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.
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