dark_sinestra

 

( The story continues here. )

 

( Part the second, cut number two! )

( And now, the conclusion... )

( The story concludes here. )

Author Notes: This story takes place during Body Parts.

Summary: A fatal diagnosis from a Ferengi doctor forces Quark to look to settling his affairs, and a near fatal accident on a runabout means a sudden change of address for Miles and Keiko O'Brien's unborn son. A visit from the ruthless Ferengi liquidator Brunt drives Quark to a desperate and dangerous arrangement with Garak, who realizes perhaps his days as an assassin are not as behind him as he believed.

Author: Dark Sinestra

Date Written: May 2010

Category: Slash

Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content and adult situations, and mild adult language.

Disclaimer: You know it. I know it. Paramount knows it. These characters and setting aren't mine. I'm not selling this work. The only “profit” is fun.

Word Count: 17,124

 

 

( The story starts under the friendly cut! )

 

( Read part III here! )

Author Notes: This story takes place shortly after For the Cause ends and ends shortly before Body Parts begins. This time around, I pretty much just wrote around episodes, not including any of them directly. It worked better that way.

Summary: Garak finally learns of the mysterious daughter of Dukat's intentions and discovers that sometimes more knowledge simply means more complications. Swamped with work and facing some of the largest challenges of his career to date, Julian struggles to salvage what he can of his personal life while performing his duties and keeping his oaths. Can he manage, or has at least one of his partners had enough?

Author: Dark Sinestra

Date Written: May 2010

Category: Slash, Het

Rating: R for strong adult situations and sexual content.

Disclaimer: It's fanfic, which means not for profit, not about the author's original characters, yadda yadda. I think we all know the drill.

Word Count: 21,326

 

 

( Part I lies under the cut. )

 

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

Author notes: This story covers the episodes Return to Grace through Bar Association. Some of the dialogue with a few modifications comes from Bar Association, but mostly not. The three poems included in the story are attributed accurately within the story itself and are the creative property of their respective estates.

Summary: Shortly after Garak is faced with the prospect of co-existing on the station with the daughter of his hated enemy, Gul Dukat, everyone is given much more to worry about. Quark's Bar is rocked from within and without, and Deep Space Nine is thrust directly into the heart of a contentious labor dispute. Lines are drawn, tempers flare, and at least one station denizen nearly pays with his life.

Author: Dark Sinestra

Date Written: April 2010

Category: Slash, Het

Rating: R for strong sexual content, adult situations, and implied violence.

Disclaimer: None of the boys and girls are mine, but they are very cooperative in the situations I play with, alter, or outright concoct. I should probably be grateful.

Word Count: 14,555

 

Julian

Garak's Quarters

 

“You'll never guess who was on the station today,” Julian said as he reached for a slice of bread from the shared platter at the center of the table between him and Garak.

 

“Gul Dukat,” Garak said with a gleam in his eyes that even after all this time of knowing him gave Julian pause.

 

“Yes,” the doctor said, a little disappointed that his news apparently wasn't all that newsworthy to the tailor. “How did you know? He wasn't here long enough...”

 

“I've been keeping tabs on the gul,” Garak replied. There was that look again. It seemed centered on that very particular word, “gul”.

 

It made sense now. Garak had been particularly offended when he learned of Dukat's promotion to legate. Naturally, he was taking great satisfaction in his fall. He studied the tailor while he chewed his bread. Was there more to it than that? Had Garak had some clandestine hand in the situation? He wouldn't doubt it. He knew better than to ask. “So then you know that Major Kira left with him, I assume?”

 

Garak nodded, chewing his food and swallowing before speaking. “I wouldn't worry about the major,” he said. “She knows how to handle him.”

 

“In part thanks to you,” Julian said, smiling slightly. He would never tell Garak, but he was pleased that the Cardassian and his Bajoran colleague seemed to have come to an understanding of sorts. He had seen them be almost cordial on more than one occasion after Bareil's funeral. “Since my interesting news isn't so interesting after all, what about you? Anything noteworthy happen today?”

