I WOULDN'T CALL IT LOVE
by Judith Medina

** Archive to my page, Dakhur Central & Scaly Tales ONLY. If you wish to archive, please inquire. Thanks. **

DISCLAIMER: This non-profit material was produced out of love for, and in order to promote interest in, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and is not intended to infringe in anyway upon Paramount Pictures Corporation, nor any other legal holders of Star Trek copyrights.

CONTENT WARNING:
Cardassian angst, much like their wine,
genteel with more than a hint of bite.

(-|-) * * * (-|-) * * * (-|-)

He didn't bother checking the time, but idly noted his desk chronometer read 2510 as he finished his task there.

Ziyal had been dead for eight hours. He'd stepped foot on the station at 1800. He paused. He had learned about it just over seven hours ago. He grit his teeth and clenched his hands.

This was useless.

He went to the replicator and placed the nearly empty flask and two very dirty towels in the receptacle.

After pushing the recycle button, he quickly entered a sequence into the device. After the used items dematerialized, a small tool appeared in the space.

Garak retrieved it, headed for his couch. He moved it aside. Kneeling by the wall behind it, he applied the small device to the bolts on the panel. Soon they popped open and he removed the panel. A small bundle lay behind it. He removed it and repositioned the panel, reapplied the tool. Soon it looked as if it had never been disturbed. He replaced the couch to its customary position, sat upon it.

Two suits of tailor-made clothes were wrapped around a few items; a pair of custom made shoes, what looked like a pendant, a Cardassian knife, a credit voucher ... and a sewing kit.

Garak sighed.

He attached the pendant to his lapel, slipped the knife and credit voucher into his tunic. He set the sewing kit on the table, and took the clothes and shoes to his bedroom where he placed them in the closet, then went back to the door of his bedroom and studied the living area.

All was tidy. Nothing out of place. Nothing to indicate his presence, or his absence, save the sewing kit.

He winced slightly, staring at the kit from his bedroom doorway.

Then he turned around and headed for his bathroom.

It was long past his bedtime.

In the morning, he had steadfastly ignored the kit, much as he steadfastly ignored his growling stomach, bypassing it and the replicator as he stepped out of his room.

Three minutes later, he was entering the security office. The constable was nowhere to be seen, but Garak's gaze fixed on the image of one of the holding cells. His mouth twitched, unbidden.

Dukat was back there. He sat on the floor of his cell, hair unkempt.

Odo suddenly appeared in the monitor, lowering the force fields and setting a tray on the bed. Despite himself, Garak found himself wishing Dukat would lunge for freedom. It would give him an excuse to...

He grit his teeth, clenched his hands. He waited.

In a few moments, Odo appeared from the hallway. He inclined his head at the sight of his old acquaintance. He had not truly seen him the night before. He thought he had caught a glimpse of him in the Infirmary where Kira had been singing the Bajoran death chant for Ziyal, but wasn't sure. If it had been Odo, then he had quickly absented himself when he'd seen the major. Elim filed this bit of possible information away.

"What can I do for you, Garak?"

"I would like to accompany you as you escort Dukat to the ship that will take him to prison."

"He's going to a starbase facility actually." the constable frowned. "According to Bashir, his mental capacity is severely diminished."

Garak fought another twitch of his mouth. "I see."

Odo had not answered his request. He glanced briefly at the pathetic image on the monitor screen and looked back to his old comrade.

"I would like to stand witness in the airlock then, as he boards the ship that will take him to the starbase."

He had to do it. He couldn't explain why to Odo, but he had to try. How to tell this to the man standing, unmoving and seemingly unmoved, before him? He couldn't even explain it to himself. He almost scowled, looked away instead, despising himself for his lack of control... for not killing the man in that cell when he'd had the chance. It would have kept him from standing here now. And Ziyal would still be alive...

He looked up and met eyes as blue as his own.

"I owe it to Ziyal."

Odo studied him for some moments. Finally he nodded. "Very well."

To his surprise, the constable's gaze shifted a moment then returned to him. He seemed somehow... different. Was that regret? Guilt? Why should he feel either, Garak wondered.

All Odo said, though, was, "I'm sorry about Ziyal."

Garak nodded automatically, ignoring the slight pang that shot through him for some reason. He was a bit startled to realize he had not greeted Odo since his arrival back on Deep Space Nine. Or had he?

He couldn't recall. It was only yesterday, and he barely had any recollection of his first day back aboard Deep Space Nine. Back aboard his home...

