Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damar awoke to a Jem’Hadar standing over him, shaking his shoulder. He panicked momentarily. Did they know?! No, that was impossible. He’d been so careful about his plans, kept them to a very select group of his loyalists. Besides, if his planned rebellion had been uncovered it wouldn’t be one Jem’Hadar standing over him, there’d be a squadron of them…not to mention Weyoun 8 would be there as well to gloat.

He shook the Jem’Hadar’s hand off him, playing at still being half asleep or half drunk, “Get off. Tell Weyoun if he wants me he can come get me himself.”

The Jem’Hadar’s hand retreated. Damar kept his eyes closed, hoping the creature would go away if he pretended to be asleep long enough. After a few minutes he squeezed one eye open, only to see the Jem’Hadar still standing over him with a look almost like…confusion…maybe fear…on his grey features.

That was enough to get Damar’s attention. He’d never seen any expression on a Jem’Hadar’s face other than rage or resolute obedience. Fear…he didn’t think they were permitted fear.

He sat up in bed, “What’s…what do you want?”

“You…” the Jem’Hadar blinked a few times, his eyes rolled up, as if trying to figure out how to put words together in his mind, “You…helped Weyoun sixth of his line.” A simple declarative statement, not a question. Something known. Panic bubbled up inside Damar again. What in the Union’s name was going on here? If he was to be interrogated why wasn’t he already in a cell?

“How do you know about that?” (Helped was probably too strong of a word anyway, looked the other way was probably the better descriptor. Maybe if he had actually helped, Weyoun 6 would still be alive…)

“It’s…” again the Jem’Hadar seemed to be struggling to speak, unable to articulate what he wanted to say, “You have to come. Get dressed. You will help again.” The Jem’Hadar seemed on firmer footing giving simple commands. The last part was spoken softly however, him leaning in close over Damar’s face.

Something in the way the Jem’Hadar said ‘help’ pulled at Damar’s stomach, curiosity…the tiniest hope of redemption perhaps, compelled him out of bed. He found himself wordlessly pulling on his armour, and then following the Jem’Hadar out of his quarters. Not a single person even looked their way as they both walked through the Central Command building. Nothing to see here, just Legate Damar and a random Jem’Hadar going for a mid-morning constitutional.

The Jem’Hadar led Damar deep into the Central Command building, past the archives, past the holding cells, past the loading bay, to a disused and dusty corner of one of the storage rooms. He squatted down and pulled off a panel on the wall, revealing a tunnel.

“We will crawl. It’s not far now. You will help.”

Damar breathed out slowly through his nose, looking down the long stretch of the tunnel. If this was some elaborate plot of Weyoun’s to trick him into revealing his plans for the rebellion he’d certainly put a lot of work into it, he’d give him that much.

They crawled through the tunnel for what seemed like an hour (but was probably only a few minutes) before they came to a grate, which again the Jem’Hadar opened. A ladder was tied to the other side which allowed them to climb down into a more open space where they could both stand. Damar looked around, he guessed he was in one of the old subway tunnels that still existed under Lakarian City, abandoned for hundreds of years now. A faded sign proclaiming this platform ‘Command Station East’ confirmed that for him.

The Jem’Hadar was still leading him on. They walked through a few more tunnels before the Jem’Hadar stopped in front of a door. He turned back towards Damar, fixing him with stern brown eyes.

“You will help?” This time it was a question.

“I don’t even know what’s in there. How can I help when…” he faded off, seeing anger and confusion building again in his guide’s eyes, “No! No, it’s alright. I’ll help. I promise I’ll help.”

That seemed to mollify him. The Jem’Hadar opened the door, standing aside, forever at attention, to let Damar enter.

Blood.

Blood on the floor. On the walls. On the handle of the door.

So much blood that at first, Damar thought he’d walked into a crime scene, that the Jem’Hadar who’d lead him here had gone insane and was asking him to help cover up the murder of the half-naked Vorta who lay on a blood soaked mattress at the centre of the room. But then the Vorta in question opened its eyes and groaned weakly and left Damar even more confused.

The Jem’Hadar pushed past him into the room, pulling the door closed, and came to kneel by the Vorta’s side, taking a pale hand in his own and pressing it to his lips.

“He came. I said I would bring him. He will help.”

“First Nilig’xal,” the Vorta smiled weakly, “you are the greatest fool I have ever known.”

“You are life, Borath ninth of his line.”