 

“I don't know yet,” the tailor said. “Often the true significance of events fails to reveal itself until some time down the line.” He paused and wiped his mouth, a mischievous twinkle in blue eyes.

 

Julian shook his head and smiled wider. Since Garak's disturbing instance of “Starfleet honesty” in the Infirmary a couple of weeks before and their uncomfortable confrontation later that day, the tailor had been back to his old self, more his old self than the doctor could recall in a very long time. He didn't delve too deeply into the facade. He didn't want to know how much of it was for his benefit, for Garak's, or for an unknown purpose at which he couldn't begin to guess. Nor did he want to know how much of it was real. Just as the fiction of the holosuite had provided distraction and stress relief, this fiction of theirs did much the same, at least when he was actually in the man's presence.

 

“You're not wolfing your food like a ravenous beast,” Garak observed lightly. “Are you ill?”

 

“No,” he said, automatically taking another bite at the prompting. “I was just thinking.”

 

“That's one of the things I actually like about your guttural language,” Garak said. “The way that so many of your words have layered meanings. For example, I could say at this moment that you are ruminating, and it would apply to your food as much as your thoughts, or that odd concept, 'food for thought'. Come to think of it, you humans place a tremendous emphasis on food.”

 

“You've never said you like my language before,” he said, surprised. It was rare for Garak to give any sort of compliment unprompted, or when he didn't want something. He narrowed his eyes slightly. “What are you angling for?”

 

He widened his expressive eyes. “Your paranoia knows no bounds,” he said approvingly. “In this case, you're wrong, but I do admire the thought process.”

 

“Someone has had a certain influence on me,” Julian said dryly. He dunked a torn piece of bread into the hearty broth of his beef stew. In more ways than one, he thought, feeling some of his light mood drain away. He thrust that thought aside, refusing to break a promise he made to himself about tonight, that he would enjoy the moments for what they were, divorced from context and devoid of greater meaning. For two weeks, he had treated Garak as nothing more than a friend and acted as though the day in the dressing room was a fluke when they both knew differently. Was that why Garak bantered with him so easily now? He knew that if he waited long enough, Julian would come to him again? That thought alone was enough to send a small tingle through his belly.

 

Garak continued to eat and allowed him his silence, a rare thing. Conversation and food seemed almost inseparable to the man. Nonetheless, he could feel his eyes on him. He wondered how much of his internal musing showed on his face, if he'd be able to pinpoint the shift in mood and focus. He wondered if this time, Garak might seduce him? Now it was more heat than tingle. He swallowed heavily and took a long drink of synth ale. Partially to fill the silence and partially to try to distract himself from that line of thinking, he asked, “How long ago was Dukat demoted?”

 

“Oh, not terribly long after he arrived on Cardassia with his daughter,” Garak replied casually.

 

“That's something I don't fully understand,” he said between bites of stew. “How is it that practically everyone knows that a Cardassian male in the military will have mistresses on his excursions, but as soon as there's actual evidence of it, everyone turns on him? It all seems a bit...hypocritical to me.”

 

“There was an ancient earth culture known as the Spartans,” Garak said.

 

“Yes, I'm well aware of that,” Julian replied, resigning himself to yet another convoluted answer that might or might not reveal anything of what he wanted to know.

 

“Quite a fascinating people,” Garak continued. “As part of a male's training on the way to adulthood, he was deprived of all but the barest of necessities, expected to endure the harsh winter in nothing but a threadbare cloak, and given such meager rations that if he expected to survive, he was forced to steal food.” He took a lengthy pause to take a bite, take a drink, and wipe his mouth. Julian suspected he enjoyed holding his attention like that, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't interrupt him. “If, however, he was caught, he was taken to the steps of the temple and beaten until the flesh of his back hung from him in strips.”

