. For whatever the reason, the tailor was grateful.

His breakfast companion was more voluble about Bajor's progression toward joining the Federation. As he often did with Rom, he listened attentively while not caring for the topic at hand. He had seen this coming from the moment he realized that Starfleet had come to fill the power vacuum left by his own people. They claimed not to be conquerors. By the strictest definition, they were not. Their conquests were more insidious, their weapons of choice words and ideas, peppered by a generous offering of resources when words alone weren't enough. They sought to spread their bland, insipid optimism to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Could they truly be surprised that the Dominion viewed them as such a threat?

“Of course, I'm tightening security,” Odo said.

Garak tuned back in from his unpleasant wandering. “A wise move,” he said. “There are still many on Bajor who would prefer to remain isolated from alien influences.”

“Yes,” Odo agreed, nodding. “I trust you'll keep an ear out for anything suspicious?”

“You'd be better served by my eyes,” Garak said a bit flippantly.

Odo snorted softly, the way he always did when he found something amusing and didn't want to show it. “I'm most worried about First Minister Shakaar,” the changeling continued. “He'll be the most visible target.”

“That's the only worry you have about him, I'm sure,” Garak said in a way that meant just the opposite. He smiled inwardly at Odo's suddenly much more attentive look laced with apprehension. This was an old topic that never ceased to provide the tailor with much needed entertainment.

“What are you getting at, Garak?” the changeling growled, apprehension giving way to annoyance.

Garak favored him with his blandest smile. “He's a capable man with quite the history in the resistance,” he said mildly, as careful with the lacing of his innuendo as he was threading his wares. “I am sure he is used to taking threats in stride. What did you think I meant, Constable?”

The silence dragged as Odo silently probed him for the smallest crack in his facade. He could tell the exact moment when the shape shifter gave up for the time being, Odo's posture shifting slightly back and away from him. “He'll be here in two days,” he said. “If I were you, during that time I'd make myself scarce, just in case someone wants to try to pin something on you.”

Am I so de-fanged that it doesn't even occur to you that I could decide to be a danger? Garak wondered. It was a disheartening thought. The remainder of his appetite fled. “Of course,” he said pleasantly. “Besides, I doubt that a Cardassian is what the First Minister wants to see while touring the station. I'd be as welcome as a vole infestation.” Somehow, his voice no longer sounded so pleasant in his own ears.

Odo's strangely plastic brow managed to furrow. “I was merely concerned about you, Garak. I wasn't trying to imply anything.”

I wish that you had been, he thought with an inward sigh. “I know that,” he said instead. He watched Odo's concern struggle with his respect for privacy and saw the respect win the fight. It was time to move on. “I need to open the shop,” he said, standing and seizing his tray. “It was a pleasure.” He felt Odo's eyes on his back all the way out of the Replimat, like an itch he couldn't quite reach to scratch.

Julian

Leeta's Quarters

Julian smiled as he watched Leeta bustle about setting the table. He knew better than to try to help her. She had her own way of doing things and insisted that his eye for color was completely hopeless. It had been a long time since he had seen her so energetic and excited. Staying out of her way, he said, “I'm almost afraid to ask what the occasion is.” He hadn't forgotten some obscure anniversary, had he? He hoped not.

“First Minister Shakaar is coming to the station tomorrow,” she said, beaming. “It's wonderful news, not just for Bajor but for the Federation, too. It means that the provisional government is getting serious about their intentions. It's nice to see something not moving at a snail's pace for once, don't you think?”

“It is nice,” he said sincerely. It was also somewhat unexpected. Bajor's reactions had been initially suspicious, sometimes even hostile. They had all come such a long way in a relatively short amount of time. He liked to think that in some part he had something to do with that. Perhaps in some ways, Garak did, too. First there was the treaty with Cardassia, and now this, serious talks about how Bajor could fit into the Federation and what the Federation could in turn do for them.

Leeta beckoned him to the table, and he took his seat. “Smells good,” he said automatically. He was glad that she relied on the replicator most of the time. It was difficult to pretend to enjoy her cooking, no matter how hard he tried. “So you're wanting to see Bajor become part of the Federation?” he asked. He wondered why they hadn't had this conversation before.

“I am,” she said with a nod. “There are those who talk of old Bajor, from before the occupation, but that Bajor doesn't exist any more. There aren't a large number of people alive who even remember what our world was like prior to the Cardassians' arrival. It doesn't sound as though it was the sort of place I'd want to live, a strict caste system, steep stratification in the economic classes. Your family name dictated your entire life and fate. Where would that leave people like me? I don't even know my family name.”

Just to play devil's advocate, he said, “Well, there are other options for Bajor that don't involve Federation membership or a return to the old ways.” He helped himself to a serving of veklava and some of the field peas.

“True,” she said, doing the same, “but most of those options involve a lot of uncertainty. We can't just ignore the Gamma Quadrant. So far the Prophets haven't seen fit to prevent passage of enemies from there to here. They might never. We can't stand alone, and if you think there are factions on Bajor who are reluctant to ally with the Federation, just try proposing a Dominion option. Not to mention the Cardassians, despite the treaty, could still be a threat, as could the Klingons. The days of Bajor's sitting off in its own little corner of the Alpha Quadrant, mostly unnoticed and free to ignore the rest of the universe, are gone.”

“You don't find some of our ideas and ideals threatening?” he asked.

“I lived through the occupation,” she said simply, her dark eyes glittering. “I'll leave the arguments of ideology and demagoguery to the vedek assembly. From my somewhat simple concerns, it looks like our best hope for lasting peace and progress.”

“You're anything but simple,” he said, smiling slightly. “Do you know First Minister Shakaar personally?”

She shook her head. “No, I've never met him. I like what I've heard about him, and I know Kira knows him fairly well. She seems to respect him. That says a lot to me.”

“To me as well,” he agreed. “I don't know if I'll have the opportunity to speak to him much while he's here. I know he's on a tight schedule. Even if we do a meet and greet, it will be fairly standard. I'd expect the major and the captain to have most of his time. Say, would you like to come to the wardroom get together? I'm not prohibited from bringing a date.”

“I had better not,” she said, flashing him a brief, brilliant smile. “It's sweet of you to offer. However, there are enough Bajorans who still cling to some ideas of caste that it could be seen as an insult for you to show up at a function for someone that important with a dabo girl.”

“You're not just a dabo girl,” he said.

She took his free hand and gave it a warm squeeze. “That's one of the things I love about you,” she said. “You never view the world with a prejudiced eye, and you don't expect anybody else to do it, either. I wish we lived in that world of yours, sweetie. I truly do.”

He squeezed her hand in return and smiled. Inwardly he sighed. Hadn't Garak often accused him of the same thing? Of course he said it much less admiringly, but it boiled down to the same observation. He was naïve. For all of his vast intelligence, he still saw the world through a filter of optimism and privilege. Why couldn't he be right about it for once? “Then I'll tell you all about it,” he said instead, grateful that when he put his mind to it, he could hide just about anything from her, including his ongoing depression about and alienation from one who saw his flaws probably clearer than anyone else he had ever known.

Garak

Replimat Café

Odo hadn't stopped fidgeting since he took his seat with Garak at their breakfast table. From long years of experience, the tailor knew that the best approach would be to let the changeling work himself up to saying whatever was on his mind. It was exhausting watching him, though. He half expected him to lose cohesion and begin oozing across the floor at any moment. “I have a question,” Odo said bluntly, his fidgeting concentrating to a pinky finger tapping a light staccato on the table top.

Garak set his mug down and leaned forward slightly, favoring Odo with an open, attentive expression. “I'm listening,” he said.

The changeling pressed his lips together and made a soft, frustrated sound. “Never mind,” he said.

Leaning back, the tailor inclined his head and took another sip from his mug. “How do you think the negotiations will go today?” he asked casually.

“How do you do it?” Odo asked suddenly. “How do you...how can you stand to spend time with Leeta and Doctor Bashir?”

Aha, Garak thought. So it has finally come to a head. Took him long enough. “I'm not involved with the doctor,” he said. “I hardly have the right to dictate with whom he spends his time. Leeta is a decent woman. I'm pleased that he has someone worthy of his attention.”

“It doesn't bother you at all?” Odo sounded incredulous.

“It doesn't any more,” he said, pausing before adding, “although it did at first. Why are you asking me this?” He met the security chief's gaze, something of a challenge in his own. I shared with you. Your turn.

“Why did you ever tell him how you felt?” he asked instead of answering. “A Starfleet officer, a human one at that, and a Cardassian? At the time, you had to know that it would be...impossible?”

And yet the impossibility had nothing to do with Starfleet, his humanity, or my race. In fact it's still a mystery, he thought. “I'm hardly one to give advice on love,” he said.

“Just...tell me. Please,” Odo asked.

Garak frowned, heart to hearts not exactly his forte, even with those with whom he was intimate, much less more distant friends such as Odo. “There are never guarantees,” he said, trying his best not to sound as though he were spouting platitudes and feeling as though he were failing miserably. “You could have every point of commonality and seem like a perfect match, and it still might not work.”

“But why did you tell him? You of all people?”

Under normal circumstances, he would feign offense at that and the way it was phrased. Somewhere along the way, he had passed a threshold with Odo, one that would no longer allow such flippant treatment. It was more depressing evidence that he was becoming someone his former self wouldn't even recognize. “If you must know, he came to me first, and you of all people should know why I didn't turn him away,” he said, turning the challenge around.

“Now that it's over, isn't it worse than it was before you started?” the changeling asked, something plaintive in his gravely rasp.

“No, it isn't,” he said, surprised to discover in the answer that this was true. “It didn't work out for reasons I have no intention of discussing with you. That doesn't mean I regret being with him. Love isn't meant to be permanent, any more than any other emotion. It evolves. It ends. Sometimes messily, sometimes not. You're asking me something I can't tell you.” He leaned in much closer so that there would be no danger of their being overheard. “If you should tell her how you feel.” He made certain not to name names, as one could never be too careful. “Don't look so surprised. I've seen this coming for two years at least. You're not the only perceptive observer on this station.

“I can't answer that for you. No one can, except you. I can tell you that if you don't make a decision one way or another, you'll have no one to blame for your ensuing misery but yourself. Love isn't for the faint of heart, Constable. Get in or stay out. There's no such thing as in between.”

Odo nodded thoughtfully. “You've given me a lot to think about,” he said, standing suddenly. “I trust you'll keep this discreet?”

“Do you know anyone who keeps secrets better than I?” Garak asked with a smile.

“Just one person,” Odo replied, the corners of his mouth curving upward subtly.

Don't be so sure of that, Garak thought in amusement. He watched the security chief walk away, his eyes drawn further down the Promenade toward the infirmary. He decided that he should encourage people to come to him for advice more often, because he told them things that he needed to hear. He finished his breakfast, disposed of his tray, and walked the short distance to the infirmary. One of the nurses directed him back to Julian's office, and he inclined his head politely for the help. It took Julian nearly a minute to become aware of him as he stood silently in the doorway.

“Garak, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” he said, beckoning him in and having the computer shut the door behind him. “What can I do for you?”

Direct, honest confrontation went against practically everything in his nature, and yet he had learned that he simply couldn't deal with humans as though they were Cardassians. The nuances always got lost in the shuffle. “You can stop avoiding me, or you can look me in the eyes and tell me why you intend to continue to do so,” he said. The doctor reddened slightly and lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Stop right there,” Garak instructed. “You do that right before you lie.”

“Coming from you, that's a bit much,” Julian said heatedly.

“I'm not interested in your righteous indignation. I'm well aware of my flaws. I'm giving you a very simple choice here. It shouldn't be that difficult.”

Julian stood to pace in the small confines. “It's not simple. Nothing with you ever is. Yes, I've been avoiding you. You forced me to choose between harming you and allowing people I care about to be harmed. Has it occurred to you that might be difficult for me? Hard enough as your friend, harder yet as a doctor?”

“I regret that my decision caused you pain,” Garak said.

“But you don't regret the decision, and we both know that,” Julian retorted. “That's a problem for me. I don't want to wind up in that situation again with you. Ever. You can't give me a guarantee that it won't happen, and I...”

“Can't promise that your reaction won't be exactly the same should it happen again, or worse,” Garak finished for him.

“Yes,” he said, pain evident in his always expressive eyes. “I don't...blame you, and I'm not angry with you. It's my own fault for refusing to see what you always told me was there. I wanted to believe...differently.”

“You see?” Garak said, offering him a bland smile. “That wasn't so hard.”

“Like hell it wasn't,” Julian said more quietly. “Look, I don't want to avoid you. It's not fair to punish you for being who you are. We should just...be careful about the circumstances.”

“Supervised visitations? Perhaps we should log in with the Constable so that he knows our whereabouts and can stage a quick intervention should I become unruly?” Garak arched an eye ridge.

“Unruly? You do realize that you could have killed Captain Sisko, Kira, Dax, Miles, and Worf all in one fell swoop? That's more than unruly. It's utterly reckless and...and selfish, just to save your own skin.”

“And yours,” Garak said, unmoved by his anger. “Or has that fact escaped you?”

“No,” Julian snapped. “Don't you dare. Don't even try to pretend that it was concern for me.”

“Is it so inconceivable that it was concern for both of us? Am I to believe you're willing to go from viewing me as some softened, Starfleet molded Cardassian ex-spy who would sacrifice his own life for the so-called greater good to someone who thinks only ever of himself? I expect that sort of black and white thinking from the major, not from you.”

“Even if part of that was for me, I didn't want that. I didn't need your protection. You know, I am sick to death of people trying to make those kinds of decisions for me, first Miles, then you. I don't care about your reasons. I don't care if it was solely for me. It was despicable. Are you happy now? Am I being honest enough for you?” he demanded.

“So you are angry with me,” Garak said.

“I suppose I am,” he replied, slumping slightly. “Because...I know you're better than that, even if you don't.”

“Oh, please,” Garak snorted, his turn for irritation. “Not this again. The evidence was right in your face. Had you not shot me, I would have opened that door. I wasn't pretending or bluffing. I would have done it. Had it killed your colleagues, I would have regretted it as an unfortunate accident, nothing more.”

“You let me go.”

“What? What are you talking about?” he asked, his irritation thrown off track by the unexpected shift of direction.

“When I needed for our relationship to end, you allowed me to do it. You gave me a clean break, but you haven't abandoned me. Even now with what happened between us in that holosuite, you're here, stopping me from being an ass. You aren't cruel to Leeta. Those aren't the actions and attitude of a cold blooded killer or the perfect operative. The days where you could completely smoke screen me are long over. You know how to be selfless, and I've seen you do it. Am I to ignore that evidence, try to pretend that isn't also the real you?”

He was taking them into murky territory, throwing him off balance. To what end? Garak felt another flash of irritation. It was time to put an end to it or...or what? He supposed he was about to find out. “What are you so afraid I'll see if you finally stop playing games with me?” he asked. “You say you tire of my obfuscation. Well, let's set it aside, then.” He spread his arms and met Julian's gaze with brutal intensity. “It's not my preference, but I've learned that the finer points of Cardassian socializing are lost on humans altogether. Let's do this the Starfleet way, everything on the table including our hands.”

Julian looked away. “Garak...”

“Yes, I know how to be selfless. There aren't many Cardassians who don't, even if our definition doesn't fit in your narrow little box of how such things work. I'm starting to believe that you're the one who doesn't. You make a good show of it, though. I doubt any of your colleagues or your lover see what I see. All the more reason to keep me at arms' length, hmm?” He would have just about given another molar to know what he said precisely that caused such an intense flash of pain in the doctor's eyes, but it was all too brief, and he was all too aware that he wasn't going to get any answers this way. “Just do me a favor. If you're going to continue putting me off, don't insult me with justifications when we both know what's really going on here.”

“I'll stop putting you off,” Julian said.

Garak noticed he still didn't make eye contact. Liar, he thought and wondered how long he'd tolerate it before he stopped wanting the man's company at all. “Lunch today?” he asked, a challenging tone in his voice.

“All right,” Julian replied.

“I'm holding you to that,” he warned him.

“I know. I'll be there. I'm sorry for how I've been.” He finally lifted his gaze.

Well, there's a small spark of truth, Garak thought, not that he placed much value on it. “I'll see you then.” As he turned, he felt a strange tension in the air, almost as though Julian were going to reach out to stop him. He didn't, yet Garak was almost certain that had he turned and looked just then, he would have read an expression to give him pause. Am I playing with fire? Should I just let this go? He recalled his own words to Odo. Get in or stay out. There's no such thing as in between. Then where does that leave us? he wondered as he left Julian's office.

Current Mood: awake

Garak

Replimat Café

Garak could tell that Rom was becoming unnerved by his steady gaze. Inside, he felt positively gleeful. Outwardly, he gave no sign of this, just quietly studied his table companion.

Rom put down a half eaten chew grub and frowned at him. “You're making me nervous,” he accused. “What is it? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Oh,” the tailor said off handedly, “it just occurred to me a few days ago that I've never really seen you before. Of course, I've looked at you, and you and I have had our share of lunches, dinners, and conversations over tea. However, the level...the depth, should I say...of your deviousness never revealed itself. It's fascinating. You hide it so very well.”

The Ferengi waiter looked more unsettled. “I...I have no idea what you're talking about, Garak.”

Garak laughed, delighted. “I'm sure you don't! How many schemes have I missed? What could I be speaking of in this moment? It's exciting, isn't it, when a game moves to a new level?”

“Are you feeling all right?” Rom asked uncertainly. “I've told you before some of those pills you take make you act strange.”

“Never felt better,” Garak replied, beaming. Eventually, he intended to let Rom off the hook and explain what he was talking about, but he was having entirely too much fun watching him squirm. It was the least he deserved for being so manipulative, and because he genuinely liked him, he had no intention of taking it too far or being hurtful. He was about to say more when a commotion from the direction of the docking ring caught both of their attention. Infirmary personnel hurried to help some of the wounded who could walk. A few others were carried.

“Looks bad,” Rom said in a low voice. “Leeta said they had the Defiant out for some wormhole experiment.”

“Yes, I heard,” Garak said, watching keenly. He saw Dax rush by, seemingly uninjured and supporting Doctor Khan. I'd say Julian's attempts to chaperon have been for naught, he thought, judging from Dax's expression. He turned away from the unfolding drama and back to his food. “At least they had the decency to attempt it away from the station. Can you imagine what such a thing could do here?”

Rom shuddered. “I don't want to imagine it.” He picked up his abandoned chew grub and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Still,” he said a little wistfully, “it would be interesting to be involved in something like that. I wonder if they succeeded.”

“I suppose that would depend upon how one measures success,” Garak said. “There's no reason you couldn't be involved in such things if you really wanted to be.”

“Now you sound like Leeta,” Rom said, glancing at him.

“I could be accused of worse things,” the tailor said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You're quite close, aren't you?”

“We're just friends,” he replied, looking glum.

“Close friends,” Garak pressed.

“I don't know if I'd say that,” Rom said, but he refused to meet Garak's gaze, seeming to have found something very fascinating on his plate.

“What do you think Leeta would say?” the Cardassian asked.

“You haven't talked to her about me, have you?” he asked, his voice raising in pitch with anxiety. Garak gave him his best mysterious smile. Rom looked horrified. “You...you stay out of that, Garak,” he said. “I mean it!”

Garak took a serene bite of his food. “If you want something, you'll never get it by sitting passively to the side and hoping that it falls like a gift from the sky into your lap,” he said. “You have to work for it.”

Rom studied him silently before asking, “Are you offering to help me, or are you just...toying with me? If you're toying, it's a terrible thing to do to a friend.”

“You know, it's funny you should say that,” Garak said. “It brings to mind a time when you told me that someone was flirting with Leeta. Help me out, Rom. It has completely slipped my mind who.”

Rom's face crumpled with guilt. “I'm sorry about that,” he blurted. “I...really was mad at him, and he really was flirting with her. I hoped that if I told you, you'd put a stop to it and get him away from her. It's not like I could ever compete with him, and I was right anyway. Now they're together, and it doesn't look like that's going to change any time soon. Unless you think you could do something about it.” He glanced up at him hopefully.

Garak shook his head, no longer amused. Rom's utter passivity frustrated him. It made him want to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, and shout some sense into him. “No, you're on your own there.”

“I know you still want to be with him,” Rom said sullenly.

Garak sighed. “You're wrong. He's incapable of it, which coming from me has to be one of the most hilariously ironic statements in the known universe, and yet there it is. I've been accused at times of being overly stubborn; however, the fact is that I know when I've been defeated. No, Rom, trust me. You don't need me to help you win Leeta. All you need is to be patient, and be her friend. You'll know when the time is right to tell her how you feel.”

“You're not mad at me?” Rom asked, seemingly unable to wrap his mind around the fact.

“It is so rare that anyone truly takes me by surprise that when it happens, it's quite the novel experience. I won't underestimate you again,” he cautioned with a wave of his finger, a playful light in his eyes.

Rom relaxed slightly. “I'd never be stupid enough to try something when you're on guard. Anyway, I hoped it was something both of us would benefit from, not just me.”

“Another reason I'm not angry,” Garak conceded. Speaking of that time period depressed him. He didn't enjoy reminders of the break up. He watched some of the crew from the Defiant leave the infirmary and walk to Quark's. Nodding in their direction to indicate them, he said, “If you're curious about the wormhole experiment, there's your chance to find out. I'm sure they'll be eagerly discussing it and forget all about the size of Ferengi lobes.”

Rom glanced in the direction he indicated, instantly becoming more animated. “You don't mind?” he asked. “I know we haven't finished lunch.”

“I'm curious, myself,” he said, the lie coming easily. “But I'm certain they wouldn't say a word around me. You can tell me about it later.”

“I will,” he said excitedly, jumping to his feet and taking his tray to dump. “Thanks, Garak, and...for what it's worth, I really am sorry for tricking you.”

“No you're not,” he said, beaming at him fondly. “You're sorry I figured it out. Now go.” He watched him retreat, the smile fading. There had been a time in his life, not even so long ago, that he wouldn't have thought twice about scheming with Rom to break Julian and Leeta apart. So much had changed since then. He had changed, and no matter how lonely he was at times, he was no longer content to settle, not for anything or anyone who couldn't meet him where he was.

He watched Dax leave the infirmary with a troubled look. She saw him watching, paused, and headed in his direction. This should be interesting, he thought, waiting until she was close to stand and incline his head to her pleasantly. “You weren't injured, I hope?” he said.

She shook her head, hesitant in a way he had never seen her before. “I'm fine. Physically. I...have no idea why I came over here,” she said with a sheepish smile. “I guess I'm just... It was a close call back there. Lenara could have died. They...her brother didn't want me staying while Julian treated her. He worried it might be too taxing for her.”

“Perhaps you'd like to sit?” he offered.

She remained standing. “How do you let go of someone you love?” she asked, looking oddly young and vulnerable.

He made a fist and held it out to her. “This isn't love, my dear,” he said. He then opened his hand, cupping it. “If it's the right time and a good fit, they stay. If it's not...” He gave a small wave of his hand and dropped it back to his side. “You once told me that when it came to Julian and me, I had to be the adult. Who's the adult in this?”

She shook her head, her gaze pained. “I honestly don't know. I just know I don't want her to leave.”

“Does she know that?” he asked.

“I haven't come out and said it.”

“Well, perhaps you should, if you're sure it's what you want. You have to know you can't make her stay, though,” he said.

“There's something I've wanted to tell you for a while now,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. He tilted his head curiously, inviting her to speak her mind without interrupting her. “I...appreciate...the way you handled Julian's leaving. I know it had to be very hard on you. There was a time I really worried what you'd do to him. I don't worry about you that way anymore. I'm glad you worked through whatever it was that had you...not yourself.”

“I am, too, Lieutenant Commander,” he said, uncomfortable with the intimate topic now that it had turned to him.

She seemed to sense it, or perhaps she picked up on his formal use of her rank to address her. “I'm sure you hardly needed my approval,” she said with an uncomfortable laugh.

“I know your concern in that situation was the doctor. I can't fault you for that,” he said. “If you'll indulge me, I'd like to say something of a more personal nature to you, too.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding and settling a hand to the back of the chair in front of her.

“I think you take his devotion for granted, if not occasionally outright use it to your own ends. I haven't decided whether this is conscious on your part or not. If it is, then shame on you. If it isn't, you need to consider it.”

“I do no such thing!” she said hotly, her brows dipping downward.

“Don't you?” he asked, meeting her gaze squarely and holding it. “Did you ever find out the other night what plans he had that you usurped? Did he tell you the outcome?”

She frowned, some of her anger draining away. “No,” she admitted. “I didn't even think to. I was so absorbed...” She trailed off. “Did I ruin plans the two of you had?”

Garak considered a moment how to answer. “I believe you should ask the doctor,” he said. “I've said all I intend to say on the matter. I don't make it a habit to interfere in my friends' affairs, but since you've gone out of your way on more than one occasion to help me with Julian, I felt I should return the favor.”

She drew her lower lip between her teeth lightly, thoughtful and troubled. “I'm sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I'll think about what you said, and I'll talk to him. Thank you, Garak. I should probably go.”

“As you wish,” he said. “I'm done with my lunch, and I have to get back to work, myself. For what it's worth, I wish you luck with your...situation.” She shot him a fleeting, genuine smile, dipped her head, and hurried away. He shook his head slightly and gathered his tray. He wasn't sure what to think of his expanding social horizons. It was nothing like Cardassia. He felt very out of his element and disconcerted that people seemed to value his opinion on personal matters. His life, as far as he could see, was hardly an example of how to cultivate and maintain a healthy romance. All he needed now was for some Bajoran to become genuinely interested in him to convince him he was losing all grasp on reality or how the world worked. He laughed to himself at that thought and did as he told Dax he intended to do, got back to work.

Julian

Dax's Private Quarters

Julian wasn't quite sure what to expect from being summoned to Dax's. He knew that Doctor Khan had departed the day before with the rest of the Trill scientists, and he knew without having to be told that Dax was crushed. It wasn't like her to open up when it came to such things. She usually withdrew until she had a handle on her emotions and refused to speak of her hurts until much later, if at all. He did his best not to have any preconceptions when she answered the door quietly in civilian clothing and let him in.

“I've been a horrible friend to you,” she said in a shaky voice and turned away from him.

“What?” he asked, taken aback. “Don't be ridiculous, Jadzia. You're one of the best friends I've ever had.” He closed the distance between them and put a hand to her shoulder.

She gently but firmly shrugged him off, turning with tears in her eyes. “No,” she said. “I take advantage. I know I do. This whole time Lenara was here, I was so absorbed in what I wanted and how to get it that I...I used you.”

He started to deny and stopped himself, thinking of Leeta. Hadn't that been exactly how he felt the night of the dinner? While he might never have told her this on his own, if she was bringing it up, he owed it to her to be honest. “I have to admit, it did feel that way a little the night we all had dinner together.”

She nodded and dabbed at her eyes. “I completely ran roughshod over your plans. I didn't even give you a chance to tell me what you were going to do. What did I ruin for you that night?”

He frowned slightly. Where was this coming from all of a sudden? “Did...Leeta talk to you?”

“Leeta? No, wh...Oh, no. Did I mess up a date?”

“We had dinner arrangements,” he said, feeling uncomfortable. He decided not to mention Garak, knowing that ever since he came to her about the trouble they had, she didn't much like the tailor. “She was upset. I think she might have been a little jealous.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “I suppose I should talk to her.”

“I'd rather you didn't. She'll think I talked to you about this, and I don't think that would go over well. You're a good friend, regardless of what you think. I...” He couldn't believe he was saying this, but he knew it was long overdue if he wanted any chance of things working out with Leeta. Thanks both to Garak and Leeta, he realized that he actually did. “I don't think we should see quite so much of each other outside of work. I mean, when you really need me, of course I want to be there, but... I need to focus more on what I'm doing with Leeta.”

She smiled a little sadly, but her look was understanding. “You're right,” she said. “You do. So, you've decided you love her after all?”

“I think I'm starting to,” he said, nodding.

“What about Garak?” she asked.

“There will always be a part of me that wants him,” he said, doubting he'd be able to tell that to anyone else. “I can't explain it, and even though I've tried, I can't make it go away. We're not good together, though. We...just hurt each other, even when we don't want to, and sometimes we actually want to. I can't do that. I can't live like that.” I can't lie to him well enough, and as dishonest as he is, he'll never accept anything from me that's less than the truth, he added silently to himself. “I thought you were glad Garak and I were through.”

“I don't know what to think about it. On one hand, I've never seen you more miserable than when you were with him, but I've also never seen you as happy. You're the only one who can decide if the balance is worth it, and since you're committed to making things work with Leeta, I have to believe you've decided this is better. As selfish as I can be, and as wrapped up in my own life as I get, it has never stopped me from wanting to see you happy. Who you're happy with has always been secondary.”

“See?” he said, forcing a smile. “You are a good friend. Are you all right, Jadzia? I know how much you wanted Lenara to stay.”

“I feel like a part of me has been ripped out,” she confessed. “But...” She held a fist out to him and quirked a crooked, painful smile. “This isn't love.” She relaxed her hand and made a fluttering gesture. “No matter what you do, you can't make them stay if they don't want to.”

He sighed and pulled her into a tight embrace. As much as he wished that he didn't, he knew that all too well. He wondered how soon it would be before it was his turn to let go again.

The End

Current Mood: drained
Current Music: Forest Sun, No Regrets

Garak

Replimat Café

Garak watched Julian pick at his food, pushing it around the plate more than anything. It wasn't like him not to wolf his lunch down. He took a small, neat bite of his stew, chewed thoroughly, and washed it down with some tea. “It's already dead,” he said helpfully.

“I beg your pardon?” Julian lifted his gaze quickly, looking almost startled.

“The food,” Garak elaborated. “If you're checking it for signs of life, you're going to be disappointed. Had you wanted Klingon cuisine, you should have said something before we sat down for lunch.” He gave him his most helpful smile.

The doctor's smile was slow to come, but when it did, it showed genuine amusement. “I'm sorry,” he said ruefully. “I'm miserable company today, aren't I?”

“You've been more entertaining in the past,” Garak conceded. “Fortunately for you, I am not one in need of nonstop stimulation and delight. Is there something you'd like to discuss? I'm quite at your disposal.”

“It's not really mine to discuss,” he said reluctantly. “It's Dax.”

“Ah,” Garak said with a single nod. “Yes, the plot continues to thicken in that situation, the long parted spouses growing ever closer.”

“How did you...” Julian started to ask then set his fork down. “Never mind. I ought to know better by now than to ask you how you know anything. One, you won't tell me the truth, and two, you always have had an eye for all of the important happenings. I'm really worried about her.”

And you call me the liar? Garak thought archly. Oh, he had no doubt that Julian was concerned. However, he didn't believe for a moment that it was strictly concern for Dax that had his young table mate so tied in a knot. “I'm surprised that you're not more...entertained,” he said, being deliberately confrontational.

“Entertained by my friend's confusion and emotional distress? Since when have you known me ever to be that way, Garak?” he asked crossly.

“You're so enamored of tales of star crossed lovers,” he replied reasonably. “You must admit that such a situation would be tasty fodder for that Shakespeare of yours.”

“This isn't some fictional play. These are real people in real pain. There's a tremendous difference,” he said hotly.

“As you say,” Garak conceded.

“You're provoking me,” the doctor said suddenly, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

He has come such a long way, he thought with no small degree of pride. “What about the situation actually has you worried, Doctor?” he replied with a question of his own. “Are you afraid that Dax will give in to forbidden desire, or that she won't?”

Julian opened his mouth and shut it again, looking like nothing so much as a surprised fish suddenly hooked from the comfort of his watery abode and unceremoniously plopped into the bottom of a boat. “I...don't want to see her hurt,” he said a little weakly.

“Yet you already concede that the situation is a painful one,” he said. “Does it make sense to worry about that which exists and cannot be controlled? As a Trill, surely this is not the first time that Dax has found herself confronted by such a situation. How many lifetimes has she led now? She has navigated them successfully, or she would not be here.” He eyed Julian keenly, his laser focus unwavering.

The doctor squirmed under the scrutiny. “What I think doesn't matter,” he said.

Garak felt an inward twitch of irritation. Julian was better than that. Such equivocation was for those of lesser intellect. “I'm relieved to hear you say that,” he said sharply. “Perhaps you can focus on better, more appropriate lunch conversation, then?”

The man's tawny skin flushed slightly, anger, Garak could tell, not embarrassment. “I wasn't aware my preoccupation was such an imposition on your time,” he said a bit tightly.

“If it's not even important enough for you to state what you really think, why should I find it an appropriate use of my company?” Garak retorted. “Gone are the days that you are my sole choice for companionship. You're going to have to do more than simply show up if you plan to keep me engaged.”

Julian winced. He knew he had scored a point on him. He didn't like resorting to such below the belt swipes, but the man was being ridiculously obtuse. Garak had to wonder if Julian was working to hide his thoughts from him or if he was truly self-deluded into thinking that Dax was his sole concern in all of this. “That wasn't...fair,” the doctor said. “You know I don't want to be your only friend. You sounded like Decla just now, and I'd think that was beneath you.”

Garak shrugged off the pathetic attempt at a barb. If the doctor actually thought such comparisons would phase him, he had truly lost touch with who Garak was, or depressingly, maybe he had never really known. “What's beneath me is meaningless small talk and gossip about individuals who are more than capable of taking care of themselves. I could get that from Quark. In fact I do at times, and from Quark, I don't find it galling. I have no reason to expect more,” he said rather pointedly.

“Where is this hostility coming from?” Julian asked, obviously losing patience.

It didn't matter. Garak had lost patience, too. He gave an ironic laugh. “If you were simply hiding things from me, I might actually find it flattering, but it bores me to tears to see a man lying to himself. I find myself with a sudden lack of appetite. I hope you decide to be better company at dinner later this week.” He stood and gathered his tray.

Julian narrowed his eyes. “With the way you're acting right now, I'm rethinking dinner altogether.”

“Then Leeta and I shall miss you,” Garak said, “but I'm certain we'll have a lovely time.” Of course, it didn't occur to him that Julian would actually skip out on the invitation. He was certain the man didn't like the idea of him and Leeta having dinner alone in Garak's quarters. It wasn't jealousy. No, he suspected that Julian wondered what his motivation was and worried that the two of them were conspiring in some way. The fact that he was half right was beside the point.

Julian

Quark's Bar

What are you doing? Julian asked himself for the millionth time in one night, it seemed. Dax and Doctor Khan had been talking non-stop ever since they had arrived for dinner. He wondered if Leeta had followed through with her angry threat to have dinner with Garak anyway, despite his backing out at the last minute. His admission that he was doing it as a favor for Dax did nothing to smooth things over. It had made things worse.

You really put your foot in it, he thought. Why had he believed that being Dax's friend would somehow make Leeta immune from being jealous of his own friendship with the Trill? Had he done much in the way of giving her a reason to feel more secure about it? He knew he spent a great deal of his free time with Dax, but that was largely because Leeta was working when he had time off and vice versa. I'm not jealous of Rom or Garak, he thought a little angrily. Is that the same, though? She has never professed an attraction to either of them the way I have to Dax. Why had he felt so compelled to tell Leeta all about his unrequited crush some time ago, before the two of them got serious enough for such a thing to take on a different context in her mind? He regretted the late night confessionals. Some things were best kept to oneself, particularly when it came to a potential romantic interest.

He had stopped even trying to pretend that he was part of the conversation between the two Trill scientists. They were so busy traipsing down memory lane and catching up with about one hundred years of separation that he imagined he could set his hair on fire and they'd barely skip a beat. Dax didn't need him there. Not really. To outward appearances at least, the two of them weren't treading on dangerous or inappropriate territory. He knew it was more for appearance's sake that he had been asked along. On one hand, he was glad to be able to do Dax a favor. On the other, it was a costly favor that neither Leeta nor Garak would be quick to allow him to live down. Dax hadn't even given him a chance to explain that to her. She had just seemed to assume that whatever he intended could be set aside. Of course she assumed that, he thought dryly. You've never given her any reason to believe that when she says, '”Jump,” you won't ask, “How high?” Even tonight.