Damar began to wonder if someone had spiked his kanar last night. Or maybe he was very sick. In a coma perhaps? This certainly had the feeling of some sort of fever dream. He walked closer to the mattress and saw the source of all the blood was a gaping wound on the Vorta’s lower abdomen, a short bladed kitchen knife (A kitchen knife! Not even a scalpel, a knife normally used to fillet fish!) abandoned in a pile of stained towels at the Vorta’s side the likely culprit.

“You’re both idiots!” came a low woman’s voice from behind him, Damar snapping around to see a female Vorta, one he’d never seen before, pointing a disruptor pistol at him. She had been hiding in the corner out of sight. “You’ve compromised our whole cell doing this, I hope you’re aware!”

“He helped. He will help again,” the Jem’Hadar said from where he was kneeling, scowling at her, “Luaran twelfth of her line does not trust.”

“No, she does not,” Luaran 12 didn’t take her eyes off Damar as she edged slowly around the room, still addressing Nilig’xal, “There’s a lot more to this operation than just you two, you realise that don’t you?”

“I think this might take precedence…” the other Vorta, Borath 9, said from the ground, smiling cryptically.

Luaran grimaced, but didn’t say anything. She lowered the pistol slightly.

“Did you do this to him?” Damar asked, when he found he could speak again, gesturing down at Borath.

She laughed, “I did, Legate Damar,” sarcasm laced his title as she spoke, “It was easy enough, given the right motivation.” She addressed Nilig’xal, “Help me sit him up. Bring some of those pillows.”

The Jem’Hadar obeyed wordlessly, bringing over a few new looking pillows. Damar got a chance to look around the room then, noticing pillows, blankets, towels, a few emergency medical kits (nothing sophisticated enough to take care of the kind of wound inflicted on Borath, sadly), several days’ worth of ration packs and water bottles, some of them already empty, ketracel-white vials, and bizarrely, a stuffed regnar toy. This little group, whatever it was, had been planning to be here for quite some time from the look of things.

It was only when Borath was sitting up that Damar noticed he was holding something tucked inside his jacket, wrapped tight in a blood smeared pale green blanket.

“What’s…what’s that?” Damar felt his gut twist. It couldn’t be…it was impossible…

Another inscrutable smile from Borath. Tiny fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.

“This is…the right motivation, I suppose,” he said.

Nilig’xal sat down on the mattress, uncaring about the blood, and let Borath pass the baby into his arms. Pity…maybe true sadness as well, battled inside Damar. It was very clear Borath wouldn’t live long, his breathing was already coming in short, rapid gasps.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” It was the only question Damar could think to ask.

“I couldn’t see a penis, so I don’t think it’s a girl,” Borath said with a sigh (Damar chose not to challenge that; Vorta, their genitals, and the relationship between the two, was a puzzle too complex for him to consider right now).

“We’re a little lacking in any points of comparison though, so that may be wrong,” Luaran said dryly, seeming to have made a decision and holstering her pistol. “The first live Vorta birth in over a thousand years presents certain…challenges.”

Pain racked Borath’s face and Damar looked down. A rush of blood flowed, not just from the wound, but from the opening between his legs as well. Damar coughed, almost retching.

“Don’t just stand there, idiot. Get some of the towels!” Luaran snapped “If you’re going to be here you might as well help!”

For a few moments Damar busied himself grabbing towels, then helping Luaran apply pressure to both openings, the blood soaking through layers of thick towelling at an alarming rate. It was like trying to dam a river. He looked up and saw Borath cup Nilig’xal’s jaw with his hand, pressing a kiss to his lipless, reptilian mouth.

“I gather he’s the father?” he asked, trying to fill the air with something other than the smell of death.

Nilig’xal made an aggressive noise, “No other touches Borath ninth of his line!”

Damar held up bloodstained hands, “Sorry, just trying to make conversation. Congratulations too, I suppose.”

Nilig’xal grunted at that, going back to looking at the baby. He stared down at it intensely, fingertips tracing over the baby’s face, almost as if he wasn’t sure what he was holding was real.

Luaran spoke softly, “We don’t have much time. They’ll notice you’re missing sooner than either of us, Legate. I know you’re planning a rebellion…” she held up a bloody hand, shushing Damar as he opened his mouth to demand to know how she had come across this information, “Please, I don’t have time to explain. We Vorta have our ways, our own plans…” she looked up at Borath, her hostile mask slipping for just a moment, “…some of us at least.”

A sob worked its way out of Borath’s throat (perhaps he knew, could sense his life ebbing away). He held out his arms for the baby, “Let me have him again. L-et me say goodbye.” Damar watched as Borath held the baby close, pressing his face to the child’s and speaking softly right into what Damar assumed was the baby’s ear.

