dark_sinestra

 

( The story continues here. )

 

( Part the second, cut number two! )

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.

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