Before his grim thoughts could take him further into a bad place, his comm badge chirped. “Infirmary to Doctor Bashir,” the night duty nurse's voice cut through the crowd noise of the second level of the bar.

“Bashir here, go ahead,” he said, concerned that it might be something to do with Ensign Powers. He wasn't recovering as quickly as he ought to be, an opportunistic infection interfering with the healing process.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but Ensign Tyler's broken his leg, and I think you should...”

“I'm on my way,” he said, glad of the excuse to duck out of deadly dull chaperon duty and also glad that it was something less serious than he anticipated. At that rate, he might actually even make it to Garak's quarters in a timely enough fashion to see if Leeta was actually there or not and perhaps do a little damage control. “Sorry,” he said to both women, “but duty calls.”

“It's all right,” Dax said with a smile. “Thanks for coming.”

“Nice to see you again,” Doctor Khan added.

He favored them both with a perfunctory smile and beat his retreat. What was it with ensigns getting hurt this week? This was the third one so far.

Garak

Private Quarters

Lighting a final taper at the center of the dining table, Garak called a cordial, “Enter,” when his door chime rang. He turned, fully expecting to see Leeta and Julian step into his quarters, only to see Leeta entering alone, the look in her eyes snapping fire.

“Hello, Garak,” she said, holding out a gift basket to him that contained a bottle of blue kanar and a few mysterious boxes that likely concealed sweets of some sort. “Julian couldn't make it tonight. He decided he'd rather have dinner with Dax and Lenara. I'd have sent word, except I only just found out about it an hour ago.”

He had never seen her so angry. He felt an echo of it rising in himself. “I see,” he said, a certain fixed quality to his gaze.

The two of them held the eye contact for several moments, understanding and solidarity passing between them. She broke it first. “I think I'd actually like a glass of that kanar if you don't mind,” she said tightly.

“Of course,” he said, lifting it and fetching two glasses. He poured generous servings and offered her one. She worked in a bar. He didn't think he needed to warn her of the drink's potency or its effect on non-Cardassians. “You look lovely this evening,” he said, inclining his head. “Thank you for coming. Dining alone when one is expecting company is...unpleasant.”

“Backing out of a dinner invitation at the last minute is beyond rude,” she said, “when it's not because of a work emergency.” She downed half of her glass' contents, her eyes watering from the strength of the liquor. “I actually used some of my time off for this. Do you have any idea how long you have to work for Quark before you get any time off?”

“I can imagine,” he said.

She looked past him at the table with the covered dishes arranged aesthetically and invitingly. “You ordered this food, didn't you?” she asked. “I mean...ordered it from a freighter. I know we didn't cater this, and replicated food doesn't smell nearly that delicious.”

He was surprised that she could tell. It pleased him to have his efforts noticed, despite his anger at Julian. “Yes,” he said.

“That...jerk,” she said, looking at him again, her expression equal parts anger and apology. “I am so sorry about this.”

He shook his head, making the decision to set his anger aside for the time being. He had no intention of punishing Leeta for something that wasn't her fault or doing. “Please,” he said, “not another word about that. I don't hold you responsible, and I am happy to have you here. Would you like to have a seat?”

She nodded. “I would. Thank you.” She allowed him to guide her to one of the chairs and serve her from the various dishes. “Where did all of this come from?” she asked curiously. “I don't think I've ever seen most of this before.”

“Most of the food tonight is Andorian,” he said. “It has been a very long time since I had Andorian cuisine. I discovered that there was a ship coming our way with some surplus they needed to sell before it spoiled. It was a happy coincidence, as I don't think you would have enjoyed being subjected to my Cardassian dishes.”

She waited for him to serve himself and settle in before continuing the conversation. “I have a hard time imagining you doing anything badly,” she said with a sincere smile. “Not all Cardassian food is bad. I actually like zabo steak.”

She was so different from the major, from almost any Bajoran he had ever met with a rare few exceptions in his customer base. Why had he ever believed her to be shallow or lacking in intelligence? Because you never looked past the dabo girl costume or her pretty face, he told himself, knowing it to be true and having enough decency to feel bad at having made the judgment. “It's very tender when cooked properly,” he agreed.

“Do you think he loves Dax?” she blurted, blushing and looking down into her kanar glass.

He only just avoided the temptation to take it away from her. If she was already asking him such questions, the drink was undoubtedly going to her head. “I don't know,” he hedged, reluctant to hurt her. That in and of itself was so novel he had to ask himself why. It was likely because he had a genuine weakness for truly decent people. Tain would have laughed. He didn't care. The world was wider and more complex than the spy master had ever considered. He refused to feel shamed.

“Yes, you do,” she said darkly, her brown eyes glittering and reflecting candle light.

“The trouble with Julian,” he said carefully, not wanting to look into those large, dark eyes and yet not able to look away, “is that he always most wants that which he believes he can't have. I believe it's a failing in many human males.”

She nodded slowly and took a small sip of her kanar. “Not just human males,” she said a bit dryly. “Sometimes I wonder if I'm...this sounds so awful...if I'm wasting my time. Did you ever feel that way with him? Prophets, I shouldn't be asking you this.”

Don't scare her, he told himself, fully aware of just how intense he could be when something he had been after was suddenly presented to him. He dropped his gaze so that she wouldn't see the gleam in his eyes. “At times it was difficult for me to ascertain what he wanted,” he said. “I was never sure if the failing was in me or him.”

“I'm so glad you said that,” she said a little too loudly. “Sometimes it's almost like he's a different person from day to day, or...even minute to minute. I think I'm getting somewhere with him, and suddenly, he's gone. I mean, he's still there with me, but not up here.” She tapped her temple with a slim finger.

Intriguing, he thought. So it truly wasn't just him. He was too interested in what he was hearing to feel much in the way of satisfaction or relief about that. He knew he wasn't easy to live with. Even if this particular aspect of their relationship hadn't been his fault, there was plenty more that was. This wasn't about blame. It was about piecing together the puzzle that had eluded him for such a long time now. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said.

She took a few bites of the food, mulling as she chewed. “This whole time, I've been thinking it's me,” she said. “That I'm not...smart enough.” She hazarded a quick glance at him, her cheeks coloring a deeper red. “I know I'm no scientist, nothing even close in comparison to him or Dax, or to you for that matter, but if he was that way with you...”

“My dear, you're something I could never be,” he said gently, moved by her distress. “Open. I always thought it was because I wasn't open enough.”

They looked at one another across the table and again found they had an area of understanding. Garak felt another stirring of anger. Just who did Julian think he was, treating those closest to him like there was some failing within them that kept him from being able to love them the way that he professed he wanted to? No, damn it, if he truly wanted to, he would, so he must not want what he so often said he wanted. What did that mean? It didn't make sense in any context Garak could ascertain.

“I'm sorry I brought up something hurtful,” she said. “I really shouldn't be prying like this, or...dumping my problems with Julian on you. It's very thoughtless of me.”

“Don't apologize,” he said. “It has been enlightening.”

She nodded agreement and sighed. “Let's talk about something else. This is too depressing. I'm already angry with him for leaving us in the lurch. Finding out that whatever is wrong with him probably has nothing to do with me isn't helpful. I can't do anything about it.”

“But you can,” he said, pinning her suddenly with his gaze. “You can decide what you really want and move from there.”

She nodded again and polished off her kanar. “My head will hate me for this in the morning, but would you please pour me another glass?”

Julian

The Infirmary

He should have known that it was a bad break if his night nurse in charge felt it important enough for him to come. Setting the compound fracture properly took longer than he would have liked. Now that he had the unfortunate ensign set up with the bone regenerator, he felt that he was free to leave the young man to spend the night there. “Computer,” he said on his way out, “where is Leeta?”

“Leeta is on Habitat Level H-3, Chamber 901,” the voice intoned.

So she had carried through her threat, gone to dinner at Garak's without him. The thought bothered him a little, worse when he realized how late it was, close to midnight. Did they actually get along so well now that they could spend almost four hours alone together? Did he even want to insert himself into that situation? Doubtless, both of them would be angry with him, not without good reason. Wouldn't it be better to face their wrath individually rather than collectively?

“Ridiculous,” he said to himself, stepping into the turbolift. Tonight or tomorrow, it wouldn't matter. This was going to be unpleasant. He may as well get it over with. Perhaps he could get Leeta to leave with him in fairly short order, so he'd only receive a bit of Garak's temper that night. It didn't help that he was tired and out of sorts thanks to being ignored by Dax and Doctor Khan. He felt used.

He squared his shoulders once he faced Garak's door and pressed the chime. “Enter,” came Garak's smooth voice. The door hissed open, and he stepped inside only to find Garak seated on his sofa with a PADD and a kanar glass and Leeta nowhere to be seen.

“Oh,” he said, feeling awkward. “I...the computer said that Leeta was here. Did I just miss her?”

“She is here,” Garak said without looking up from the PADD.

“In the washroom?” he asked, lacing his fingers behind his back so that he wouldn't fidget with his hands.

“In my bed,” the Cardassian answered evenly. “I would thank you kindly not to disturb her. She had a bit much kanar and only just managed to fall asleep without becoming ill.”

“Oh,” he said again, unsure of what to say. “Is she...upset?”

“As I said, she is asleep,” the tailor replied, “so I rather doubt it.”

He bit back an angry retort. What were you expecting, a warm welcome? “Was she upset?” he clarified, really hating it when Garak retreated to playing the overly specific game.

“No,” he said, at last lowering the PADD to his lap and looking up at Julian “I managed to take her mind off of the situation. Believe it or not, Doctor, some people actually find my company enjoyable.” He polished off his kanar in an easy swallow and set his glass aside. “I'm afraid it's very late. I was just about to try to get some sleep, myself. I can assure you that I will be certain that Leeta is not late for work tomorrow. It's my understanding that Quark expects her in early since she took this evening off.”

The tailor was pulling out all the stops. He ground his teeth quietly. “I'm sorry for canceling plans at the last minute.”

Garak stood. “Don't trouble yourself,” he said. “You warned me that you were considering just such a thing. If I didn't heed you, I have no one but myself to blame.”

He wanted to face palm. He had forgotten that he had said anything to that effect in the heat of the moment a few days before. “I didn't mean it. Not really. I was angry, but this had nothing to do with that.”

“I'm sure your reasoning is simply fascinating. I am too tired to wish to listen to it. Now, if you'll excuse me, please? I would like to make a bed for myself on the couch.”

It was useless to try to argue when Garak was in this mode. The wall of overly polite refusal would not give way to reasoning or railing. In many ways, this was far worse than the berating he had been expecting. He worried about Leeta waking up the next day, possibly disoriented and confused, and being embarrassed at having fallen asleep in Garak's bed. Drunk. Because of him. He didn't have to be a mind reader to know that much. She almost never got drunk. “I could have Leeta beamed into her room,” he offered.

“And have her think I asked you to rid me of her?” Garak shook his head. “No. Leave her alone.” He narrowed his eyes, a slightly malicious gleam in the blue. “What are you worried about?”

He sighed, defeated. There was no way to answer that question without giving Garak ample ammunition to eviscerate him with sarcasm. By that look in his eyes, he knew that he would the moment he gave him the opening. “Not a thing,” he said, taking a step back and turning to leave. “Thank you for taking care of her. Again, I apologize for this evening. Good night, Garak.”

Garak inclined his head, a perfectly Cardassian gesture that revealed nothing at all. Oh, but that hooded look beneath his lids boded trouble. Julian knew that his discomfort that night was just the beginning of what the tailor likely had in store. He didn't even want to think of Leeta's reaction. All he knew for certain was that he had best avoid her while she had a hangover. Thanks a lot, Dax, he thought bitterly, knowing all the while that he truly had no one to blame but himself.

He tossed and turned in his own bed for most of the remainder of the night, finally dozing off a couple of hours before he had to be up and ready for work. The morning dragged, both due to exhaustion and his knowledge that nothing at all had been resolved. By lunch he decided that it was likely enough time had passed that Leeta's hangover would either be gone or manageable. He asked the computer her whereabouts, only to discover she was already at the bar. Garak mentioned she'd have to go in early, he thought. He hadn't realized how early.

He took lunch alone in the Replimat, half expecting Garak to make an appearance. The tailor never did. As he watched people going about their business on the Promenade, he found himself slightly envious of some of the aliens' more nomadic lifestyles. Wouldn't things be much simpler if he could move from place to place, preventing anyone from ever getting too close or even wanting to? In choosing Deep Space Nine, he thought that he had picked a perfect hiding place, from Starfleet, from his fiancée's pleas to return, from his parents' overbearing mannerisms and expectations. He thought no one would look twice at a naïve, somewhat goofy doctor who was a little socially awkward and chased women without ever catching most of them. He hadn't counted on running into people like Garak and Dax. He hadn't considered that going into hiding would be far lonelier than he imagined or that his own needs and desires would twist him in unexpected ways.

At the time that the relationship started, Leeta seemed like a refuge from his complications and pain with Garak. She was everything the Cardassian was not: open, readily kind, considerate, straightforward, and even somewhat simple. Why had he believed that just because she wasn't complicated and devious that she wasn't perceptive? Why did he always fool himself into believing that this time things would work?

He knew the signs. He had done this dance enough that it was impossible not to recognize them, the probing questions and looks, the suspicions, the accusations of distance, secrecy, all the more damning because they were true as true could be. Just a few months into the relationship, it was already starting. Now there was Garak to contend with. Who knew what Garak was putting in her head, or why? He had gone from being pleasant to confrontational recently, probing in the same way he did when they were together, only now he was much harder to distract or put off. What was Garak gleaning from Leeta? He wanted to put a stop to the association, but he knew that if he even tried, it would instantly make both of them more suspicious, not less.

He jabbed at his food without much appetite. Last night was a disaster of such enormous magnitude he didn't know where to start to try to mend the rifts. He knew Garak well enough to know that his stonewalling the night before concealed at least some degree of hurt, in addition to wounded Cardassian pride and violated sense of propriety. Garak took invitations to his quarters and to others' very seriously. Julian's last minute scrapping of the plans was both personal and cultural insult that he knew Garak took even more personally because he knew that Julian was aware of the customs.

Leeta was like most Bajoran women he had met, not at all a pushover and very quick to make her displeasure known when she felt insulted or belittled. Not only had she likely viewed his sudden change of plans as a rude breach of etiquette, but also as a message that Dax was more important to him. What if it's true? he wondered. Did he have the right to pursue Leeta when he wasn't willing to make her his first priority? He had pretty much accepted the fact that he and Dax would never be more than friends. It didn't make him value or love her any less.

He rubbed both hands down his face and stared at his congealing food. What to do now? How to make this up to either of them? He wouldn't be allowed to have a personal conversation with Leeta while she was working. He didn't want to get her fired, and he knew that was exactly what Quark would do if he caught so much as a whiff of suspicion that Leeta was using work time for personal pursuits.

That left Garak. He also knew from long experience that the longer he allowed something to fester with Garak, the more resistant to reconciliation the Cardassian became. There was no way that Garak was going to approach him first. He stood and took his tray to the recycler, dumping it and the uneaten food, and made his way to the tailor's shop.

Garak glanced up from his position behind his counter, his expression instantly shifting from shop keeper solicitous to an unreadable mask. “Do you have a rip in your uniform or a commission you would like to request?” he asked, his tone oddly flat.

“No,” Julian said. “I...”

Garak cut him off. “Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'm working.”

“Garak, please,” he said, not liking the plea in his own voice. “I just want to talk to you about last night.”

The tailor graced him with a look that reminded him of a stern uncle, using his physicality and age to excellent effect. “This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. I trust you don't intend to force me to embarrass both of us by getting security involved?”

He knew this was no mere threat, and he also knew that the fact that Garak would mention involving a third party meant that he was very angry indeed. “When would be a good time, and where could we meet?” he asked, doing his best not to sound offended.

“After work, if you wish, you may walk me to my quarters,” he said. “I trust you'll make good use of that time. You are not welcome to join me once I get there.”

He nodded. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than being told Garak would be busy or otherwise occupied for the next year or so. “I'll see you then,” he said, fervently hoping that no medical emergencies arose. While Garak was normally understanding about work delays, he felt he was on a very short rope this time around.

To the best of his ability, he set aside his concerns for the rest of the afternoon. Ensign Tyler had been released that morning with the instruction to take it easy for a day or two on the newly mended leg. Ensign Powers was responding to the antibiotic, but slowly. Julian spent much of the rest of his work day checking him for any other underlying medical conditions that might make him prone to such infections or explain the resistance to the drug. It was a mystery he still hadn't managed to solve by the time he knew Garak would be getting off work.

He gave the young man reassurances that he was doing well and that, hopefully, his stay in the infirmary wouldn't last much longer, updated his night nurse on everything that had happened during the day, and left so that he could catch Garak as he closed. Instead of entering the shop, for he had a distinct feeling that he was not welcome, he waited just outside. When Garak stepped out and keyed the lock, Julian joined him at his side.

“I know I insulted you,” he said carefully. “I also know that anything I say regarding the reason why is going to sound like an excuse. Perhaps it is an excuse. I made a decision to prioritize a request from Dax over our dinner arrangements, not because I thought I would enjoy myself more with her and Doctor Khan, but because...she was worried enough to make the request, so it worried me.”

Garak inhaled deeply enough that Julian saw his nostrils flare slightly. He didn't respond to this, although by his posture and the way he held his head, Julian could tell he was at least listening. He seemed to expect to hear more.

“If she...missteps with this woman...both of them could be exiled from Trill, and their respective symbionts will die. As her friend, how can I sit back and not help her? Garak, if I thought your life was in danger, I'd go to great lengths to save you, no questions asked. Is it so terrible that I'd do the same for others I love?”

“Love,” the tailor snorted, coming to a halt to wait for the turbolift. “You use that word a great deal. I wonder if you know what it means.”

“That's really hurtful, Garak,” he said, frowning.

“Shall I tell you of hurtful?” he asked, eying him from beneath the flare of his eye ridges, a flash of blue in a sea of gray. “All the people in your life who care for you, scrambling to arrange themselves to the proper configuration to capture and retain your interest. Some of us not open enough. Some of us not smart enough. Those of us with enough dignity not to want to mold, twist, and turn to your every demand find ourselves watching you retreat.” He stepped onto the turbolift.

Julian found himself suddenly reluctant to follow, every word a lash. However, he did. “I don't understand what you mean,” he lied.

Garak smiled without humor. “I believe you do. Of course, Dax is different. She's safe. She doesn't want you.”

“That has nothing to do with...”

Garak held up a hand. “My dear Doctor, it has everything to do with this. And for the record, you are a complete idiot. You're going to let a woman who genuinely loves you and is worthy of your generous and kind nature slip right through your fingers. I can see that as plain as the hair on your head. What I can't see is why.”

He had been expecting barbs, sarcasm, and convoluted logic. He hadn't expected what amounted to some of the most brutal honesty he had ever received, not just from the tailor but from anyone. Every time he thought he finally understood how Garak operated, the tailor changed the rules and how he played the game. He didn't know what to say to that. It ached so much to hear it laid out in black and white that he wasn't sure he'd trust his voice, anyway.

“You want my forgiveness? For all it matters, you have it,” Garak said with a shrug.

“What do you mean for all it matters?” he asked, somehow managing to make it sound normal.

“I mean it doesn't change anything. Whether I'm angry with you or not, you're going to do what you do. Sometimes, I still even manage to enjoy your company. We have that,” he said. The turbolift dropped them off in the H-ring corridor.

He wasn't sure how to take that. On an instinctive level, he found it upsetting. It sounded as though Garak was giving up something or perhaps just giving up on him. “It sounds as though you're saying it doesn't matter what I do. You've made up your mind about me, as though...you're just accepting some design flaw.” The tailor's smile cut him to the quick. That was exactly what he was saying. Flawed. I suppose the joke is on me. No matter how much tampering they did, they couldn't fix what was fundamentally broken. He stopped walking. “I suppose I should be appreciative of your honesty,” he said. “It's so rare.”

A few steps ahead of him, Garak stopped and turned to face him. “Careful, Doctor. Keep talking like that, and people will suspect you're bitter. You can't have that, can you?” He turned and started to walk again, his voice carrying over his shoulder, “If I were you, I'd try to talk to Leeta sooner than later, unless, of course, you're trying to drive her away. Good evening, Doctor.”

Garak had managed to strike a part of him he thought he had shielded beyond reach. He was a teenager all over again, discovering that his parents had changed him because he wasn't good enough before. Even after the change, he wasn't good enough. He was just different. He made a strange, hiccuping sound and recognized it as the prelude to a sob. It took all of his control to clamp that down and push it away. What good would it do? Even if Garak heard him, came back, and felt inclined to be comforting, it wouldn't change a thing. He couldn't tell him the truth, and as long as the secret lay wedged between him and everything or everyone he wanted to touch, there would be no true closeness, no rest from the burden. Was this truly why he couldn't let go of Dax, because she was one of the only safe loves he had ever had, the only one smart enough to see him for the trap he was and keep her own distance?

He retraced his steps down the corridor, stepped onto the turbolift, and had it carry him to Leeta's H-ring level. They both had access to one another's quarters. He decided that he would simply wait for her in hers rather than constantly have to check if she was off work yet or where she was. He keyed in the code, only to have the lights on the panel remain red. He keyed it a second time, although he knew he hadn't made a mistake the first time around. She had changed the code. “Great,” he muttered. Stubbornly, he turned his back to the wall, leaned against it, and slid down to a seat. He believed that if he retreated to his own quarters, she wouldn't give him a chance to come back. He hated what Garak had said to him about losing her, and he was determined to prove him wrong. I'm not broken, damn it, he thought fiercely.

It was awkward being passed in the corridor by people who knew him at least on sight. He could tell by the curious looks they wondered what had happened, why he was sitting out there like that. It was physically uncomfortable, too, but he doggedly stuck to his plan. It was well after midnight, and the corridor had been empty and silent for hours before Leeta finally appeared, hobbling and carrying her heeled shoes in one hand by the straps. She stopped some distance from her door when she saw him. “It's late,” she said flatly. “I'm tired. Go home.”

“I'm afraid if I do that, you won't let me come back,” he said, standing stiffly and taking a few steps toward her. “Can we please talk?”

She brushed past him and punched in her new door code, heading inside. Since she didn't tell him to stay out or immediately close the door in his face, he followed. She tossed her shoes to the side, careless of where they landed, and crossed into her bedroom, stripping out of her dabo costume in view of him and digging a pair of pajamas out of her dresser. He knew there was no attempt at seduction in her actions. Her posture and mannerisms said she was so tired and out of sorts, she simply didn't care if he was there to see or not. She leaned in her bedroom doorway with her arms folded tightly beneath her breasts.

“I made a mistake last night,” he said. “I suppose if I'm being completely honest, not just last night. I... You're important to me. I know I don't always say so or act like it, but it's true. I hate that I hurt you or made you feel you're anything less than the amazing woman that you are.”

“You talked to Garak,” she said, her voice still sounding flat, unimpressed.

“You've made quite an impression on him,” he said. “He called me an idiot, and he was right.”

“There's a switch, a Cardassian standing up for a Bajoran to a Starfleeter,” she said without a trace of humor.

“Give me another chance, please?”

“To do what? To blow me off for Dax? Give me one reason I ought to.”

“I'm with you, not Dax,” he said, taking a step closer.

“Funny. You don't act like it,” she retorted, unrelenting.

“I can change my work schedule, start taking night shifts, at least part of the week. You have to admit that at least some of the problem is that we don't have a lot of time,” he said evenly. “I want more time to spend with you. I truly do.” He shrugged helplessly. “Dax...I'm just...it's so rare I can actually do anything useful for her. I'm worried sick for her safety, Leeta. It's not a matter of choosing her over you. If situations were reversed, don't you understand I'd go running straight to you without a second thought? It was the situation I was choosing, not Dax.”

“I want to believe that,” she said, hurt creeping into her voice. “I really do, but every time I think I'm making progress with you, you go all distant again. Tonight you're here begging me for another chance. Tomorrow you're just as likely to get that look you get and bury yourself in some research. I'm trying as hard as I can.” She reached up quickly to wipe a tear away.

“I know. There's nothing wrong with you.” He closed the rest of the distance between them and reached for her. She allowed him to embrace her, both of her arms tucked in and her hands resting curled against his chest. “It's hard for me sometimes. I'm trying, too.”

She rested her cheek against his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck. “Garak said you did the same thing to him,” she said.

He closed his eyes. That hurt. So they had been talking about him. “He's not lying,” he said.

“Don't be mad at him for saying it. He was trying to make me feel better, but it didn't. It means there really isn't anything I can do about this with you. It's not me. I can change me, or work with problems. I can't change you.”

“I can,” he said, wanting to believe it. “Just...I'll try harder. I learned a lot about myself when I was with Garak. Things...were hard with us, but I want this to work. Please.”

She pulled back a little so that she could look at him, her expression solemn. “I want this to work, too,” she said. “You're such an amazing man. You're not like anyone I've ever been with. Half the time, I can't even believe you're with me at all. I have to pinch myself.”

“No,” he said, leaning to rest his forehead against hers. “Please, don't say that. You deserve every bit of love and happiness I can give you. I'm not better than you, or some prize. If you've been talking to Garak, then you ought to know that. I'm sure what he had to say wasn't all flattering.”

“For someone so smart, you really are stupid,” she said a little cryptically, leaning up to kiss him, a lingering, somewhat sad kiss that she broke before it could become more. “If you want to stay, you can, but don't expect anything more than sleep. I've been up since ten this morning, had a positively sickening hangover, and a horrible double shift.”

“Garak was quite the fierce protector last night,” he said, moving with her into her bedroom and starting to strip from his uniform. “I stopped by to try to patch things up. He was adamant that I leave you alone. I hope it wasn't too awkward this morning?”

“Not at all,” she said, climbing into bed and watching him blearily. “He was a perfect gentleman and actually very kind this morning. You should be glad he's Cardassian,” she teased. “Otherwise, he'd be hard to resist.”

He smiled slightly and climbed into the narrow bed with her, settling in. “You never have said much about the occupation or how you feel about Cardassians in general.”

She stiffened slightly. “Nor will I. Please, don't take it personally. It's just that I prefer to look forward, not back. Garak...is very different from the Cardassians I knew. I'd like to leave it at that.”

“Of course,” he said, pulling her close. “I won't ask again.” He waited a few moments for a reply, only to realize that she was already asleep. Exhaustion made him soon follow.

Current Mood: drained
Current Music: Melody Gardot, Quiet Fire

Author Notes: This story takes place before and during Rejoined. Very little dialogue from the episode made it into the story, just one exchange between Julian and a nurse regarding a patient with a broken leg. When watching the show, I always found myself wondering what plans Julian had that Dax strong armed him away from to chaperon her and Lenara for dinner. In some ways, this is my answer to that question.

Summary: In the wake of a tumultuous reunion between two symbionts with new hosts, Dax and Khan, Julian is forced to confront some harsh truths about relationships and what it takes to make them successful. Garak delves deeper into the mystery of what makes the doctor tick and discovers some surprising things about himself and his friendships along the way.

Author: Dark Sinestra

Date Written: March 2010

Category: Slash, Het, angst. Dear gods, lots of angst.

Rating: PG for adult situations and mild adult language.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns. Paramount profits. I write, pilfer, and poke, and all I get is an imaginary t-shirt that I think makes me look a little Cardassian.

Word Count: 18,008

Garak

Private Quarters

Running his comb through his hair one final time, Garak checked his reflection in his full length mirror. He had rejected the tunic that he knew was Julian's favorite. Being obvious had never been his style. Besides, he wasn't going to dinner in order to throw himself at his former lover in front of the man's current love interest. To say that would be poor form would be more than understatement. No, he agreed to this dinner date out of curiosity more than anything else. What did the dabo girl really want, and what did she expect to come of this? He didn't know her well enough to be able to take such a gesture at face value.

He sighed at his reflection, supposing it was unrealistic to expect entire satisfaction with face or figure at his age. The reality was that he was past his prime by at least a decade, more if he was being honest. He looked well put together and respectable in the rich brown tunic with gold accents, a newer piece that he had worn only twice before. He checked the chronometer, picked up the small gift basket sitting on his dining table by its handle, and headed out the door. Barring any distraction along the way, he knew he would arrive at Leeta's quarters about five minutes early, not early enough to be an imposition.

He inclined his head pleasantly to those he passed in the H-ring corridors, some returning the gesture, most not. After years on the station, he was so used to this treatment he hardly noticed it any more. It seemed natural. When he reached the Bajoran woman's door, he gave his tunic a final tug at the hem, shrugged his shoulders so that his sleeve cuffs fell just so, and rang the chime.

“Enter,” came a somewhat tremulous voice.

The door opened, and Garak stepped into a colorful room. Before he could stop himself, he curled his lip. The sharp, acrid stench of burnt food lay thick in the air in a haze of smoke. Leeta, dressed very modestly and looking quite nice, took one look at him and burst into tears. Julian was nowhere to be seen.

For a moment, he felt rooted to the spot. Tears were something he never handled well. It was different in an interrogation, when he knew the reason for them, fear or pain, and had been the one to induce them. However, coming across strong emotional displays unexpectedly threw him off balance, particularly with women. He hoped that she would pull herself together. Instead, she covered her face, sobbing for all the world as though she had just lost everything.

Oh, dear, Garak thought in dismay. Where was Julian? He looked for a place to set the gift basket and settled for a chair against the wall near the door, then closed the distance between them, reluctant to touch her. “Leeta?” he said tentatively.

“I'm sorry,” she choked out between sobs. “I...everything is just...Julian is late, and...oh, Prophets, what a...what a mess!”

Carefully, he reached out a hand and touched her shoulder. “Come now,” he said. “Let's...let's sit down for a moment, shall we?”

She allowed him to guide her to the sofa, sitting turned away from him and starting to wipe her face. “I...really am sorry,” she said in a shaky voice, trying to bring herself under control. “You probably think...I'm an idiot.”

“Of course not,” he said, although he wasn't sure how true that was. “Why don't you tell me what has happened? Perhaps I can be of help?”

“Just great,” she said miserably. “My house guest has to help me.”

“Or not,” he added quickly, terrified she was about to launch into a fresh batch of sobbing. “I...” He struggled for something to say that wouldn't sound inane, staying quiet for too long in the process.

She looked at him finally and swallowed hard. “This is really awkward,” she said, her lips trembling. However, she seemed to be pulling herself back together, no longer outright crying. She sniffed a few times and dabbed at her eyes with her fingers.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I'll find you a napkin.”

She stopped him with a hand to his sleeve. “No,” she said. “I'll do it. You just...sit.”

He did as she said, locking his hands around his knees in a tighter grip than it appeared. Of all of the things that had run through his mind in the past three days, this scenario wasn't one of them. At least she hadn't grabbed him or expected him to hold her. He wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't have outright fled had she done such a thing. He watched her warily as she blew her nose and wiped at her face with her back to him. “I should have just had Julian invite you out to eat with us,” she said, still not facing him. “I'm not a good cook. I never have been.” She blew her nose again.

“I...would have been fine with replicated food,” he ventured.

She turned to face him, tucking her napkin into a balled fist, and shaking her head. “No,” she said. “I mean, maybe you would've, but that's not the point.” She sighed heavily. “Two of the most important people in my life think so highly of you,” she said.

Two? He dipped his brow ridges downward in confusion. “Who?” he asked.

“Julian and Rom,” she said in a tone of voice that made it sound as though she thought he was silly for even having to ask. “They speak of you often, how intelligent you are, how much you know, how much you can do. I...I wanted to do something special.” She looked dangerously close to tears again, reaching up to dab at her eyes. “Nothing went right. I...I didn't even get off shift until almost seven this morning because the latinum tallies didn't work out right, so Quark wouldn't let anyone leave.

“The...the stall was out of katterpods altogether. Well, I couldn't make hasperat without katterpods as a side, so I...I stupidly tried for a soufflé instead. You can smell how well that went. Collapsed and burned, both. Julian called me about ten minutes ago to tell me he'd be tied up at least another hour because somebody came in with plasma burns, and he warned me you wouldn't be late. I thought about calling you, but I didn't want to be rude and cancel at the last minute. I should have.”

He realized that she was actually crying again, just much more quietly and in a more controlled way. He stood and approached her. “Do you know,” he said conversationally, “I've never been able to keep a soufflé from collapsing?”

“Have you ever even tried to make one?” she asked, her warm brown eyes narrowed in a shrewd squint.

He smiled. “Not even once,” he said.

Her smile began tremulously but quickly blossomed into full blown amusement. “You're...awful,” she said, her amusement then shifting to concern. “If you want to leave, I wouldn't blame you.”

“And if I want to stay?” he asked, once more carefully touching her shoulder.

“It would be beyond gracious of you,” she said. “The whole place reeks of burned food. I'm a mess, and who knows when Julian will get here? It's not like we can open a window.”

“We can open the door,” he said. “I can try to fan the worst of it out of here while you freshen up. We can either replicate something or pick up some take out from wherever you like. Besides, I brought wine, and, selfishly, I'd like to have at least one glass of it.”

She took his hand between both of hers and pressed it warmly, offering him another smile, this one more relaxed. “OK,” she said, some strength returning to her voice. “The corkscrew is on the table over there,” she gestured. “Why don't you go ahead and open the wine so it can breathe. I'll open the door so we can breathe, and I'll take your suggestion.”

He saw no guile in her open expression, just simple gratitude and underlying exhaustion that had to be more long term than just one night of lost sleep. He nodded and returned the squeeze, then disentangled himself so that he could do as she said. With the door open, the worst of the smoke dissipated, and his nose adjusted to the smell enough that it didn't phase him much. He took one of the large, colorful napkins and fanned around vigorously, airing out the place to the best of his ability.

So she's close to Rom, he thought. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a startled laugh, a realization hitting him hard. He played me, he thought. He actually played me! It made sense, Rom's inexplicable animosity toward Julian, how quickly he had come to Garak to tell him about his flirtation with Leeta, his subsequent siding with him and resentment of Julian. He felt no resentment at the fact, himself. It was his own fault for not looking harder at the Ferengi or truly questioning his motives. His respect for Rom notched higher. He was still chuckling quietly to himself when Leeta came out again, looking much more in control of herself and cleaned up.

“What's so funny?” she asked.

“I just imagined someone walking past your door and spotting me waving this napkin about,” he lied smoothly.

“You've done a wonderful job of clearing the air,” she said, instructing the computer to close the door once more. She hesitated and added, “In more ways than one. Thank you, Garak.”

“What kind of guest would I be if I left you in such straights?” he asked, uncomfortable with her gratitude. He didn't want to like her. She was making that difficult.

She curved a half smile and approached the table, pouring both of them a glass of wine. “Julian mentioned that about you,” she said, turning to hand him his.

“What?” he asked, feeling a little wary and at a disadvantage as he accepted the glass. She was bound to have heard much more about him than he her, at least some of it true.

“That you have a hard time taking credit for the good things that you do,” she said. Before he could think of a response to that, she changed the subject. “So, what will it be, replicator, or take out?”

Julian

The Infirmary

Julian double checked the readings on his patient before finally deciding to turn his care over to the night duty nurse. He had managed to patch the worst of the external damage, but it would be some time before the engineer's lung tissue and sinus cavities fully healed from the terrible burns they had sustained. He had the man heavily sedated and on the best pain medication he could obtain. There truly was nothing else he could do for him at the moment. “If there's any significant change in his condition, call me,” he instructed the nurse.