“I wish I could have fed him.” A tear slipped down his cheek, “I’ve seen it, in holos. Most mammalian species do. Do you think it matters? That I couldn’t?” Borath looked up, imploring and desperate, looking at Damar rather than Luaran, what little self-control he had left cracking around the edges.

Damar paused for a moment, looking around at the ramshackle secret hideout Borath and Nilig’xal had retreated to, that stupid toy one of them had probably stolen, “No. What matters is you loved him.”

Luaran nodded, taking a hold of Borath’s wrist and squeezing, “You got him out.”

That seemed to comfort him, renew his resolve. Borath took a shaky, shallow breath, “You’re right. You’re right, it doesn’t matter. He’s going to be free.” Convincing himself more than anyone else.

Luaran turned to face Damar, no longer bothering to try and slow the bleeding, “Not far from here…outside, there’s a planet skimmer. Nilig’xal knows where it is. You’ll find enough supplies and fuel in there to get you both far away from here.”

“What about you? Aren’t you coming?”

She shook her head, “I’ve got to clean this up. Make sure there’s no evidence of…” she gestured to the mess of blood and fluids, “…this. If they discover there’s been a pregnancy, let alone one that carried to term, whole generations of Vorta and Jem’Hadar will be terminated and discontinued. They’ll wipe the slate. Again.”

The ‘again’ is said with a horrible finality, something Damar doesn’t want to question. Luaran shifted up the bed and slipped her arms inside Borath’s, gently trying to extract the baby from his grip.

“No. Not yet, please! Luaran, please, just a little while longer.”

“It has to be now, darling. There’s no more time.”

She held the baby for a moment or two, smiling for the first time since Damar had entered the room and carefully adjusting the swaddling before passing him over into Damar’s slightly reluctant hands.

Borath bit back another sob, hugging his now empty arms close to his body, “Congratulations, Legate. Your rebellion begins today.”

Damar looked into Borath’s dark, imperial purple eyes (a different shade from Weyoun’s pale violet, he’d never noticed that before), “When did yours begin?”

Borath smiled, “Three hundred and twenty-seven years ago. The first time a Borath was assigned a Nilig’xal.”

Far off in the distance, Damar could hear a siren starting to go off. Luaran and Borath’s head both snapped towards it, no doubt it was much louder to Vorta ears.

“They know. You have to go! Nilig’xal, take him now!” she snapped.

“I obey.”

The Jem’Hadar and Luaran both jumped up, Borath keeping a hold on Nilig’xal’s hand just a moment longer. Luran grabbed a duffel bag that had been abandoned on the floor, shoving ration packs into it. Damar quickly understood what she was doing, picking up some extra blankets, one of the medical kits and, after a moment’s thought, the stuffed toy to stuff in there as well. He threw it over his shoulder once it was full, still holding the baby. He couldn’t believe he was doing this! Escaping by himself was going to be risky enough, doing it with a rogue Jem’Hadar and said same Jem’Hadar’s love child was almost doomed from the start!

Still…what choice did he really have? Sometimes fate forced your hand.

He turned back towards Borath and Nilig’xal, both of them with their forehead’s pressed together. He turned away again, giving them both a little privacy in what was no doubt their final moments together.

“You are life,” he heard the Jem’Hadar whisper again.

“I’ll find you again. In this life or the next,” Borath replied. “Now go. That’s an order.”

The siren was louder now. Damar ran from the room, following close on Nilig’xal’s heels, looking back only once to see Luaran wrap her arms around Borath’s shoulders as he wept. He could hear shouting from the vents and airways above him. This was insanity! Nothing was ready! He still had things to prepare, pieces to move on the board. All of his carefully laid plans were teetering on the head of a needle, and all because of this child!

They ran for what felt like forever. Damar’s lungs were burning when they finally came out of the subway tunnels to an abandoned shuttle hanger on the edge of the city. Coming above ground made everything more real. Damar could hear the public announcement system blaring in the distance, alerting the citizenry of the disappearance, and suspected cowardly defection, of the traitor Legate Damar. Weyoun 8 couldn’t even give him an hour’s worth of benefit of the doubt, apparently!

Nilig’xal pulled open the hanger door, revealing a small skimmer shuttle. He keyed open the door, disappearing inside to start it up. Damar looked down at the baby properly for the first time. It was so quiet. Unsettlingly so. Only the blinking of its large purple eyes and the slight rise and fall of its chest proof that it still lived.