 

Julian winced at the visceral image the tailor painted. He had never studied that part of Earth's history in depth. He wondered when or why Garak had, knowing that if he asked, Garak was likely to stop telling him anything. He was so stubbornly contrary at times. However, as the silence once more dragged, he asked, “That's it? That's all you're going to say?”

 

Garak let out an impatient huff of breath. “I would think that's all I needed to say. I went so far as to relate it to an episode from your own people's history.”

 

“With all due respect, my people aren't Spartans, and we don't have much in common with them.”

 

Garak widened his eyes again. “I'll say,” he murmured.

 

Julian frowned. “All right. So what you're saying is that it's not the act that's frowned upon nearly as much as getting caught?” At Garak's expectant look, he knew he was supposed to take it further than that. “Getting caught, or...allowing evidence of the indiscretion to surface...shows a lack of subtlety and decorum, thereby insulting the foundations upon which your society is built and proving the man unworthy of his family.” Garak had started to smile when Julian added, “But I don't see what that has to do with the Spartans.”

 

The smile instantly turned to a displeased frown. “I don't know why I bother,” he said with a mock look of long suffering. “I've told you more than enough about our society for you to make the connection if you'd just think.”

 

“Survival,” he said suddenly. “Practically everything your people do or say boils down to that at the most fundamental level, so a blunder of that magnitude made off world and brought back would show that the individual is dangerously reckless and can't be trusted to look after his own. The Spartans would have frowned on a boy incapable of taking care of himself without getting caught. He'd be not only a danger to himself but possibly his entire unit.”

 

This time the smile blossomed without reserve. I could almost die for that smile, he thought. It was one he almost never saw, certainly not since he split from the tailor what seemed a lifetime ago. “I wish you'd do that more often,” he found himself saying aloud.

 

“Do what?” Garak asked, the expression already nothing but a memory.

 

“Smile that way. You have no idea what it does for your face,” he said.

 

A faint shadow passed over the Cardassian's expression, so fleeting Julian wasn't completely certain he had seen it. “I'll keep that in mind,” he said smoothly.

 

He wished that he could ask him to tell him about that shadow, whatever thought might have prompted it. They weren't that kind of together, though. He sensed it would be a violation of the unspoken rules. As they finished their companionable meal, he came to the realization that if he wanted anything to happen between them that night, he was going to have to initiate it.

 

He waited until they were cleaning up to make his move, a touch to a strong, gray hand as they both reached for the same dish, a look, a kiss. Garak yielded to him readily, but it was the way sand or water might yield, pliant yet impossible to hold in a tight grasp. He knew without being told that although he had full access to that amazing body that was both familiar and alien at once, that was all he had access to. Anything else was as closed as the clothing shop after hours. He pretended it was enough, and he left shortly after it was over. He couldn't bear the way Garak's eyes seemed to lay him open in silent regard once they lay sated and panting in near darkness. It felt too much like accusation.

 

Garak

Private Quarters

 

Settling his palm into the cooling spot on his mattress so recently vacated by his lover, Garak half dozed, dreams interweaving with his waking solitude. Some of the faces that emerged in the darkness were welcome, others not so much, victims and colleagues, lovers, friends, classmates, frozen in their youthful state in perpetuity in his mind although he had grown beyond them. He envied their optimism and ambition, their clear eyes, unclouded and unblemished by the doubt that only harsh experience could bring. The hot sun of the Cardassian system created mirages in the badlands that shimmered and dissipated. His bedroom star port reflected his room back at him almost as well as a mirror, the light level just high enough to show him his own curled form on his bed, a leg thrust from beneath the covers bunched at his waist. For one disorienting moment, he saw both equally, and the dream faded away.

