Chapter Text
“And you have no shortage of arrogance for that!”
The clipped shout of Commander Benjamin Sisko pierced even the Cardassian steel of his office doors and the Ops crew shifted nervously at their stations. Very few people could rankle the captain to that extent, and it was never good when they managed it.
A moment later, the doors slid open and Dukat—gul until so recently—appeared, calling a perfunctory farewell over his shoulder as he turned away from the office’s remaining occupant. “Hello, Major,” he said as he passed Kira Nerys at the central station, his voice syrupy sweet. “I hope our conversation didn’t distress you too much.”
Kira scoffed. “I think you’re holding all the distress after that reaction,” she bit out.
“Why, the commander misunderstood my intentions and overreacted,” Dukat replied smoothly. “As ever, my first concern is the well-being of Cardassia, which can sometimes…clash with Federation ideals. Surely you understand that, Major.”
Miles O’Brien snorted at the console on the upper level behind Dukat.
“Your first concern is you yourself, and it always will be,” replied Kira. “Now do you have something else to anger the commander with or will you get out of Ops now?”
Dukat simply inclined his head to her and, still smiling, left.
***
On the Promenade, Julian Bashir and plain, simple Garak were in one of their usual arguments over lunch at the replimat.
“You can’t possibly be serious, Garak!” Bashir was exclaiming, body thrown back in disbelief. “There’s simply no way Kelat would consider her disgrace to be acceptable, under those circumstances!”
“But I am perfectly serious, Doctor,” said Garak, his face schooled into an expression of deep concern. “The only way her disgrace could be seen is as acceptable, considering her prior conduct. To do anything else would be to deny the consequence of her own action, which nothing in her character even hints at her being the type to do.”
Bashir leaned forward into the conversation and the briefest hint of a smile crossed Garak’s lips. “So, another life claimed for the glory of the State, then?” Bashir asked, half-mockingly.
“Another life offered, my dear doctor.”
Dukat watched with narrowed eyes as their hands rested together for the briefest of moments on the tabletop, fingers entwining almost accidentally before unwinding and settling apart. As they began a new argument, Dukat crossed into Quark’s and sat down well away from the permanent fixture of the Lurian at the bar’s corner.
“What will it be?” asked Quark as Dukat settled in. “Kanar?”
“Your best,” said Dukat.
Quark poured a glass and handed it to Dukat before leaving to check on another customer. Dukat took a sip and decided this was likely Quark’s second-best; beyond the chance to sell something cheaper at greater expense, he had known Quark long enough to bet that a fine vintage indeed was hidden away in the storerooms, waiting for something big. Perhaps the rightful return of Cardassians to Terok Nor? Dukat smiled at the thought of returning to his office—and kicking Sisko out.
“Finally get a kind word from the major?” Quark asked as he returned to Quark’s section of the bar. “Not much else could make you smile like that.”
Dukat’s smiled stretched just enough to become unnerving. “It’s this kanar, really. Such a fine selection.”
Quark eyed him suspiciously, hearing a lie but not wanting to admit to his own. “Happy to please.”
Behind Quark, the doctor’s lanky gait as he crossed the Promenade back to the infirmary caught Dukat’s eye. “How happy?”
“How what?” asked Quark, confused.
“How happy are you to please, Quark?”
Quark turned to follow Dukat’s gaze out at the Promenade before shrugging and leaning on the bar. “Happier when there’s latinum in the pleasing, Dukat.”
The lack of his title, his rightful title, from nothing more than a Ferengi bartender rankled Dukat and pulled his attention back to the creature in front of him. He held his temper, barely. “Is that so.”
“It is. What would it take to please? A holosuite? I still have the old programs—well, most of them—and some of the newer ones the Bajorans have brought with them would, ah, suit you quite well.”
Dukat’s eyes narrowed and he leaned in menacingly. Quark leaned back, hands up placatingly. “Or perhaps something from some of the traders coming through?” he redirected. “I can tell you who is scheduled to be here in the next few days.”