Of all the nights for something major to go wrong, it just had to be the night that Garak was due for dinner with him and Leeta. He winced to himself as he thought of what she must be going through at the moment. She had sounded on the edge of hysterics when he called her to let her know he'd be late, but he hadn't had time to find out what had happened, if anything. He knew that she was a ball of nerves about the dinner. He couldn't exactly blame her. Garak could be intimidating even to those who knew him well.

He hurried away from the infirmary on his way to the turbolift. He was already an hour and a half late. He hoped that they had decided to eat without him. Otherwise, the soufflé would have already collapsed, and everything would be cold. He had intended to stop by his quarters first so that he could change into something nice. He felt that if he did so now, Leeta might be angry with him for the further delay, and Garak would probably think it was rude. He wondered if Garak was utterly miserable. Leeta wasn't exactly the sort he usually chose to associate with, and if he had any lingering feelings of resentment or jealousy toward her, he would not be enjoying himself. He could also be incredibly snarky.

That thought made him hurry all the more once he stepped off on the correct level. He was jogging by the time he reached her door and keyed in the entry code. He walked in on the sound of mutual laughter and a faint, lingering scent of burnt food. “There you are,” Leeta said, unfurling from her seat at the table to greet him properly.

Garak stood and inclined his head pleasantly. “Good evening, Doctor,” he said.

Leeta gave him a quick hug and kissed his cheek then guided him over to the table with an arm around his waist. “Garak was just telling me about some of his adventures when he was a gardener,” she said. “Did you know he even spent some time on Romulus?”

“Did he now?” he asked, eying Garak a little warily. There was no telling what wild yarns he had been spinning for Leeta's benefit. As he took a seat at the table, he noticed that the food was all in take out boxes. “What happened to the soufflé?” he asked.

Garak shot him a warning look, but it was too late. A little bit of Leeta's good mood deflated. “I ruined it,” she said. “Just like I always ruin anything I try to cook that's harder than mashed katterpods.”

“Soufflés are very overrated,” Garak said. “Think about it. All that effort for what amounts mostly to air. I think it's the effort that makes people assume they're worth eating.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I'm almost one hundred percent sure you're just saying that for my benefit,” she said. “But I'm going to go ahead and believe you, because it's entirely too sweet of you.”

He watched the Cardassian, searching for tell-tale signs of dislike or sarcasm underneath the facade. So far, he could see none, but he didn't entirely trust his observation skills when it came to Garak. He could be extremely convincing when he wished to be. The two seemed comfortable together. Julian helped himself to what remained of the food and the wine. “Did you bring this?” he asked Garak as he poured.

“Indeed,” Garak replied. “I also brought some chocolates, but I'm afraid I ate so much dinner I couldn't possibly have any.”

“This is Leeta's favorite brand of spring wine,” Julian said.

“He asked Quark,” she said, smiling at Garak. “I'm not sure which surprised me more, the fact that he did that, or the fact that Quark knew.”

“He can be very thoughtful,” he said, also smiling at Garak and wondering somewhere in the back of his mind what the catch was.

“He really can,” she said. “It makes me sorry I waited this long to do this.”

“Well,” Garak said, “there's nothing to stop us from doing it again. We almost have to, given the fact that the doctor was held over at work so late.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed, turning her attention back to Julian. “How is your patient? Did everything go OK?”

“He's stabilized,” he said, the entire moment strangely surreal. He expected tension and discomfort, perhaps false joviality from both of them, not this. How much of that wine had they drunk? Had Garak brought just one bottle? “I think he'll pull through. I have to say, the two of you are making me feel sorry I had to be late. It seems as though you've been having a good time.”

“The evening has been delightful,” Garak said pleasantly, “marred only by your absence. Wouldn't you say, my dear?” he asked Leeta.

“Yes,” she said. “I've been pleasantly surprised.” She turned her attention to Julian. “You know, I really understand now why you have lunch with him as often as you do. He's a marvelous conversationalist.”

“You're entirely too kind,” Garak said.

Julian laughed a little uncomfortably. “Forgive me for saying this, but the two of you are going to make me sick if you keep up this...”

“This what?” Garak asked, blinking at him innocently.

“Yes, what?” Leeta echoed, looking slightly cross.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shoving in a bite of food so he wouldn't be expected to say more. He gestured for them to continue talking while he ate, actually quite hungry and realizing that if he said anything more along that line, he was going to find himself outnumbered. He also realized that he had been so worried that they wouldn't get along that he hadn't let himself consider how it would be if they did.

After all this time, he still couldn't tell when Garak was spinning tales and when he was telling the truth. While Julian ate, Garak continued telling Leeta of some of his exploits before he ever came to the station. Julian tried to read between the lines, suspecting that many of the mundane and amusing scenarios he described had buried within them clues of what really happened and what he had really been about. He noticed that Garak played to Leeta's interest in sociology. He could hardly be upset with him for being such a good guest, but he couldn't help but to wonder if the amiability hid an ulterior motive.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” she said at a natural lull in the conversation. She stood and wagged a playful finger at both of them. “No talking about me while I'm gone.” She then headed into the washroom.

Julian watched her go and then turned his attention back to Garak. “So,” he said, “enjoying yourself?”

“I am,” he said. “I was sorry you weren't able to have dinner with us, but I've...actually had a good time tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the washroom and back to him. “She's a genuinely nice person,” he said.

“You thought I'd date someone who wasn't?” the doctor asked, amused.

“You did date me,” the tailor retorted with a gratified “gotcha” smile.

Julian shook his head and chuckled. “In the name of diplomacy, no comment.”

“Well, that's no fun at all,” Garak said, still smiling.

He thought of a couple of things he could say to that in return and said neither, surprised that after all this time, there were still moments that Garak could look at him in a certain way and make his breath catch. He was almost positive the Cardassian was aware of it and did it on purpose. By the time he realized they had held eye contact in silence far longer than was appropriate to the circumstances, Leeta returned and broke the moment. “Who wants chocolate?” she asked brightly.

Garak

Leeta's Quarters

He stayed later than he had originally intended. Leeta's second yawn in less than two minutes cued him that it was time to go. “Where has the time gone?” he asked, moving to stand from his seat on the sofa.

“I have no idea,” Leeta said sleepily. She stood at the same time Julian did. “I hate to be the one to ruin the party, but I'm so tired I can hardly see straight. Julian, would you be a dear and walk Garak home?”

“Of course,” the doctor said, hiding his disappointment at being kicked out fairly well. Garak doubted that she saw it.

She leaned up and kissed him good night then closed the distance to Garak and hugged him warmly, whispering in his ear, “Thank you so much for earlier.” He returned the embrace awkwardly and stepped back as soon as she allowed him, unused to such effusiveness. She walked both of them to her door. “Good night, you two. Thanks for a wonderful evening.”

“Thank you,” Garak said graciously. When the door closed, he looked at Julian. “You hardly have to walk me home,” he said. “It's not even on your way.”

“I don't mind,” the doctor said, falling into step beside him. “Besides, it gives me the chance to hear what you really think.”

“As disappointing as this must be for you to learn, in this case, I told you the truth,” he said, amused. “I like her. She's a good woman. You could certainly do much worse.”

“I worried that things wouldn't go well,” Julian confessed. “I know how you can be.” He glanced at Garak.

“Are you trying to pick a fight with me or flirt?” the tailor asked casually without looking at him. “Sometimes, it's difficult for me to tell.” Julian opened his mouth and shut it again, coloring faintly. Garak smirked inwardly. Some things never changed, it seemed. He could still flummox the younger human without much effort. “Either way it doesn't matter,” he continued. “I have no intention of poaching you from that lovely young woman.”

Julian cleared his throat. “You know, I'd actually have a say in the matter,” he said.

They stepped into the turbolift and Garak directed it to his level. “Of course you would,” he said reasonably, still not looking at the doctor. He changed the subject. “I have to admit that I was expecting that you'd stay the night.”

“Sometimes when she's really tired, she has a hard time sharing the bed,” he said.

“Why not seek quarters with a larger bed?” Garak asked.

Julian snorted a laugh. “You and I were together for years and never made such a move. Why do you think I'd be so quick to do it with someone else?”

Why not? Garak thought, finally looking over at him searchingly. Why such distance, even when you're close? It was something he had thought about before, of course, when they were still together. Seeing it from the outside, it seemed stranger than it had in the context of their own relationship, perhaps because he wasn't distracted by his own intimacy issues.

“What's with you and Dax trying to rush me into something?” he asked, looking irritated.

Why are you so desperate to put me off of this? Garak wondered. “Dax is Leeta's friend, is she not?” he asked instead.

“Yes,” Julian said warily.

“Then perhaps it's natural that she'd like to see two of her friends happy together,” he said.

“That doesn't explain you,” the doctor retorted.

“Is it so odd to you that I'd like to see you happy, as well?” he asked, cocking his head slightly.

The turbolift came to a gliding stop, and they stepped off of it, walking side by side at a leisurely pace. Julian looked chastened. “No, I suppose not,” he muttered. “I just don't want to rush things.”

Garak grunted a non comment. He didn't buy that for an instant, not coming from a man he knew usually made romantic decisions with the speed of a sand fly.

Julian stopped walking. “What was that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“I don't know why you ask me about things you don't want to hear,” Garak said a bit crossly. “I tell you, and then you become angry with me. I've had a pleasant evening. I'd just as soon not end it on that sort of note.” He knew very well from hard experience that if he expressed his observation, Julian would simply find a way to provoke him to genuine anger or find another equally effective way to shut him out. He was tired of that dance, had tired of it well before they broke things off. It was no more attractive from a greater distance. He turned and kept walking.

“I know you mean well,” Julian said, trying to be conciliatory and hurrying to catch up.

“At least there's that,” Garak replied. “As you see, we're now at my door. This is where I should take my leave. Good night, Doctor.”

“Garak, wait,” he said, stopping him with a hand to his forearm. “I don't want you going to bed upset with me.”

Garak looked at his hand until he removed it. He raised his gaze, meeting the concerned umber eyes squarely. “What do you want?” he asked.

“That's...not fair,” Julian said hesitantly.

Garak snorted. “Neither is indecisiveness. When...if...you ever think you're ready to answer that question, I'd like to know. I'm sure Leeta would, too. Why do you think she was so keen to get to know me better? It's not the size of the bed that's the problem, and you know it. Good night, Doctor,” he said more firmly and this time stepped into his quarters and shut the door behind him before Julian could stop him.

He may not know what he wants, Garak thought, but I know what I don't want. I don't want any part of that same old pattern. He had wondered before the dinner if the time had possibly come for them to re-evaluate their friendship and take some steps toward the attraction that had never fully given way. Now he was quite certain that they should not, not while Julian still insisted on holding the entire world at arms' length. If he couldn't let someone as open and guileless as Leeta in, there was no hope of Julian's letting himself be close to him. He was positive of that.

He couldn't deny that he was disappointed, but he wasn't particularly angry. More than anything, he was curious. Perhaps he had never looked at the issue properly, he reflected. He had been so busy trying to find a way around it and feeling hurt and rejected when he couldn't, mostly on a subconscious level, that he never directly questioned why it was, or even what it was. Emotion never solved a problem, he thought. It only serves to cloud the mind. He decided that he'd be spending more time with Leeta in the future. Perhaps she could either directly offer some insight or indirectly give him something to observe. Now that he realized he was onto something, he wasn't going to be quick to let it go. As strange as it was, he recognized that in Leeta he had an ally in this situation. It was going to be interesting to see where it led.

Julian

Habitat Ring

Julian stood outside the closed door, so taken aback by what Garak had just said that at first he could hardly think of what to do. Since when had everyone decided that they knew more about his relationship with Leeta than he did? First Dax, now Garak, what right did they have to lecture him or take him to task, particularly Garak of all people? Indecisive? How was he being indecisive? So what if they had exchanged a few weighted looks over the past few months? They had always done that, even before he was consciously aware there was a mutual attraction. If Garak was under the impression he was trying to lead him on or get something started, well, he was going to have to set him straight about that.

He started walking before consciously deciding where he would wind up. It was a colossally bad idea, a stupid idea of epic proportions, yet he couldn't stop himself. The one person who always managed to make him feel better in situations like this was Miles. Besides, he still owed him a real apology and clearing of the air. This was as good of a time as any to do that. Miles was almost always still awake this time of night.

He hailed him and waited for him to answer. The answer was a little slow in coming. When the door opened, it revealed a somewhat disheveled engineer rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Julian?” he asked. “What're you doin' here? 'S after midnight. Is everythin' OK? Is it Tommy?”

“Tommy?” he asked, frowning. “Oh, you mean Ensign Powers. No, no, it's nothing like that. His condition is stable.” He felt selfish now, peering into the bleary hazel eyes and realizing he had managed to drive all thoughts of sleep away from the man who took any accidents under his watch very seriously and personally.

Miles stepped back from the door and gestured him in absently, heading over to the replicator to order himself a cup of coffee. “Y' want somethin'?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Julian shook his head, smiling slightly as he stepped inside and took a seat in one of the deep leather chairs in the living room. “I suppose I thought you'd still be awake,” he said by way of apology. “You often are at this time.”

“I know,” he said, turning and bringing his coffee with him to the sofa. “Just crashed and burned tonight after cleaning up that plasma leak. I still don't know how it happened,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his tangled curls. “What can I do for you?”

“I haven't enjoyed...being at odds,” he said hesitantly, glancing at him uncertainly.

“You 'n me, both,” Miles said, looking understandably wary.

“I know why you did what you did,” he pressed on past his discomfort. He felt that he owed it to the friendship.

“You do?” the engineer asked, looking even warier.

Oh, God, he thought, suddenly alarmed. Stop right there, Jules. You're heading into dangerous territory. He was glad he had only had two glasses of spring wine before arriving. “Yes,” he said a little too quickly. “You saw it for the dangerous situation it was and saved me from my tendency to think like a doctor, even in tactical situations.”

O'Brien grunted softly. “Well,” he said, “it's not like I enjoyed doin' that to you.”

“I know,” he said, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he smiled. “So, we're OK again? On for darts and all that?”

“If you like,” Miles said, returning the smile and seeming to relax. “It's been a little borin' tryin' t' play on my own. Hasn't caught on like I hoped it would at Quark's.”

“I know. I wonder why that is,” he speculated. “I suppose it doesn't matter.” He found himself lapsing quiet. Perhaps this truly hadn't been the best of ideas in his current mood. He felt restless, irritated, and more than a little put out, not just by Garak but by how often Leeta sent him packing instead of letting him stay. Garak was wrong; he was sure of it. Leeta wasn't worried about him as competition. If she felt any strange distance between herself and Julian, it was something else, something worse. He sighed.

Miles sipped his coffee and tilted his head. “What's got a bee in your bonnet tonight?”

“Leeta wanted to have Garak to dinner. I wound up being late,” he said glumly.

Miles winced. “How bad was it? He had her in tears by the time you got there, didn't he?”

“No,” he said. “They got along famously. It was...disturbing,” he added, widening his eyes.

“You'd better watch that,” the engineer advised, shaking a thick finger at him. “Nothin' worse than an ex an' a current gettin' all cozy. That's trouble. When that ex is Garak, I shouldn't have to tell you how much worse that can be.”

“Dax seems to think I'm still carrying a torch for him,” he said, testing the waters.

“Bollocks,” Miles snorted.

He knew that was meant to make him feel better, yet it didn't. He believed that the only reason Miles said or believed such was because of how much he disliked Garak and simply didn't want Julian to be with him. He scowled without realizing it.

“What?” Miles asked, sitting forward and setting his coffee mug on the coffee table. “Y' mean she's right?”

“What? No, of course not!” he protested.

“Then why the sour face?” he demanded.

“I know you don't like him. I wish...I just wish things weren't always so complicated,” he said, exasperated. “Dax and Garak should just mind their own business.”

“What'd Garak do?” he asked.

“Forget I said anything. I'm just making things worse. I came here to patch things up with you, not to dump my relationship woes in your lap.”

“Are you kiddin'? As much as you listen t' me belly achin' about Keiko, I feel like I owe you,” Miles said, chuffing a laugh.

“You love her,” he said a bit wistfully.

“Of course I do. She's my wife,” he said, sounding almost defensive for a moment, as though he was invested in convincing either Julian or himself of the fact.

“I wish...I wish I loved someone like that,” Julian said with a sigh. I wish that I could. It was a perpetual conundrum, his craving for intimacy at war with his inability to maintain it. Secrets such as his didn't allow room for the sort of commitment Miles exhibited toward Keiko, even with his divided loyalties.

“When you're ready for it, it'll come to you,” Miles reassured him. “You're a good man. You just have other priorities right now. There's nothin' wrong with that.”

“I suppose,” he said. He decided that he had imposed enough on his friend for one night. Spreading misery wasn't something he ever wanted to develop as a habit. “I think I'm heading to bed. It has been a long day in more ways than one.”

Miles nodded and stood with him, draping a casual arm across his shoulders, or was it so casual? Julian couldn't be sure. He walked with him toward the door. “I think you'll feel better in th' mornin' with some sleep under your belt,” he said. “Don't let Dax get t' you. She's too nosy for her own good. Ultimately, you're th' one who decides what's goin' on in your life, not people on th' outside lookin' in. If you knew how many people constantly predicted that me 'n Keiko were on the verge of divorce, you'd see how ridiculous that sort of gossip really is.”

Julian decided not to tell him that sometimes he was one of those people who felt that way. The only difference was that he respected Miles enough to keep his mouth shut about it. He gave him a closed lipped smile and clapped him on the back. “You're right,” he said. “Sorry for awakening you.”

The Irishman smiled and clapped him back. “Door's always open t' you. You know that. Night, Julian.”

“Good night,” he said, stepping out and not feeling any better whatsoever. He was being selfish using Miles like that, taking advantage of how he felt so that he could dump his problems on him any time he was out of sorts and no one else was available. It didn't matter that the engineer was sincere when he said it wasn't an imposition. He knew in his heart of hearts that someone who was just a friend and nothing more wouldn't put up with that behavior from him, not to the frequency and extent that Miles did. “You're a lousy friend,” he muttered to himself, heading back to his empty quarters at last. He had nowhere else to go.

Over the next several days, he tried to put some of the concerns raised by the dinner behind him without too much success. It didn't help matters at all that suddenly Garak and Leeta were seeing quite a bit of each other. True, it usually involved Rom, too, the three of them taking lunch or simply spending a little time in the Replimat before Leeta and Rom had to go to work. Rom's presence made him feel as though he couldn't join them, even when he had time to spare. It was no secret that the Ferengi didn't like him. He tolerated Rom's thinly veiled hostility only because he was Leeta's friend, and he knew that the two of them openly at odds would stress her more than she already was from her work environment. What was Garak about? He couldn't accept the situation at face value. There was no way that Garak had just suddenly decided that someone he always claimed to find a little vapid was stimulating company after all. Leeta's attitude toward him hadn't changed, though. She wasn't behaving strangely or secretively. No, whatever Garak was doing, it wasn't direct sabotage. Probably.

At least Dax had let up on nagging him about his relationship. Perhaps she truly did feel bad about making him angry, or perhaps she was simply gathering more ammunition before trying to come at him from a different angle. With her it was always so difficult to tell. Sometimes she could be doggedly focused to the point it bordered on obsession. She would then be just as quick to drop something never to mention it again. He had come to chalk these tendencies up to the mystery that was Jadzia Dax.

Her magic tricks in Quark's bar one night took him by delighted surprise. He never knew when he'd get to see yet another facet of past hosts surfacing in her mercurial nature. He rightly guessed the influence to be that of Tobin, the quiet, socially awkward host Miles had briefly hosted during the ritual. Unfortunately, Sisko called her away before he could see more sleights of hand, the results of which left Quark confused and irritated, always a plus.

He watched the Ferengi bartender pick at his ear for nearly a half hour, likely in the hopes of finding another strip of latinum. He would never tell Jadzia that he could follow what she had done with her hands or how he had seen it all. That would reveal his own brand of prestidigitation. No good magician ever reveals his tricks, he thought, some of his good mood slipping.

Dax returned to the bar, looking much more subdued than when she left. She seemed to debate with herself before coming over to join him again. All thoughts of his own issues fled at the sight of the expression on her face. He leaned his head close to hers when she arrived, murmuring, “What is it?” She shot a quick glance at Quark. He seemed distracted. That was no guarantee that he actually was. Julian understood instantly. She didn't want him overhearing. Settling a hand lightly to the small of her back, he led her away from the bar and walked her over to an empty table. They sat so close together, their knees touched.

She glanced around again before speaking. “There's a science mission coming here from Trill,” she said softly, a distant look in her pale blue eyes and her fingers laced loosely on the table top, twisting and fidgeting. She glanced at Julian. “One of the team members used to be my wife. Torias' wife,” she corrected herself quickly. “Khan was the symbiont of Torias' wife.”

He thought of what he knew of Trill society and the strict laws guiding associations formed in the past. “Oh,” he said, concerned. He covered both of her hands with one of his own. “Are you going to be all right? Do you think you should...I don't know, take some time off while they're here?”

She smiled slightly, twisting one of her hands beneath his so that it was palm up and she could give him a light squeeze. “Benjamin gave the same offer,” she said. “I'll be OK. The news just took me by surprise.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. He didn't know how much attachments carried from life to life, but he had to imagine it could be problematic if they had developed an entire codex of laws to govern the situation. “What...happens if the two of you...you know. Get close again?”

“We'd be exiled from Trill,” she said simply, meeting his gaze.

He jerked slightly, taken aback. “But if that happened...”

“Yes,” she said. “Both symbionts would die when we died.” She paused and gave him a softer smile. “Which is why you don't have to worry. I'm not stupid. I have no intention of throwing my life, Dax's life, away over this. It may be awkward and a little painful, but I'll handle it.”

He gave her a searching look. “Well,” he said finally, “if you need someone to talk to, you know I'll be here for you.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, standing suddenly and leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I have a little research to do before calling it a night. Thank you, Julian. I'll see you in the morning.”

He watched her walk away, his stomach slightly tight with vague anxiety. He hoped that she was right about her ability to handle the situation. After seeing how quickly she could fall in love when the conditions were right, he was far from certain, himself. Fall in love with anyone but you, he thought a little glumly. He wondered if he would ever fully get over his attraction to her any more than he would his attraction to Garak. Always drawn to the people most likely to see right through you, he thought. Where's the logic in that? He shook his head and stood, tired of the bar noise and ready for bed. It would be much better to sleep than to stew. Stewing just got him into trouble.

Current Mood: drained
Current Music: Aimee Man, That's How I Knew This Story Would Break My Heart

Kira

Dozaria

Kira was furious. Ever since they had awakened and gotten underway again, they had done nothing but argue about the girl, Ziyal. In the end, as far as she could tell, what it boiled down to was Dukat wanting to protect his own worthless hide and career at the expense of his daughter. How could someone who could be moved to open tears at a loss after so many years be determined to exterminate the only link he had left to a woman he loved? How could he love being a Legate more than he loved his own flesh and blood, his own daughter?

I won't let you do it, she thought fiercely, glancing at him out of the corners of her eyes. They were back to walking side by side again, neither trusting the other at his or her back. She wasn't eager to take his life, as she might once have been, but she knew she wouldn't hesitate if he forced her to it. Once more she thought back to something Garak had said. Don't rely on his better nature to keep him from behaving inappropriately. He doesn't have one. That was turning out to be truer than she could have imagined at the time.

I shouldn't have been in such a hurry, she thought. I should've given Garak a chance to find out what was going on. Then we wouldn't be in this mess. Really, though, if Garak knew about the girl, would that make things any better for her? Couldn't he be every bit as dangerous as Dukat? She wouldn't put it past him to hurt a relative of Dukat's just to get to the Legate. She wouldn't even put it past him to kill one. Cardassians! She thought yet again in utter exasperation.

It looked to be about mid-afternoon when they finally saw a change in the desert landscape, and not for the better. Harsh cliffs abutted the flat plane of sand. According to Kira's readings, their goal lay somewhere beyond the cliffs. “Looks like we're in for some climbing,” Dukat said in a matter-of-fact way.

“Looks like,” she agreed.

Toward the base, it was somewhat easier. The rocks were well eroded by the scouring wind and sand. They were able to find small channels cut into them and follow them. It took them out of the brunt of the weather and gave them some respite. However, as they gained elevation, the climb grew harder and more treacherous. Every hand and foothold had to be tested before either could trust their weight to it. Even so, sometimes a hold that seemed solid would suddenly give way, leaving them panting and dangling until they could find more support. Twice the only thing between Kira and a precipitous drop to her death was a strong, gray hand clasped about her wrist. She saved her breath and her thanks until they were on a ledge near the top and could take a quick breather.

“You know you should follow the three points of contact rule,” he chided her after he caught his breath.

She glared at him. “That's easy for you to say when you're all arms and legs. There were times I had to stretch, because there was nowhere else I could reach. Thanks for looking out for me.”

“We are in this together,” he said.

She heard something beyond their perch and motioned to him to be quiet. Glancing up, she gestured that they should finish the climb. This time, she managed to make it ahead of him and dart into cover. He did the same, and she fished a pair of binoculars out of her pack. She watched activity near an obvious mine shaft then handed the binoculars over to Dukat so that he could have a look. After a beat, he said, “The Breen? What are they doing here?”

She told him about the dilithium concentrations she was getting on her tricorder readings. They determined that the Breen must have been using the survivors to mine it. Dukat's entire posture stiffened suddenly. When he refused to answer why, Kira took the binoculars from him and had a look herself. She saw a girl with mixed Cardassian and Bajoran features carrying water near the mine entrance. “It's her,” she said.

“My daughter,” he said, his eyes never leaving her, even though he no longer had the binoculars. He took them back.

Kira gave quick thought to what they were going to have to do. She didn't think that she and Dukat alone would be a match for the Breen. They were going to need reinforcements. She also thought that perhaps she saw a way to ensure the safety of the girl. She quickly told Dukat that she'd stay behind and watch while he left in the runabout for Deep Space Nine. To her irritation, he refused, telling her that she could go instead. They quickly reached impasse, and then he did what she had been expecting him to do at some point or another ever since the mission began. He stopped cooperating altogether.

“There's no way I'm leaving you alone here,” she snapped.

“Then I suggest we devise a plan to rescue the prisoners together,” Dukat said. “You need me, Major.”

Damn him for being so stubborn! He was going to get both of them killed, and then where would his precious career be? She knew she couldn't force him to leave and there was no chance of her staging a rescue on her own. “Maybe I do,” she finally conceded, “but if you hurt that girl, I promise I'll kill you.” Let him stew on that, she thought, not even slightly bluffing. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he knew.

“Well?” he asked. “What are we to do?”

“Oh, that's rich,” she said. “You're going to refuse my direct orders and then turn around and pretend this is still my mission because you have no idea what to do.”

“You're wasting time, Major,” he said tersely. “We can fight all the way back home if you like. For now, you need to focus.”

She narrowed her eyes. He was dangerously close to getting punched in the mouth. “Fine,” she said tightly. “We're going to need the element of surprise, which means we're going to need a couple of those uniforms. Let's see if we can lure those outside guards into an ambush and go from there. We have no idea about their patrol patterns or anything else. I hope you realize you're putting us at a horrible disadvantage.”

“You're free to go get reinforcements,” he said.

“And let you kill your daughter while I'm gone? No chance. I already made that clear. I'm done talking about this. Let's go,” she said, starting to move stealthily closer to the mine. They'd be lucky if any of them survived this, she thought angrily. If they did get out alive, she decided she probably would send a complaint to the Cardassian military as he had suggested, for all the good it would do.

Getting into position took far longer than it did for them to attract the attention of the two guards, disable them, and obtain their uniforms. After seeing the creatures, Kira was reluctant to wear anything they had been wearing, but it had to be done. She and Dukat made their way inside, disabled a third guard, and made contact with some of the Bajoran and Cardassian prisoners. Then as far as Kira was concerned, everything went to hell, thanks to Dukat's stubbornness and duplicity.

She found herself trapped in a firefight with more Breen while he ran down a side corridor in search of Ziyal. Only the arrival of the Cardassians he sent away to get more prisoners saved her and the woman, Heler. She didn't have time to react to the sad news that her friend Lorit had died in a cave-in two years prior. She had to reach Ziyal before Dukat did, or at least before he had a chance to kill the girl. She sent the prisoners toward the front of the mine shaft, promising to meet them there, and took off in the direction she had seen Dukat run.

She found a downed Breen, only to almost have her head taken off by phaser fire. Kosst, she thought, diving for cover and returning fire. At this rate, she'd be fighting her way through all of the remaining guards. Would she be too late? Taking a gamble, she suddenly directed her fire at a spot above the Breen's head. Several rocks dislodged and fell atop the unlucky alien. Just to be sure, she darted forward and finished it off. She didn't need a wounded enemy flanking her.

She continued running mostly blindly, unsure of where to go next. On instinct, she followed the main passageway, not turning off at any branches. There were no more downed Breen to give her any clues. Prophets be thanked, she thought when she heard voices from up ahead, one of them unmistakably Dukat's. She stepped into a small chamber with a well, seeing Dukat ahead of her with his rifle already raised and a glimpse of the girl beyond him. “Dukat, no,” she said sharply.

The confusion in the girl's voice as she questioned what was happening broke her heart. This girl was an innocent. She didn't deserve this. Kira trained her rifle squarely on Dukat and tightened up the slack on the trigger, having every intention of shooting him dead on the spot if he so much as twitched wrong. She'd deal with the traumatized girl later if it came to that. Still, she hoped that she could reason with him and tried her best. It looked as though he wasn't going to listen to reason.

Suddenly, the girl cut in again, sounding devastated. “The Cardassian prisoners...they told me this would happen,” she said, “that you'd never let me go home, but I didn't believe them.”

“Ziyal, run!” Kira barked, desperate to get the girl out of there, out of the line of danger.

“I used to dream about you coming to save me,” she said to him, ignoring Kira. “It's what kept me alive.”

“Ziyal,” he said, his voice thick with anguish.

Good, she thought fiercely. You should feel terrible for this!

Looking resigned, the girl straightened herself a little. “If I can't be with you,” she said, “I'd rather die.”

Watching like a hawk, Kira saw the rifle tip waver then lower. The girl approached him slowly and wrapped her arms around him. Kira tensed all over again when he thrust her back to arms' length. For Prophet's sake, be a father! she thought, her finger still taut on the trigger.

“Let's go home,” he said softly, pulling her in and holding her close.

Kira let out a sigh of relief. “I hate to interrupt this,” she said softly, “but we're not safe yet. We have to get out of here.”

They both nodded and Dukat turned, all business once more. The remaining Breen guards weren't difficult to dispatch. The hardest part left to them was walking the weakened prisoners back through the punishing desert landscape to the runabout so that they could get underway.

Kira kept to herself for the most part, trying to come to terms with the fact that a hope she had held to for over six years had been dashed. Her good friend was dead. She was happy and grateful to have been able to rescue the rest of them, but she worried about the girl. Would Dukat's resolve remain true? Would he stand by his daughter, or was she yet in more danger? What would happen if he took her to Cardassia? What would they do to her, to him? She didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't help it. Something about the simple dignity with which the girl had faced her father touched and impressed her. It had obviously touched Dukat, too. Was there a chance that he could learn something about the occupation from all of this? Could he change?

Stop it, Kira, she told herself in exasperation, the runabout on auto pilot and her presence at the controls little more than for show, as well as an excuse to stay away from Dukat. What does it matter if he changes? Does it make him any less responsible for all of his crimes? No, she thought a bit sadly, but if change doesn't matter, what does that mean for someone like me? She didn't have a good answer for that.

She was glad to get back to the station and back to normal. She was also glad to hear that he had decided to be the father that Ziyal deserved, despite the possible consequences. As she watched him walk away, another familiar voice caught her attention, and she turned to find Garak approaching her from the stairs leading to the second level of the Promenade. “I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you back in one piece,” Garak said smoothly.

I'll just bet, she thought with some amusement. While she no longer believed that Garak loathed her, she was under no illusions that he felt any real attachment beyond what might be useful for him. “Your advice...helped,” she said.

“I'm glad,” he said. “Once I discovered why Dukat was going to such lengths to accompany you, I feared for your safety.”

“You...know?” she asked. She realized she shouldn't have felt so astonished, but such things did stretch Garak's claims of being nothing more than a tailor beyond the bounds of credibility.

“Indeed,” he said. “Truthfully, I'm surprised he's bothering going back to Cardassia. There will be no welcome for him there.”

Something about the way Garak said that gave her pause. “I don't suppose you would have anything to do with that?” she asked, frowning.

“Do?” he asked, staring at her as though she might have been dropped on her head as a child. “Why would I have to do anything? He's taking a half breed back to Cardassia Prime and acknowledging her as his own. If anyone is doing anything to ensure his utter ruin, it's Dukat. Cardassian society doesn't need my hand to guide it in that matter.”

“That 'half breed', as you call her, is his daughter,” Kira said tightly. “A very brave, very intelligent girl. I'm not going to stand here and listen to you insult her, Garak.”

“You misunderstand me,” Garak said impatiently. “What I think doesn't matter. The fact remains. There is no place on Cardassia for such a child or for one willing to claim her.”

She had heard enough, turning to walk away from him. “Then all I can say,” she said over her shoulder, “is more's the pity for Cardassia.”

Garak

The Promenade, second level

Garak watched Kira retreat, feeling quite pleased with himself. He hadn't done much; it was true. Dukat had made his own bed for years, unwisely cultivating all sorts of enemies, people with very long memories who weren't quick to forget such slights as Dukat was famous for meting out. All Garak had done was nudged a few people in the right direction. No one would be surprised when Dukat came home with Ziyal in tow. There'd be no hiding her, no being discreet. He could hardly wait to hear of the fallout. It was, of course, a shame that the girl would be hurt in the process, but she would have been regardless. No one on Cardassia would ever accept a half breed of any race, Bajoran or otherwise.

A familiar tread had him turning. “Ah, Doctor, good afternoon,” he said pleasantly.

“I saw you standing up here gazing out the star port and thought I'd come say hello,” Julian said amiably. “What has you in such a good mood?”

“Haven't you heard that Major Kira returned safely from her mission?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” the doctor said, looking slightly skeptical. “I wasn't aware you had a particular fondness for the major.”

“Don't be silly,” Garak said, waving a hand. “A friend of a friend. I'm sure you understand.”

“Right,” he said, looking amused.

“Why do I get the feeling you don't believe me?” the tailor asked, adopting a mock wounded posture.

Julian chuckled. “I can't imagine why,” he said. “Since you're in such a good mood, I suppose now would be a good time to ask you if you'd like to come to dinner some time this week.”

“Our lunches aren't enough for you these days?” he asked, arching a brow ridge.

Julian colored slightly and looked away. “Actually,” he said, “this invitation isn't coming just from me. Leeta wanted me to invite you.”

“She did?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “Whatever for?”

“How did she put it? She wants to get to know someone so important to me better. So, will you come, or not?” he asked.

“Do you actually want me to?” Garak asked in return. “You seem reluctant.”

“Well, you have to admit, it's a little awkward,” he replied.

“I can't imagine what could be awkward about having dinner with your ex and your current romantic interest,” Garak said dryly.

Julian pressed his lips together in a way Garak still found endearing beyond words. “I'd like for you to come,” he said. “She has been pressuring me about this for a while now. The only reason I haven't asked sooner is because...well, I didn't want to hurt you.”

Garak smiled. “You're a dear boy, but I assure you, I'm quite beyond that now. Why not? What night were you considering? I'll be sure to keep my calendar clear.”

“You are?” he asked then shook his head. “Forget I asked that. I'm glad to hear it. Anyway, we were thinking three nights from now?”

“Delightful,” he said, not buying the “glad to hear it” part for one second. He had seen how Julian's face fell. It was brief, but it was there. The question was did he want to do something about it? That would call for some serious thought. He had been making every effort to keep their friendship at just that level, but he had to admit that at times it was difficult. Was it possible that the two of them had grown and changed enough to make revisiting something more a good move?