 

He made no attempt to divine meaning in the shards of memory his mind presented to him as it slowly unwound from the day. The fact that it all came to him without the usual accompaniment of a migraine was a welcome change. He stroked his fingers down the mattress lightly then turned onto his back. “Computer, lights off,” he said. His room plummeted into darkness until his eyes adjusted to take in the starlight. He idly wondered when or if Julian would figure out that he alone held the reins to their trysts and what he would do when he did. He wondered if he would understand the significance of it, something he doubted. For all of his intelligence, he was still hopelessly human. Grunting softly to himself, he closed his eyes. Moments later, he was asleep.

 

Garak's Clothiers

 

A few days later, it was business as usual. He was particularly pleased with the fabric selection coming out of the Deltan system this season and could hardly wait to get his hands on the lighter silks. As it was nearing closing time, he worked to complete his order, not expecting customers. He glanced up to see Major Kira standing just inside the doorway, her expression a strange mixture of apprehension and determination. Lacing his fingers lightly together on his counter top, he offered her a pleasant smile. “Good evening. Is there something I can do for you?”

 

She strode closer, her black eyes fiercely focused. “I'm going to be blunt,” she said. “Gul Dukat's daughter has come to live on the station. I want you to stay away from her.”

 

Taken aback, he allowed none of it to show. “Major,” he said with laughter in the word and held up his hands, “I can assure you that I want nothing to do with a Dukat. You needn't worry.”

 

She looked skeptical. “Please,” she snorted. “I know how you feel about him, and I know how Cardassians operate. His daughter would be a perfect opportunity for you to get at him, and I'm here to tell you now that if you do, if you hurt that girl in any way, I'll toss you out an airlock and work the details out with your government after the fact. I doubt most of them would miss you.”

 

He should have been annoyed. Instead, it felt good to be viewed as a Cardassian for a change, teeth and all. He favored her with a much sharper smile. “You'd be welcome to try,” he said pointedly. “Is there anything else? A dress for First Minister Shakaar to remove in record time?” The rumors had been making the rounds. He wasn't above using them.

 

Her lips and jaw tightened, and her eyes flashed. “No. Leave my personal life out of this.”

 

“Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I have business to finish, and the hour is late.” He let her get halfway out the door before adding, “I should thank you for the warning about the girl.”

 

She stopped and turned. “What's that supposed to mean?” she asked.

 

“She may be half Bajoran, but she's half Cardassian, as well, and she has spent a good deal of time with her father.”

 

“Ziyal is a sweet, kind girl who has been through hell. You watch what you say about her and who you say it to,” she snapped. Whirling on her heel, she left before he could say more.

 

He turned his attention back to his computer and caught himself smiling. He believed that he might genuinely have reason to be concerned about their new guest. It could make for some very interesting times. He wondered how disturbed the major might be if she learned she just made his day and smiled wider.

 

Julian

The Infirmary

 

So much for getting off on time, the doctor thought as Leeta and two Ferengi waiters rushed in carrying an unconscious Rom. “What happened to him?” he asked while two nurses hurried over to help get him settled on a biobed.

 

Looking furious, Leeta said, “He collapsed in pain. He said his ear has been bothering him.” She pointed to one of the large ears. “That one.”

 

“All right,” he said, glancing at the trio. “We'll take good care of him. It would be helpful if you gave us some room.” He shot Leeta a look that promised they'd talk later, but for now he needed to focus on his patient. She nodded silent understanding and helped to usher the two curious Ferengi out ahead of her.

 

Activating the bed and scanners, he watched the information scrolling by on the screen. He frowned, his brow furrowing. This was a serious infection. “Get me...two ampules of thelidrazine,” he said to one of the nurses, “and twenty milligrams of drozanacin.” Addressing the other nurse, he said, “I'll need a telescoping otoscope. I want to get a better look in that ear.”

 

He took the ampules and squirted the clear contents onto Rom's tongue. The liquid instantly absorbed. He then gave him a hypospray of the drozanacin and took up the scope. After a moment, he frowned again. “There's some sort of...gunk...in here. Flush it out, please.”