Garak blinked, realized Odo had asked him something.

"Pardon?"

"Are you all right?"

The cardassian pulled himself up straighter. "Of course. I simply was wondering how long it would take me to rearrange my shop again. The Dominion left it in a terrible state."

Odo's expression changed only minutely, but Garak recognized one of the emotions in those normally cool, blue eyes: pity.

His mouth opened, curled, as did his hands into fists at his side. He knew he would say something he regretted. He grit his teeth.

"When will we be escorting Dukat off the station then?" he managed, knowing he sounded peculiar.

Odo studied him again, but he steadfastly refused to give him anything further to analyze. The constable finally relented.

"1600 hours. The Merrimack is taking him to Starbase 375."

I Wouldn't Call It Love
by Judith Medina

** Archive to my page, Dakhur Central & Scaly Tales ONLY.
If you wish to archive, please inquire. Thanks. **

(-|-) * * * (-|-) * * * (-|-)

DISCLAIMER: see Part One.

(-|-) * * * (-|-) * * * (-|-)

CONTENT WARNING:
Cardassian secrets, much like their artwork,
subtle and scarce, but precious.

(-|-) * * * (-|-) * * * (-|-)

You must understand,
though the touch of your hand makes my pulse react
That it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl
Opposites attract
It's physical...

(c) Tina Turner, 1987

He wasn't sure where to wait. It was only 0750. Garak had not eaten, not since the day before, but he was no longer hungry. He also had zero desire to wait in his shop, although it was close to the Security Office.

Still he stood amidst the administrative paraphernalia the Dominion had left behind his counter and wondered idly who had occupied his shop. Did it matter? It was full of forms with Cardassian and Dominion writing. He didn't bother reading them. He did not care what they said.

"Is this a bad time?"

He spun, startled at the sound of this clear, feminine voice. He blinked, blue gaze still reflecting his surprise, but his own voice was cordial enough.

"Not at all, Major. What can I do for you?"

"Colonel." She smiled slightly. "I would have thought if anyone knew about my promotion on the Defiant, it would be you."

"Quite frankly, I forgot. Even if I had not, I find it difficult to think of you as anything other than Major, Colonel." He gave her a bow of the head. "But I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss your new rank, or obtain my congratulations on it."

Kira swallowed. She looked around the room and then back to him. She spoke without preamble. "I need a dress for Ziyal... for her funeral."

Garak did not move. His lips opened and he marveled at the smooth, even tone that emerged. "Surely she had something suitable?"

The Colonel shook her head. "There's one dress, but I'll be damned if she's being buried in it." She looked up and met his gaze. "Dukat gave it to her."

"I see."

Their gaze remained locked for a long time, before he finally felt his lips fall open again. "When is the service, Colonel?"

"Tomorrow morning. 0700. The service will be here, in the station temple. I'm accompanying her body to Bajor. I have a family plot down there. I already made the arrangements."

He nodded, privately pleased with her efficiency. He sighed, however.

"A pity she couldn't be buried on her home."

Kira's eyes hardened. "Bajor is as much her home as mine. Her mother was Bajoran."

Garak looked at her with something akin to pity. "I was referring to this station, Colonel."

She blinked at this, then relaxed her stance, but kept watching him pointedly until he recalled he had never given her an answer; a dress for Ziyal.

He considered this. He had her measurements. He had made her many outfits. He knew what she liked. It would take him a trifling. His hands trembled.

"I'll have something for you by tomorrow." ´

After Kira left, Garak found himself filled with gratitude. It was only 0800. He had eight hours to fill before Dukat left the station. She had given him a task he could apply himself to. It was a worthy one.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

He welcomed the inner turmoil; it gave him something to focus on, to conquer. It remained difficult, however, and he found himself trembling for control.

When he'd run the microseam over his finger for the fourth time, he growled with frustration. When the resealer had rendered unseemly nubs in the fabric from the use of too much pressure on his part, he turned to work on a less delicate portion of the outfit. He decided to ensure that each strand, each cross-section correlated precisely and aesthetically to the next.

Although he did not let the thought take hold of his mind, Garak knew that this outfit would be the quintessence of his work, the epitome of his talent... a shadow of the one he had intended on creating for Tora Ziyal some distant, now never-to-be-realized day.

This mindless task kept him busy for hours. Then, before he realized it, all the sections were ready to be utilized.