“It’s ready. Get in.” Nilig’xal gestured into the skimmer, Damar quickly getting inside.

He stopped when he saw the single seat, turning around to face the Jem’Hadar. “Wait! Aren’t you coming?”

Nilig’xal shook his spiked head, “I must join Borath ninth of his line.”

“Are you insane? You can’t help him now. He’s already dead!”

Nilig’xal looked at Damar as if he’d said something particularly stupid, he put a hand on Damar’s shoulder, speaking with the simple clarity of one who knew absolute truth:

“He is life.”

Before Damar could respond he was shoved back into the skimmer and the door slammed right in front of him. The baby made its first noise, a low grizzling, at the sudden movement. By the time Damar righted and reoriented himself he could already feel the small ship shuddering as it took off. He banged on the door, looking out through the tiny circular window. Nilig’xal lifted his hand in farewell, raising the other hand holding his disruptor pistol to his temple as the skimmer started to turn. No! NO!!

Damar didn’t realise he’d yelled that aloud until the computer asked him if he was in distress. He breathed heavily. Both. Luaran had said both of them would leave. Nilig’xal’s body was a crumpled heap on the ground of the hanger, getting smaller and smaller as the ship pulled further away. Damar looked down at the baby, realising after few moments what she’d actually meant…

The computer warned Damar to take his seat or face a 78% chance of injury as he passed through the atmosphere. He strapped himself in, holding tight to the baby, who was now emitting a low, continuous growling noise. He pressed some buttons on the control panel, trying to alter the course Nilig’xal had set in to one for his resistance base. The ship responded with a cautionary beep, letting him know that he didn’t have the authorisation to alter a laid in course.

“Computer, where am I going? Do I have the authorisation to know that at least?”

“Destination: Terok Nor. Flight time at maximum capable warp: approximately 3 days, seven hours, 35 minutes…”

The baby started to cry in earnest. Damar felt like joining him.

Chapter Text

“Come on, there has to be something in here,” Damar dug through the supplies which had been haphazardly packed into the tiny hold of the skimmer, the baby’s weak crying a constant in the background. “Your parents can’t have packed two thousand baby wipes and completely forgotten anything to feed you!”

The baby kept crying from where it lay in the duffle bag. Damar had rearranged the blankets he’d taken from the subway hideout to line and cushion the bag, making a temporary crib, and had wedged it next to the seat so it wouldn’t move.

“Ah hah, here!” Damar reached right into the back of the hold, finding a single box of formula tablets and reading the package, “’Union Approved Baby’s Choice: birth to six months, a complete meal for all infant citizens.’ Mmm, sounds delicious.”

The baby apparently didn’t agree, continuing to cry. Damar read over the back of the box. There was a lot of stuff on there about sterilizing parts of the bottle, how long to boil water before mixing it with the formula tablets (if you weren’t using replicated water of course), how long to shake the bottle…

The bottle…

Damar groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’d been so focused on finding the formula he’d completely forgotten he’d need a bottle to feed the baby with in the first place! He looked into the now empty space of the hold, then down at the assorted pile of stuff he suspected Nilig’xal had largely put together. He’d obviously made some effort, there was a lot of useful things there; nappies, wipes, creams, powders, infant clothes, a pacifier, plus plenty of ration packs and water; but, in what could probably be attributed to a life where all of his physical needs came from a tube implanted in his neck, had packed very little in the way of formula (apart from the one box) or bottles. Damar wouldn’t be surprised if Nilig’xal had thought the baby would chew on the formula tablets, rather than dissolving them in warm water to make milk.

Though perhaps…

Damar walked over and squatted down next to the baby, gently pushing one lip up to look into his mouth. As he suspected: very gummy, no teeth (not even an egg tooth, though that probably made sense since there was no egg to speak of). Definitely not going to chew up the formula tablets then.

Right. There was nothing to be done but stop and find somewhere to get a bottle and more formula. He sat in the one seat in front of the controls and pressed some buttons to bring up the map.

“Computer, where’s the nearest settlement?”

The computer beeped back at him, ‘It seems like you’re trying to alter a laid in course. You do not have authorisation to alter a laid in course. Authorisation reserved to: Luaran 12, Borath 9, First Nilig’xal. Please enter authorisation override code to change this.’

“What’s the authorisation override code then?”

‘You do not have authorisation to access the authorisation override code. Can I assist you with anything else?’

Damar gave a frustrated growl, “Computer, I don’t want to alter the course. We’re still heading to Terok Nor. We’re just…making a quick little stop. I need things for the baby!”