 

Stepping back, he allowed the nurses to do their jobs and took a blood sample for an analysis. “His yellow bodies are very elevated. This is no new infection.” He initiated a full body scan to check for organ or circulatory system damage. “Striations in the lower lobe of the secondary liver,” he said absently for the diagnostic recording.

 

“Doctor, his ear is clean,” the first nurse to have arrived said.

 

“Good. I'm going to need 30 milligrams of azropanethol in a deep tissue syringe.” He glanced at the second nurse. “Unfasten his clothing and sterilize his abdominal skin.”

 

While the two hurried to do his bidding, he returned to the ear and activated the otoscope. No wonder he passed out, the poor bastard, he thought. He had rarely seen a more inflamed ear canal in any species. He was surprised that the tympanum hadn't yet fully ruptured. Rom had to have been in agony for quite some time now. Retracting the scope, he set it aside and took the syringe. As soon as Rom was prepped, he delivered the injection to offset the damage done to his liver by the raging, now systemic infection.

 

“Give him a mild sedative,” he said. “I don't want him awakening just yet, not until we can get some of this inflammation under control. If he awakens when I'm not here, I want to be called immediately.”

 

“Understood, Sir,” both nurses said.

 

He continued to run some tests on the patient until he was sure there wasn't any more hidden damage. It angered him that anyone would allow himself to get in such a state without ever darkening his door. The man quite literally could have died within just a matter two more days. What was he thinking?

 

A few hours later, Rom's body responded sufficiently to the medication to allow him to awaken, and a bit after that he had enough strength to sit up and respond to Julian's questions. He still didn't like the look of that ear. He liked even less what he heard, that the infection had been painful for a full three weeks and that Rom's reason for avoiding coming in for an examination was because of his work contract with Quark. Without even thinking, he said, “What you people need is a union.”

 

Rom looked at him as though he had just suggested that he should surgically remove his lobes. “A what?” the waiter asked.

 

“You know, a trade guild, a collective bargaining association. A union. Something to keep you from being exploited,” he replied.

 

“You don't understand,” Rom admonished him. “Ferengi workers don't want to stop the exploitation. We want to find ways to become the exploiters.”

 

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “But I don't see you exploiting anybody.” As Rom hurried out, he called after him, “Don't forget! First thing in the morning, I want you back in here so I can check that ear.” He couldn't be sure if he heard him or not, but given Ferengi aural acuity, he believed it likely.

 

The staff had already long since shifted over to the graveyard shift. It was past time to leave if he wanted the chance to spend any time with Leeta before she would be getting to bed. He keyed a final entry on Rom's chart, said his good nights, and hurried to her quarters so that they could have a meal together, her late supper.

 

“How's Rom?” she asked the moment he came through the door, her brow furrowed anxiously.

 

“He'll live,” he said. “Barely. I can't really discuss his case, but I can't believe that Quark would be so careless with his own brother.”

 

“He doesn't care,” she said tightly, gesturing for him to have a seat at the already set table. “He claims that when he's at the bar, he's not family. He's just another employee.”

 

They each took their seats and began serving themselves. “Even so, one of you could die in conditions like that. You know, I've tried very hard not to make much of an issue of how much you work, but I'm starting to think it's not such a good idea.”

 

She frowned at him. “And what exactly is it I'm supposed to do?” she asked.

 

He blinked at her. “Well...anything. Anything is better than that. Work at one of the kiosks, or...or...the temple. I don't know about employment opportunities around here.”

 

She pressed her lips together. “Obviously,” she said flatly.

 

“Leeta, I'm not the enemy here,” he said, holding up his hands. “I'm trying to help you.”

 

“I don't recall asking for your help,” she retorted, dumping a scoop of food onto her plate hard enough to splatter it slightly.

 

“You're as bad as Rom,” he said without thinking, instantly regretting it.

 

“What's wrong with Rom?” she demanded, glaring.

 

“Look, forget I said anything. I don't want you going to bed on a bad note, OK?”

 

“Too late,” she said, still glaring. “Go ahead, Julian. I want to hear this. You've never liked him.”