With a sigh of relief, Garak again picked up the microseam. He chose two sections of fabric. He grit his teeth and shut his mind of everything he could. He turned on the microseam and began to apply his talent to his task.

The fabric refused to merge into a seamless whole.

After countless trembling attempts, he knew it was time to do something else. Garak set aside the shimmering, vibrant cloth -- (so like her) -- and let his eyes close.

Sleep came unbidden...

His mind's eye opened to the past, to the night before the station's evacuation, the night his door had unexpectedly opened upon Ziyal.

All he'd been able to do was blink.

She stood there, mute in her glory, her fear. All he could do was swallow and feel numb, his fingers mindlessly setting down the PADD he'd been reading. He could not even remember now what he'd been reading. Some Federation engineering manual, no doubt. The station was to be evacuated the next day and he was planning on leaving the station aboard the Defiant. He had wanted to prepare, to make himself of use.

He had already consulted with the Major for Ziyal's safe evacuation to Bajor. He had told the young woman of those plans that afternoon, and had been disappointed in her lack of enthusiasm. Perhaps she had come to talk about that?

One look at her clothing told him otherwise.

Ziyal wore something he had not designed. If the good constable had run into her as she was, she would have been arrested. Garak was profoundly glad she had not run into Odo.

The soft material clung to her, hinting at the delicate tracery of ridges beneath that proclaimed their shared heritage.

His throat, his voice refused to work. Ziyal smiled then as his lips moved silently, a shy gesture that tore at his resolve. She spoke equally diffidently.

"May I... come in?"

He nodded automatically, shook himself free of his assessment of her and managed to stand and say, "My dear... you... you shouldn't be here."

She stepped into the room and let the door slide shut behind her, and Elim found himself greatly relieved despite the circumstances.

A waft of her scent carried to him then, and it spoke to his origins, their shared physiology. Garak swallowed.

"I suppose it would be foolish to ask why you came."

His voice had sounded husky in his ears, and it was said in a very low tone. Ziyal had stepped forward then and...

BR-DEEP! BR-DEEP! BR-DEEP!

The computer's emotionless inflection followed the strident sound of the alarm he had set earlier.

"Station Time Index 1545 hours."

Garak inhaled deeply, shaken to the core by the dream he'd been having.

He blinked himself free of it's remnants, found himself staring at the unfinished gown he'd set about making for Ziyal, then shook his head.

He had another job to do right now.

The corridor was cold by the airlock. The entire station seemed cold to Garak, but no matter how fine an architect designed or engineer built a space-faring station or ship, the airlocks always reflected the chill of outer space. His trembling, however, had little to do with the temperature.

Any moment, the turbolift would open and the constable would go by with his criminal. Just outside the airlock he could see the ship docked. Any moment Dukat would pass by him and be delivered into the hands of Federation justice.

It offended his Cardassian sensibilities.

Dukat deserved the death penalty many times over for his crimes. He did not merit pity or mercy in the slightest.

On this thought, the turbolift doors slid open down the hallway and Garak tensed, waiting.

"I enjoyed our last game, Odo." Dukat said in a child-like tone, trying to catch the shapeshifter's eye, but the constable kept urging him along. "I really enjoyed it."

"I'm sure you did. Let's keep moving along or we'll be late."

"Do you still play Kalevian montar, Odo?"

"No."

"You should. You were a very good player. My daughter plays well, also. You should play a game with her, constable, after she gets better. You heard she was ill didn't you? Very ill, but she'll get better. I know she'll get better." The Cardassian's voice grew a bit desperate and he stopped, looking Odo in the face.

The constable merely nodded.

"That Federation doctor is very good I hear." Dukat sighed now, continuing forward on his own, tone once more dropping into a childlike one.

Garak stared as the two men approached him. Dukat's eyes did not seem to focus very long on any particular spot. Was he drugged?

Odo said nothing as he neared, but Dukat persisted trying to talk to him. "You'll visit her for me won't you Odo? I trust you. You're a good man, even if you aren't a man. Remember the performance you gave for Cardassian Central Command? You were magnificent! I deeply enjoyed your exhibition."

"Move along, Dukat." Odo's face had set into a grim expression. Garak found himself standing uncertainly as his nemesis stepped closer, no longer knowing what to say. This man was not the one he'd hated for so long. He was not sure who to feel sorrier for now, Odo or Dukat.