“I seek…better understanding, Quark. For instance, as I came in, I happened to notice that Dr. Bashir has formed some kind of attachment to the—tailor Garak.”
“Bashir and Garak?” said Quark, brow raised in surprise. “Sure; they’ve been having lunch together for years.”
“Unusual for a human to be that…close to a Cardassian, especially when Starfleet is trying so hard to be friendly with the Bajoran hosts.”
“I don’t know about ‘close,’” snorted Quark. “It’s just lunch, and from what I hear—” He stopped abruptly.
“What you hear…?” prompted Dukat into the pause.
“What’s it worth to you?” said Quark, curiosity and avarice gleaming in his eyes.
“Ah, it’s nothing,” Dukat sighed theatrically. “Especially since their friendship seems to be common knowledge.” He knocked back the rest of his kanar and stood. “I’m simply trying to familiarize myself with Terok—with Deep Space Nine as it is now.”
“No second round?” said Quark hastily. “I’m sure I could help you get familiarized.”
“I have further business with the commander,” Dukat lied smoothly. “But I do appreciate your second-best kanar.” He stared pointedly at Quark until Quark sighed, changed the price on the padd he had pulled from under the bar, and handed it to Dukat. With a small smile, Dukat thumbed the bill and left.
Not yet wanting to return to his ship, Dukat found himself crossing to the replimat. If he sat at just the right angle—there. He settled in at a corner table; the view wasn’t perfect, but he could watch the entrance to Garak’s Clothiers with very little obstruction. He stewed for some time, remembering that ever-so-brief touch of Cardassian grey on human bronze.
“Not hungry, Dukat?”
Dukat stifled his urge to jump and turned slowly instead. Odo, that blasted security chief, stood glowering over him. Again, the lack of address from someone who had once known his place galled Dukat.
“Why do you ask?” he said blithely.
“Usually, when people come to the replimat, it’s to get something replicated,” said Odo. “You, however, just seem to be watching the Promenade. Perhaps you feel the assayer’s office is a little too unguarded and needs the extra eye?”
“Ah, Odo, you have far too much suspicion!” Dukat said jovially. “I am simply resting before returning to my ship; it is good to have a change of scenery, no? What better use for a space station than to introduce some variety to see?”
“I can think of several far better uses, Dukat, and none of them involve loitering. If you’re not going to use the replimat as it was intended, I suggest you return to your ship, scenic or no.”
“Odo, such lack of hospitality.” Dukat placed a hand on his chest and drew his face into an exaggerated look of shock. “However would the Federation feel if it knew that its attempt to be the welcoming presence of the system was being so systematically undermined by a simple security officer?”
Odo scoffed. “I think the Federation has other things to worry about, considering the wormhole they may now be starting to regret.” He looked more closely at Dukat and then looked out again, tracing the sight line. “Ah, but there are other things to watch than the assayer’s office here, aren’t there? Perhaps you should try out a more Cardassian welcome at Garak’s shop.”
Damn the changeling, and damn the smirk on his face. Odo couldn’t be bothered to learn how to mimic ears properly, but of course he would be able to sneer like any humanoid when he chose to. “I fear that also might not be up to Federation standards,” replied Dukat, holding his voice steady and light. “It seems that the whole station is falling away from the hopes of Starfleet.” He tsked lightly. “I can’t imagine Commander Sisko is at all pleased with such…disarray.”
“And I’m sure you would know what pleases the commander,” said Odo drily. “Quite likely, that list would be headed by you leaving the station as quickly as possible.”
The impudence! Dukat seethed inside, the shouts of Sisko from earlier that day still chasing through his mind. “It may indeed be simpler for him when he only has one Cardassian to mistrust—though it would seem that your doctor has decided that not all Cardassians are untrustworthy.”