 

“I've never liked...?” he asked, incredulous. “He's the one who doesn't like me. He hasn't liked me from the start. I have no idea why. To my knowledge, I've never done anything to him.”

 

“And you just can't stand the thought that somebody doesn't think your Prophets sent, can you?” she asked. “Is that it?”

 

Where was this coming from? Now he was glaring, too. “Fine, you want my honest opinion? Here it is. He's an utter milquetoast. He allows Quark to run roughshod all over him without ever doing anything to stop it. He cringes and wheedles, complains, and sneaks around, more so than most Ferengi I've met, and that says a lot. He seems to be waiting for the universe to drop the bar miraculously into his lap without ever having to do a thing for it. Is it any wonder that Nog wanted to get as far away from him and that bar as he could?”

 

Leeta had gone pale, her eyes seeming larger and darker than usual because of it. “How easy for you to judge,” she said quietly. “Coming from a life of privilege, in a prestigious medical program where your biggest regret was mistaking some gangly nerve for some stupid fiber, or whatever it is you like to tell every single person you meet. Rom has been on his own with Nog since Nog was a little boy, had his heart broken by Nog's mother, and everything he has done since then has been to put food on their table and to ensure that his son has more choices in his life than Rom ever did and knows above all else that he's loved and it's not his fault his mother left. You have no idea what it's like to be abused and beaten down every day of your life, and while I hope to the Prophets you never find out, I'm extremely disappointed that you can't have a little more empathy for someone who has been.” She stood abruptly from the table and headed toward the bedroom.

 

“Leeta,” he called after her, half rising from his seat.

 

“No,” she snapped. “Stay there and eat. I'm not hungry anymore, and I don't want to talk to you right now. I'm too angry.”

 

He settled back in the chair, his appetite gone, too. However, he knew if he didn't eat, it would just make her angrier. She went through the trouble of preparing the meal and setting the table for him. It wasn't fair, that anger of hers. She had no idea what his life had been like. How could she? You've never told her. That thought just made him more irritated. He wolfed down the food without tasting it. A few moments later, the bedroom door whooshed shut, locking him out. “Marvelous,” he said with dripping sarcasm.

 

He started clearing the table. As he did so, he thought about what she had said and her seemingly disproportionate fury. What if that hadn't been about Rom at all, or at least if it was about more than just Rom? She had always been very vague when it came to her past, never revealing much more than the fact that her family was killed when she was very young, and she was placed with another family. Obviously, they never adopted her, or she'd have taken a family name. She never even mentioned their names. Did they treat her like Quark treated Rom? Worse? “You're a damned fool is what you are,” he said aloud in disgust.

 

He was no longer angry with Leeta at all. He felt ashamed, and not just of his reaction to her anger, but of how harshly he judged Rom. There was more than a little truth to her accusation that he took the Ferengi's dislike personally. What if it wasn't all that personal? What if Rom resented what he saw as Julian's advantages? The privileged upbringing Leeta mentioned with such heat? He decided he'd apologize to her the first chance he got, hoping that she wouldn't make him wait too long to see her again.

 

He returned to his quarters, changed out of his uniform and took a long shower, then dressed in comfortable pajamas and climbed into bed with a PADD to catch up on some of the latest medical publications he saved for sleepless nights. The next morning, he saw Rom as promised, treating him more respectfully than he had in the past. He hoped that Leeta would come by the Infirmary when she awoke, or that she'd answer his hail to meet him for supper once he got off. He had no such luck.

 

After spending some time in his own quarters after hours, he decided to go to hers. He normally didn't let himself in when she wasn't around; however, he believed the longer she stayed angry the less chance they'd have to get the issue ironed out properly. He changed into the spare pajamas he kept there and settled into bed, determined to stay awake. His sleepless night prior made that more difficult than he anticipated, and he fell asleep long before she was due home. He awoke to the feeling of the bed shaking in utter darkness. “Leeta?” he asked groggily, reaching a hand to the side.