“What?” Julian asked warily. “What are you thinking?”

“Beg pardon?” he asked, all innocence once more. “Oh, I was simply wondering if I should bring anything.”

The doctor eyed him a beat longer than necessary if he believed him. Garak was fairly certain that he didn't. He did know him quite well, after all. “If you'd like to bring something to drink or a dessert, I'm sure Leeta would be happy with that. I trust your judgment.”

Garak smiled widely. “Ah, my dear doctor, I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that,” he said. Yes, this had shaped up to be quite a nice day. He decided that when he was shopping for a host gift for Leeta and Julian, he'd also get a little something for Quark and Major Kira. If nothing else, it would keep them guessing, which as far as he was concerned was exactly how it should be.

The End

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: None

Julian

Quark's Bar

Julian had been surprised when Captain Sisko approached him and Dax at their table, asking to join them. It wasn't as though the three of them never socialized, but the captain usually liked for such things to be planned and not spontaneous. It quickly became obvious that he was after more than just company when he spoke of his recent, somewhat disastrous exchange with Kasidy Yates, a woman he had been seeing with more frequency of late.

Although he tried to be diplomatic, Julian privately felt the captain truly had bungled the conversation. When a woman announced that she would be moving somewhere her romantic partner lived, “It's a big step,” wasn't exactly an encouraging response. In his experience with such situations, complete and abject apology was usually the best route to take, unless of course, one wanted the woman in question to go away.

He and Dax both did their best to help. In the end, they were left wondering what Sisko intended to do. Dax looked at him after the captain was out of earshot. “So, just between you and me,” he asked her, “what do you really think about Kasidy moving onto the station?”

She mulled it over for a bit. “It's a big step,” she said finally.

“A very big step,” he agreed. He wondered if Sisko truly was ready to take it. He knew that he still had lingering issues over his wife's death, something natural in such circumstances, and there was the added complication of Jake.

“Speaking of big steps,” she said, giving him a nudge, “how are things going with you and Leeta? You seem to be spending an awful lot of time together.”

He took a swig of his drink. “Not when you consider how much she works,” he said.

Dax sat back in her seat, folding her arms and favoring him with a raised eyebrow. “And you don't?” she asked, smirking. “Please, don't say 'that's different', because you know it isn't.”

“It is when you consider I actually receive fair compensation for the work I do and adequate recognition,” he said somewhat defensively.

“So if she was doing something that paid better and people appreciated more, you'd be fine with how much she's working?” she asked, clearly skeptical.

“I'd feel better about it,” he said. “Look, it's about more than just how many hours she works or how much time we have for one another. She's constantly stressed out. Over half the time she has to badger Quark just to give her what he actually owes her. I care about her. I don't like to see her treated that way.”

“Hmm,” she said, eying him curiously.

“Hmm?” he asked. He never liked her “hmm's”. They usually came with a laser judgment that while more often than not accurate was something he rarely wanted to hear.

“I just find it telling that you say you care about her, but you don't say you love her.”

“When you think about it, it's not as though we've been dating for a long time, just a few months now,” he said, feeling defensive. What did it matter if he didn't love Leeta yet? He had stayed with her longer than he had with most people. After what he went through with Garak, he thought it nothing short of miraculous that he was willing to try a relationship with anyone at all. Who was Dax to lecture him when she was single? He decided it was high time to go on the offensive. “What about you? When are you going to act on your obvious attraction to a certain Lieutenant Commander?”

“We aren't talking about me. We're talking about you,” she deflected. “Do you really want to talk about obvious attractions?”

“You lost me,” he said, blinking at her in confusion.

“Did I?” she asked with such a significant look that it hit him suddenly. She was talking about Garak.

“Jadzia,” he cautioned.

“Julian,” she retorted, an impish light in her blue eyes.

He sighed in defeat. He should have known better than even to try to play this game with her. She was far too good at it. “I'm not going to sit here and try to pretend that there's no longer an attraction. As far as I'm concerned, that's natural. We were together a long time. We have a lot of history. Something like that doesn't just go away overnight. It doesn't mean I intend to revisit old territory. We've both moved past that.”

She looked utterly unconvinced. “Uh huh,” she said.

He made an impatient noise. “Be as skeptical as you like. It doesn't mean you're right,” he said crossly. “I'm with Leeta now, and that's the end of the discussion as far as I'm concerned.”

“Fine,” she said, holding up a conciliatory hand. “I didn't mean to make you angry. Speaking of that, have you patched things up with Miles yet?”

“How did you know about that?” he asked, startled.

She smiled serenely. “You ought to know by now that precious little happens on this station without my awareness.”

“You're as bad as a Betazoid,” he said sourly.

“I'm going to take that as a compliment,” she said, her smile inching wider.

“Well,” he said sweetly, “if you know so much, you should already know about me and Miles.” He smiled as her expression soured. It was so rare that he actually got one over on her, he was determined to savor the moment to the fullest, which included ordering a fresh drink.

Kira

Dozaria

It quickly became clear to both Kira and Dukat that the Ravinok didn't just crash but quite possibly was shot down, judging from phaser fire scarring of the hull. After just a little bit of arguing, they determined that Kira would handle trying to wrangle information from the sand choked computer systems and consoles of the Ravinok while Dukat handled the twelve graves they discovered in the sand and grit. Although she didn't understand Cardassian obsession with privacy for their dead, she did understand the importance of ritual. She decided that the least that she could do was to be respectful of Dukat's beliefs. It wasn't as though she was particularly eager to dig into graves, at any rate.

The ship was a total mess. She doubted that she'd be able to get much of anything out of it, or even if she'd be able to reactivate most of the systems, but she had to try. More than ever, she wanted to know the fate of her friend Lorit and all the other Bajoran prisoners carried on this ship. She got down to the dirty, gritty work of prying open access panels and trying to clean away enough debris to get decent connections.

The wind continued its incessant howl, scouring the half buried hull with hissing grit. Kira continuously blinked stinging sand from her watering eyes, sweat soaking through her thick uniform and making it cling to her uncomfortably. Ignoring her own discomfort as much as she could, she worked doggedly at the various control systems, hoping for a little luck more than anything else. She spared little thought for Dukat at the grave site. She would be able to examine any earrings he found and compare them to a list. To the possible dead Cardassians, she gave no thought at all.

After some time, she managed to clean a coupling well enough to attach one of the main cables. To her satisfaction, lights came up and the system hummed to life. “Hello, Ravinok,” she muttered to herself, standing and dusting her pants off, then approaching the console to see what she could access. As information streamed across the console, she hooked a PADD to one of the ports she had cleaned and downloaded what she needed.

She took it in hand and left the ship. “Dukat, I was able to reactivate the—” She cut off mid-sentence as she saw him, slumped on the ground with something in his hand, his shoulders shaking. Was he? He couldn't be crying. “Dukat...” She stepped closer, her brow furrowing.

“It's nothing,” he said quickly, “nothing at all,” but he couldn't hide the tears in his eyes, and he couldn't wipe them away fast enough.

Kira took what he held in his hand and recognized it for what it was, a Bajoran pledge bracelet. She was too taken aback to give him anything other than her natural reaction, sympathy at his plight. Garak had been right after all. Dukat had an ulterior motive for coming all this way, although it was probably far more benign than Garak would have expected. “Who was she?” she asked gently.

He tried to put her off, but she'd have none of it. She finally got the story out of him, that he was in love with this woman, Tora Naprem. She might have had a harder time accepting that at face value were it not for the fact that she found him initially overcome with his grief. Even now, he was very reluctant to discuss the issue, deflecting her attention from it by handing her seven Bajoran earrings. Much to her relief, none of them belonged to her friend. Wherever he was, alive or dead, he had not met his fate in this spot.

She shared her findings with him from the ship, that it had been attacked by two unknown warships, and they tried to decide what to do next. Scanning from orbit was no good. The same ionic field that made it impossible for them to beam down would interfere with any scans and render the data meaningless. She didn't like having to reveal any secrets to him from the occupation, but she had no choice. She told him of the implants resistance fighters had and activated when captured, and she then scanned to see if she could pick up any readings on her tricorder. Much to her satisfaction, she did. “I think I've got something,” she said. “That way.” She pointed.

Dukat carefully tucked the bracelet into his pack and stood, shouldering it. “Let's go,” he said, immediately beginning to walk.

He set a rapid pace. Kira found his doggedness strange in the face of their discoveries. If anything, she would expect someone so grief stricken to be less determined, possibly even difficult to motivate. Maybe he's different, she thought as she followed, noting that he no longer seemed to care if she was at his back or not. She was still having a hard time adjusting to the thought of him actually loving a Bajoran at all, much less grieving her loss.

When night fell, darkness descended rapidly. The temperature dropped several degrees, and the night sky was pitch black. Just because they hadn't yet discovered major terrain issues didn't mean that they wouldn't or couldn't. Despite being eager to see who might have survived, Kira decided that it was a good time to stop and set up camp. “Hey, Dukat,” she said, “come back and help me. It's time to set up camp for the night.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” his voice came from the darkness. “I'm fine, and so are you. It's cooler now. I'd think that would make it easier on you.”

He sounded strangely testy. “Be that as it may,” she said, trying to be patient in light of what had happened earlier, “I think it's time to stop. This is my mission, remember?”

She heard him hiss and the crunch of his boots over the sand as he approached her. At least he wasn't directly disobeying her and forcing her to play catch up in the darkness. She took out a portable light and set it up. Instead of helping her, he just paced restlessly back and forth. “I don't understand why we have to stop,” he said, sounding almost petulant.

He was worse than dealing with a child, she thought. Still trying to be patient, she explained her reasoning and managed to convince him to sit down near the heater, only to have him cry out in pain and writhe around on the ground with both hands clutching his buttocks. She didn't want to laugh. She truly didn't. Clamping down hard with her lips, she managed to get him to let her see what was wrong. An enormous spine protruded, buried well in his posterior. Wincing in sympathy, she warned him that removing it was going to hurt then gave a good twist and a yank. “Ow,” she said ruefully.

She found her dermal regenerator and handed it to him then watched him try to treat himself. Her pinched look gave way to a smile, her smile to laughter. She just couldn't help it. He looked so ridiculous!

“It's not funny!” he said crossly.

“It is from this angle,” she said, laughing harder.

To her surprise, he started to laugh as well. “You know what's even funnier?” he asked. “It's not working!”

Almost in tears, she realized he hadn't turned it on. “You have to activate it first,” she managed to choke out.

When he began to heal himself, she finally got hold of herself. The whole trip had been so odd so far, but now that things had taken such an unexpected turn at the grave site, she was finding it harder to heed Garak's advice. She could no longer see Dukat as the symbol of the occupation and everything that had been so wrong with it, at least no longer just as that. She was starting to see him as more, as a person, and it was disconcerting. His attitude toward her had changed, too. When had that happened? She couldn't even say. She dug in her pack for field rations and tossed him one. As the two began to eat, she brought up something that had been bothering her ever since she found him weeping over the bracelet, and he told her who the woman it belonged to had been. “Tell me something. Who's Tora Ziyal?”

He stopped chewing mid-bite and simply looked at her. She pressed on, explaining that she found the name in the manifest, along with the crew and prisoners two civilians, Tora Naprem and Tora Ziyal, a thirteen year old girl.

“I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I told you she was Naprem's sister?” he said reluctantly.

“Ziyal is a Cardassian name,” she pressed. “The way I see it, there's only one explanation. Ziyal was Naprem's daughter, and...”

“And I was her father,” he said.

“Now I know why you're in such a hurry to find the survivors,” she said, feeling relieved at finally having discovered the motivation behind his strange behavior ever since they located the Ravinok. “You're hoping she's still alive so you can rescue her.”

“Not quite,” he said, his blue-gray eyes catching the camp light and glittering. “You see, if my daughter is still alive, I'll have no choice but to kill her.” Without another word, he set the remainder of his rations aside and rolled over with his back to her, effectively ending the conversation for the night.

Kira felt gut punched. That was the last thing she expected him to say. Stupid, she said to herself. You were stupid for letting your guard down. Garak warned you. Not that in the bigger scheme of things that meant all that much to her, but the fact remained. Dukat was the former Prefect of Bajor. He was responsible for countless deaths and atrocities. In light of that, why should she be surprised to discover he had murderous intent toward a family member, particularly one who was half Bajoran?

She was reluctant to sleep around him, yet she knew she needed the rest. Always a very light sleeper, she decided to trust to her instincts and abilities to see her through this, lying down and settling in. It was difficult to find sleep, though. She kept thinking of the unknown girl, Ziyal. One thing was certain. She'd kill Dukat before she'd let him touch a hair on that girl's head. If he thought otherwise, he was sadly mistaken.

Garak

Private Quarters

It had been a long time since Garak had poked so deeply into the station computer system. He was almost certain he had tripped one or two of Odo's security protocols. It didn't matter much. Odo could hardly fault him or be too irritated with him for trying to dig into Dukat's background and activities there. The system purge when the Cardassians left had been fairly thorough, but not complete. The Fleeters had done more to dump and eradicate the rest of the files, particularly after the self-destruct scare. There wasn't much to go on.

Undeterred, Garak had next contacted one of the few people he had left on Cardassia with possible relevant information and almost as much reason to dislike Dukat as he had. He had been told that the man would look into it and had been waiting for a little over a day to hear back. He had almost given up hope of having his request actually taken seriously when he received an encrypted and cryptic message. “Possible family ties,” was all it said. Well, that could mean almost anything, couldn't it?

After giving it more thought, he decided that perhaps he wasn't completely out of resources. He got dressed to go out, despite the late hour, and made his way to the Security office. Odo glanced up at him from his desk. “I should thank you for saving me the trouble of bringing you in to question,” Odo said, gesturing for Garak to sit down. “Give me one reason I shouldn't lock you up for your recent excavations into our system.”

“I was doing it for Major Kira,” Garak said simply. He smiled in satisfaction at Odo's expression. He knew he had him.

The shape shifter wasn't going to let up quite so easily, however. “You expect me to believe that the major came to you and asked you to poke around in the computer?” he demanded.

“Constable, I said no such thing,” he said, adopting a wounded manner. Odo folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. He knew that his patience was already wearing thin. Garak tried a slightly different tack. “She came to me before she left on her mission with Dukat. She was...concerned...about his attitude toward her.”

Odo unfolded his arms and leaned toward Garak. “I'm concerned about that, as well,” he admitted, looking wary.

“As you should be,” Garak said, nodding and widening his eyes slightly.

“All right, Garak,” Odo relented. “I'm assuming you didn't come here to confess to me something you had to be aware I already knew, so why are you here?”

“Dukat was fairly thorough in erasing records involving him and his activities here,” Garak said. “However, I find his interest in the Ravinok strange. I'm not the only one. You knew Dukat during the occupation. Is there something in particular about that ship that would spark his interest above and beyond the fact that he was the commanding officer when it went missing?” Odo's expression grew more guarded. Garak watched him sharply. He knew something. He was almost certain of it. “I don't need to tell you how dangerous he can be,” he said reasonably.

“I...can't help you, Garak,” Odo said reluctantly.

“As I said, this isn't for me,” Garak retorted. So what if it was a lie, or at least not the entire truth? He actually was somewhat concerned about the major's safety in regard to this.

“There's nothing you can do to help Major Kira,” Odo said in such a way that Garak knew he'd get nowhere with him.

Garak stood abruptly, irritated. “I hope for her sake and yours that you're right about that,” he said. “If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were actually protecting Dukat.”

Odo shot him an icy glare. “Then I'd say it's a good thing you do know better. I have work to do, Garak. Don't make me change my mind about my decision to let your computer indiscretion slide.”

Garak inclined his head slightly and left. That went nowhere. Still, he wasn't completely without any recourse. Smiling grimly to himself, he headed further down the Promenade and dove into the madness of the night crowd at Quark's, something that he would usually avoid like the Rigellian flu if he could help it. If anyone knew about personal details he shouldn't know, it was Quark. The only question was how to motivate him to tell what he knew without winding up in his debt. Devious gears turned in his mind as he approached the bar, allowing his irritation to show.

“Garak,” Quark said when he saw him, moving closer, “what brings you to my humble establishment tonight? I don't usually see you at this time.”

“I don't usually need a drink so close to bedtime,” Garak said, making sure he sounded put out. “Kanar, please, and keep them coming until I say otherwise.”

Quark looked a little concerned. “You feeling OK? You're not going to get...agitated on me, are you?”

“No,” he said. “Honestly, it hurts me that you'd even bring that time up. As often as Morn gets raucous and fights, I'd think you'd be far more concerned over his drinking than mine.”

Quark shook his head and handed Garak his kanar. “When Morn gets out of sorts, people get black eyes or smashed fingers. When you get out of sorts, it's just as likely somebody will die, and it's just as likely that someone will be me,” he said.

“I'd never kill you unless I had to,” Garak assured him, downing his kanar and gesturing for another.

“How...comforting,” Quark said dryly. “So what is it that has you so out of sorts, anyway? Pining over the handsome doctor?”

“I don't pine,” Garak said primly. “No, I'm afraid this is much more serious,” he said gravely. He paused, glanced to either side, and lowered his voice. “Possibly a matter of life and death. Really, I shouldn't be talking to you about it. If Odo wouldn't take it seriously, why would you?”

Quark snorted. “Odo isn't nearly as good as he thinks he is. Who's in danger?”

Garak shook his head and took a long swallow of his kanar. “Forget I said anything,” he said. “I insist. It's bad enough I almost got myself arrested over this. You don't need to be in trouble, too. You have thirsty customers. Be a good man, and just leave me that bottle of kanar. I'll tend to myself well enough.”

He could tell that Quark was about to burst with curiosity, as well as a desire to one up Odo, the Ferengi's blue eyes darting between him and the customers with torn intent. Grumbling to himself, Quark walked away from Garak to tend to a Bajoran couple who had started to look impatient. Garak drank steadily and deliberately. His alcohol tolerance was still abnormally high, likely a lingering side effect of his permanently changed brain chemistry thanks to the wire. Quark didn't know that, nor did he ever intend for him to find out. He adopted a troubled, brooding look as he watched the rest of the bar activity.

Over time, the crowd began to thin. Garak swayed very slightly in his seat and gave a bleary blink into his almost empty kanar glass. Quark reached across the bar and plucked it deftly from his hand. “Let me get that for you,” he said, pouring the last of the kanar from the bottle into it and handing it back to Garak. “Now, Garak,” he said reasonably, “it's clear whatever is going on is really troubling you. You said Odo wouldn't take it seriously. Why not?”

Garak blinked owlishly at him and said overly loudly, “I don't know. It doesn't make sense given how he feels.”

“How he feels about what?” the Ferengi asked, leaning closer.

“Don't we have breakfast together almost every day?” Garak asked plaintively.

“You do,” Quark nodded. “I don't understand it, but you do. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything,” Garak said. “I'm...trying to be a friend. That's what friends do, right? Look out for each other and each other's...friends?”

Quark sighed. “I'm really not following you. I think you've had too much kanar. You should probably go sleep it off.”

Garak grasped his forearm. “I bet you know,” he said gravely. “You were here during the occupation. You heard things about Dukat.”

“Who didn't?” Quark asked offhandedly. He suddenly seemed to get it. “This is about Major Kira, isn't it? Isn't she on some sort of joint mission with him?”

“She is,” Garak said, nodding too vigorously. “Now you see. Think about it.” He let Quark's arm go, only to tap his index finger on the bar top emphatically and narrow his eyes. “Why would a Legate come all the way from Cardassia to investigate the disappearance of a Bajoran prison transport, unless someone important to him was on that transport? Someone he didn't want anyone else to know about? Someone he wouldn't want Kira to know about?”

“You know,” Quark said thoughtfully, “there were rumors of a comfort woman he got...a little too close to. Some of the guards would talk about it sometimes when they didn't think I could hear them. No offense, Garak, but you Cardassians can't really whisper to save your lives. There were even rumors of a child. I didn't give it much credence at the time. Dukat hardly seemed the type, but...”

Garak was no longer listening. He had already stood and strode halfway across the bar before Quark called out to him, “Hey! You didn't pay!”

“Make me a tab,” Garak retorted, not slowing for one moment. He needed to make another contact on Cardassia. If what Quark said had even a remote possibility of being true, he needed to get some balls rolling before Dukat had a chance to get back and cover anything up. Of course, this also meant that Major Kira was in much more danger than he initially realized. However, as Odo had said, there was nothing he could do about that now except to hope that she took his sincere warnings to heart.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: None

Author Notes: This story spans Hippocratic Oath and Indiscretion. It's not very stand-alone friendly, at least in context of what has happened with Julian and Garak. As with one of the previous stories, this time I decided to delve into Major Kira's viewpoint, too, and I included some of the dialogue from Indiscretion just because it would have been almost impossible to shape the narrative without it.

Summary: Julian struggles with his duties of command and the strain it can place on friendships while trying to solidify his relationship with Leeta and learns that he's not the only one on the station experiencing such difficulties. When Legate Dukat arrives unexpectedly on the station, Major Kira is forced to confront old prejudices and new worries as she joins forces with him to find a missing Bajoran prison transport ship, leaving an opening for Garak to start to settle an old score.

Author: Dark Sinestra

Date Written: February-March 2010

Category: Gen with some slashy elements

Rating: PG-13 for adult situations, mild violence, and mild adult language.

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my settings. All Paramount's. I don't profit. I just play.

Word Count: 13,501

Garak

Replimat Café

“As you can imagine, it has been rather frustrating,” Garak said with a sigh. He was used to carrying the lion's share of conversation on the days he breakfasted with Odo. He wasn't used to the changeling hardly hearing a word he said. Narrowing his eyes a bit crossly he added, “After all, how can anyone on Cardassia be expected to care about a few missing ships when there's a slipper shortage?”

“True,” Odo said absently, lifting his illusory mug to have a sip of his illusory coffee. Garak still hadn't gotten used to Odo's way of trying to make others comfortable when eating with him but hadn't had the heart to tell him it was more than a little creepy.

“You haven't been listening to a word I've said for over twenty minutes,” Garak accused, setting his fork down with a definitive gesture of pique.

Odo blinked, truly focusing on him for the first time that morning. It was his turn to sigh. “I'm sorry, Garak,” he said. “You're right.”

Garak studied him for a few moments. “These breakfasts aren't just for my benefit,” he said. “If you need to get something off your chest, I'm actually a decent listener.”

Odo nodded thoughtfully. He reshaped his hand so that the illusory mug disappeared altogether. “I'm not...used to talking to others in this capacity,” he said. Garak remained encouragingly silent, offering him an attentive look. “It's Lieutenant Commander Worf,” he added, almost growling the Klingon's name.

“A rather dour fellow,” Garak offered, the sort of noncommittal comment that usually kept the other speaker talking.

“Yes,” the changeling agreed, “and very annoying. He ruined an investigation of mine last night.”

“What did he do?”

Odo briefly explained how he had worked it out with Quark to set up a basic nobody so that Odo could infiltrate the large and lucrative Markalian smuggling ring and how Worf bungled the entire operation by showing up in the middle of the sting. “It was bad enough that he continually butted into my investigation from the beginning, but he made me look like an idiot in front of Quark. It was hard enough to get Quark to cooperate in the first place. How am I supposed to do my job with some ham fisted Starfleet goon breathing down my back at my every turn?”

“I have every confidence that you'll manage,” Garak said, amused and trying not to show it. He genuinely liked Odo, but he felt he often got a little too tightly wrapped in his whole truth and justice for everyone shtick. “This isn't the first time you've had trouble with the Fleeters interfering with your job, right? What did you do about it this time?”

Odo frowned and looked away. “Nothing,” he said. “I told him what he had done, but I left it out of my report.”

That surprised the tailor. “Why?” he asked.

Odo pressed his lips together. “He's new,” he said uncomfortably. “He doesn't know how things work around here.”

“What better incentive than a dressing down from a superior officer?” Garak asked. He didn't say it, but he thought Odo's decision was a very Fleeter way of handling things.

“He was embarrassed about what happened,” Odo said a bit defensively.

“As he should have been,” he said with a nod. “Do you believe that embarrassment will be enough to keep him out of your affairs in the future? If there is one thing I have noticed about Starfleet officers over the years, Constable, it is that they are insufferably stubborn and persistent, even when they are clearly in the wrong.”

“That trait isn't limited to Starfleet,” Odo said a little pointedly. “I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt this once. It just rankles. Did you still wish to speak about what you were saying earlier?”

Garak shook his head. “It's not as though you or anyone else can do anything about it. My government is understandably preoccupied with the Klingon occupation of several of our outlying colonies. They aren't going to be in any hurry to investigate the disappearance of a few Obsidian Order ships. I doubt they would be even without the difficulties with the Klingons. Everyone seems quite satisfied with their 'accomplishments' in establishing a toothless civilian government. Why, perhaps in a few decades, a few powers in this quadrant will deign to call us civilized.” He couldn't keep the bitter sarcasm from his voice.

“You suspect that Tain might still be alive,” Odo said, not asking.

Damn him and his perceptiveness! “Anything is possible,” he said much more casually than he felt and shrugged. “At the least, I believe it possible there were survivors from the offensive. It bears investigation. Many of the people who were lost would provide useful skills and intelligence to the current government.”

“If I hear anything, I'll let you know,” he offered. “Unfortunately, it seems that my contacts on Cardassia have gone dry for now.”

Garak nodded, unsurprised. “If you like, I'm sure I can stir up the Klingon's suspicions sufficiently that he'll stop paying attention to you altogether and keep an eye on me,” he said cheerfully.

The constable snorted. “One Klingon beating wasn't enough for you? No, Garak, you had best not. Even though neither of you have official ties to your home governments right now, I wouldn't put it past either the Cardassian Union or the Klingon Empire to seize upon rumors of a broiling feud here on this station and use it as an excuse to do something unwise.”

The tailor tilted his head and graced Odo with one of his most disconcerting smiles. “Constable,” he said, “you actually believe those four thugs could've laid a finger on me had I not allowed it?” Still smiling, he stood and lifted his tray, his plate not cleaned but his appetite sated. “As always, our time together has been delightful and informative. I had best get to work.” He enjoyed Odo's speculative look as he walked away. Keep them guessing was one of his favorite games. It was even more fun with Odo, because he was actually quite good at it. He wondered if he would piece together the fact that he was the one who had provided the Klingons with their false intelligence that led to their overconfidence during the raid on the station. Not that it mattered much if he did. His own satisfaction with the outcome was plenty for him.

Julian

Docking Ring

Julian couldn't wait to get away from Miles. He was so angry with the man he could hardly see straight. Why had he felt the urge to be even slightly conciliatory? He knew that he should be writing him up for his gross insubordination that likely resulted in the death of every single Jem'Hadar on that planet on which they had crash landed, but he couldn't entirely bring himself to ignore Miles' reasoning for it. Damn him! Who did he think he was treating him like a wet behind the ears cadet? He couldn't know anymore than Julian could that the Jem'Hadar would have killed them. What if he had actually been successful? What if he had managed to free them from their addiction, and they in turn had managed to free others of their kind? Revolutions had started with far humbler beginnings than that.

He didn't want to go back to his quarters. He was too wound up to be alone, but he knew that Leeta would be working late. Dax wasn't an option. She would either insist that he write Miles up for insubordination or more likely side with Miles and praise him for saving him from himself. That would only serve to make him angrier. There was a time when he would have readily gone to Garak with such a thing. He no longer felt as though he had that right. Their lunches were one thing. Problems after dark? He wasn't so certain he'd be welcome.

He hesitated a fraction too long outside Quark's. Leeta spotted him in the doorway and beckoned him inside. He knew not to approach her at the dabo wheel unless he intended to play. Quark and Rom both had made that abundantly clear to him on several occasions. Instead, he smiled and nodded to her and took a seat at the bar. “What'll it be, Doctor?” Quark asked as he made his way down to him.

“Pint of Guinness,” he said, resting his elbow on the bar top and his cheek on his fist.

“Woman problems?” Quark asked, turning to the tap.

“What?” he asked, sitting up straighter. “No, nothing like that.”

“Man problems,” the bartender said pragmatically. When the glass was about three quarters full he let it rest for a bit and folded his arms across his chest.

“No,” Julian said, feeling needled. “It's neither, besides which, it's none of your business, Quark.”

“I'm a bartender,” the Ferengi said, “which means when a customer comes in wearing a long face, like yours, I'm expected to make it my business. Do you think Morn would spend the time in here that he does without my sympathetic ear and sturdy shoulders?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, watching him top off the pint. “Morn comes here to get drunk and chase women.”

Quark tutted and offered Julian his pint. “In all the vast space of the Alpha Quadrant, there are countless places to get drunk and chase women,” he said, “but there's only one me.”

“I suppose we should all thank God for small favors, hmm?” Julian asked sourly and turned his back to the bar. He didn't want cloying fake pity, and he didn't want to spread things that would get back to Miles, no matter how angry with him he might be. He watched the crowd at the dabo wheel enjoying themselves and Leeta doing her part to ensure that they stayed focused on her and not the game. She was good at it, a favorite among several of the customers. Instead of feeling any jealousy, in moments like that he was proud of her. He knew she kept a professional attitude toward her work.

After his second pint, he felt some of his knots start to unwind. By his third, he was physically relaxed and tired from his ordeal on the planet. He started to wonder if he'd even make it until the end of Leeta's shift. With eyelids drooping, he finally caught her attention and gave her the signal they had worked out to request that she meet him in his quarters later.

He shuffled from the bar and took the seemingly longer than usual walk to his quarters, took a long shower, and dressed himself in the green pajamas Garak had given him a few years before. They were the most comfortable thing he owned, as much for the memories they evoked as for the luxurious fabric and perfect fit. Yawning widely, he instructed the computer to let Leeta in when she hailed, even if he was already asleep by the time she got there.

He awoke to the soft, warm weight of her settling in with him and started to turn. “Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie,” she said softly. “I was hoping not to wake you up. You looked so tired in the bar.”

“It's all right,” he said muzzily. “I wanted to talk, anyway.” He did his best to shake the cobwebs from his brain and pulled her close.

She rested her cheek against his chest and trailed her fingers soothingly down his neck. “OK,” she said. “Did something happen on the away mission? You were gone longer than I expected.”

“You could say that,” he said with a sigh. “It's Miles. He completely disregarded a direct order, and I'm afraid it led to the death of several Jem'Hadar.”

She was quiet for a bit longer than he expected after that, finally saying, “Umm, I'm not sure I understand how that's a bad thing.”

He snorted a soft laugh. “Well, no, I didn't exactly put that in context, did I?” He briefly outlined everything that happened, from the crash landing on the planet to the strange Jem'Hadar leader who had managed to free himself of his addiction to ketracel white and who wanted Julian to do the same for the rest of his people. He spoke of his research and how close he felt he was to a breakthrough, when Miles had destroyed all the samples and his equipment, giving him no choice but to accompany him back to the runabout and to go back on his word.

“I know you're angry at him,” she said carefully, “but I don't think he was wrong. He did what he had to in order to save both of you.”

“You don't know that,” he said testily. He had expected her to be understanding, not to side with Miles! “You weren't there. You didn't talk to their leader.”

“I don't have to be there to know that Miles isn't prone to disobeying orders, Julian. He's one of the most by the book men I've ever met. If he made the decision to sabotage your research, he must have believed that the threat was too great. You're mad at him because it hurt your pride, when you should be grateful he saved your life,” she said reasonably.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” he said, tense all over again. “Let's just go to sleep.”

She pulled away and turned her back to him. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I was under the impression you wanted my honest opinion, not blind agreement.”

He frowned. They didn't fight often, but when they did, it could get heated. He wanted to cut that off at the pass if he could, or he'd be in for a very frosty awakening the next morning. “Of course I wanted your honest opinion. It's just...I'm a doctor. I feel responsible for those deaths. Not only that, but I was on the verge of a significant breakthrough, research that could have helped us break the back of the Dominion's supply of shock troops. I felt the risk was worth it.”

“What good would it have done if you and Miles were killed? That research wouldn't have gotten off that planet. It would've been one small group of Jem'Hadar living in hiding until they died,” she said.

“You don't know that. They might have spread the word, given more Jem'Hadar the opportunity to be free. They might have even turned against the Founders.”

“How likely do you really think that is?” she asked, twisting to address him over her shoulder. “Is the remote possibility of that worth Miles' life? I'm not going to ask you about yours. I know you well enough to know you're willing to make that sacrifice. What about Keiko and Molly? Would you be willing to look them in the eye and tell them you sacrificed their husband and father for a slim chance that the Jem'Hadar might someday rebel against the Founders?”

As much as he hated it, she had a point. He had been so caught up in the idea that Miles knew what he was signing up for when he became a Starfleet engineer that he hadn't thought much beyond that. It could've been just as likely that things would've happened as Leeta said, one small group of Jem'Hadar living without addiction and dying there, Keiko widowed, and Molly growing up without a father just for that. “I suppose you're right,” he said grudgingly. “After I've cooled off, I'll have a talk with Miles.”

“He's a good man, and he's your friend,” she said. “I doubt it was easy for him to disobey a direct order, particularly coming from someone he cares about.”

More than you realize, he thought glumly, the conversation in the shuttle craft before their crash coming back to him now. Miles had come so very close to saying how he wished that Keiko were more like Julian. He had hoped that the engineer's infatuation with him had faded, but that didn't seem to be the case. He knew that sooner or later, he'd probably have to address it. As things stood, he envisioned that to be later. Much, much later. He put his arm around Leeta and pulled her in close, settling his nose at the fragrant nape of her neck. “You're right,” he said without reserve. “Thank you. I'm sorry I was such an ass.”

“We're all entitled to our moments,” she said and covered his hand with hers, tangling fingers. “Now, I hope you're ready for some sleeping moments. I'm beat.”

Quark's tendency to overwork her was another sore point, one he was wise enough to leave alone for that night. One near fight as exhausted as he felt was plenty. “Absolutely,” he said, and the two drifted off to sleep.

Garak

Private Quarters

Garak had just finished eating his modest supper alone when his door chimed. “Computer,” he said, “who is at the door?”

“Major Kira Nerys,” came the response.

Somewhat surprised, he set his napkin aside and stood. “Enter,” he called pleasantly.

The door hissed open, and Kira stepped inside. She glanced at the table. “Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting your dinner, Garak,” she said, sounding a little tense, “but I'm pressed for time. Do you have a minute?”

“Actually, Major, your timing is impeccable,” he said. “I had just finished.” He gestured for her to have a seat on his sofa while he cleaned his table. “What can I do for you?”

She perched herself on the edge of the couch and waited until he could join her. “I'm not entirely sure you can do anything, but...I need some advice.”

His curiosity piqued, he sat forward, leaning toward her. “Sartorial in nature?” he asked. “I've rarely seen you out of uniform, but I doubt you'd like my opinion of Bajoran fashion.”

“What?” she asked, blinking. “No, nothing like that. It's about Dukat.”

That was even more surprising. Warily, he asked, “What about Dukat?”

“He's here on the station. It's a long story, but I heard some reliable information that a ship I've been looking for may have been found, at least a part of it. Somehow, the Cardassian government got its hands on the information and requested to send a representative.” She stopped abruptly and narrowed her eyes at him. “You wouldn't have had anything to do with that, would you?”

Garak snorted a laugh. “My dear Major, I fear you give me far more credit than I deserve when it comes to contact with my government.”

“You got word to them awfully fast about the Klingon invasion,” she pointed out.

He arched an eye ridge. “I would hazard a guess that news of impending invasion ranks a bit higher than the fact that a ship may or may not have been found, wouldn't you say? They would have listened to Morn when it came to that. No, for something of this nature, I have very little sway. They sent Gul Dukat, you say?”

“Legate,” she said tightly with a roll of her eyes. “He's prancing around in the uniform like a glorified harp bird.”

So Dukat scored himself a promotion to Legate thanks to my efforts, Garak thought sourly.