"So deeply talented. And such a good investigator. I knew you would be. I wish you hadn't stayed behind with the Federation people. I could have used you. I knew you'd call on me, too. I told you you'd need me. And you did." Dukat paused as if remembering something and turned to Odo. "Oh... do you still need Marritza's records, Odo? I'm sure I can get them when I get back to my ship."

"No. I don't need them anymore."

"Solved the crime without them did you? Such a good investigator. You should investigate why it's so dark on this station, Odo. So very dark." The constable pursed his thin lips and gently nudged the Cardassian. Dukat took the hint and began to move down the corridor. His eyes locked on Garak's and before the tailor could move back, he gripped his arms with both hands and smiled. It was a sad smile.

"I apologize for mocking you, Odo. It's just so dark here. I don't like the dark, you know."

"Dukat." It was all Garak could manage to say, before his old enemy blinked, refocused. The ex-gul nodded at him carefully, even as Odo was urging him on. His tone was earnest.

"Tailor ... please do your best. My daughter is a very pretty girl. She deserves beautiful things."

Garak's lips moved, but he could find nothing at all to say. Odo finally succeeded in levering Dukat past and headed him for the airlock, and into the hands of two uniformed Starfleet Security officers.

It was a long time before Elim turned and headed back to his quarters, and he could no longer remember why he had come in the first place... or why he felt he had needed to.

Kira paced back and forth by the Station's temple entrance at 0635 the following day. Her expression was one of tempered concern.

Then the turbolift doors on the Promenade opened and Garak stepped out, heading straight for the Colonel. He held a small bundle under one arm.

"Good morning." He gave her a small bow.

"Do you have it?" She inquired without preamble, adding by way apology, "the monks need to prepare her before the service."

He nodded and presented her the bundle. "It was... a privilege, Colonel."

Kira considered this and studied the Cardassian now. His face was schooled into the polite expression Garak typically wore, but his eyes, she noted now, were dimmed. He did not hold her gaze for very long before nodding and stepping back, then heading away from her.

She watched him for a moment, surprised to note he did not head for his shop, but back toward the turbolift. It was only then that she realized the Cardassian was wearing a dressing gown. She looked back to the bundle she held then and swallowed.

I bet he worked all night on this.

Vedek Tigaal stepped from the temples entrance before she could open the bundle.

"Colonel? Did you find a suitable outfit?"

Kira nodded thoughtfully, and turned, handing the bundle to Tigaal. The vedek bowed in thanks and took it, beginning to turn to head back into the temple.

"Vedek?"

He turned back for a moment. "Yes, Colonel?"

"Might I ask for a favor, Vedek?"

"Of course, my child."

Garak woke later that morning, having fallen into the dreamless sleep of exhaustion almost as soon as he'd returned to his room. One thought was in his mind: Ziyal was no-doubt gone from the station, buried on Bajor. A unique and unexpected chapter in his life was now closed.

He sighed, tired, but pleased with his work, although he had not stayed to witness it. It was enough that it was done. It was enough that he had known her and been her friend, her confidant. He sat, found his fingers brushing something hard and unexpected. His sewing kit was beside him on the bed, where he had left it after his long night's toil. He caressed it's soft, leathery surface now.

When he'd first arrived on the station, he had found it difficult to even look at this evidence of his status. Now, he felt a sense of pleasure that he had accomplished something of value thanks to his once-unwanted skill. Garak set the kit on his nightstand.

"Computer, time index?"

"It is 1134 hours." He nodded at this, and then to his surprise, the computer added, "There is one message waiting for you."

He arched a brow. "Play message on bedside terminal."

The screen brightened to reveal the Colonel. She was brief.

"I thought you might like to have this, Garak. Thank you for making it. It's beautiful."

Then the screen cleared to a still image of Ziyal, appearing like a sleeping princess in the childhood tales the good doctor liked to relate to him. She was glorious in her splendor, an image of youth and improbable beauty, seemingly untouched, expression unmarred by pain or need, so to remain forever in his memory... wearing the exquisite dress he had made for her.

~ FINIS ~

    And maybe love is letting people be
    just what they want to be
    The door always must be left unlocked
    To love when circumstance may lead
    someone away from you
    And not to spend the time just doubting

    - "What Is Love?"
    (c) Howard Jones, W. Bryant 1984

-------------------------------------------------------------
October 1999. The characters are Viacom & Paramount's. The situations they're in are the author's. Not meant to infringe on any legal holders of Star Trek copyright. Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use (including fanzines) without the written consent of the author.

Comments, questions to: the OdoGoddess