‘There is one stop already planned as part of the course. You do not have auth-‘

“Yes yes, I know, I do not have authorisation to alter a laid in course,” Damar spoke through gritted teeth, “Where are we stopping then?”

‘Kotak V, unaligned system in the Cardassian-Federation demilitarized zone.’

“Can I buy baby formula there?”

‘Kotak V has a thriving economy with a variety of goods and sundries available for purchase. Gross planetary product in the last quarter-’

“That’s enough, thank you. How long until we reach Kotak V?”

‘Arrival at Kotak V in approximately three hours.’

“Wonderful. Thanks, Computer.”

Damar sighed, putting his head in his hands again. The baby's crying was getting weaker, sadder somehow. He couldn’t handle this for another three minutes, let alone another three hours. He picked up the baby, jogging him in his arms and trying to calm him down. The crying slowed to a heartbreaking whimpering, the baby blinking its huge wet eyes up at him.

“I know, friend, I know. It’s all a bit too much, isn’t it?”

Damar looked around the cabin. There had to be something he could do…

After a few minutes he got up, picking up the formula box and a bottle of water. He emptied out half the water down one of the drains and shoved a tablet into the now half empty bottle, recapping it and shaking until the tablet fizzed up and thickened the water into formula. He dipped his finger into the liquid and prodded against the baby’s mouth, wiping as much liquid as he could on the baby’s gums.

“There we go. See, we’re getting somewhere.” The baby latched on and started sucking on Damar’s finger with a surprising amount of force, grunting around it. Damar leaned back in the chair, the temporary silence a blessing.

He just had to make it another three hours…

~*~*~

The planet skimmer touched down and de-cloaked in a field on the outskirts of a small settlement on Kotak V. Damar placed the baby carefully down into the duffle bag, tucking a blanket around him. He stood as the door opened with a hiss, wishing he had anything to defend himself and the child with, especially when, for the second time in one day, he was greeted by the business end of a disruptor pistol.

…and with the same person holding on to it no less.

Luaran glared at him with eyes like steel, “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” Damar took a step back, putting himself between her and the baby, “You said you were going to stay behind and clean up.”

“Clean up?” her head tilted to the side in a way that viscerally reminded Damar of Weyoun, “Clean up what?”

“Borath 9…after he…”

As if on cue, the baby coughed and made a grumbling noise. Luaran’s eyes went wide, the disruptor pistol slipping through her fingers and clattering onto the floor. She shoved Damar out of the way, looking down into the duffle bag. He watched as tears formed in her eyes, one slipping down her cheek as she lifted the child up, staring at him with outright wonder.

“You’re alive…you’re here and you’re actually alive,” she whispered, giving a short incredulous laugh, “And early at that…” She held him close, wiping her cheek with her other hand, “Where’s Borath? His First?”

“You don’t…” Realisation hit Damar, “You’re not Luaran 12 are you?”

She shook her head, “I’m 11. Did…did anyone make it?”

Damar looked down, “Borath 9 and Nilig’xal are dead. I don’t know about the other you but last I saw her she was alive.”

Luaran took a deep breath, murmuring to herself more than Damar, “There can be no freedom without sacrifice.”

“Luaran…” a nervous voice came from the door, Damar looked over and saw another Vorta, disheveled, fear etched into his features.

“Gelnon! I told you to stay back in the barn!”

“Where’s Borath?”

“Get back with the others!” She snapped, turning to point over at a dilapidated structure a few hundred meters from the skimmer. Despite her sharp tone Gelnon didn’t move, his eyes instantly zeroing in on the bundle in his arms. He ignored her outright, stepping into the skimmer.

“Is that…oh, Luaran, is it…?” His voice was breathless, hands clasped in front of him. Damar suppressed a sigh as he saw the early signs of more tears. Crying and being threatened with a pistol were becoming reoccurring themes of his day.

Damar was surprised though when Gelnon shook himself, gathering himself together, and held out his arms, “Give her to me. I worked in the hatcheries for years. Luaran, come on, you’re not holding her right.”

“It’s a he,” Damar offered, the two Vorta turning and looking at him with wide eyes, as if remembering that Damar was still there.

Luaran handed the baby over to Gelnon (who did indeed seem to be more confident holding him) and turned to face Damar, “I think we have some things to talk about. Come on, we need to re-cloak this ship and get out of sight.”