“You really didn't know about any of this, did you?” she asked, reading his expression accurately.

“I'm afraid not,” he said. “What is it, exactly, that you think I can do for you?”

“I was thinking about when the self-destruct sequence got triggered and we were all trapped in Ops together. You said that Dukat was trying to flirt with me,” she said uncomfortably.

“It was rather more blatant than just flirting, but yes,” he said.

“I don't want him getting ideas,” she gestured helplessly.

Garak shook his head impatiently. “He already has ideas. If you want my advice on how to handle Dukat, it's fairly simple. Don't turn your back on him for a single moment. Don't trust a word he says, and don't take anything he does at face value. Don't rely on his better nature to keep him from behaving inappropriately. He doesn't have one. Lastly, if I were you, I'd do my best to discover why a Legate has taken such a personal interest in this ship of yours. It is highly unusual for a Cardassian of that rank to set foot off planet for anything less than a diplomatic mission or an invasion. Can you tell me what the ship was carrying? That may help narrow it down.”

“Bajoran prisoners,” she said.

“So this was a Cardassian ship?” he asked.

“Yes, the Ravinok. Does that mean anything to you?”

He shook his head. “No, I've never heard of it, not that that means much. When are you scheduled to leave?” he asked, thinking he might have some time to look it up.

“Within the hour,” she said, sounding as though she'd rather be doing almost anything else.

That was no good. He frowned thoughtfully, eying her. “All I can tell you with any certainty is that the ship was either carrying something more than prisoners, or Dukat has a personal stake in this. Either possibility mandates that you take particular care if you hope to return in one piece. You wouldn't be the first to have an...unfortunate accident...alone with Dukat, otherwise.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” she said grimly. “Thank you, Garak. I'd best go. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get back and have him out of my hair.”

He stood when she did and escorted her to the door. “I'm always happy to be of assistance,” he said pleasantly. As soon as she was gone, he turned and took a seat at his computer terminal. She had piqued his curiosity about the ship. Perhaps he could find something incriminating on Dukat. He certainly hoped so. Legate Dukat, indeed, he thought. We'll see about that.

Kira Nerys

USS Rio Grande

Finally some peace and quiet, Kira thought, leaning back in her seat and shutting her eyes. She could no more meditate in Dukat's presence than she could actually relax, but at least the excuse and the threat of ordering him silent did the trick. Cardassians, she thought in exasperation. Her life would be so much simpler without them. Then again, her life wouldn't be what it was; she wouldn't be what she was without their influence, without the occupation. Would that be such a bad thing? She wondered.

She had always been more of a doer than a thinker. Before her posting to Deep Space Nine, her life had been shaped by the very real threat of death always around the corner. Such conditions were hardly fertile ground for deep thinking or philosophizing. That was for those with the luxury of a certain meal, a safe place to sleep, and no need to have eyes in the back of their head. Everything was different now, including relations between Bajor and Cardassia, as Dukat himself had pointed out. The fact that he was making a blatant parallel between their respective worlds and each other hadn't been lost on her, and she found it offensive. Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

He was out of his mind if he thought that Bajor benefited from Cardassia's rule. Was it possible he truly believed that, or was he saying it to needle her? It was impossible to tell. She recalled Garak's words. Don't trust a word he says, and don't take anything he does at face value. Hadn't Tekeny said something similar about Garak? In some ways, Garak had proven the man wrong since then. She still didn't trust him completely, probably never would, but she couldn't take the position that he was malicious and hell bent on the destruction of every Starfleeter and Bajoran on the station, either. Garak seemed to exist in a confusing world of shades of gray, a world in which she had never been comfortable, but one in which she found herself increasingly in her role on the station.

Now she was on a joint search and possible rescue mission with Gul, no, Legate Dukat. He claimed that he was sent because the crew of the Ravinok had been under his command. Even had Garak not warned her to look for other motivations, she would have found that one hard to believe. How many Cardassian ships from the occupation had gone missing through the years? Of those that had, how many would attract the interest of any Cardassian Legate unless they had been carrying important Cardassian crew? There was something she was missing here. For the life of her, she couldn't begin to piece together what. Maybe she had been hasty in insisting they get underway before Garak could have a chance to look into things. The man was nothing if not good at digging up dirt. Still, if there was even a chance that her friend could be alive and suffering somewhere, she owed it to him and everyone with him to act quickly to find them and bring them home.

Maybe when they learned more, Dukat would reveal more. She'd have to watch him carefully. She wished that she was better at reading people or perhaps more imaginative. Others seemed to grasp nuances that completely slipped her awareness all the time. Shakaar claimed he loved her for her bluntness. It was a quality Bareil had admired as well. She had a hard time seeing what was so great about it. More often than not, it meant she was having to apologize to someone for hurting their feelings or overstepping her bounds. It was something she wanted to change about herself, but she had no idea how to go about doing that.

Sighing slightly, she opened her eyes again, only to shoot Dukat a warning look when she saw him open his mouth out of the corners of her vision. That sigh was not an invitation for him to comment or question. Maybe there was something positive to be said for not being subtle after all, because at her look, he shut his mouth and settled back again, seemingly determined to uphold his end of the agreement that the mission was hers. She wondered how long such cooperation would last and caught herself reflexively touching her phaser. Hopefully, it won't come to that, she thought grimly.

To her amazement, the Cardassian managed the full six hours to the meeting point with the smuggler Razka without saying another word. She wondered if that was a record for him. As they neared Razka's ship in the Badlands, she said, “Let me do most of the talking. Razka has no love for you or any Cardassian. He's going to be plenty ticked off that I have you with me to begin with.”

“Without me, you'll have a hard time determining whether this scrap of his is a piece of the Ravinok or not,” Dukat said reasonably.

“I know that,” she snapped, not enjoying being reminded that she needed him for anything. She tried to smooth her tone over a bit when she added, “I doubt he'll be as understanding. Just keep quiet, OK?”

“As you wish,” he said smoothly, inclining his head with what he probably thought was a charming half smile.

She snorted softly and hailed Razka's ship. The two of them made their way to the runabout's transporter pad and beamed over. As she suspected, Razka wasn't at all pleased to see who she had with her and chided her for not warning him. He relaxed somewhat when she explained that she hadn't known she'd have company at the time she talked to him. However, he immediately began needling Dukat, who of course couldn't resist rising to the bait. She privately wished that she could smack both of them. Nothing was so bad that couldn't be made worse by two males in a pissing contest.

Happily, the mission bore fruit. The scrap was definitely from the Ravinok. Unfortunately, it came from a system light years from where it was supposed to be, which meant even more time spent in the unwelcome company of Dukat. She was glad to get away from Razka and the Badlands. The flight to the Dozaria system was uneventful, the two speaking only because they were trying to figure out how or why the ship got so far off course. She found that speaking to him was less unpleasant when there was a purpose for it and when he was too occupied with thinking to continue with his flirting.

Razka had been right when he described the planet there as barely M-class. There was far too much ionic interference in the atmosphere for a safe beam down, so Kira was forced to take the runabout in for a rough and difficult landing. If she could be said to have looked forward to anything less than spending a long time alone with Dukat in a runabout, it was to having to trek an unknown planet with him on foot. She said nothing of her unease or misgiving, feeling that it would provide him with perverse satisfaction, instead simply gathering together a supply pack and tossing him one so that he could do the same.

When they exited the bay of the runabout, Dukat instantly squinted and shielded his eyes with a hand. Kira pulled at the throat of her uniform and decided to remove her jacket. It was far too hot to travel covered from neck to wrists in thick fabric. She felt Dukat's eyes on her as she removed the garment and frowned to herself, tucking it away in her pack in case she needed it later. Who knew what the temperature would be like at night, assuming they were there that long?

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, exiting the runabout and signaling to close the bay doors so that sand wouldn't blow inside and possibly foul up some of the equipment. She looked around the mostly featureless, barren landscape and pointed her phaser rifle at a rise in the distance. “Let's start over there,” she said. “We'll get a better view of the surroundings from there.”

“As you wish,” he said, gesturing her ahead of him.

“Nuh uh,” she said, shaking her head. “You're crazy if you think I'm going to have you at my back with a rifle.”

“Major, you wound me,” he said, bringing his free hand to his chest.

“I notice you're in no hurry to have me at your back,” she said dryly.

He smiled in a way she didn't quite like. “Together, then?” he proposed.

She rolled her eyes, and they got underway. It was tough going, brutally hot with a wind that constantly whipped them and scoured them with stinging grit. Dukat stayed quiet all the way until they reached the rise. He finally couldn't resist making small talk. “Invigorating, isn't it? A bit sunny, perhaps, but this heat feels wonderful,” he said.

“Only a Cardassian could call this hellhole invigorating,” she retorted, in no mood for his posturing.

“Oh, that's right. I forgot,” he said. “Compared to us, you Bajorans are a bit...fragile, physiologically speaking, of course.”

“Don't worry about me,” she said, pushing past him toward the near crest of the rise. She temporarily forgot her unease at having him at her back in her desire to get a better look. Even that was quelled by the sight that greeted both of them at the top of what they had mistaken for a hill. It was actually the outer edge of an impact crater. All that remained of the Ravinok sat at the center, looking small and broken. Her heart sank. Was this Lorit's final resting place? If so, it was a sorry end for such a good friend. Glancing at Dukat, she immediately started down the other side. There was only one way to find out.

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: None

Standing Oration
by Dark Sinestra
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Pairing: Jadzia Dax/Worf
Rating: G
Category: Gen
Disclaimer:None of the characters are mine. They belong to Paramount, the Great and Terrible! Kneel before Paramount!! And please tell them I'm not profiting by writing my puny little fics using their awesome characters. KTHXBAI!

Author's Note: This was written for the talented Idanianspice who responded to my response to this challenge http://lady-drace.livejournal.com/304817.html I hope you like it! :-D

Dax saw Kira in the corridor ahead of her and lengthened her stride to catch up with the shorter woman. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully, offering her a mischievous, closed lipped smile.

The Bajoran officer rolled her dark eyes. “Not before I've had a raktajino it isn't,” she said. “What has you so chipper before oh-seven-hundred, anyway?”

“Oh, nothing,” Dax replied, shifting her PADD to her other arm and still smiling.

“Uh huh,” Kira said skeptically. “Riiight. I'm sure it has nothing at all to do with a certain tall, dark brand new strategic operations officer who will be in the meeting this morning.”

“Nerys!” she said, her blue eyes dancing.

“Thought so,” the woman nodded. “What is it with you and Klingons, anyway?”

“I admire their culture and values,” Dax said, drawing herself up a little taller.

“You like the way he looks in that uniform,” Kira retorted, her dark eyes twinkling.

“OK, fine, that too,” Dax agreed with a smirk. “You have to admit, he wears it well.”

“I have one word for you,” Kira said as they stepped into the wardroom. “Hopeless.”

“What's hopeless?” Chief O'Brien asked with a worried look at the two of them. He was already seated at the table and going over a PADD.

“Nothing,” Dax said, favoring Kira with a pointed though playful glare.

“Uh huh, nothing,” Kira said, shaking her head and taking a seat. She eyed O'Brien. “Is it just a thing with you that you have to get here before everybody else?”

“What?” he asked, his brows lifting in surprise. “No. I just like to get here a little early, settle in, be prepared.”

“It's public speaking,” Dax said sotto voice, leaning close to Kira. “He has to work up to it.”

“I heard that!” O'Brien said.

Worf strode into the room next, his dark eyes sweeping the gathered automatically. He gave a terse nod seemingly meant for all of them and headed to take a seat near the Chief. He sat ramrod straight, both hands clasped on the tabletop in front of him.

“What about you?” Dax asked, looking directly at Worf.

“What about me?” he retorted with a frown.

She loved that little flare of his nostrils and the way the hair of his mustache bristled slightly when he made that face. “How do you feel about public speaking?”

O'Brien rolled his eyes and shook his head. Kira lifted her PADD high enough in front of her face to hide her smile of amusement. Worf eyed the lot of them before answering. “I do not feel any particular way about it,” he said with particular emphasis on the word “feel”. “When it is necessary, I do it. Why?”

She loved that he was so suspicious, too. It made it entirely too fun to poke at him. “No reason really. I was just trying to figure out why the Chief is so averse.”

“I'm not bloody averse to it,” O'Brien sputtered. “It's just not my favorite thing, all right?”

“What isn't your favorite thing?” Julian asked, walking into the room and fixing O'Brien with an amused smile.

“Public speaking,” chimed three voices, O'Brien's, Dax's, and Kira's. Dax shot Kira a quick grin, and O'Brien shot both women a sour look.

“It is a useful skill,” Worf said gravely, turning to look at Miles. “If it truly gives you problems, I would be willing to work with you on it.”

“Bloody hell,” O'Brien said, his cheeks growing red, “it's not a problem for me! What is this? Pick on the engineer day?”

“And no one told me,” Julian said saucily, grinning and taking a seat on the other side of O'Brien.

Dax couldn't have been more pleased. It was fun to stir a little trouble now and then, even more fun now that she had a new target whose red uniform just happened to complement his skin tone perfectly. She leaned back comfortably in her seat and winked at Kira.

“No one was 'picking on you', as you say,” Worf said stiffly.

“I was,” Dax chimed up. She met Worf's glare with a playful little grin.

“I would've had I been here,” Julian said, more than happy to rib his friend.

“You'll get used to this bunch,” Kira tried to reassure Worf, whose disapproval of the entire environment seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds.

“No doubt,” Worf said, although he looked doubtful.

“MaH yImev chop,” Dax said, paused and added, “hard.”

“WejpuH,” Worf retorted with a hard stare.

Kira leaned in close. “You've got to stop doing that,” she whispered to Dax. “It's very annoying. What did you say to him?”

Still looking at Worf, Dax whispered back, “I said we don't bite hard.”

“And what did he say?” Kira asked.

Smirking, Dax raised her voice so that Worf would hear it, too. “He said I was charming, but somehow, I don't think he meant it.”

Further banter died down when Captain Sisko entered the room. Worf immediately stood at attention. “As you were, Lieutenant Commander,” Sisko said. “We conduct most of our staff meetings fairly informally.”

“So I gathered,” Worf said, shooting a glance at Dax.

She smiled very innocently at Benjamin's questioning look, the smile widening at the skepticism that met her innocence. Still eying her and shaking his head very slightly, he started the meeting. “Let's go ahead and get the status reports out of the way, so we can focus on our plans for the drills this next month.”

“Shouldn't Odo be here?” Kira asked.

“He's tied up in security at the moment,” Sisko said. “I'll be certain he receives any pertinent information.”

She nodded, and for a little while in the meeting, it was very much business as usual, each officer in turn standing to deliver a report on his or her area of responsibility. Dax noted that Worf really was very good at speaking, obviously trained and comfortable. His voice carried well—such a voice! He didn't use any place holders such as, “uh” or “um”, and even though he paced some while he spoke, he didn't do it in a distracting way. He simply commanded the eye to follow him. Kira elbowed her, and she realized that perhaps she had been staring, just a tad.

When it was Chief O'Brien's turn, he clutched his PADD in both hands, glanced around nervously, and eventually fixed his eyes on a point on the wall somewhere to the left of Sisko's shoulder. Dax felt a little guilty, for he stumbled all over his words, growing redder by the minute. Finally he stopped altogether and looked at the captain. “Sir,” he said, “I'm sorry. I came prepared. I don't know what's come over me.”

“It's all right, Chief,” Sisko said with an understanding look. “Just take a deep breath, and take your time. There's no rush.”

“Yes, Sir,” he said. “Thank you, Sir.” He shot Dax another sour look and tried again, doing a little better this time. When he finished giving his report, he sat down heavily in his seat and wiped his hands on his trousers. Dax decided that she'd buy him a round of drinks next time she saw him in Quark's. She truly hadn't intended to throw his concentration off so completely, and she wondered if it had to do with the fact that Worf was there. They had served together on the Enterprise. Maybe he felt a vested interest in impressing his former co-worker.

The drill planning went very quickly and efficiently. Kira and Worf both had very similar ideas of how to carry them out, and everyone agreed to follow their proposed schedule. “Unless anyone has anything else?” Sisko asked and waited a few moments. When no one spoke up, he said, “Then meeting adjourned. Everybody to your stations.”

She took her time gathering her PADD and standing, lingering to hear the conversation between Worf and O'Brien. Although he was trying to speak quietly, the Klingon's voice carried with ridiculous ease. “There is no shame in acknowledging an area of weakness,” he said. “The only shame comes from not attempting to improve. Oration is a skill like any other. It can be learned, and I can teach you.”

Smiling, she stepped closer and leaned a hip against the back of a now empty chair. “Would you be willing to teach me...oration?” she asked, lifting a brow.

O'Brien smirked and used the opening to beat a hasty retreat. “I need to get to work,” he said, glancing back at Worf. “I'll think about your offer, but I'm usually not this bad. Somebody,” and here he shot a significant look at Dax, “distracted me today.” With that he left before either of them had a chance to respond.

His lips pursing slightly, Worf folded his arms and eyed her. “Why do I get the feeling that's one of your better talents, distraction?”

Dax widened her eyes as wide as they would go. “I have no idea,” she said very innocently, “but I think you might have fun finding out for sure.” She turned away from his flummoxed look and caught up with Benjamin on his way out. Yes, she thought, things around here are about to get a lot more fun. She could hardly wait.

The End

Current Mood: bouncy
Current Music: raindrops

Garak

Quark's Bar

Garak didn't know exactly what possessed him to go to Quark's. The place was all but deserted, with most of the civilian population of the station evacuated to Bajor. The mood was positively sepulchral. He approached the bar for a glass of kanar, only to find Quark in a particularly annoying and unsympathetic mood. He sometimes wondered how Rom stood his brother at all and found himself oddly grateful in that moment to be an only child, even if it was of a dysfunctional tyrant like Tain had been.

He listened to him whine and moan about how he should have gone into the arms trade. He honestly couldn't have cared less. Worry had made itself home in every inch of his body, he had the beginnings of one of his accursed migraines, and he had no idea if anything of his government yet survived. He had no idea if Julian would make it back in one piece. It rankled him to think of the doctor going off to battle when he was forced to stay behind, useless and fretting like an old woman.

“Take a sip of this,” Quark said, pushing a brown, foamy drink closer to him.

“What is it?” he asked, suspicious. The foam reminded him of salt scum on the sea, and the smell coming from the glass was revolting. The name, “root beer”, didn't exactly inspire confidence, either. Against his better judgment, he gave it a try, finding it foul beyond belief. It was bad enough that he was as tormented as he was, but now Quark wanted to torture him? He briefly regretted that he hadn't simply shot the Ferengi and Natima Lang when he had the chance long ago. Rom could've gotten the bar, and maybe, just maybe, the civilian dissident movement wouldn't have survived her death.

No, he realized that in his own way, Quark was trying to be sympathetic. They had something in common, after all, a mistrust of and yet a reluctant respect for the Federation. It was such a slender thread to place all of his hopes upon, and yet it was all he had left. He watched Quark take a sip of the root beer and grimace. At least the bartender was an equal opportunity offender.

He was just about to have another kanar, because the first hadn't managed to kill the cloying taste of the root beer, when a red alert alarm sounded. Knowing what it had to be, he took his leave and hurried to his shop to arm himself. If the Klingons were here, it meant that the Defiant must be here with passengers. He checked the charge on his disruptor and tucked it into his belt at the small of his back.

He waited to see what would happen next, and his patience was rewarded. He saw more Cardassians than he had seen in a very long time being herded from the docking ring and led down a side corridor toward the nearest H-ring. He didn't let the sight of Dukat deter him. As he headed off after them, he managed to find Julian in the throng of officers taking up positions and inclined his head to him, putting as much of his gratitude as he could in his gaze. He hoped that he would have time to thank him more properly later. As it was, he was relieved to see him not only in one piece but handling himself like a consummate professional.

Dukat greeted his approach with derision and skepticism, but he changed his tune when Garak drew his disruptor. As tempting as it was to give the man a reason for his mistrust, Dukat was simply too skilled and valuable to waste over a grudge. He took up position beside him and two Starfleet security officers, prepared for the onslaught he knew in his bones was coming.

Klingon warriors materialized directly into the corridor. The four standing guard outside the door leading to the room housing the Detapa Council immediately began firing. It was no good. The numbers were overwhelming, and the Starfleeters were the first to drop. The Klingons closed to melee range, but they couldn't use their bat'leths to full advantage, running the risk of hitting one another instead of Garak and Dukat if too many advanced at once, nor could they shoot for risk of hitting their own men. Idiots, Garak thought with scorn. No sense of tactics. If these were Cardassians, we'd be in real trouble.

Dukat wrenched a bat'leth from his closest opponent and hacked through his armor, dropping him messily. Garak used his disruptor as a blunt weapon, striking his foe across the face and backing him up far enough to get a shot off to his gut. He never had enjoyed hand to hand combat, and he couldn't resist expressing his distaste, any more than Dukat could resist the opening to bait him. Is this it? He thought with grim humor. I'm going to go down with that annoying voice in my ears? I don't think so! He redoubled his efforts and saw a satisfying flash further down the corridor. “They've raised internal shields,” he told Dukat, “which means they probably have the external ones back online, too.”

“Let's finish them,” Dukat said, a predatory gleam in his blue-gray eyes.

He needed no prompting, the two of them proving together exactly why and how the Cardassian Union became such a power in the quadrant in such a relatively short amount of time. When his disruptor was knocked from his hand, Garak swooped down and seized a family dagger from the belt of one of the fallen, thrusting up through the diaphragm and into the heart of his attacker. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. Soon only he and Dukat stood in a corridor lined with the bloody dead and dying, both of them cut and bruised, but fully intact. Breathing heavily, they eyed one another with grudging respect. They made quick work of those still breathing, giving no quarter to those who expected none, and dropped back into defensive positions without another word, waiting for the next wave that never came.

Shielding in the corridor shimmered and dropped just as a contingency of security and medical personnel rounded the curve with Doctor Bashir and Nurse Decla just behind the Bajoran officers. Garak discarded the dagger as though it were trash and fished his disruptor out of a tangle of bodies. He straightened as Dukat said, “Better late than never, I suppose. Sorry to disappoint you if you expected Cardassian casualties.”

Garak exchanged a look with the doctor and suppressed a smile. He was glad to see that Julian was long past being intimidated by the pompous windbag. Not to say that Dukat couldn't be dangerous, but there was no reason to fear him in situations like this.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Julian snapped. “We're glad you made it, all of you. Please, tell the council members to let us inside to check on their welfare. We've managed to repel the Klingons. They've withdrawn from Bajoran space and called off their attack on Cardassia Prime.”

Garak noticed that Dukat sagged slightly with relief. He felt exactly the same way. Dukat tapped his wrist comm and passed on the news to those waiting inside. The door slid open, and the medical personnel filed in. Despite Dukat's accusations that he was there to curry favor, Garak had no desire to linger long in the presence of most of the council members. Many of them were enemies of Tain and wouldn't hesitate to pass that enmity on to him. He slipped away unnoticed and made his way through the deserted H-ring toward his own quarters. He wanted to wash the Klingon blood from himself. He knew he could have his own minor wounds tended later. Cardassia was safe for now. That was all that really mattered.

Decla Lisane

Temporary Shelter

Lisane fanned out with her co-workers to take readings of the elderly civilians. She walled herself behind her professional demeanor, staying focused on her task rather than thinking of how it felt to be surrounded by that many Cardassians. Some were grateful. Most regarded her with the haughty demeanor she remembered all too well from the occupation. She wondered how many of them had taken part in it in their pasts, how many of the people she tended had Bajoran blood on their hands. She saw a heavy set man with iron gray hair standing off to the side and seemingly following her movements without trying to be obvious about it. Feeling impatient, she straightened to confront him, only to feel her heart leap into her throat. Feylan! “Come on,” she said to him, her voice thankfully not betraying her. “Let me have a look at you.”

They stepped off to the side in the crowded room, and he stiffly sank to a seat against the wall. “You may have to help me back up again,” he told her, his gray eyes fond.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed under her breath, going over him with her tricorder, her hand shaking.

“I see you still have a temper,” he said, rumbling a low chuckle.

She glared at him, feeling as though her eyes would bulge from their sockets. “And you still don't take things nearly as seriously as you should. Did you not get my message? Do you realize that Garak was right outside with a disruptor? He could've killed you.”

He smiled faintly, almost touching her but seeming to think better of it at the last minute. “I've missed you,” he murmured.

“Don't. You're going to make me cry. We can't talk about this here,” she whispered fiercely. “You're fine,” she said more loudly and stood from her squat. She clasped his cool hand, so large it completely engulfed hers, and helped to tug him to his feet. More than anything, she wanted to pull him into her arms and never let him go again. She stepped back. “I'll find you later,” she promised and hurried away to finish her job.

She kept a sharp ear out for Dukat's conversation with some of the senior council members. It sounded as though they intended to get back underway for Cardassia as soon as possible. She couldn't blame them. The longer they were away, the more frightened their people would become. They had enough unrest and instability on their hands without this. She didn't care about Cardassia at all, but anything that threatened Feylan's safety worried her tremendously.

She lingered and finally found the opportunity she was looking for. “Doctor?” she caught Bashir's attention and took him aside discreetly. “I'd like to take that patient back to the infirmary briefly. He's on medication that he wasn't able to bring with him.” She subtly indicated Feylan.

“Of course,” he said, distracted.

She took Feylan by the elbow and led him from the room, waving away the security officer who tried to accompany them. “I've got him,” she snapped and shot the younger man such a glare that he didn't question her.

When they were out of earshot and alone in the corridor, the elder Cardassian spoke quietly. “I never wanted to leave you, Lisane,” he said. “But I had a duty, and...as I'm sure you've guessed by now, I had a family.”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me,” she said tightly, looking straight ahead. “It was war.”

He stopped her with a hand to her arm and turned her to face him. Even so much older, she still found him unbearably beautiful. “I want to. I want you to understand that my marriage has always been one of convenience. There is little love lost between me and my wife, although I love my children. I loved you. I still do, and I owe you my life.”

She inhaled, intending to negate the debt, but he put a finger to her lips. It stilled her more surely than if he had gagged her. She felt tears sting her eyes and once more fought the impulse to embrace him.

“You were never one for listening to sense,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion, “but you're going to listen to me now. You're not going to argue. You're not going to fight me. You're going to let me do something for you, and you're never to speak of it to anyone, or you'll make it all for naught.”

Fingers of panic coiled about her ribcage. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she could tell it wasn't good. “Feylan,” she breathed.

“No,” he said more sharply then eased his tone. “Listen to me. This Garak of yours isn't after me, Lisane. He's after you. He has hard evidence that you helped me to escape. You know what the sentence is for collaborators. You'll be exiled from Bajor.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, wide eyed. “I saw the file. I'm telling you, he intends to ruin you. You'll lose your family, your title; you'll be in disgrace. Your people don't bat an eye at liars, but they're not kind to those who get themselves caught.”

“This is my choice,” he said with the full authority of his long experience and position, his gaze laser focused upon her. “I'm going to tell my people what I've hidden from them for decades, about my captivity. I'm going to tell them how I feigned my own death with an overloaded phaser and how I only recently discovered that the resistance fighter I thought I killed in the blast survived. I'd rather admit my duplicity myself than be exposed by a Bajoran. I failed to relocate and destroy the cell that captured me. I am unworthy of my title of Legate, unworthy to lead Cardassia. I can only hope that my family one day forgives me for the shame I've brought upon our name.”

She choked back a sob, bringing a hand to her mouth. This can't be happening, she thought. How can this be happening? “You can't do this,” she said, her voice wavering. “Not for me.”

“There's no one else I would do this for,” he said, cupping her cheek gently. “You've suffered enough at the hands of my people. I won't have you stripped of your very home when you just got it back.” He slipped his hand to the back of her head and drew her close, resting his forehead to hers. “No crying, now. You don't want me to cry, do you?”

It was the only thing he could have said to stem the tide trying to break free. She clamped down her control and stepped back, quickly swiping at her eyes. She knew that there was no way to talk him out of his decision. The least she could do was to support him honorably. “No,” she said. “I never want to see you cry. I love you too much for that.”

“One other thing,” he said, turning and tucking her arm in his as they walked. “I want you to promise me that you'll stay away from Garak. What little I do know of him makes me afraid for you. I don't want to know what you did to incur his enmity, but if it's true, that he's ex-Obsidian Order, you've gotten off lightly.”

Lightly? She thought bitterly, I'd rather that he had killed me a hundred times over than this, a thousand. “I promise,” she said woodenly, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. When they reached the infirmary, she took him into the back and fetched a pill bottle from the shelf, counting out a few pills and tucking them into a packet. “They're pain killers,” she said, “in case your knee acts up later.”

He smiled warmly and took them. “You remembered,” he said.

“I remember everything about you, you idiot,” she retorted. A moment later, she gave in to her desire to hold him tightly. His girth was much greater than she recalled, and he no longer smelled of dust, unwashed clothing, and an unwashed body. How had she ever managed in imagination to substitute Garak for this reality? For the first time in close to two decades, probably for the last time ever, she reflected, she felt truly safe, wrapped in a strong, loving embrace. Her husband had never managed to give her this. Was that how the occupation had marked her deepest, ruined her for anyone other than a Cardassian? Before she could stop herself, she felt tears spill down her cheeks. She forced herself to let him go. “What will they do to you?” she asked.

“Disgrace, but not death,” he said. “I know you won't understand this, but in a way, I've always felt this was coming. I'm...relieved. My lies never sat well with me. I should have brought troops back and killed all of you.” He held up a hand quickly. “I'm not saying that I'm sorry I didn't. I could never harm you. But I shouldn't have lied. I shouldn't have spun a tale of heroism that wasn't mine to tell, and I should never have accepted the promotion to Legate. I should have retired long before I did.”

“That's rubbish,” she said harshly. “Your people need men like you. Good men! Not people like Garak and Dukat, two snakes in the grass if ever I've seen any.”

“Even snakes have their uses,” he said gently. “Those snakes saved our government and our lives. I'm not quick to discount that, despite my personal feelings. Kiss me once, and then let me go. They'll come looking for me soon. I need to get back home.”

She kissed him tenderly, pouring every bit of love into it that she possibly could. She knew that she would never see him again and that he was about to face isolation and scorn similar to that which Garak faced on the station, only it would be from his own people, his own wife and grown children. She wanted him to have something recent to help warm his nights, however small and insignificant in the bigger scheme of things it might be.

“You're still magnificent,” he said against her lips, sighing contentedly. “I'm glad I had the chance to see you again. I'm glad you survived us, and I'm...”

This time she stilled his lips with her finger. “Don't say you're sorry. It's not your apology to make. No matter what happened to me or how horrible things were, I've never been sorry I met you, so don't you dare.”

She walked him back to his people, setting her features to the cool dispassion that had served her so well in her life. No one who saw them together seemed to think twice of it. Most of them were too distracted with the events of the day to pay close attention to a Bajoran nurse, and none of them had reason to suspect she had any connection whatsoever to Feylan. Thanks to his sacrifice, they never would.

Garak

Private Quarters

Garak re-watched the anonymous subspace transmission from Cardassia, a planet-wide feed broadcast about the disgraceful lies of formerly respected, former Legate Feylan Pa'Ren. He saw his elderly wife denounce him and discard her marriage bracelet with a dramatic gesture in front of the main court house of Cardassia City, the gathered adult children turning their backs. He heard Dukat himself comment on how shocked and disappointed he was to see that such a well known servant of the people had stooped so low as to self-aggrandize his service during the occupation, but he praised his courage in coming clean without force or coercion. Garak snorted softly at that part.

Civil unrest had followed for the rest of the day and well into the night, demonstrations, vandalism, fires. Fury thrummed his veins. It had never occurred to him that Pa'Ren would sacrifice everything for a woman he could never be with. He had thought for certain that the man would contact Decla and plead his case. Everything in his file showed him to be conservative, a traditionalist. Then the Klingons had come along and put pressure on an already volatile situation, like throwing gasoline onto a fire. He made a recording of the transmission onto a data rod, boxed it, wrapped it in pretty paper with a bow, and marched himself straight down to the infirmary.

Julian smiled when he saw him. Decla glared daggers from behind the doctor. “Have you come to let me fix your face?” the doctor asked. “You know, Dukat insisted on getting patched up before they left. Why did you just disappear like that afterward? Some people were looking for you. They wanted to thank you.”

“I need no thanks for serving Cardassia,” he said smoothly. “It's a privilege I cherish. I couldn't dream of bothering you this morning, Doctor, not for anything so minor. I'm sure that Lisane can do it, if she's so inclined.”

The venom in her eyes turned the green to an apple shade. “Is that for me?” she asked, indicating the box.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” he said, if anything even more pleasant than with the doctor.

“You shouldn't have,” she said, taking it and seizing his elbow in a vise-like grip.

“I trust I'll see you at lunch?” he asked Julian over his shoulder.

“I wouldn't miss it,” the doctor said, shaking his head at the two.

As soon as they got into an exam room, she had the computer shut and lock the door. “You have a lot of nerve,” she growled, slamming the box down on the counter top.

“Be careful with that,” he said sharply. “It's the fruit of your labor. You should be very, very proud of yourself. You've helped to destabilize Cardassia further, quite the feat for a nobody former resistance fighter from the Lonar Province.”

“My labor? You're the one...”

He launched at her and banged her head against the door, a hand at her throat. “No, you're the one,” he snarled, so furious it was all he could do not to kill her. “You're the one who couldn't leave well enough alone. You saw something you wanted, a Cardassian to satisfy your sick needs, and with no thought to who you hurt or how you did it, you went about trying to ensure that you attained it. When that didn't work, you weren't satisfied. You decided to try to take from me the one thing left to me that matters to me, and if the doctor were even slightly weaker, you would have succeeded. You would have shredded a person who had done nothing to you but reject you because of your hurtful manipulations.

“You knew what I was. You knew what I would do. Despite knowing it, you bedded me anyway. You had to know it wouldn't work, that I would never give up my rightful claim of vengeance for a worthless piece of Bajoran tail. For you!” He slammed her head against the door again, harder. “A truly good man gave up his life, everything he has and is on Cardassia, for you, for a pathetic, sick, waste of flesh who can't even feel anything if it isn't rammed down her throat or up her ass hard enough to hurt.”

She swallowed thickly against his hand, every word excoriating her to the core. She didn't want to see what was in that box of his, but she knew she'd open it. That is, she would if she survived his rage. She wasn't entirely sure there was any guarantee of that in that moment. Part of her didn't want to.

“I've been very good about shedding old habits since coming here,” he dropped his voice dangerously. “You'd never know it now, but I was once extremely easily offended and so vicious even my superiors felt the need to curb my...enthusiasms. Pa'Ren has been demoted and disgraced for his complete and utter stupidity at letting his sentiment override his common sense and his sense of duty to the state. At a time when he was needed most, he decided to turn from a pragmatist to a bleeding heart romantic. Having sampled your questionable charms, I can't for the life of me fathom why, but there it is. What do you think will happen to him if it comes out that in coming clean with one lie, he told a far worse one, just to save garbage like you?”

Although she hadn't been able to step past her own self-loathing to fear what he might do to her, she deeply feared the further threat to Feylan. “You can't do that! You can't make everything he did for nothing,” she said, hating the plea in her own voice.

“That is precisely my point. Everything he did was for nothing. For you, and not just he but my people have suffered for it. You offend me. Your presence on this station offends me. I feel a relapse coming on to some very bad, very nasty habits. I fear Feylan Pa'Ren won't survive them.”

“What do you want?” she asked, trembling violently. “I'll do anything. Anything for him.”

“Leave this station. Don't ever come back. Don't ever let me so much as hear your name or see your shadow. I promise you, if you try to avenge yourself or him over this, he will be executed within forty-eight hours. I don't need influence to make that happen. All I need is information, information I already have.”