 

She jerked away from his touch. “Go back to sleep,” she said, her voice choked.

 

“What? No,” he said, concerned, and reached for her a second time. Her shoulder felt hot to the touch. “What's wrong? Is this about yesterday? Why didn't you awaken me?”

 

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “It has nothing to do with you.”

 

“I'm really, really sorry. I was completely out of line. Please, talk to me. I can tell you're upset.”

 

“Upset?” she asked, her voice cracking. “I'm ruined is what I am. I have...no idea...what I'm going to do.”

 

“Hey,” he said, reaching to pull her into his embrace. She reluctantly allowed him to turn her. He felt hot tears on his chest, wetting the pajamas top. “What happened?”

 

“Quark cut my pay,” she said on a shuddering exhale. He felt her jerk with a suppressed sob.

 

“What? Why?” Concern turned to anger in the blink of an eye.

 

“The Bajoran Time of Cleansing has cut into his profits. It's not just me. It's everybody he's docking.”

 

Her efforts to control herself made him feel that much worse for her. “It's OK to cry,” he said softly.

 

“Yeah, sure,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice. “I can just lie here and cry. That'll pay the rent.”

 

“Leeta, if you need to borrow some money to pay rent...”

 

“No!” she said with such vehemence it took him completely by surprise. She sat up and pushed the blanket off, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Computer, lights.” The room flooded suddenly with bright light, leaving Julian squinting and blinking back spots. “I'm sorry,” she said, wiping swiftly at her face with the back of a hand. “I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I know you're trying to help, but there's no way I'm going to borrow money from you, or anyone else for that matter.”

 

“If it would make you feel better, I could insist that you pay me back,” he said, sitting up, too.

 

“I said no,” she said, a thread of steel under the usually soft tones. “I'll figure out something.” Sniffling once, she stood and headed into the sitting room.

 

Feeling helpless, he pushed up from the bed and followed. “Could you...could you at least tell me why you're so dead set against letting me help you?”

 

He didn't like the deep hurt he saw in her eyes, an old hurt from the look of it, partially veiled behind unshed tears. “I made a vow to myself some time ago,” she said softly, “that I would never be beholden to anyone for anything again.”

 

“Does this have something to do with the family that took you in?” he asked hesitantly.

 

Her lips trembled slightly. “I love you very much,” she said, “but don't go there.”

 

Being shut out stung. He recognized the blatant hypocrisy in that as he felt it. It didn't change anything.

 

“I love you, too,” he said. “What can I do?”

 

“The fact that you want to do something means more than you can know,” she said. “You're going to have to let me handle this. I'd like some time alone now, please.”

 

He nodded slowly, trying very hard not to take it personally. He had the feeling that there was no one in the galaxy she would accept in her presence at that moment. “I just need to get dressed.”

 

She nodded and turned away from him, padding barefoot over to the replicator to make herself something. She spoke too low for him to hear the order. He watched her a moment more before heading to the bedroom to get dressed. When he emerged, he found her standing beside the star port and gazing outward, lost in thought.

 

“I'm leaving now,” he said quietly, feeling awkward standing in the middle of her sitting room with nothing to say or do that would make any difference at all.

 

She glanced at him and nodded, her gaze softening slightly. “Thank you for understanding.”

 

He didn't understand, but he had no intention of telling her that. “Of course,” he said instead. “If you need anything, even if it's just to talk, you know where to find me.”

 

“I do,” she said, nodding and turning back to the port. “Good night.”

 

“Good night,” he replied, stepping into the corridor and going back to his own quarters. He felt angry with Quark, angrier than he had ever been at the obnoxious Ferengi. Most of all, he was angry with himself for not being able to be open enough with Leeta that she would feel able to be open with him. Somehow, his pretense with Garak felt more honest in that moment. When he reached his quarters, he threw his PADD against the wall and watched it shatter.

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