“Bashir? He’s young, and foolish, even for a human.” Dukat smiled inwardly at Odo’s confirmation, however sideways. Odo continued, “But even he knows better than to trust Garak completely, for all the friendship they claim.”
“Well, that is certainly wise,” said Dukat, “especially if he is as foolish as you say.”
“Hmmph,” said Odo. “They’re still friends, so I can’t say how ‘wise’ the doctor truly is.”
“Well, we are all foolish in our youth,” said Dukat expansively.
“I wasn’t,” answered Odo, his tone irksomely prim.
“You were never quite a ‘youth,’ either, were you?” Dukat let the slightest bite edge his voice; Odo’s sanctimony never failed to get under his scales.
“Quite,” answered Odo, his voice notably harder. “So, will you be ordering something so you can sit and glower at your enemy’s store or will you return to your ship so I can go back to my job?”
“By all means,” said Dukat with exaggerated horror, “don’t let me keep you from your work! The station needs its security chief.”
Odo rolled his eyes.
“I think I shall try some of that ‘raktajino’ that everyone seems to like so much.” Dukat smiled an innocent smile at Odo.
“Fine,” Odo said. “But I will be watching.” He stepped out of the replimat and waited. Dukat got up, crossed to the replicator, ordered his drink, and returned to the table, raising the mug in salute to Odo. Odo scoffed in disgust and returned to the security office, leaving Dukat in much better spirits for having won at least that confrontation today.
***
The raktajino had grown cold, untouched, at Dukat’s elbow when he noticed that there were far more security officers among the passersby than there ought to be. So Odo was having his people none-too-subtly monitor him; fine. The hour had done nothing other than dampen his mood, anyway. The doctor had stayed in his infirmary—although Dukat hadn’t really expected anything else. The delight on Garak’s face replayed in Dukat’s mind, and he hated him for it. He hated that Garak, who should have been nothing but miserable trapped here on a Bajoran station, had anything at all to make him happy. Dukat wanted to crush the happiness out of him, wring it from him one hope at a time.
Dukat left the replimat and returned to his ship.
There was no reason to stay at the station; his business with Sisko was complete, and his crew was uneasy around the station that looked Cardassian but felt foreign and cold. But Dukat couldn’t leave, yet, and so they remained. Dukat tried to lose himself in his work, reading reports and answering messages, diverting his crew’s unvoiced (but noted) curiosity at their still being in dock. But in every lull, Garak’s small smile returned, the brush of hand on hand. Soon, all the pains of the days converged on the image. In the smile he saw Sisko’s dismissal of him, Quark’s disrespect, Odo’s smirking suspicion, Kira’s scorn.
After several hours, Dukat replicated a glass of kanar and drank it quickly. Replicated kanar was a drink of desperation, viscous and flat, but the spike of alcohol burned just right—his ship would have none of that Federation synthehol. Dukat made another glass and cursed the Federation and its fire-less alcohol, cursed the Bajorans who had taken his station and filled it with Klingon coffee and Ferengi opportunists, cursed the shapeshifter whom nothing could impress. He cursed Garak.
He drank more, and he began to curse the doctor.
Garak, the traitor, the failed spy, the murderer—he had no right to happiness, or to friendship. He had no right to a physical connection, to a relationship; such an exile had no right to having someone to warm his bed with that outrageous heat humans exuded.
Oh.
Not drunk, though certainly not sober, Dukat felt a plan forming. Garak did not deserve what he had—so it was only right that Dukat take it from him. He could show Garak what exile was supposed to be: isolation and loneliness. Yes, he could do that; he could show that foolish human why it was unwise to get involved with Cardassians.
Dukat focused, sobering himself, switching drinks to replace the syrupy taste of the sub-optimal kanar. He would need—a rope, yes, a rope would do. He replicated one, feeling its heft and scratch. A smile spread over his face, feral and fierce.
“You will remember the power of gul Dukat,” he announced to his room before grabbing the rope and leaving for the station.