He released her so suddenly that she sank to her knees without the support. She could hardly breathe; she had never seen such deep rooted malice, such naked hatred. She didn't doubt for an instant that he would do everything he said. She realized that Feylan had been right. This was the most dangerous man she had ever known, and she was lucky—they both were—to escape his wrath alive.

He watched her, quivering with suppressed violence, and stalked over to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “Do your job. Breathe a word of your real reason for leaving to anyone, and Feylan is not the only one who will pay the price for your stupidity. I'll leave you alive long enough to watch the aftermath. You'd be surprised who I managed to dig up while conducting my little investigation.”

Her hands were shaking so badly it took both of them to hold the dermal regenerator steady. He studied her for any signs of resistance or deceit. All he read was naked terror. Good. He had broken her. He had seen some manage to rally themselves from the depths of such emotion to cause trouble later. He didn't believe she'd be one of them. She genuinely loved Pa'Ren, probably more than she genuinely hated herself. As long as Pa'Ren lived, she'd be neutralized, and if he died, well, it was as he said. He had contingency plans.

His satisfaction didn't touch his regret at having inadvertently harmed Cardassia. He'd be a long time smarting from that, his miscalculation and mistakes. When she finished with him, he said, “You have two weeks,” and let himself out without a backward glance.

Julian

Replimat Café

Julian watched Garak eating, finding himself staring overly long at the hands that always held such fascination for him. He had several things that he wished to say, unsure of how to go about saying them without provoking the Cardassian's testiness or sarcasm. It doesn't matter if you do, does it? It's not about how he reacts. It's about what you want to express, he thought. Bolstered by that thought, he cleared his throat. The man's blue eyes lifted immediately, his attention focused. “I think...it's very unfair that you're still here,” he said carefully.

Garak wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it aside. “Eager to see me go?” he asked coyly.

“You know better,” Julian snorted. “What I mean is that I don't believe that Gul Dukat killed all those Klingons alone, and he wouldn't have even known Klingons were coming for him if it weren't for you. Surely he doesn't have so much influence that he can make the others keep you away?”

The tailor smiled slightly. “Your knowledge of Cardassians may be considerable for a Starfleeter,” he said, “but there's much yet to learn.”

“Then I suppose I should be grateful you're still here to teach me,” he said, forcing a smile. He knew that Garak wouldn't appreciate pity, but he truly felt bad for him and angry that his people had such little gratitude toward someone who had risked everything to save them.

“I'm grateful,” Garak said carefully, “to all of you who risked so much for my government. Cardassia may never formally thank you or acknowledge it, but I'm aware of what you risked. I plan to speak to Captain Sisko about this as well, but I wished to tell you first.”

His smile turned from forced to genuine in an instant. “I was glad to be able to do it. I'm lucky to have a commanding officer like the Captain. I'm lucky to be here, period. Speaking of being here, Nurse Decla just turned in her resignation and said she's going back to Bajor. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?” He lifted a brow.

Garak looked surprised. “No,” he said. “Did she say why? She seemed fine when I spoke to her earlier today.”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. He should have known better than to expect anything forthcoming. If he were the betting sort, he'd lay a wager that Garak and whatever had been in that pretty little box of his had everything to do with it. Honestly, he was simply so glad to see her go that he had no intention of looking into the matter if Garak wasn't willing to speak of it. “There's one other thing,” he said. “I meant to approach you about this before the two of you broke things off, but one thing after another conspired to distract me from it. She used her medical override code in your quarters. You may want to be certain she didn't access anything sensitive.”

The tailor laughed lightly. “My dear Doctor, the only thing she would have found on my computer are business records, inventory sheets, and tax forms. Of course, there's also a wide selection of excellent Cardassian literature, but she wouldn't have needed an override code to access it. I'm not concerned, but it's very kind of you to tell me.”

“In other words, you already knew about it, and you've taken care of it. I should have known.” He chuckled and took a bite of his food. “Why do I have the feeling I ought to thank you?”

“Thank me? For what?” the tailor asked, blinking.

“For removing a thorn from my side,” he replied after swallowing.

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” Garak said, his eyes wide, “but if I did, I'd tell you that you're most welcome. It's always a pleasure to be of service to you.”

“What am I to do with you?” he asked, feeling a warm surge of affection. It was refreshing to see that no matter how much things around the station had changed, Garak was much the same as he ever was, slippery, wily, and unwilling to take credit even when it was due.

The Cardassian fixed him with a look that made his palms slightly damp and set him to tingling places he didn't need to be tingling for a friend. Garak leaned closer, his voice pitched for Julian's ears alone. “When you figure that out, Doctor,” he said, “I trust you'll tell me?” He leaned back and beamed at him, a knowing gleam in blue eyes.

Julian nodded slowly, toying with his fork and unable to look away. “I promise you,” he said, “you'll be the first to know.”

The End

Current Mood: sleepy
Current Music: Deva Premal, Chidananda

Garak

Private Quarters

Garak waited only long enough to be sure that Lisane wouldn't return before checking his computer interface. He had to admit that she was fairly decent at hiding her activities, but it didn't take him very long to discover her fingerprints in the system. He smiled to himself when he saw that she had taken the obvious bait he left for her to find and never bothered to look for the real hook. He put together and sent a subspace transmission of his own to the same location that she had. It was regretful that Legate Pa'Ren was about to have such a thoroughly unpleasant day, but he really shouldn't have lied about his activities on Bajor during the occupation, at least not when there was even a remote chance that someone someday could discover the truth.

He left the sitting room to clean up the mess and wash himself free of a scent he had no doubt he'd never encounter again. There was no way she would ever let him touch her now. It was almost a pity. He had enjoyed playing that part of the game while it lasted, but he had to admit he enjoyed knowing how much she was suffering even more. The next day he checked for her at the infirmary only to hear that she had called in sick. He hummed to himself all the way to his shop.

He wasn't surprised when a few days later she unceremoniously broke things off with him. By that time, he had other things to occupy him, however. His final two reliable contacts on Cardassia Prime had disappeared after telling him of several civilian uprisings. People could say whatever they liked of Tain, but he realized now more than ever just what a stabilizing force the man and those under him had been, what a stabilizing force he, himself, had been. Maybe I should have risked going home when I had the chance, he thought more than once.

All of that was bad enough. Then the Klingons arrived. Tensions mounted to an alarming degree. It wasn't that the Klingons were being disruptive, loud, and boisterous. That would've been unpleasant. No, these were quiet. They murmured amongst themselves, and they shot him more hostile glances than he would have expected even given the history between the two empires. Every instinct told him they were up to no good, but how to discover what? He couldn't very well walk up to one and ask. However, maybe, just maybe, he could provoke one or more of them into revealing more than they intended.

He gave much thought to this, waiting for the proper opportunity and time. While breakfasting with Odo, it finally came. He risked informing the Constable of the situation on Cardassia, knowing that in providing such a confidence, he could motivate Odo to keep his ear to the ground for any news and share it with him. As they discussed the disturbing rumors, they saw Morn being harassed on the Promenade by a group of Klingons.

Odo rose, and Garak followed. As the Constable confronted them about their behavior, Garak made certain to antagonize them. He let them know he spoke their harsh, guttural tongue, and he was just pushy enough that he was sure they wouldn't be able to let it go. He stayed behind with Odo talking long enough to give them a chance to make their way to his shop, and bracing himself, he then went there himself.

As soon as he came through his doors, four of them stepped to block his exit. Better make this good, he thought, resigned to what he expected would be a thorough beating. “Let me guess,” he said with false cheer, “you're either lost, or you're desperately searching for a good tailor.”

“Guess again,” their ringleader growled and punched him hard enough to take the wind out of him. He fell to the floor, surrounded by a forest of kicking legs and punching fists. At first he began to think that he had miscalculated and that they would simply beat him senseless, or maybe even kill him. He knew he felt and heard bone snap, breathing shallowly to prevent any shards from piercing his lungs.

“That's enough!” the one called Drex barked. “Now, Cardassian,” he said, squatting and grinning a sharp toothed grin, so close to Garak's face that his foul breath washed him in a rank miasma, “you're going to tell us what you know of this station and its defenses, or we're going to finish what we started here. Who knows? Maybe Starfleet will even thank us for ridding them of a spy.”

“Have you seen their uniforms?” Garak wheezed. “They'll never forgive you.”

Drex punched him so hard that he temporarily lost vision in his left eye. “This is your last chance,” he said, pulling Garak up to a seated position by his tunic with one fist.

Haltingly, convincingly, the tailor gave them outdated information that he knew they could confirm with a few computer checks. He trusted that these particular thugs didn't have the wherewithal to hack the system, or they wouldn't be bothering with him, but of course, he couldn't be certain. He clung to consciousness with difficulty. Three more blows from Drex almost took care of that before Odo finally realized that something was amiss and put a swift end to his torment.

Julian

The Infirmary

Things had been almost too quiet since the arrival of the Klingons. That changed when Odo and three other security men carried Garak through his door. “Over here,” he said, moving to prep a biobed. He didn't like the way the tailor's head was lolling, his eyes unfocused and one swelling shut. “What happened to him?”

“A group of Klingons attacked him,” Odo said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. “He insists it was a...misunderstanding...and is refusing to press charges.”

“What?” the doctor demanded, anger rising. He snatched up a tricorder and began to scan the man for damages, his jaw setting to a grim line.

Odo shook his head, his blue eyes steely. “I didn't actually see anything, Doctor. The Klingons are refusing to talk. I can assure you I will look into it further. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” He glanced down at Garak, gave a soft “hmph”, and cleared his men out so that Julian could do his job.

He didn't try to talk to Garak at first, because he didn't want him trying to respond, not with those broken ribs. It was damned difficult to break Cardassian ribs. Their torsos were built like tanks with a latticed rib structure that protected their bellows-like lungs. After all this time, he still found it hard to keep professional distance when treating Garak for injuries. He wanted to soothe his hurts with more than just cold instruments. He allowed himself the small luxury of pushing back the glossy hair where it clung to his bleeding eye ridge. Garak's eyes followed him more alertly now. He opened his mouth to speak, but Julian stopped him with a touch to his shoulder. “Not yet,” he said gently. “Let the bone regenerator do its work.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the stubborn man said anyway.

“Don't thank me for doing my job,” he retorted more harshly than he intended. He was worried, and he was furious that he didn't intend to press charges for something so blatantly criminal. He touched him again by way of apology and turned away quickly to check the monitor for his vitals.

“You're angry,” the voice came from behind him, matter-of-fact as was so often the case.

“I can't believe you're not pressing charges,” he said, not bothering to hide his frustration. If he expected Garak to help him with that, he was sorely disappointed. The tailor launched into his usual glib distraction tactics, seeming not to take anything about the incident seriously. What's really going on with you? Julian wondered. He knew Garak well enough to know that he couldn't take all the joking at face value. What don't you want me to see?

He couldn't justify holding him for any longer than it took him to get him mended. He wished that he could lock him away and force him to stay for as long as the Klingons intended to be there. For once, he wished that he could truly protect the man in a meaningful way and not just make his exile on the station a little more tolerable. He wished that he could hold him, and yet, he had been the one to walk away, long ago enough now that any attempt to do any such thing on his part could only be taken as cruelty, not kindness. He watched a bit sadly as Garak stood and tested his range of motion. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“A little sore and stiff, but not bad all things considered,” the tailor answered with a slight smile.

“I'd offer to give you something for the pain, but I already know it would just sit on your shelf like the migraine pills,” he said.

“I take them sometimes, Doctor,” Garak said with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“Are you OK?” he blurted. He hadn't intended to ask in that way. He hadn't intended to ask about what had gone wrong with Decla at all, but it just came out, prompted by what he had just witnessed.

Garak nodded, eying him speculatively. “Are you?”

“Yes. I'm just...worried about you, being alone. If you need to talk...”

“Ah,” the tailor said with an understanding smile. “I can assure you, I'm suffering no hurt. As you pointed out more than once, Lisane and I were not a good match. It's much better this way.”

“You can do better than her,” he murmured, not quite able to meet the brilliant blue gaze.

“Rom often told me the same thing,” he said lightly. “Come now, Julian, let's not discuss this here where your employees can overhear. I have no desire to cause Lisane embarrassment.”

“Of course,” he said, feeling a tad guilty. Garak had a good point. He shouldn't allow his professionalism to slip just because he had been shaken. “Well, if you do need anything...”

“You'll be the first to know,” Garak assured him, stepping close and squeezing his shoulder. “I should get back to my shop. Those Klingons made a mess of things, and blood is much harder to clean from carpet when it's dry.”

He felt the pressure of that hand long after Garak's departure, much as he had upon their first meeting. It didn't make him feel disloyal to Leeta, for he knew that she was aware he would always love Garak on some level. It was one of the things he appreciated about her. She was understanding of that, and she never seemed to judge him, either for breaking the relationship off or having it in the first place. When lunch came, he went to Garak in the shop, determined that the man wouldn't have to clean his own blood from the floor alone, no matter how much he tried to pretend it didn't bother him. It was the least he could do, and Garak seemed to appreciate it.

Garak

Garak's Clothiers

Garak was relieved that all of the Klingons had departed, save one. As that one clothed himself in one of the ludicrously chromatic Starfleet uniforms, he wasn't too worried about running afoul of his temper. He believed that as long as they stayed out of one another's way, neither would have reason to find if the other annoyed or irritated him. Business started to pick up again, even Morn feeling the need to clothe himself in something warmer. He sometimes wondered if the station really had grown colder, or if it was just a psychological effect of all the tension around them.

He saw the big Lurian out, only to hear his comm beep. Turning, he circled behind his counter to answer it. Captain Sisko's voice came clear over the line, “Mister Garak, I'd like to see you in the wardroom immediately. And bring your tailor kit.”

“I'll be right there,” he told him, puzzled. He gathered what he needed and started down the Promenade. He wondered if Sisko intended to pressure him yet again about pressing charges for the attack of several days ago. No, that didn't make sense. He wouldn't need his tailor kit for that. He'd know soon enough.

He stepped into the wardroom and stopped short at the sight of the gathered senior staff. What was this? He heard Dax saying something about over one hundred ships and cut a glance at Sisko. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Am I interrupting?”

Sisko stood and said, “I'd like to be measured for a new suit.”

Garak blinked, taken aback. When Sisko assured him that he was serious and wanted him to measure him right then, he began to comply. The entire day seemed to take on something of a surreal quality in that moment. No sooner had he begun to wonder if the Starfleet captain had cracked under pressure than he tuned back in to what Dax and the new Klingon officer, Worf, were saying. The Klingons were invading Cardassia? Despite his best efforts, his entire body tensed. Everything suddenly made a terrible kind of sense. Starfleet must have given the captain orders not to interfere, and officially he wasn't. He felt a surge of gratitude toward the man and realized that at least some of his efforts to be cooperative over the years had paid off, but would it be too late?

As soon as he could, he left the meeting. He ran toward his shop, faster than he had run in years, feet flying. He didn't care who saw him and narrowly avoided several collisions on the way. They had to be warned. His people had to be told what was coming for them, what would be there in less than an hour. The last person he expected to see when he contacted the Detapa Council was Gul Dukat. There was no time to question him. He tersely explained the situation and wondered if it was Dukat he was speaking to at all, or a Founder. Wouldn't that be the cruelest of ironies?

He wished that he could reach through his screen and shake the man when first he reacted with disbelief and then tried to exchange a few barbs. Of course, it was exactly the sort of thing Dukat would do, so perhaps he wasn't a Founder after all. The gul told him to convince Sisko to stop the Klingons, as though one Starfleet captain could do a thing against one hundred or more Birds of Prey. After a final barb, Garak cut the transmission. They didn't have time for such nonsense! He hated the fact to the core of his being, but for once, he desperately hoped that Gul Dukat would succeed in mobilizing the military, what was left of it after the coup, at any rate. He wanted to tear his hair out. Of all times to be stuck in a glorified tin can in space instead of home where he might actually be of use!

He abandoned his brief impulse toward histrionics in favor of more rational action. He intended to do as Dukat had asked, to speak to Sisko on behalf of Cardassia. He had to do something, and in light of the situation, it made sense. Clearly, the captain was already inclined to help them, or he'd never have called Garak into the wardroom the way he did. The questions were how deep did those sympathies lie, and would Sisko have enough pull with his home government to sway them?

Julian

The Defiant

It was times like these that Julian truly appreciated the kind of man he served under, the kind of man who thought nothing of traveling through a thicket of hostile Klingon vessels in order to save an entire government of people who weren't his friends or allies, but who didn't deserve what the Klingons were doing to them. He still couldn't believe that just like that, the treaty was over and done with. The Klingons were enemies once more. It seemed so short sighted of them in the face of the Dominion threat. It didn't make sense, and even if Founders were responsible for the recent civilian coup on Cardassia, what would an invasion accomplish? The Founders could look like anyone or anything. They could easily lie in wait for the new Klingon overseer, assassinate him, and take his place. No, he knew there was something he was missing, something they all were, but what? That puzzle would have to wait for a better time. He knew that soon he'd have his hands full.

He wished that Garak could have come with them. He knew how difficult it was for his friend to stay behind when his homeworld was at stake. Garak had never been the sort who wanted to wait in the wings. Whenever he could, he managed to throw himself into the action or at least get himself into more than his fair share of trouble. On the other hand, he was glad he wasn't there. Julian would have worried about him and possibly lost needed focus in the process. As they traveled at maximum warp toward Cardassian space, he hoped that they weren't too late. What would happen to Cardassia if they lost all of their leaders in one fell swoop? The loss of the Obsidian Order had been bad enough.

These bleak thoughts occupied him until Worf spotted debris on his sensors. They dropped out of warp, and suddenly the view screen sprang to life, revealing the ominously drifting wreckage of three Cardassian Galor class ships. There could be survivors. The doctor in him wanted to investigate, but the officer in him recognized the sense in Worf's and Sisko's insistence that they didn't. Any Cardassian aboard those vessels would make the same argument. In light of who was at stake, they were expendable. He protested leaving without trying, but he knew he would be overridden. He felt a little sick inside as they left behind the ships and re-engaged warp drive.

More time passed with none of the usual banter that usually made missions on the Defiant more tolerable. None of them knew what to expect at the rendezvous point, if there would even be a Detapa Council left to save. When they finally neared, Worf indicated that he had three Birds of Prey on his sensors attacking a badly damaged Cardassian craft. They picked up an audio distress signal from Gul Dukat. “This is Gul Dukat of the cruiser Prakesh. We're under heavy fire. Our shields are failing. I don't

know how much longer we can hold out. Send reinforcements immediately. I repeat, this is ...”

He grudgingly admired how calm the gul sounded despite the situation. There was urgency in his voice, yes, but he was in control of himself. He turned his attention to the screen along with the rest of the bridge crew, wincing as a Bird of Prey strafed the Cardassian vessel with disruptor fire. There was no way the ship could take much more punishment.

“Orders, Captain?” Worf asked.

“Two decades of peace with the Klingons, and it all comes down to this,” Julian said, his stomach clenched. He didn't need to hear Dax's assessment of the Cardassians' chances to know what they were about to have to do. He wasn't surprised at the captain's orders to arm the torpedoes and decloak. There was no more time for thinking or regrets.

“Red alert,” Sisko said, giving him a nod.

He returned the nod and hastily exited the bridge. They had their work cut out for them, and he had his own to attend. There would almost certainly be injuries and casualties from the Cardassian vessel. He had to be ready for them. He was glad of all the time he had spent converting the ship's pathetic excuse of a medical bay into something he could actually work with and of the staff he had hand picked for the assignment, all but one of them with previous medical experience in combat zones. They were as ready as they could be, and they had vials set aside for collecting blood samples. If any of the people they beamed aboard were Founders, he intended to be ready for them.

The ship rocked with an ominous rumble. They were under fire. So far, it seemed as though the shields were holding, but for how long? “All of you,” he told his staff, “brace yourselves and stay away from the consoles until we need them. If any of them blow, I don't need to tell you what can happen, and I need every one of you in top form.”

They nodded and did as he ordered. He braced himself on one of the biobeds, feeling the deck plate under him vibrate every time they took a hit. He felt the ship lurch sharply and then a particularly violent tremor. One of the consoles showered sparks. Sisko's voice came over the comm. “Sisko to Bashir. Prepare to receive casualties, Doctor. And have security standing by. I want our guests to undergo blood screenings.”

“Understood,” he said, thinking, Way ahead of you there, Captain. “You heard him! Get ready, and I want a full security detail standing by. No one gets in our out of this area without an escort.”

“Yes, Sir,” he heard from all around.

Within moments, the first of the council members began to arrive, all of them older even than Garak or Dukat. Julian realized that there were far more of them than would fit into the medical bay, and he quickly organized them into a queue and sent them to the mess hall, close enough to keep an eye on them and large enough to keep them from being too crowded. He kept a keen watch for injuries or shock, pulling a few from the line and sending them to sick bay. Overall, they were in better shape than he expected. He wasn't sure the Defiant crew would be able to say the same if they kept getting hit so violently without their shields. The entire deck rocked continually as though in an earthquake.

He was glad that he didn't have to tell any of them to stay calm. They handled themselves far better than most Terrans would. Gul Dukat stepped into the mess hall, easily keeping his feet, even when a particularly devastating blast threw several of his fellows to the floor. Dukat's ice chip eyes lighted upon him, and he closed the distance between them. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “Now if you don't mind, I'd like to go to the bridge.”

He held up a syringe, taking some small satisfaction in discomfiting the gul after the several times the man had been able to do so to him. Once he was sure that he wasn't a changeling, he let him go on his way with a security escort and made his rounds to help his staff with the rest of the screenings. Some of them submitted willingly; some gave him more trouble. In the end, he had his way. He felt the shift in the ship as they engaged warp. We made it this far, he thought with satisfaction but not exactly optimism. Judging by the lights, they were no longer able to cloak, and it was going to be a long trip exposed to their enemies.

Current Mood: sleepy
Current Music: Deva Premal, Chidananda

Author Notes: This story spans The Adversary and The Way of the Warrior. It's sadly not at all stand-alone. I'm thinking most of them in the series probably won't be from here on out. Too much has happened. Some of the dialogue comes from The Way of the Warrior, more than in other stories simply because it was a longer episode.

Summary: The Dominion shadow grows longer and darker, and a new, unexpected threat shakes life on the station, Klingon aggression. Worf joins the DS9 crew. Newly promoted Julian Bashir gets a further taste of combat. Old enemies and old friends are reunited with disastrous results.

Author: Dark Sinestra

Date Written: January 2010

Category: Het, some slashy angst and flirtation

Rating: NC-17 for adult situations, mild adult language, explicit sex, mild BDSM themes, and violence.

Disclaimer: I am not Paramount. Therefore, I don't own Paramount's toys. I don't profit from playing with them, either, but I enjoy every minute of it.

Word Count: 17,276

Decla Lisane

Private Quarters

With green eyes locked to blue, Lisane found herself slowly drifting between memory and the here and now, a languid oscillation facilitated by the movement of the man atop her and the sleek feel of a scaled back beneath her spread fingers. Her room was hot, a courtesy she extended to her guest whenever she found herself entertaining him, something that had been happening with greater frequency of late. With just a slight loss of focus and lowering of lashes, she could swim in that blue and diffuse it gray, blur the edges of the sharp eye ridges to something a bit softer and rounder. Then, with that image in mind, she could close her eyes and thaw her heart for a short time until she felt as liquid as her sweat. She didn't think his name, didn't dare, lest she say it aloud and remind the man with her of what she hoped he had forgotten, or never thought to bring to mind to begin with. Still, she knew Cardassians. It meant she had to try harder.

She flexed her back and pushed him, wrapping her fingers around one of his thick wrists. He allowed her to do this, to flip him to his back so that it was she looking down and he looking up. Even recumbent he gave no impression of vulnerability. She could feel his strength as a palpable thrum between her legs, centered where they were joined. Always, he managed to drag her out of her past and force her to face him, Garak, whose guise as a tailor fit him considerably less than his well made clothing.

He reached for her thighs. She pushed his hands back, twined fingers to fingers, pressed palms to palms, and shoved the backs of his knuckles into the mattress. With extra pressure for emphasis, she released them and lightly traced her fingertips over the elaborate scroll work in scale and ridge of his chest and ribs. Again he allowed this, kept his hands where she put them and curled his fingers inward toward the palms. His gaze was pressure enough, claim enough, so intense at times she could hardly bear his touch. She wasn't fooled into mistaking his cooperation for submission. She knew better.

She also knew this was her fault, all of it. Had she left well enough alone, he never would have wounded her pride; she wouldn't have lashed out as soon as she saw the opportunity. The two of them wouldn't be embroiled in this nerve wracking game. Maybe on some level, she blamed Feylan, too, sought to punish what remained of him within her with this completely unsuitable lover. It didn't matter how it started. They were too deeply involved in it now to back off and quit. She realized she was digging her nails into both of his main pectoral ridges, and by the darkness of his eyes, she could tell that he liked it. At least there's that, she thought, leaning forward to bite at his jaw. He likes when I hurt him as much as I enjoy doing it. He gave a soft warning growl and shifted his head suddenly. She drew back with a thin ridge surface scale between her teeth, translucent once separated from its mates, smiled and spat it to the side with a careless flick.

“You really are a savage, my dear,” he purred in the tone of voice that turned half of her innards to jelly and made her damp even when they weren't so intimately engaged. “Those aren't made for tearing off.” He ran his hands up the tops of her thighs, and this time she allowed it. She readjusted herself to his grip at her hips but resisted his attempts to quicken her rhythm.

“Aren't they?” she asked, flicking a finger over the fresh one in its place. “It's not as though they don't self replenish.”

“Skin heals. Would you say that makes it made for cutting?” he retorted with a significant look.

She tilted her head curiously and pretended to consider the question. She glided her hands down his chest and over his smooth belly. Curving her fingers inward, she dimpled the rows of scale and used her thumb nails to flick at the undersides. He inhaled sharply, and his grasp of her hips went from tight to punishing. She smiled again, wider. That was more like it. Before he could stop her, she ripped one of the scales loose and sent it sailing into a fold of the twisted covers.

Just as quickly, he surged beneath her and flipped her to her back, pinning her flat to the mattress and seizing both of her wrists. She didn't make it easy for him, struggling and forcing him to put real effort into securing her arms above her head. “That,” he growled low, his face mere centimeters from hers, “was not nice.”

She laughed and lunged for him, her teeth snapping on air and not his lower lip only thanks to his reflexes. “Since when am I ever nice?” She knew he'd hurt her for crossing a line, and he didn't disappoint. She liked his wrath most of all, because it was when he least resembled her Feylan. It was when she could despise him with a clean conscience, and when it was over and he crushed her beneath his lax weight, it was when she could admit to herself that anything less no longer had the ability to move her at all. Tears slid freely from the corners of her eyes and mingled with her sweat to darken the hair at her temples from flax to wheat.

He pressed up to one elbow and shook his head. “You should have said something.” He flicked away a tear with distaste curving his mouth downward into a line that flirted with contempt.

“Right,” she whispered, expressing the same in reverse, her lips curving upward. “No, Garak...stop, Garak...you're hurting me, Garak. You'd have eaten it with a spoon and gone for a second helping. I don't think so.”

“This is the second helping,” he said drolly.

She smirked. “True, and not bad for a man your age.” She kissed him on the nose, something she knew he didn't like.

“Speaking of that, aren't you a little long in the tooth yourself to be quite so insatiable?” he asked, rolling off of her with a soft grunt and settling on his back.

“What can I say?” she rolled a bare shouldered shrug, glad of the chance to let her sweat dry and cool her in the stifling air. “You bring all sorts of things out in me that I find surprising.”

“I'll just bet.” He stayed quiet for a while after that. She wasn't lulled into believing he was falling asleep. He rarely fell asleep first. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked, breaking the silence.

She sighed. “We've been through this. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to go, go.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “and it occurred to me that in forcing my hand at showing a preference, you keep me at a distinct disadvantage. Tonight, you decide.”

Rolling to her side, she rested her head on her upward extended arm and prodded at his calf with a toe. “I could just as easily not decide, and the result will be the same. You'll either stay or you'll go.”

“Yes, I'll stay, and I'll keep you awake. My job doesn't require much of me. Being well rested or not so much, I can cut a pattern and stitch a straight line. With the doctor away on the Defiant, can you say the same of yours?”

For the first time that night, she felt genuinely cross. “That's very childish of you,” she said.

“So is your insistence that I always choose.”

As satisfying as she knew it would be to dismiss him and make it clear to him that he had served his purpose for the night, she also knew it wouldn't further her own agenda. “You're an irritating man,” she said, lifting up onto her elbow and propping her cheek in her hand. “So we're discussing insistence?” she asked, very careful only to show him her irritation and not the fact that he just gave her the opening she had been angling for ever since they began this dance.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly cautious.

“Then why are we always here? Why my quarters every single time and not yours?” she asked bluntly.

He blinked his surprise. “My dear, you've never expressed an interest in visiting me in my quarters.”

“Inviting myself? I may be a savage, as you say. That doesn't mean I have no manners,” she said, tightening her mouth.

“How deftly you imply that I have none,” he said, dryly amused. “Very well, Lisane. When next we meet privately, we'll meet in my quarters. I never realized this was such a thorn in your heel.”

“No more than I realized exerting your own free will to stay or go taxed you so,” she said in saccharine tones. “Why not stay? If we awaken in time, we can argue for the full duration of breakfast and still manage to clean our plates.”

“I never knew you were such a sweet talker,” he said, matching her tone. “You make the prospect positively irresistible.”

Sleeping with him was actually one of the more pleasant aspects of the association. She had missed having someone in her bed since the death of her husband. Unlike her husband, Garak didn't snore, and he was cool and dry against her skin instead of oppressively hot and sticky. He didn't cling to her in his sleep like a drowning man to a life line. He didn't make her feel guilty for her uncharitable thoughts of him. He had the decency to deserve them.

She feigned sleep until he fell asleep and slowly opened her eyes. Starlight from her view port added its scant illumination to the faintly glowing night lantern she kept atop her dresser in case she needed to arise in the dark. The bluish light suited the Cardassian's pale gray skin, paler than many of his race she had seen during the occupation. She had always assumed it to be a regional variance in the species. Feylan, for all of his genuine devotion, was as tight lipped about his people as Garak. The only reliable knowledge she had of them came from her own experiences, as a professional in the medical field, a former resistance fighter, and an unlikely lover. It was more than most non-Cardassians possessed.

It was said among her people that to see a true face, one had but to watch a sleeper. If such were true of Garak, it meant there was little behind his facade. He looked neither innocent nor guilty, malicious nor kind. His sleeping face reminded her of nothing so much as a death mask, his papery eyelids so translucent she imagined that she could see iris and pupil beneath. She knew, however, that it was a mere trick of light and shadow.

His chest rose and fell slowly. She spread her hand very lightly atop it and felt the strong, languid thumping of his heart at rest. So slow, she thought, recalling the first time she had lain her head atop Feylan's chest and how she thought he was in shock. We never had time, she thought, irrationally angry with Garak that they did, had they truly wanted it. They had nothing but time while waiting for the entire quadrant to exhale over this Dominion threat. Bajor had barely drawn her first free breaths in over sixty years, and already someone else was eying her hungrily.

The Prophets, she thought contemptuously, opening wide the Celestial Temple so that we can be devoured whole. She knew such blasphemous thoughts would get her in trouble if ever she spoke them aloud. She passed a fingertip down the soft, shallow depression over his sternum, the Cardassian navel. He opened his eyes and seized her wrist, both happening so quickly she had no time to react. “I'm sorry I woke you,” she murmured, inwardly cursing her own stupidity. He was never a heavy sleeper.

“What is it, Lisane?” he asked, matching her volume. He shifted to his side to face her, his clasp migrating upward to encircle her fingers in a loose grip.

“I don't know,” she said. It was only partially true, for she was aware that there were several things combined keeping her awake, keeping her unsettled. Any one of them could be the cause of her current discomfiture and inexplicable need to touch him. His eyes caught a sliver of starlight and glinted silver. She shivered.

“You can't be cold,” he said. He released her fingers and bridged the small gap between them with his outstretched arm, teasing her still damp hair off of her shoulder and releasing it to slide over her back.

She shivered again, harder. “I'm not,” she said, but it was a lie. Inside, she felt like ice. His cruelty was much easier to stomach than his kindness. “Go back to sleep. I'm sorry I disturbed you.” She tried to turn her back to him. He prevented her, shifting himself and pulling at her until she lay propped against his side with her head resting in the relatively soft hollow of his shoulder. “Garak...” she said uncomfortably.

“You didn't ask me for this, so don't be stubborn,” he said, a hint of irritability sharpening the murmur.

That felt more familiar. She smiled against his chest and let her eyelids set their own rhythm toward sleep. She didn't know if he slept again that night and didn't really care. In his arms, she was always undisturbed by dreams, like claiming a little death of her own.

Garak

Replimat Café

Sitting in the Replimat and people watching was such a habit for him now that he often found himself in the place when he wasn't really hungry or wanting company but wished to think somewhere that the silence wasn't deafening. For the first time since he could ever recall, Garak found himself worried about the stability and survival of his homeworld government. News out of Cardassia, scant as it was, wasn't good, and another of his contacts had recently gone mysteriously quiet, whether in hiding or dead, he couldn't be sure.

He had known that the destruction of the Obsidian Order would leave a power vacuum, and power vacuums were dangerous. They practically begged to be filled. Indeed, they drew in malcontents, the power hungry, and do-gooders alike, the dissidents wanting anything but what they had, the power hungry seeing opportunity, and the last naïve enough to believe that whatever they had to offer would actually be better than what was currently in place. He wondered if he hadn't made a mistake in remaining on the station, only to mock himself. Watch it, Elim. You're dangerously close to do-gooder territory. No, his presence on Cardassia Prime would not have been a stabilizing influence whatsoever. Those scarred by the legacy of Tain would associate him with the old guard and mistrust his motives, and those with grudges would see him as a threat to their own designs for power.

He wasn't interested in power these days. In his younger years, he had drunk his fill of it, glutted until he swelled and nearly burst. What had it gotten him? In an affair with a married woman with a powerful and dangerous husband. A handful of interrogations and executions of which he could feel genuinely proud. The illusion of security that once shattered very nearly shattered him as well. An irreparable breach with his father. Painful distance from his mother. The long, cold fall into the oblivion of his exile and blood on his hands that he knew he had no right to have shed. On the surface he could claim self-defense, but it was his own machinations and hubris that led to the attack by Palandine's husband. No, he'd leave power to those who still lived the dream. For him survival had become infinitely more attractive, not just his own but that of the Union.

What a mess, he thought disconsolately. His tea was cold and almost untouched. A warm hand on his shoulder nearly sent him out of his own skin. It had been ages since anyone managed to startle him like that. He must have been thinking entirely too hard. “You're a million kilometers away,” Julian said with a soft smile, easing into a chair catty corner to him instead of across.

“Yes,” he said, brightening. “I can't decide if hem lines are trending upward or down this season. What do you think?” It wasn't one of his better lies; he'd be the first to admit. He narrowed his eyes as his gaze lighted upon Julian's collar, sheerly by happenstance, of course. He wasn't staring at the doctor's neck. Lying to himself could sometimes be entertaining, too. “You've been promoted,” he said, sounding almost accusatory.

The doctor nodded. “I think you're an abominable liar, to answer your question,” he said cheerfully.

“I am an excellent liar,” he retorted, sitting up a bit straighter.

Julian smiled warmly and shook his head. “If you're wondering why I didn't tell you about the promotion, it's just not something I felt like bragging about.”

“You should feel proud of your accomplishments, Lieutenant,” Garak chided him and teased him in the same breath.

“I am. I mean, yes, I feel as though I've earned this promotion. I worked hard for it, and we've all been through a lot facing the threat of war. It's just that my rank and position have never had much bearing on our friendship. We have much more interesting discussions.”

“Except about what happened aboard the Defiant,” the tailor said, watching for the uneasy flicker that showed itself in the man's eyes every time he mentioned their last excursion. He wasn't disappointed.

“Garak,” Julian said, warning in the tone.

“I know. I know. It's a Starfleet matter.” He had to resist the urge to cover the warm, brown hand resting on the table so close to his own. Feeling skittish for his own reasons was hard enough without seeing similar unease in someone he loved. At least one of them should have their equilibrium at any given time.

“What's bothering you?” the doctor asked, speaking more quietly and leaning closer, close enough that he could smell the infirmary still upon him.

“I need to start curtailing my late nights,” he said, knowing that it would deflect the line of questioning more quickly than almost anything else he could say. It would also put needed distance between them. No matter how much affection he had for the Starfleet officer, he had no intention of taking them a step back when they were making true progress as friends and when Julian's career seemed back on track.

The man leaned back again and slumped slightly in his chair. “Rest is important,” he said neutrally.

“So it is,” he agreed. Pushing to his feet, he lifted his mug. “I've wasted enough time away from the shop for one afternoon. I should have gotten back at least an hour ago.” He took the mug to the recycler and returned to the table. “Shall I walk you back to the infirmary first? I need to speak to Lisane about something, and I'd enjoy the company on the way.”

“I don't see why not,” the doctor replied, standing and falling into step with him. “So, things are going well with you two?” he asked.

Bless him, he almost managed to subsume completely the stress in his voice that accompanied the question. Garak admired the effort. He wasn't inclined to speak to him about his dabo girl at all if he could help it. “As well as you might expect,” he answered vaguely.

Julian tried unsuccessfully to hide a wry smile. “You're a Cardassian who was here during the occupation, and she's a former Bajoran resistance fighter. How well do you think I'd expect? Frankly, I'm surprised that one of you isn't dead by now.”

Garak smirked. “My dear man, it is never dull.” He closed his mouth in a way that indicated he was done expounding upon that particular subject and watched the doctor from the corners of his eyes, not easy to do with the wide curve of eye ridges in the way. He looked good. He carried himself a bit more confidently and wore his experience well. He was a far cry from the man Garak singled out at the Replimat those few years before. Although he liked to think that in some small way he had a part in the development, he knew that most of it was due to Julian's exceptional intelligence and dedication to his work.

When they reached the infirmary, Julian said, perhaps a tad more loudly than was called for, “So we're still on for lunch tomorrow?”

“Of course,” he replied, inclining his head. “I simply cannot wait to tell you my opinion of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream',” he added very, very dryly.

Snorting softly, the doctor cast one glance between him and Lisane as she approached and made a graceful retreat toward his work station. “Garak?” she asked when she reached him.

Despite what he had said to Julian, the two of them had not spent another night together in nearly two weeks since their discussion of where they met. He wanted to be convincing, that having her in his space was difficult and not what he had been working toward since formulating his plan. “I'm sorry for approaching you at work,” he said in a low murmur. “I simply wanted to extend this invitation before I could change my mind.” She lifted a brow and waited. “I'd like for you to join me in my quarters after dinner. I regret that I can't accommodate you before then, but I have some pressing business to attend that cannot wait.”

She considered for so long after he asked, that at first he thought she might refuse him after all. “All right,” she said. “Expect me at 2300, unless that's too early?”

“No, that will be perfect,” he said, letting his genuine relief show in his smile. She would almost certainly mistake the motive behind it. It gave him great satisfaction to see the hostile glances he evoked for both of them by his mere presence there. Her Bajoran co-workers were less forgiving of her than they had ever been of Julian for the association. He knew that for a fact from things both Rom and Quark had told him. “I'll let you get back to work,” he said, not taking things so far as to try to touch her in front of the others. He knew she'd never allow it. As he left, he only just avoided humming under his breath. This was the first real progress he had made in some time. He could only hope that she was as skilled and devious as he thought she might be, or he had been wasting his time and efforts.

Decla Lisane

Garak's Private Quarters

From the moment she set foot into the impeccable, tastefully appointed sitting room, Lisane knew that she was in trouble. She thought she had prepared herself for what she needed to do. She thought that getting what she had worked so hard to attain, access, would provide her with a tremendous sense of satisfaction. Instead, cold dread came to roost in the pit of her stomach and made itself at home. She thought for the first few moments after her arrival that she would literally be sick. Garak took her gift of a small cashmere throw from hands that felt like someone else's. His pleasant smile faded to a look of concern. “My dear?” he asked, setting the gift aside and taking her by the hands. “You're as white as a sheet. Come sit.”

She allowed him to direct her to his sofa and sank onto it gratefully. White spots danced in her vision. Pull yourself together, she thought angrily. This isn't your first trip into hostile territory. Stop acting like a green recruit. Had she already managed to grow soft in the few years since the occupation ended? Had three squares, a regular place to sleep, and a steady income quenched her fire completely? Her cold, pale cheeks flared red with self-loathing and shame. “I'm OK,” she said brusquely, “although I think I may be coming down with something. I haven't felt quite right all afternoon.” She could lie as facilely as he when she needed to. She met his gaze without hesitation.

“Your hands are like ice,” he said, rubbing them between his. The friction of his scales warmed her quickly. “I'll get you some tea.” She watched him stand and move to the replicator. If she allowed herself to believe the lines of concern in his eye ridges, she thought she might truly be sick. He was convincing, so very convincing, and it wasn't the first time he had taken her care into his hands with such solicitation. He returned to her and pressed her the hot mug, not releasing it until he was sure she had a good grip. “You should have sent me a message that you're not feeling well,” he chided her. “I would've understood.”

She smiled faintly and took a bracing sip of the tea, surprised to find that it was not red leaf, but deka. “How did you...” she started to ask.

He smiled. “Major Kira tells me that deka tea can be quite palliative, when the leaves have been aged.”

She nodded and took a few more sips of the astringent brew. Her tongue and throat tingled, and warmth settled and pooled in her stomach, easing its clench. I can do this, she thought. “I'm surprised Kira talks to you at all,” she said.

“We have...an understanding,” he explained. “Your color is returning. Do you want me to escort you back to your quarters so that you can rest?”

“No,” she said, leaning to place her mug on a side table. “I want to spend some time with you. We've hardly seen each other lately. I finally have more time with the doctor back. I don't intend to waste it.” She glanced about his living space, finding it not at all surprising in its décor. “The place is really you.”

“It suffices,” he said with a shrug. He rose from his seat beside her and crossed to where he had placed the throw. “You were kind to bring me a gift.” He brought it back with him, spreading it to have a closer look. “Green and rust,” he glanced at her. “You do pay attention.”

More than you could ever imagine, she thought. She offered him a brilliant smile. “You make it easy,” she said. “Do you like the fabric? I was quite taken with it. I ordered a cashmere sweater about a year ago. I only regret that I haven't had more occasion to wear it.”

“I do like it, yes,” he said. He stopped before her and bent to wrap it lightly about her shoulders. “I should make something green for you. It sets off your eyes.” She sat perfectly still while he arranged the blanket, hardly able to breathe. When he stood over her like that with gentle hands and dangerous eyes, the contradictory impulses he evoked nearly overwhelmed her. To her relief, once he had the blanket arranged, he backed off and retook a seat further down the sofa.

“It is somewhat cold in here,” she said, not having realized it until the warmth of the cashmere brought it to her attention.

“You're kind enough to accommodate me when I visit you. I felt it would be boorish of me not to return the favor,” he said.

“It's not necessary,” she said. “I like the heat. It's one of the few times I ever get to sweat on this station. Set it to your comfort level.”

“You're certain? I don't want to tax you if you're becoming ill.”

She made an impatient noise, shrugging out of the throw and unfurling from her seat. In two quick strides, she reached him and lowered to straddle his lap. “I don't want your damned solicitousness,” she said, balling both fists in his thick tunic and narrowing her gaze, “any more than you want it from me.” She hadn't intended to do this so artlessly, but he just had to give her that covetous, hungry look when speaking of putting her in something green. She kissed him roughly, beyond pleased when he responded in kind, both of them careless of teeth.

“Computer,” he said when she let him up for air, “reset environmental controls to my usual default.” He seemed as though he intended to say more. She didn't give him the opportunity. When the ravening hunger had been awakened, she couldn't get enough. She didn't have to worry about taking care with him, physically or otherwise. She knew that had he chosen, he could easily kill her, and she believed that somewhere behind those passion dark eyes of his lurked a desire to do just that. Do you hate yourself when we do this as much as I do? She wondered. She hoped that he did, that deep within him there was a twin to the part of her that recoiled from this contact and watched, appalled and silent.

She felt pressure between her legs where there had just been none and smiled inwardly, lifting herself so that he had to arch upward to maintain contact. She laughed aloud when he grabbed her hips and forced her back downward; the laughter died off on a moan as he ground a tight circle. She continued to fight him, the sofa rocking and creaking with the force of their struggles.

He pushed one foot against the floor and twisted them to the side. Scrabbling for purchase, she managed to scramble down half the length of the couch before being dragged back by the back of her belt. She quickly unbuckled it and would have given him the slip had he not gotten a tight grip on her ankle. He jerked her back to a stomach down sprawl over the sofa seat and crushed her with his weight atop her. She felt his forearms thrust beneath her and the clutch of his hands over the tops of her collarbones, the pressure of his fingertips bruising and painful.

Jerking her head back, she popped the cusp of his chin. He withdrew with a hiss of pain between clenched teeth, and once more she started to scrabble forward. She managed to curve a hand over the sofa arm. His weight lifted and shifted to a straddle over her lower back. He yanked her hand free of its hold and pressed her face straight into the sofa cushion. Now she struggled in earnest, arousal giving way to fear that she may have pushed him too far. The harder she struggled, the tighter he pressed her face, until her breath came in sharp, painfully difficult wheezes.

“Why do you insist on making this so hard on yourself?” he asked, sounding only slightly out of breath from exertion.

She made a small, mocking noise in the back of her throat, earning herself a complete obstruction of all air. She lay still for as long as she could, her body finally taking matters into its own hands and thrashing when her lungs began to burn and spots danced in her vision. Only when her vision started to tunnel did he release the pressure and allow her a few ragged gasps.

“No answer?” he purred, pressing her face down again. “Is it the only way you can justify this to yourself, Lisane? Creating the illusion that I'm forcing you, when we both know all you'd have to do is say 'no' and mean it? Or perhaps it's that this is how you have to see me.” He snorted a soft, derisive laugh.

She worked her free hand from beneath her and reached back, stroking lightly over the side and top of his thigh. He always had the uncanny knack of hitting his marks with his pointed observations. It was just one more way he scored her, but she had her ways of wounding him, too. She felt his grasp of her wrist and her hair loosen, and she took the opportunity to turn her face to the side and take a few more unrestricted breaths. “Don't try to pretend you don't enjoy it this way, Garak,” she murmured. “For all of your veneer of civility, this is closer to your true nature. I'd think you'd appreciate having someone who sees it and doesn't force you to hold back.”

“I hold back,” he said. “You should thank your Prophets that I do.” His nails raked her scalp as he tightened his grip again.

She had seen what his people were capable of. She knew there was much truth in what he said. “Not for my sake,” she said spitefully, “but yours. What would happen if you crossed that line, not because someone back home gave you orders, but simply...because you wanted to? You crossed it with Bashir. Do you have to love someone to want to hurt them?”

Agony shot from her captured hand all the way up her arm to ball and throb in her shoulder. She couldn't tell what he had done. It felt like just the smallest shift of his clasp, and yet whatever it was, he had set her nerves on fire. She bit down over an outcry and held still for as long as she could stand it then began to struggle. Finally, she couldn't help herself. She let out an anguished groan. “Enough! Damn you, that's enough!” She gasped and shuddered with relief as soon as he released the hold.

“You won't mention that to me ever again, I trust,” he said very casually.

“Did I touch a nerve?” she asked, inwardly trembling at her own audacity. Do you want this man to kill you? Are you that far gone?

“Do you want to find out how many nerves I can touch?” he asked in that same casual way that chilled her far more than if he had growled his threat.

She tried to turn over beneath him, and he lifted enough to allow it and resettled. Watching his cold eyes, she reached down and felt for him, finding his trousers stretched taut and damp through the thick fabric. “You seem to like the idea,” she said, scratching her nails lightly over the upper curve of the bulge. “How far would you take it?” She pressed her palm flat and rubbed upward, feeling his cock leaping against the pressure.

“If you want to know that, mention Julian again,” he said, one corner of his mouth curving sardonically.

As much as she wanted to, her shoulder was still throbbing, and something about the look in his eyes made her believe that if she crossed that line, not only would it cost her in pain, he'd then toss her out and likely never look back. She closed her eyes to hide the resentment she felt toward him for what he might possibly hold over her and swallowed when she felt his hands unfastening her tunic. Dry heat greeted her bare skin, the environmental controls quick to do their work.

If she kept her eyes closed and didn't prompt him to talk, she could almost imagine Feylan now, except that Garak was more skilled, more...thorough. Divorced from her mind, her body responded to him with such visceral pleasure that it left her weak and panting. She allowed him to do as he wished, as having his way with her after dominating her seemed to please him, and that night more than any other before she wanted him exhausted. She coaxed and maddened him in small ways, playing his desire as skillfully as he hers. Indeed, she had studied him with single minded focus and knew how to drive him to the edge of his control.

She couldn't recall exactly when or how they made it to the bedroom. His bed was smaller than hers, forcing them to stifling closeness. It worried her, because there would be no way to get out of it without awakening him once he fell asleep. Even exhausted, he was much too light of a sleeper for that. She rarely bothered washing until the next morning when she was with him, so she knew that breaking the routine was a bit of a gamble. Anything at all could raise his suspicions. She had to try. “Ugh,” she said with a soft laugh. “You didn't tell me your bed was so small.”

He nipped the cusp of her shoulder lightly. “Had I, you would have simply accused me of trying to make excuses to keep you from my quarters.”

“Mm, probably,” she said, pressing her back against his chest and stomach. “Would you think me horrid if I insisted on bathing right now? The thought of being this sweaty so close all night just isn't at all appealing.”

“Do as you wish, Lisane,” he said, releasing his one armed hold of her. “I want you to feel comfortable here.”

“I'll try not to awaken you when I come back to bed,” she said, slipping from beneath the sheet and giving a careless caress of his cheek.

“You probably will, but it's all right,” he assured her. “You know what a light sleeper I am.”

All too well, she thought grimly. She retreated to his bathroom, as clean and well decorated as the rest of the quarters, and took her time getting clean. If he was true to form, he would take a little time to fall asleep, more than a Bajoran who had similarly exerted himself. He had marked her surprisingly little this time, almost gentle after their initial tussle on the couch. Almost. She rubbed light fingers over a purpling bruise at her collar bone and winced slightly. Instead of a shower, she took a bath, and when she was drying, she had the computer take the lights down nearly all the way. She needed to be acclimated to the darkness.

She stepped into the bedroom and waited. When she heard his even, deep breaths, she waited even longer. She had to be sure. Stealthily she slipped from the bedroom and padded on silent, bare feet into his sitting room. She sat at his terminal and pulled up a display of recent activity, using her medical override code to bypass the usual privacy settings. She noticed several transmissions back and forth between him and various contacts on Cardassia, none of them names she recognized.

On impulse, she tried a search of Feylan's name. The system pulled up a single file. Unfortunately, it was encrypted. Grunting softly, she systematically went through everything she knew about Cardassian encryption, trying various codes. Her fingers flew over the terminal, and always she kept a sharp ear to the room behind her. Sweating as much from anxiety as heat, she thought, Come on. Come on! All those intercepted transmissions have to count toward something now. She had almost decided that she'd have to give it up that night when a much older code, one of the first she ever learned, worked. She inhaled sharply and bit her tongue to blood when she read exactly what the “tailor” had managed to gather on her former lover.

How? She thought numbly. How did he manage all of this? Who has he spoken to on Bajor? She didn't have to know Garak to know that he could completely ruin Feylan Pa'Ren's career, his very life, with what he had discovered. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did you provoke him? Why didn't you think? If she could take back her ham fisted power play in the infirmary, she'd do it a hundred times over. She raked a shaking hand through her still wet hair and pressed her lips to a thin line. What can I do now? She wondered.

She knew she had no choice but to try to contact Feylan. She had to warn him of what she had potentially unleashed upon him. Hopefully, he would have enough contacts and political clout to bury anything Garak tried to throw at him. She hastily composed a brief but informative message and sent it on an encrypted subspace channel. She then did everything that she could to erase any trace of her presence in Garak's system. She knew that if Bashir were really paying attention, he might notice that she had made an unauthorized use of her medical override code, but he had been so distracted lately with training drills for dealing with changeling infiltration that he probably wouldn't be combing computer usage records that thoroughly. It was a risk she had to take, and it would be easier to lie her way out of any inconvenience from breaking protocol than it would be to sit back and let Garak destroy the man she loved.

Nausea twisted her gut at the thought of having to climb back into bed with him. Her worst fear about him, her very worst fear, was true. All of this time that he had been engaging her company, he had been working to undo her, not directly, but in the worst possible way. Every smile, every caress concealed cold, determined malice. The sour taste of bile burned the back of her throat, and she lifted a hand to her mouth. Any worse than your trying to seduce him out of his justified rage? She asked herself. Yes, came the fierce response. Feylan is an innocent in this! And Doctor Bashir wasn't?

“Prophets,” she whispered aloud, squeezing back the burn of tears. She stood on shaking legs and tottered to the bedroom. The sight of him beneath the covers finished what her disturbing discovery started. She rushed to the bathroom just in time and fell to her knees on the cool floor, retching again and again.

She didn't hear him enter the bathroom and very nearly banged her head on the waste basin when she felt cool, dry hands gathering her hair and lifting it away from her face. She couldn't speak, taken over with dry heaves. Eventually, she slumped to the side, gasping and trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. “You shouldn't have pushed yourself tonight,” he said, his voice having an odd, disembodied quality in the near total darkness.

“I'm fine,” she rasped harshly. “I really think I should get back to my quarters, though. I've made enough of a mess here.”

“I'll help you,” he said.

“No!” She dug her nails into her palms to try to calm herself. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I just...I hate having anyone fuss over me when I'm ill. It's a nurse thing.”

“I understand,” he said. “Let me at least gather your clothing for you.”

“All right,” she said weakly. She stayed where she was while he retreated and rested her cheek against the wall. Did you really think you'd be able to persuade him not to seek vengeance? You couldn't keep Feylan with you, and he loved you. Kosst Cardassians! She wiped her eyes before the tears could fall.

She heard his footsteps approaching and hauled herself to her feet, accepting the press of clothing into her outstretched hands. He left her alone so that she could dress herself. When she left the bathroom, she saw that he had the lights pulled up dimly for her, and she found him wrapped in a robe and waiting for her in the sitting room. She forced herself not to look at his computer terminal. “I don't feel good about allowing you to walk back to your quarters alone,” he told her. “You look like you can barely keep your feet.”

“I'll make it, Garak,” she said. “I'm just sorry for leaving you a mess to clean up.” She had no idea how she could sound so normal speaking to him when all she wanted to do was to bash his head against a bulkhead until it split.

“I can hardly hold that against you,” he said, moving to walk her out. “I just hope that you feel better soon.”

“I'm sure I will,” she said, her voice sounding hollow in her ears. “Thank you. Good night.” She walked the corridor until it curved and took her out of sight of his door, and then she began to run. She knew it was futile. She couldn't outrun the disgust she felt for him or herself, and no amount of bathing would remove the taint of his touch.

Current Mood: sleepy
Current Music: Jai Uttal and Ben Leinbach, Prayer to Shakyamundi Buddha

Garak

Quark's Bar

Garak felt as though he had no choice but to get back to business and some semblance of routine. He resisted all impulses to contact Julian or try to arrange a lunch date. He had told him that he'd be there as much or as little as he wanted him. Since he had heard nothing, he assumed that was little indeed. Are you really surprised? he asked himself often. You brutalized him. You got what you wanted. He'll never trust you again.

Since the night he broke, he hadn't had another nightmare. He divided his time among work, researching the missing ships, and trying to socialize a bit. He noticed, somewhat uncomfortably, that there seemed to be a bit of a divide over the breakup. Dax and O'Brien circled the wagons around Julian, while Odo and oddly Kira seemed friendlier toward him. As he made his way to the bar, he pondered this oddity. It was the first time he could bring himself to go anywhere public outside of work besides the Replimat. Morn kept shooting him strange looks, and Quark avoided him, shoving Rom in his direction instead to serve him. That cinched it for him. Something strange was going on, and somehow it involved him. “Rom?” he asked archly.

Rom shot a dirty look at his brother and plastered on a false smile for Garak. “What can I get you tonight? Kanar?”

“That would be a good start,” he said evenly. “And then perhaps you'd like to tell me why Morn seems to think I'm about to start a bar fight, and Quark is avoiding me.”

Rom poured the blue liquor and set it before him. “No,” he said, disconsolately. “I wouldn't like to tell you, but...I will.” He shot a significant look toward a dark corner of the bar. Garak twisted himself to look, only to see Julian sitting at a small table with one of the dabo girls he had seen a few times, a red headed Bajoran whom he had always thought seemed just a little vacuous. He chuffed a soft exhale and turned back toward Rom. “You're aware that Julian and I are no longer together,” he said reasonably. “It doesn't matter to me what he does with his time now.”

Instead of looking reassured, Rom seemed more troubled. “Then you don't know.”

Garak spread his hands. “Apparently not. Enlighten me?”

The Ferengi shot another look toward the doctor and his companion, a resentful look. “That started before you broke up,” he said.

Garak's look took on a fixed quality. “Oh?” he said softly. Things suddenly made so much more sense, Julian's strange behavior in the stock room, his tardiness for their talk. He had been played. As much as it stung his pride to admit it to himself, it was the most likely explanation for the abruptness of the break up and the way it had been handled. Julian had somebody else lined up to replace him, a less complicated option. His rage went immediately cold. Unfortunately, that was when he was at his most ruthless.

Rom nodded. “If you ask me, it's not right. Bad enough that he didn't have the decency to wait before breaking things off with you, but now he's just flaunting it openly without any care about who sees or not.”

He couldn't be sure, but it seemed to him that there was something beyond anger on his behalf in Rom's reaction. That would bear closer examination later on, but not yet. He turned his kanar glass in his hand and took a deliberate swallow, offering Rom a cold, reptilian smile. “Then it would seem that I am very fortunate he decided to leave,” he said. “Who needs such fickleness in his life?”

“Garak,” Rom said in a warning tone, “you're not going to hurt him are you? He's not worth it.”

“My dear friend, that is precisely what I am going to do,” he said quietly. “Only not in the way you seem to think. Give me a little credit, please.”

“No credit,” Rom said automatically, then gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Sorry, habit. What are you going to do?”

“You'll see,” he said, polishing off the kanar and setting the glass on the bar top neatly. “Now, that doesn't explain Morn's or your brother's behavior.”

Rom looked uncomfortable. “He has a betting pool about whether you're going to kill the doctor or not when you find out.”

Garak set his payment on the bar and walked down the length of it to where Morn sat and Quark tried to appear as though he weren't hiding. “I'd like to lay a wager,” Garak said to Quark, “that you are going to pay me every strip of latinum you've collected on the bet that I would kill Doctor Bashir.”

“Or?” Quark asked carefully. Garak graced him with the look that took less than four hours to reduce a Cardassian doctor to a quivering mass of nerves. It took less than two minutes for Quark to retreat to the back and return with a sizable sack. “Here,” he said, “take it with my sincere apologies.”

“Give me your tally sheet,” Garak said.

“Wh-what?” The bartender looked startled.

“You expect me to take your word that this is all of it?” the tailor asked. “I do hope for your sake that the figures match when I take this home with me to count it.”

Quark quickly snatched the sack back. “I don't know what I was thinking, giving you this ugly old thing,” he said, backing away. “You're a man of taste and discernment. Let me get you something more fitting for your latinum while I fetch that sheet.”

Morn eyed Garak appreciatively and chuckled. Polishing off his drink, the Lurian stood and casually walked away. Perhaps he sensed the danger of Garak's current mood, or perhaps he genuinely had elsewhere to be. It didn't matter to Garak. Quark returned with a nice case and an envelope. “This is better,” he said. “Please, keep the case with my compliments.”

“I trust I don't have to ask that you never start another betting pool revolving around my personal life,” Garak said mildly.

“Noooo. No,” Quark said with a nervous laugh. “I honestly don't know what I was thinking, and you know, I feel a little guilty, seeing as how it's one of my employees who behaved so shamefully.”

“Quark,” Garak said, reaching to pat his shoulder. The Ferengi flinched under his touch. “We both know you don't hire your dabo girls for their enormous...brains.” He left the bar then, making a point of catching Julian's eye and nodding cordially to him.

He had to wait a few days for his opportunity to set his plan in motion. The arrival of one of Starfleet's most prestigious flagships gave him what he wanted, the doctor out of the infirmary for official meeting and greeting. He retreated to his stock room for privacy, steeled himself, and punched his back wall hard enough to break several bones in his hand. Nothing like a little pain to clear the head, he thought grimly, carefully cradling the damaged appendage against his chest and walking down to the infirmary.

Nurse Decla looked up from a terminal, opening her mouth and then shutting it again when she saw his bloody knuckles. A few of the other employees glanced at her, but she shook her head as though to indicate she'd deal with him. “You had better come to the back,” she said. Inclining his head, he followed behind her. His hand throbbed and ached, already beginning to swell and discolor. He sat on the bed she indicated and obediently held his hand out for her to examine when she reached for it. “What happened?” she asked, running a tricorder over it.

“I slipped and fell,” he said smoothly.

She snorted. “You and the doctor are quite the accident prone pair.” She paused a masterful beat before adding, “Or rather, not a pair anymore, I should say.” He bit down on his tongue while she shifted the bones back into place and reached for an instrument to mend them. “Let me guess. When you heard that this Doctor Lense that he can't stop talking about was actually here, on top of his new dabo girl interest, you lost control, just as you did the night you brought him here for treatment of a concussion.”

“You have quite an imagination,” he said with a bland smile.

“I don't need an imagination to know that Cardassians have a temper, Mr. Garak,” she said. “What did you punch?”

He dropped his gaze. “A wall,” he murmured.

She tsked her tongue. “While I can sympathize with you, being abandoned for another, I really can't condone such childish behavior. I would've thought someone like you above punching walls.”

“I'm sure you do sympathize,” he said, “considering you went through it yourself with that Gul of yours. Did he talk to you about his family before he left, or did he leave you to figure it out for yourself after he was gone?”

She glanced up at him from her work on his hand, a complex look beneath the surface irritation. “Make a fist for me,” she said. He did so, blood oozing from his split knuckles. She took another reading and reached for a sanitary cloth to clean his hand, then the dermal regenerator.

“What did you do when he left?” he asked casually. “Your reaction. Is that why you married?”

“Don't push your luck,” she said coolly.

He smiled slightly. “I thought we were simply making conversation. You set the tone at the outset with the personal questions. Was I mistaken in following your lead?”

“You weren't so quick to follow my lead before,” she pointed out, keeping her eyes on her work.

His smile inched wider, his gaze hooded over her bent head. “Come now. We're back to that? Are you actually going to hold it against me that I didn't want to cheat on my lover or allow you to hurt him?”

“I imagine you feel rather foolish now,” she said brusquely, setting aside the regenerator once his hand looked normal again. The fine new scales gleamed with a slight, opalescent sheen. “Wasting your consideration on someone who didn't deserve it.”

“No,” he said, “I don't. At the time, I didn't know he didn't deserve it.” He met her gaze and held it. “Any more than I deserved what you did to me after his attack.” Her cheeks colored faintly. “What was that really about?” he asked. “The more I've thought about it, the more I've come to believe it couldn't have been about me. We were hardly close, and while rejection stings, you also had to know I wasn't rejecting you personally but situationally. It was about your other Cardassian, wasn't it? Just like you Bajorans,” he added more softly, allowing bitterness into his voice. “You see one Cardassian, you see them all.”

“You have some nerve throwing accusations,” she said, her green eyes hardening. “I've done some thinking, too, Mr. Garak. You were here for part of the occupation. I'm not stupid enough to believe you were a tailor. Your fight and drive during your physical therapy disabused me of that notion permanently. You know we have good reasons to feel the way we do.”

“And yet, not only did you take one—a dangerous one—for a lover, you were ready to take another. You're quite the bundle of contradictions, Nurse Decla,” he said. “Or is it about power? The Gul your prisoner, my position less than...optimal...” He curved his smile to a more knowing line. “It can be a rush, can't it, exerting control over those you see as powerful?” Her cheeks colored more deeply. He knew he was hitting close to truth if not directly on it. She wasn't offering heated denial yet. He extended another barb. “Humiliating them?”

“How dare you?” she asked, clenching her fists.

There, he thought, tilting his head quizzically. “I'm sorry?” he asked.

“I'm nothing like you,” she said. “I loved him, and I won't let you sully that with your disgusting innuendo. I've healed your hand. It's time for you to go.” She stepped back to give him room to stand.

He did so, deliberately invading her space just a touch more than was appropriate. “It's understandable,” he said. “You're right. I do know what some of my people were responsible for. No one could reasonably hold it against you for wanting to get back a little of your own, regardless of the appropriateness of your targets.”

“Is that what you're trying to do?” she countered, refusing to retreat even though he could tell she wasn't comfortable with his proximity. “Get back a little of your own? How stupid would I have to be not to see this as your way of trying to get at Bashir?”

He tipped his head back and laughed. “Yes, I broke my own hand to get at Julian.” Mirth danced in his eyes. “As I've said, you have an active imagination. So tell me, what should be my encore? A broken leg? Dislocated shoulder? If I specifically wanted to see you, I could've caught you unawares in any number of places without going through such trouble and pain. Do you honestly believe I keep track of your work schedule?” He eyed her with faint contempt.

Muscle leaped beneath the thin skin of her jaw as it clenched. “No, I suppose you're right,” she said tightly. “You Cardassians are opportunists. You didn't have to plan coming in here to try to dig at me.” She turned. He noticed she didn't fully turn her back on him, keeping him within her line of sight and creating some distance between them. “I suppose you think I deserve it. Of course, you'd think it was malice that guided my hand with your infirmary visitation.”

“Of course,” he agreed, positively fascinated with where she was taking this. She was good. Her expression matched what she was saying and how she was saying it. There was just too much anxiety, though. Her pulse gave her away.

“Computer, close examination room one door,” she said, turning to face him again. “How do you think my staff would have reacted had I granted you unchallenged access to the doctor?” she asked.

“They're your staff,” he said, being deliberately obtuse. “It shouldn't matter what they think.”

She gave an impatient gesture. “How very Cardassian of you. I can't fire them or have them hauled away for disliking me or disapproving of my actions. I have to maintain a cooperative work environment. Believe me. They could make my life and the running of this infirmary a difficult hell if they wanted.”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “So it was fear of your staff,” he said. “You. Afraid of your staff.” He laughed again. “I never knew how very amusing you could be.”

“Laugh if you like,” she said, sounding annoyed. “It's not just concern over the work environment, but over how they would feel. I don't know how much the doctor shielded you from this or not, but he suffered quite a bit of difficulty in this facility due to his relationship with you. Had I showed some sort of favoritism, too, we could have had some resignations. With the Dominion threat, it is getting harder to fill any sort of staffing position on this station. I don't know about you, but I don't consider infirmary staff expendable with us sitting right on the gateway to the Gamma Quadrant.”

He invaded her space again, more aggressively this time. He watched her breath rate increase, her nostrils flare slightly. “It all sounds so very reasonable,” he said softly, “except for one problem.”

“What's that?” she asked, her eyes wide, pupils contracted.

“You're afraid right now. Of me.”

“That's ridiculous,” she asserted lifting her chin defiantly. “I would have security in here on top of you before you could finish lifting your hand.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Not of violence. It's something else.”

She swallowed, and before he knew what she was doing, she launched herself against him, wrapping her arms tightly at his neck and kissing him forcefully. It took everything he had not to chortle. That wouldn't do, though. It would spoil the game. He pulled his head back, only to have her tangle her fingers deeply into his hair and draw him back down to her. Slowly, he raised his arms, pressed his hands to her back, let her believe he was surrendering to her charms. Her heart was hammering, yes, so hard that he could feel it through his hands, but her pupils were almost pinpoints. Whatever this was, it wasn't arousal. When she broke the kiss, she whispered, “I've wanted to do that for such a long time. If you thought I was afraid, it was only that you'd reject me again.” Slipping her hands lower, she trailed long, slender fingers over the sensitive ridges of his neck.

He didn't have to feign a physical response to that. He hissed an inhale through his nostrils. “Are you sure it wasn't fear that I wouldn't reject this?” he asked.

“I don't do anything I don't want to, Garak,” she said low.

He didn't doubt that, although he wouldn't put it past her to use an undesirable means to an end, even extreme means. Very well, he thought. We'll play this game your way for now. Either way it worked for him and his own designs. If she believed that she could seduce her way out of his grudge, let her. It would be all the more entertaining when the hammer dropped.

“You're serious about this?” he asked, stepping back from her.

She nodded and smiled tentatively. “I am. If it's too soon for you, I understand.” She gave a soft, uncomfortable laugh. “I can't believe I just did that at work.”

“No, it's not too soon,” he said, allowing a touch of wounded pride into his voice. “If Julian can move on so quickly, why shouldn't I?”

Her expression fell for a split second. He wondered if another Bajoran would have even noticed it. “Well, good,” she said. “So, what do we do now?”

“Nothing now,” he said, giving a glance about the exam room. “You told me once you don't mix work and pleasure, and it's a very good policy. How about dinner tonight at Quark's, and then we can see where it goes from there?”

“You're sure?” she asked. “I would hate for this to be what the Terrans call a rebound.”

“What an odd word,” he said. “Do you know what it means?”

“Not precisely,” she said. “All I know for certain is that they use it in reference to a relationship that starts as a result of a breakup.”

“Do you believe I had no interest before now?” he asked.

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I could tell that you did.” She nodded then and slid a hand down his arm, tangling her index and middle fingers with his. “I'm...glad we're putting all that ugliness behind us,” she said. “I didn't enjoy it.”

She lies so beautifully, he thought with true enjoyment. “So am I,” he said. “Meet me at Quark's at 2000?”

“All right,” she said. “How should I dress?”

“Wear that red dress of yours. It's very flattering,” he said with a smile. This couldn't have possibly gone better. He had no idea she'd play into his hands the way that she did, thinking it was going to be much harder. Of course, he imagined he would actually have to seduce her and that it would've taken several separate encounters over the next few weeks. It never occurred to him she would take the same tact, just for a different reason. As he left the infirmary, he reflected that she must have loved that Gul very, very much. Even now, she was trying to protect him. He was almost certain of it.

Julian

Quark's Bar

He couldn't believe it. Doctor Elizabeth Lense, his main rival all throughout medical school, just walked right past him as though she didn't even see him, talking and laughing with her crew mates from the Lexington. He felt as though he had just been slapped hard across the face; all of that worry, all of his preparations so that when they finally met and conversed she wouldn't think him an idiot was for nothing, because she thought she was too good even to acknowledge him. He glanced back at Miles, still seated at the table they had shared while waiting for him to find an opening, and the man shrugged, looking puzzled.

He retook his seat, and when Quark came by to deliver more drinks, he glared hard at him, daring him to taunt him again about the woman. Seemingly sensing he was in no mood for it, Quark just set the drinks down and hurried away. He didn't even want to look over at Morn, not wanting to face the Lurian's leer. How could anyone who looked like that get the women he did? It was one of the mysteries of the universe, and in this very moment, the mystery pissed him off. Miles opened his mouth to speak. “I don't want to hear it,” the doctor snarled, downing half of his ale in one swallow.

“Bloody hell,” Miles muttered, glancing toward the door.

“What?” he asked, starting to turn.

The Chief took him by his shoulder to stop him. “Nothin',” he said, going for nonchalance and failing.

“Like hell, Miles,” he said, shrugging him off to turn. He couldn't believe it. Garak, dressed to the nines in one of Julian's favorite tunics, the one with rust chevrons, escorted Nurse Decla into the bar. The woman was stunning in a red gown that bared her shoulders and a tasteful amount of her ample cleavage. She had her hair down and was leaning quite familiarly on Garak's arm. He wondered if this day could possibly get any worse or more surreal as they moved toward the stairs to claim a table on the balcony. He looked away quickly before either of them could catch him staring. “Is this another hallucination?” he grumbled.

Miles snorted. “He's only doin' it to get under your skin. You know that, right?”

“You have no idea how true that probably is,” Julian said sourly, but he refused to explain further. He felt his attention drawn toward them like lodestone to iron. It was time to get out of there before he made a scene. It wasn't jealousy, he told himself, at least not precisely. How could Garak ever allow himself to spend time socially with a woman who had done everything in her power to hurt him when she had the chance? Didn't he know the woman could be dangerous?

He knew that Garak had spotted him talking to Leeta. Was that also why Odo and Kira both seemed a little distant lately? Did they believe the rumor that he had dumped Garak so that he could date Leeta? They weren't even dating, just talking occasionally, and who were either of them to judge? They had no idea what Garak had done to him! Was that a dirty look Rom just shot him? Rom? Now you're getting paranoid, he told himself.

“Julian?” Miles shook his shoulder. “You all right?”

“Not really. Can we get out of here and get drunk?” he asked.

“Music to my ears,” the engineer said with a chuckle and stood.

He told himself not to, but he couldn't stop himself. As he stood, he looked up to the balcony. At that angle, he could barely see their faces. They were awfully close to one another for that to be an act, and anyway, he reflected, even if Garak was just doing this to try to hurt him, how in the hell would he manage to get a woman who hated him as much as she did to go along with him for it? That part didn't make sense at all. I hope you know what you're doing, he thought, genuinely worried beneath his snark.

He followed Miles to his quarters, the two of them wasting no time breaking into the booze and starting the drink fest. “You know,” he said, downing a shot of scotch, “I really need to start contributing to the Miles O'Brien private bar fund,” he said, “as often as we wind up doing this.”

“You're more 'n welcome to,” Miles said. “I won't complain, though Keiko might when she gets back.”

“That's going to be a little strange for you, isn't it?” Julian asked.

Miles shrugged. “It won't be so bad. I miss her 'n Molly. We won't have as much time together, though, you 'n me.”

“I know,” he said glumly, just one more thing to go wrong lately. The truth was that he missed Garak, much more than he had thought he would. The only reason he hadn't called him to set up a lunch date was because he wanted to give him some time and space to get over the break up. Looks like he's well on the way to that, he thought angrily. Maybe he had given him too much space?

He shook himself out of the thoughts. He was only pissing himself off, and what could he do about it? March back there and ask the two of them what they thought they were doing? Miles started to sing, and he quickly joined in, a song he had always loved. This was much better than discussing literature and being insulted over his tastes, right? If only Miles liked theater. His thoughts were all over the place, going back to Elizabeth Lense and his snubbing. Why would she do such a thing? What had he ever done to her? Hell, he had thrown that exam, thrown it, just so no one would suspect his secret. It galled. It galled worse because he could never tell her that he had given her first place, handed it right over because his parents warned him what would happen if he was too visible, not just to him but to all of them.

He scoffed at Miles' theory that the woman was in love with him and felt slightly stung at his assertion that people either loved him or hated him. Was that true? If it was, what would happen when Garak decided he didn't love him, if he hadn't already decided it? How could the tailor believe for an instant that he had started a relationship behind his back? Didn't he know him better than that?

He tuned back in to what Miles was saying, having to smile at two assertions that he quite definitely no longer hated him but his inability to say that he loved him. He kept up his outward cheer, started singing with him again, and privately thought how odd it was that at first Garak had been the one unable to tell him that he loved him, now Miles. Of course, Miles meant it in a different way. He thought back further to his mother, his father. “I love you,” wasn't a common declaration in the Bashir household. Had they said it to him once since he discovered his secret? Maybe people sense something, he thought gravely. Something about me that pushes them away, makes them careful.

He realized that Miles was no longer singing and was looking at him strangely. He plastered on a goofy smile. “What?” he asked, exaggerating his own drunkenness.

“I don't know,” the man said. “You just looked so sad just now. That whole Garak/Nurse Decla thing really got under your skin, didn't it?”

“I suppose so,” he said. It wasn't entirely a lie. Almost none of his lies ever were. They all had a kernel of truth. It was the only way he could ever be convincing with them.

“People move on,” he said. “You've been moving on. Why shouldn't Garak?”

“It's not the same,” he said, staring into his scotch glass. “I like Leeta. She's nice, and I think maybe I would like to date her at some point. I'm not doing it to hurt Garak or even to move past him. Nurse Decla...God, Miles, she tried to keep Garak from seeing me when everyone thought I was dying, and he's content just to set that aside and pretend it didn't happen so he can piss me off? It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense that she'd help him. She hates him!”

“Maybe she doesn't hate him as much as you think she does,” he suggested. “A woman scorned, that sort of thing.”

“Maybe,” he said, his brow furrowing. He looked up suddenly. “Why can't you say it?” he asked.

The engineer blinked in confusion. “You lost me there,” he said, tipping back the rest of his scotch.

“You said people either love me or hate me,” he said plaintively. “But all you can say is you don't hate me.”

O'Brien opened his mouth and shut it a few times, looking like a gasping fish. “Well, you know,” he said, flushing at the cheeks and ears.

“No,” Julian said. “I don't know. Tell me.”

The Chief grunted and deftly plucked Julian's glass out of his hand. “I think you've had enough,” he said firmly.

“Garak couldn't say it either,” he said softly, looking at the shiny toes of his boots. “Not for the longest time. When he finally did, I left him less than three weeks later. What does that say about me?”

“Nothin',” Miles said gruffly. “It says things didn't work out. That's not all on you; it's not all on him.”

“What does it say about me that my best friend can't tell me he loves me?” he pressed, raising his gaze to meet the concerned hazel eyes.

Miles' redness deepened. “Nothin',” he said more forcefully. “Jaysus, Julian, is it really that important to you?”

He shook his head, forcing a mischievous grin. “You should've seen your face.”

“Very funny,” the man said, exasperated. “You really had me goin' there for a minute. Don't do that t' me, not when I've had this much t' drink. You want some more?” he asked.

Julian nodded and accepted the refilled glass. He believed that he understood, at least where Miles was concerned. The man did love him, but not just as a friend, not the way he loved Miles. Why else flush, hem and haw, and act so relieved when he let him off the hook? He closed his eyes as he downed the burning drink. How had his life gotten so screwed up in such a short amount of time? “I ought to go,” he said, setting the shot glass on the coffee table.

“You sure? You're pretty gone,” Miles said. “No need to go staggerin' off when you can sleep here.”

“I'm sure,” he said, patting his arm. “I want to get up early so I can confront Doctor Lense before she leaves, and I don't think I'm the best company at the moment.”

“All right,” he said, his disappointment plain in bluff features. “You know I don't expect you t' be perfect company.”

“I know,” he said, smiling faintly. “It's one of the things I...don't hate about you.”

Miles grinned and struggled to stand at the same time he did. The engineer pulled him into a hearty embrace, clapping him on the back and letting him go. “You need anythin', you let me know.”

“I will,” he said. “Thank you, Miles.” Once out in the corridor, he lifted a hand to his mouth. Had he done something to encourage that? He imagined his friend must feel torn in two given the fact that he was married and had a child. He determined that he would be careful, never do or say anything to make things worse. It was the least he could do. Why was it that the people in his life that he did want to love him that way found it so hard, and yet the one person he would least want to see him in that light apparently couldn't help himself?

Instead of heading for his quarters, he made the ill advised decision to return to Quark's Bar. He didn't expect to find Garak or Elizabeth there, yet a perverse part of him hoped that he would. If he found the former, he wanted to see if he was still bothering with his act when his main target had left. If he found the latter, he wanted to ask her who in the hell she thought she was to treat him that way. In his state, both options seemed eminently reasonable.

The crowd around the dabo table was a lively one. A flash of red drew his attention. He angled closer through the press. Yes, it was Nurse Decla, playing dabo. Garak stood by her side, obviously a spectator, not a player, but his hand rested possessively at the small of her back. It was as though his entire world reduced to that sight, a gray hand against a snug red dress, more demonstrative with her in one outing than he had been with Julian for months of dating.

In a split second, he made the decision to confront him. He hadn't gotten five steps before he found himself stopped by a tight hand to his elbow. Whirling to see who had grabbed him, he looked down at Rom. “What are you doing?” he asked the waiter.

“What are you doing?” Rom retorted, glaring at him more heatedly than he had ever seen. He wouldn't have ever suspected him of such fierce emotion.

He made an exasperated sound and tried to shake himself free of the clasp. “What I'm doing is none of your business,” he said. “You had best let me go.”

“Look at him,” Rom hissed, dragging him through the crowd for a different view. “Smiling. Happy. Haven't you done enough? Leave him alone for once!”

His head spun. The crowd seemed entirely too loud. He couldn't deny what he was seeing. The tailor did look relaxed, and he was smiling, particularly when Decla suddenly declared, “Dabo!”, took her money, and threw both arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. She declined another spin, and the two disappeared from his view in the milling throng, only to re-emerge closer to the bar. He had to get out of there. Rom released him as soon as he realized he was heading for the door and not Garak and Decla.

The rest of the Promenade was empty. He suddenly felt too sick to try to go to his quarters. He'd be lucky if he made it to the infirmary without disgorging the contents of his stomach. As he staggered through the door, he waved off help, going to the back and injecting himself with an anti-intoxicant. Gradually, his disorientation and illness faded, but not his hurt and confusion. What if he was being arrogant? Wasn't it possible this wasn't about him at all? Garak had said when they were still together that he had found the woman interesting. Now that he was free to pursue the interest, why did it have to be more complicated than that? “You need to get over yourself,” he said. “He was gracious when he saw you with Leeta. You need to be gracious.” A small part of him he rarely gave voice protested this strongly. But I don't want to!

Want it or not, he knew this was something he'd have to get used to. Decla wasn't going anywhere, and neither was Garak. Maybe he should invite him to lunch soon, start acting like the adult he kept insisting that people treat him as. He walked back to his quarters deep in thought. His maturity lasted for all of the walk, giving in to another bout of drinking and self pity, and ending with him lying flat on his stomach in bed in his full uniform and drooling on his pillow from passing out. Learning the next day that Doctor Lense mistakenly thought he was an Andorian and was actually quite a nice woman once she realized who he was seemed almost anticlimactic to him after all of his deep worry about her. He wished that things with Garak could resolve that simply, but he knew that was asking way too much.

Garak

Habitat Ring Two

Feeling very satisfied with himself, Garak graciously walked Decla, Lisane, he reminded himself, back toward her quarters. She had been everything he could have possibly hoped for at the bar. He had seen Julian's face when they entered and had taken mean delight in how perfectly his expression mirrored how Garak had felt when Rom told him of his betrayal. Not so much fun when the kicking boot is on another foot, is it? he had thought. Not surprisingly the doctor didn't stay, escorted out by his pet engineer. He wondered if Julian knew that the man's affections were somewhat more than they seemed. It amused him overly much to think that he didn't, and that O'Brien would follow him like a lovesick pup for an indefinite time. The racist engineer's dislike of him was thoroughly mutual.

After Julian departed, he had turned his attention toward his companion. Ironically, she was excellent company, intelligent, sharp witted, incisively humorous. It was a real shame that she had so thoroughly gotten on his bad side. Otherwise, he would've enjoyed her for entirely different reasons.

“You're very quiet,” she said, squeezing his arm with her hands and leaning closer as they walked.

“Just reflecting on the evening,” he said amiably. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I didn't expect I would enjoy myself nearly as much as I did.”

“That makes two of us,” she said with a soft laugh. “I've never played dabo before, just watched.”

“You were smart about it,” he said.

“Oh?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Yes. You knew when to quit.” Too bad the same couldn't be said of your infirmary game, he thought, keeping his features carefully bland and pleasant.

They stepped up to her door. “Here we are,” she said unnecessarily. He noticed her pulse quickening and glanced at the wide-set green eyes. Her pupils were small. Fear. Again.

There was a time not so long ago in his past that he might have found that stimulating as well as satisfying. Now, he had to settle for satisfying. “Yes, we are,” he said, covering one of her pale hands on his arm with his own. Her skin was hotter than Julian's, the Bajoran metabolism slightly faster.

She lowered her lashes, shadowing the upper curve of her cheeks. “Do you...want to come inside?” she asked.

He knew she would let him if he pressed the issue and that it would likely take them some pleasurable places, except for the fact that he wasn't interested in bedding a terrified woman, no matter how much he disliked her. That didn't mean he couldn't make her squirm a little. “Do you want me to?” he asked, settling a finger beneath her chin and encouraging her to meet his gaze with light upward pressure.

Her breath caught. He saw her internal struggle to hold his gaze, a losing battle as she looked swiftly to the side. “I'm not sure I'm...ready for that,” she said.

He was quite sure she wasn't. “That's all right, Lisane,” he said in his most understanding tone. “Just going out and having an enjoyable dinner was nice for me. I wasn't expecting more.”

She relaxed slightly and licked dry lips. “Thank you, Garak,” she said. “I ought to confess something to you,” she said hesitantly.

He smiled inwardly. These little acts of hers were growing more entertaining with each passing interlude. “Yes?” he asked, all innocent curiosity.

“I'm half afraid that you're just...biding your time to do something awful to me. I haven't met many Cardassians willing to forgo grudges.”

It was an interesting tactic, he thought, telling him the truth with a false motive. “That's funny,” he said. “I've been thinking the same all night, what it is you really want with me.” Two could play that game.

She curved a smile and looked away, her chin lifting. “I'm attracted to you, more than I should be,” she said. “As I told you before, there's much in you that reminds me of my old lover.”

“So it's nostalgia?” he all but purred the word, dropping into intimate tones.

Her pupils widened slightly before contracting again. He'd have to remember that, that she responded well to audial stimulus. As it wasn't a Cardassian strength, he often forgot that other races were different. “Perhaps a bit,” she murmured. “I probably should get to bed,” she said, taking a step back from him toward her door. She looked genuinely disconcerted beneath her veneer of calm.

“As should I,” he said in that same tone of voice. Faint color blushed across her chest and cheeks. He smiled, stepping back instead of forward, and inclined his head deeply, maintaining eye contact. “Good night, Lisane.”

“Good night,” she said, waiting for him to begin walking away before turning her back to punch in her door code.

He heard the hiss of the door opening, her footsteps darting across the threshold, and another hiss as it closed behind her. He smiled to himself, taking his time in his stroll for the turbolift. She did feel some genuine attraction, and it bothered her. Good, he thought. Can't have you enjoying this game too much. He had a lot of work to do if he intended to bring his plans for her to full fruition. As far as he was concerned, he had already extracted his pound of flesh from Julian. The young man was a victim of his own nature and youth, but this Bajoran woman had no such excuses. The simple fact of the matter was that she had managed to hurt him, deeply, and now? Now she would pay for it.

The End

Current Mood: cold
Current Music: Pilotdrift, Comets

Julian

Quark's Bar

Julian knew that he ought to head to Garak's. His third ale into his bar sitting, he still hadn't made the move. Leeta wasn't anywhere to be seen, either already off shift or perhaps occupied at some private party Quark occasionally hosted in one of the back rooms. Dax saw him and approached, taking a seat on the stool beside him. “So,” she said, leaning in to bump her shoulder against his, “spill.”

“Spill what?” he asked, taking a swig of the ale.

“Why were you so eager to get rid of me last night?” she asked.

He knew he'd have to face that question sooner or later. He tried his best to be casual. “I don't know. I suppose I was just enjoying her company, and I wouldn't have been as able to get to know her with somebody else at the table.”

“You were flirting,” she said.

“There's nothing wrong with flirting,” he said defensively.

“You're right. There's not,” she said entirely too agreeably for him to trust it. Her next words confirmed his suspicion. “At least if your relationship is secure, and you both have an understanding that it's no big deal. What do you think Garak would say if he saw you flirting with a dabo girl?”

“Quark seems to think he'd break my neck,” he said glumly.

Dax's eyes flashed. He could tell she was still angry about what he had told her. “He had better not even think about it,” she said. “Still, if it made him angry, don't you think that would be reasonable under the circumstances?”

“Probably,” he said, polishing off his ale. “As much as I appreciate what you're trying to do, I'd just as soon not talk about it. This is something I need to work out for myself.”

“Fine,” she said, signaling Quark and ordering a colorful drink Julian wasn't even sure he could pronounce properly. “Why don't we talk about something else, like Doctor Lense? You must be excited about seeing your old school mate.”

“Just thrilled,” he said flatly. “I just recalled that I promised Garak we'd talk about something important tonight. I had best get to it.” As he slid from his barstool, he thought he caught a flash of a knowing smile from her and wondered if driving him back to Garak's hadn't been her intention from the start.

He chimed the Cardassian's door three times. He was about to ask the computer for Garak's whereabouts when a very distracted sounding, “Enter,” had the door sliding open to admit him.

He felt bad when he saw dinner sitting out, some of the sauce congealed in a very unappetizing way. Garak barely acknowledged him, tapping away at his comm with an intensity he hadn't seen in him since before the raid. Curious but unwilling to interrupt his concentration, instead he cleaned up the cold food and replicated himself some hot. “I'm sorry I'm late,” he said. “I had a late patient.”

The tapping stopped, and Garak twisted to eye him reproachfully. “If you're going to lie, it ought to be something I can't easily verify. I already checked with the infirmary over an hour ago.” To Julian's surprise, he turned back to his comm and began the typing again instead of pressing the point.

“You're not angry with me for lying?” he asked.

“I'm irritated that you didn't even put any effort in it to be creative,” he said airily. “If it matters that little to you, you may as well have told the truth.”

“I was at Quark's, having a few drinks,” he said, suddenly not very hungry anymore. “What are you doing?”

“Just a little research into the latest fashions on Risa,” the tailor replied. “They do set summer trends for a large portion of the quadrant.”

“I don't believe you,” he said, pushing his plate away and standing to approach him.

“Mm,” Garak said, hitting a couple of display buttons and shutting the entire screen down. “That's a pity. There was a particularly daring shirt that would suit your frame perfectly.”

“I think we should take a break,” he said, surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth.

Garak stood and turned to face him. “I thought we already tried that,” he said. “It lasted four days. We had three amazing days after that, and then things got awkward and stayed that way. Admittedly, lunch was pleasurable today, but only for as long as we weren't talking.”

Feeling a little light headed, he said, “I mean a break from the relationship entirely.”

“For how long?” the tailor asked, his eyes hooding.

Julian sighed. It was so hard to talk to him when he shut down like that. “I don't know,” he said honestly. “I just need some time to think about things. You'll be glad to know that the document I filed isn't official without your signature. You're not bound to me in some uncomfortable way.”

“I'll be happy to know that, will I?” Garak asked. “Funny, Doctor, I'm not the one proposing a break. You are, so why would I be happy?”

“You didn't seem happy with the idea of doing it in the first place; career suicide you called it, if I recall correctly,” he said, folding his arms.

“Yet I agreed, to make you happy. So, you don't know how long you want this supposed break. Can you at least tell me to what end? Do I cloud your thinking so terribly that you simply can't do it if we're together?”

“Truthfully? Yes, you do. There are times you start talking, and I no longer know up from down or left from right. I know you've been trying to protect me since that night. It's not making things any better. It's making them worse. I don't want some bland, safe yes man to cater to my every whim and desire, agree with my every statement, and back off at my first sign of discomfort. I didn't fall in love with that man. I fell in love with you,” he said.

Garak made a soft sound that may have been frustration or something more complicated and closed his eyes briefly. “I don't know what you fell in love with, Julian, but it most surely wasn't me,” he said heavily. “I think we've established that beyond any doubt.”

“You expect me to believe that the violence is more real than anything else you've shown me?” he asked, incredulous.

“No,” he said. “But there's no pleasing you. I'm too rough or not rough enough. I keep too many secrets, but when I tell you the truth, it's not the truth you want to hear. I'm too accommodating or annoyingly contrary. I've tried my best to find the middle ground, but there is none with you. We're not just speaking different languages. Our very thoughts and emotions travel in completely different channels. We couldn't be less compatible if one of us were Vulcan and the other Andorian.”

“You really believe that, that I'm the one never satisfied?” he asked.

Garak nodded. “So why don't we be truthful this once? Calling this a 'break' is insulting to my intelligence. You want to leave. After everything I've put you through, I can hardly blame you. Actually, I'm relieved.”

“Relieved?” Julian asked, frowning deeply.

“Yes, relieved,” the tailor answered. “When I decided to give us another chance, I told myself that come what may, I wouldn't do that to you again. I wouldn't be the one to break it off, no matter how bad it might get. I let myself believe that if I allowed myself to love you, we'd bridge the large divide put between us by our respective cultures. It was naïve of me, which goes to show, I suppose, that one is never too old to be naïve.”

“You're such a liar,” he said to him, feeling his throat constrict, “and you're breaking my heart. Stop it. You don't want this. Say you don't want it.”

“Why? So you can throw it back in my face and walk out that door anyway? I think not,” he scoffed. “If you want revenge, you'll have to be more subtle than that.”

“This isn't about revenge! God, you're doing it again, and I'm walking right into it,” he said, feeling disgusted with himself. He stepped closer to him. “Do you get that I'm telling you I'm about to walk out that door, and when I do, we're done?”

“Yes, dear, you made that quite clear,” Garak said, his eyes glittering.

“And you expect me to believe that's what you really want?” he asked.

Garak drew in a deep breath and let it out. He finished closing the distance between them, and to the doctor's surprise, he wrapped his arms loosely about his waist. “So I beg you to stay,” he said softly, his expression almost as gentle as when he was making love to him, “and I know you will, for a while at least. You never could bear to see me in pain. We'll continue this deteriorating cycle, fuck each other senseless, and sooner or later wake up to realize we hate each other, except when we're fucking, perhaps even then, and we'll lie to ourselves and call it passion.”

He wanted to deny it, but the words froze before ever reaching his lips. Those eyes had never looked so blue, or so sad. He couldn't look away if he tried. Lifting his hands, he rested them against the deep chest and felt the slow, steady heartbeat strong beneath the tunic. He couldn't recall his lover ever using such crude language, even in the heat of passion. The tailor was more often than not elegant and refined. He didn't know what to say.

“I'd sooner have it end this way, while we still love each other, than when it gets to that point, and I believe that you would, too. Lie to me all you like, my darling, but please don't lie to yourself. That road leads to ruin. This isn't a break. This is the break,” Garak said.

“I didn't want this,” Julian said, his breath hitching.

Garak tilted his head forward, resting his forehead against the doctor's. His breath came warm against his lips. “I'll be here as much or as little as you need me to be,” he whispered. “I could no more turn my back on you than you could a patient of yours. We're just not compatible lovers. I don't want to lose you altogether. Stop being stubborn, dearest; I'm agreeing with you for once, honestly and openly.”

He wrapped both arms around the man and squeezed, burying his face against the cool, scaled neck. How was it possible that both of them could try so hard and fail so spectacularly? He wanted to weep, except that all of it wound itself tightly in a ball in his chest to the point that it physically hurt. He felt lips in his hair, and then a cheek resting against the curve of his skull. Garak held him until he was ready to pull away. “I don't know what I'm going to do,” Julian said miserably.

The tailor lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, stroking downward with his thumb. “I have every confidence that you'll figure it out,” he said. “You should go. We're only prolonging the inevitable, and I need some time alone. I wasn't expecting this quite so soon.”

“But you were expecting it?” he asked, his nose tickling and his eyes stinging. The threatening tears were getting closer. Garak hesitated and nodded. “Don't you ever get tired of being right?” Julian asked, chuffing a laugh that very nearly turned into a sob. Yes, it was time to go.

“More than I can say,” he said, giving him a final squeeze and then pushing lightly against his chest with both palms flat. “Go. We'll see one another. We'll talk. We'll be the friends we should have stayed all along. You'll see.”

Julian nodded and turned, actually managing to make it out into the corridor before tears blurred his vision. Garak may have wanted to be alone, but he didn't. He desperately didn't. This time it wasn't Dax's company he wanted. He didn't think he could take being held tenderly and stroked. He needed colder comfort, preferably something in a bottle and someone who wouldn't let him curl into a ball of abject misery and pain. Even though it was getting late, he headed in the direction of Miles' quarters and reached up to scrub at his eyes. The crying could come later.

Garak

Private Quarters

When the door closed, Garak let himself go. Feeling for the chair behind him, he sank into it and lowered his head into his hands. No matter how much of a brave front he put up for Julian just now, this was the one thing he had hoped wouldn't happen. It felt as though everything that had meaning to him was falling away, leaving him to stand alone, a cold pillar of stone in a raging sandstorm. There was no solid ground, no shelter. His tenuous thread of hope that the Warbird might not have been destroyed could snap at any moment. His past had caught up to him and cost him his present and his future. That old Elim was the worst enemy he had ever had and now too distant to be called back for his strength.

Instead of burying himself back in his new research or retreating to the safety of the demands of the shop, he forced himself to sit exactly where he was and feel everything running through him. If he flinched or turned his back on it, it would consume him. That break in his control that Julian had so hoped to see finally arrived, long overdue. He wept until he felt he had nothing left inside and then climbed into his bed fully dressed, so exhausted that when he slept, he didn't dream.

Julian

Miles' Private Quarters

“Come in,” Miles answered the hail through the comm.

Julian stepped into the quarters that had increasingly taken on the appearance of a bachelor pad the longer Keiko and Molly remained on Bajor for Keiko's botany survey. Spare parts littered the top of the dining table and a mate-less sock draped over the back of the sofa. “Where are you?” Julian asked.

The engineer emerged from the back, wiping his hands on a greasy looking rag. “I was in the workshop,” he said, the “workshop” in question the bedroom he had shared with Keiko. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed as he drew closer, “what's wrong wit' you? You look like you just lost your best friend.”

“No talking,” Julian said tightly. “Drinking.”

Eying him a moment more, Miles nodded and crossed to his sideboard, uncapping a whiskey bottle and pouring into two lowball glasses. Julian sat heavily on the sofa and accepted his glass. Miles sat beside him and set the bottle on the coffee table in easy reach. “So, what're we drinkin' to?” he asked.

“Nothing,” the doctor said, starting to raise his glass to his lips.

Miles stopped him with a hand to his wrist. “You can't just drink to nothin', Julian,” he said. “'S bad form.”

“Then you pick,” he said morosely.

“All right,” the Irishman said, looking thoughtful. “I have it. T' whiskey, women, an' darts.” He cocked a side glance at Julian. “Good enough for you?”

“Perfect,” he said, not caring one way or the other as long as it meant he got to down the drink. He did so in one gulp and leaned to pour himself another. The strong liquor burned him all the way down and started a small fire in his belly. “I hope you're not going to insist we come up with something for every glass,” he said.

Miles grunted. “No, just every bottle.” He grinned and tossed back his drink, letting Julian pour him a second. The two of them made fairly quick work of the first bottle and started on a second before the engineer let his curiosity get the better of him. Slurring a bit, he asked, “So's this about that dabo girl, or th' doctor comin' here on the Lexington?”

Julian blinked several times. “Who told you about all of that?” he asked, then held up a hand. “Don't tell me. Dax,” he said, irritated.

“You're half right,” Miles said. He decided to forgo his glass since he was having a hard time aligning the bottle neck over the top of it and swigged directly from the source. “Dax told me about th' doctor. Quark told me about th' dabo girl.” He slid off the couch onto the floor, looking more comfortable there. Julian joined him.

“Quark!” Julian snatched the bottle from Miles' grasp. “That disgusting little toad! What'd he say?” he demanded.

“I don' remember specifically,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Tell you th' truth, I didn' take it all that seriously.”

He tried to focus through his drunken fog, setting the bottle aside and almost tipping it over as he pulled his hand away. “Miles,” he said very seriously, leaning closer to the man and fixing him with huge eyes, “this is very important. What...specifically...did Quark say about me and Leeta?” If word got back to Garak, the man would almost certainly assume that Julian broke it off with him in order to pursue a new relationship, and that would destroy any chance they had of remaining friends. When Miles reached for the bottle, he snatched it out of his reach. “You can have this after you remember,” he said tartly.

“You don' have to be such a scab,” the engineer said with a scowl. “It was his usual malarkey. He was takin' bets on how fast Garak would find out th' two o' you had been flirtin' and whether he'd kill you for it or not.” He snorted a laugh and reached for the bottle again.

Julian crabbed backward out of reach, sloshing a bit onto his uniform and coming to an abrupt halt as his back hit the soft chair behind him. “And you didn't...” A belch came up, interrupting his ire. “Didn't see fit to tell me about this?” he demanded.

“O' course not,” the man shrugged and rolled to his knees to crawl forward, intent on the bottle. “Quark does these sorts o' things all the time. It doesn't mean anything.”

“I left Garak tonight,” he said. “If he hears that...”

Miles stopped advancing and sat back on his heels, whistling low. “Julian,” he said, clearly shocked. “It's not true, is it?”

“No!” he said impatiently. “She...we flirted a little, but I had no intention of doing anything. But if this gets back to Garak, how's it going to sound to him?”

“I think you know the answer t' that,” he said, leaning forward suddenly to swipe for the bottle, over balancing, and falling onto his face over Julian's legs.

“Shit,” the doctor said, more out of concern over Garak than the clumsy entanglement. He helped right him and thrust the bottle into his hand. “I've got...I've got to go. Got to tell him...”

“No! Are you a bloody idiot?” Shifting to his side, Miles propped himself on an elbow and leaned his back against the base of the sofa. He swigged with his free hand, some whiskey dribbling down his chin and onto his vibrant blue shirt. “Y' do that, then he's goin' t' believe it for sure!”

“I don't understand,” he blinked at him blearily.

“Th' worst thing you can do wit' gossip like that is t' give it weight. The harder you deny, the more guilty you look. Trust me. I've been there before. If he comes t' you about it, then you say it's ridiculous, an' you leave it at that.” He rested the bottle against his chest, nodding sagely.

“So you're telling me,” Julian said, bending forward to reach for the whiskey, only to have Miles play keep away, “that if this was happening to you, and Keiko were the one in danger of hearing such a rumor, that you'd completely ignore it until she said something to you?”

An odd look came into the hazel eyes. “That's exactly what I'm tellin' you,” he said.

Frowning and scratching at his chest, he sat back and tried to puzzle out that look. “What?” he finally asked.

“What what?” Miles retorted, lifting a brow.

He gestured in a circular manner, largely because he couldn't hold his arm steady. “That...look you got when I asked you about Keiko. Has somebody been spreading rumors about you?”

“Pff, it's nothin',” he said, shrugging it off and lifting the bottle for another swig.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, the doctor leaned forward and snagged the neck. They struggled for a few minutes, grunting and cursing at each other, only to spill the remains over the carpet. “Now look what you did,” Julian said.

“What I did? Y' bloody bastard, you're th' one who got all grabby!”

“I can't seem to do anything right lately,” he said, his mood turning maudlin. He sat back against the chair base again and drew his knees up in a loose hold, resting his chin on a forearm.

Rolling his eyes, the Irishman struggled to his feet and staggered toward his sideboard. “Look, I'm gettin' another bottle, so don't start that. If I've learned anythin' in my life, it's that when it comes to relationships goin' wrong, nothin' is ever entirely one person's fault. You're far from perfect...”

“Thanks ever so much,” he interrupted him dryly.

“You gotta keep perspective,” he said with a humorous twist of his mouth, staggering back toward Julian and sitting beside him. “Move over,” he said, nudging until they could share the chair base as a resting spot. He placed the bottle with exaggerated care into his hand. “As I was sayin' before I was so rudely interrupted, bein' with you is no bed of roses...”

“Miles O'Brien, how would you know that?” he asked crossly. “You've never been with me.”

“You keep interruptin' me, I'm going to take that bottle back and kick your skinny arse to the curb,” he said gruffly. “I'm...” he struggled to find the word, then shrugged. “It's easy to tell that just from bein' your friend. You're no picnic on the Shannon, but neither is Garak,” he said, seeming satisfied with himself for making his point.

“You wax so poetic when you're drunk,” he said, amused in spite of himself. “You're no cruise down the Thames, yourself.” He uncapped the bottle and took a long drink. His nose and lips were long past the point of numb, and he could no longer really taste the whiskey. His whole body felt too warm, so he reached up and unzipped the top part of his uniform.

“I'm not, am I?” Miles asked, his lips twitching as he snatched the bottle back for a swig. “Then why're you here?”

He mustered as much dignity as he could in his state and said, “I suppose the Thames is overrated sometimes.”

Miles grinned and pawed him over the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “Nicest thing you've ever said to me, I think,” he said, offering the bottle back.

“I'd better not,” he said, holding up his hand flat. “As it is, I don't think I'll be able to find my quarters, much less walk there.”

“Then stay here,” he said, shrugging. “Y' can sleep in Molly's bed or on th' couch.”

Those tears that he had done such a good job of keeping at bay caught him by surprise and slid from the corners of his eyes. “That's too kind of you. I don't deserve such kindness.”

“Hey now,” the Irishman shook his head and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in with a rough squeeze. “None o' that. That's th' booze talkin', you hear? Whiskey never said anythin' smart. Why don't we go ahead an' get you settled while you can still move?”

“In a bit,” he said, taking more comfort from the warmth of his friend at his side than he cared to admit. It was what he needed, gruff affection that didn't make him feel fragile, only supported. Tentatively, he rested his head on Miles' shoulder, pleased that the man didn't shove him away; instead he just settled a little lower so that he could lean his head back comfortably against the chair seat. Neither of them moved again until morning, an unpleasant awakening of hangovers, sore necks, and in Julian's case, a uniform stained with more than just whiskey since he had never changed from the day before.

“God help me,” Miles groaned as he sat up, reaching both hands up to the back of his neck.

“I can't do much for your neck, but I can give you a hangover cure,” Julian said, leaning away from him and rubbing at his own neck.

“You're answering t' 'God' now?” the engineer asked wryly. “Always said that ego of yours was out of control.”

“Very funny,” he snorted. His mouth tasted about like he imagined that lone sock on the couch might. He replicated both of them something for their hangovers, zipped his uniform up, and left in pretty short order, turning down the offer of using the shower. It wouldn't do him much good to shower and then don a dirty uniform. He'd still smell like sex and booze. With that thought, he felt a small eruption of panic. What if someone with a sharp sense of smell saw him leaving Miles' quarters? That was the stuff of the worst sorts of rumors.

He couldn't relax until he made it back to his quarters with no one seeming the wiser. The place looked and felt empty. “Better get used to it, Jules,” he said quietly. “It's what you asked for, after all.”

Current Mood: cold
Current Music: The KLF, Last Train to Transcendental

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Everything Old... Part IV, conclusion

Everything Old... Part III

Everything Old... Part II

Everything Old... Part I

The Radicals, Part III--Conclusion

The Radicals, Part II

Under the Skin--Part III, Conclusion

Under the Skin--Part II

Reflective Shards--Part III, Conclusion

Reflective Shards--Part II

Reflective Shards--Part I

Impact, Part III, Conclusion

Impact, Part II

Impact, Part I

Standing Oration

Not to the Victor the Spoils--Part III, Conclusion

Not to the Victor the Spoils--Part II

Not to the Victor the Spoils--Part I

Freefall--Part III, Conclusion

Freefall--Part II

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August 2010

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