Damar explained everything once they were inside the barn; Nilig’xal waking him, Borath and Luaran, the run through the subway tunnels, Nilig’xal’s sudden (and horrible) goodbye; all while he watched Gelnon expertly prepare a bottle over a little field stove and feed the baby, pulling from a bag full of baby things at the back of the barn. They’d been collecting in preparation for Borath’s arrival for weeks now apparently, and with a little more coherency and forethought than a panicked Jem’Hadar.

Apart from Gelnon and Luaran, there were four other Vorta in the barn. Two of them came over to look at the baby, cooing and whispering with the same wonder that Luaran and Gelnon had displayed. The other two stayed in the back of the barn, one sitting up while the other lay down, covered in a blanket, clearly injured or ill.

“How long have you been here?” Damar asked after he’d finished his story, taking a bottle of water one of the other Vorta, Yelgrun, offered him.

“About a month now,” Luaran answered, eyes always darting to the corners, the door, the windows of the barn, “I don’t usually like to stay in one place this long while doing a run….but we were waiting for them.”

Damar hummed understanding, noticing the evidence of an extended stay in the barn (carefully arranged and piled supplies, a little row of bedrolls, neatly folded blankets at the head of each one), “How many runs have you done?”

“Five,” she answered simply.

“Three successful ones,” Yelgrun said from where he was sitting next to the stove, his voice dry. Luaran shot him a hard look. “What?” he asked, “It’s the truth.”

Damar kept going, trying to ignore the obvious tension between Luaran and Yelgrun, “Only Vorta?”

Luaran nodded, “Nilig’xal was going to be our first Jem’Hadar. They’re generally too risky to get out without a proper source of the white. But…we were willing to try to keep the three of them together.” She looked out across the field at the little skimmer, “Was that the only ship they could find?”

Damar followed her eyes, shrugging, “I suppose so. I wasn’t really involved in the planning process.”

“Last communication I had from 12 was that the ship was the last thing they needed. She thought they had a few more weeks to find one though,” she paused, rubbing a hand over her face, and looking again at the baby, “Borath wanted him born in Federation space.”

Gelnon made an unimpressed noise from where he sat, the baby now over his knees and getting burped, “He had a lot of faith in a power that’s been bombing the hatcheries.”

“It’s what he wanted! And where else was he going to go with a child? The Klingons? The Breen?” Yelgrun said, his voice almost cracking with frustration, this was clearly a topic of some discussion.

“Wait, you’re not all heading to Terok Nor?”

Gelnon gave a derisive laugh at the very suggestion, “You smell the burning of a thousand Jem’Hadar hatchlings and ask me that question again, Legate. No, we’ll find our own place, free from the Dominion and the Federation.”

“Borath and Nilig’xal were just going to stop and pick up some supplies here, then make the rest of the trip on their own,” Yelgrun explained, taking the baby, so quiet and peaceful now he was fed, from Gelnon to hold, “He’d heard…there’d been rumours there was a Federation doctor who was working on a cure for white dependency. He wanted to give Nilig’xal a real chance.”

There was movement at the back of the barn and Luaran looked up, getting up after a moment to walk over to the Vorta lying down. Damar barely noticed, pouring some of the water he’d been given into his hand and wiping it over his face. It was becoming increasingly clear he was stuck on this path, for now at least…but maybe he could try and salvage a tiny part of his plans.

He shifted closer to Yelgrun, sensing he was more likely to be an ally, “Did I hear Luaran say she’d been communicating with 12 on Cardassia? Do you have access to a sub-space communicator? A secure channel?”

Yelgrun lifted his eyebrows, looking at Damar down the length of his nose, “Perhaps…why do you ask?”

“I need to get a message to someone…Gul Rusot. Can you do that for me?”

“Cardassia’s been dark since this morning, even the State news broadcasts have stopped. Getting anything in or out without any chatter to mask it is going to be very difficult. ”

“It’s not just for me,” Damar whispered, he reached over and rubbed his thumb over the baby’s cheek, “I need Rusot to get my family into hiding…”

Yelgrun made an uncertain noise, tilting his head to one side, Damar could sense him weakening.

“Please…I just need to make sure my son is safe.”

Yelgrun looked around, making sure Gelnon and the others weren’t within hearing distance, then huffed a sigh, “Alright. But it has to be short. Write it down and Rusot’s channel and I’ll send it as soon as I can.” He shifted, pulling a worn little notepad and a stub of a pencil out of a pocket inside his jacket and handing it to Damar.

“Thank you,” Damar heaved out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, taking the notebook and scribbling down the information, “I’ll never forget this.”

Yelgrun chuckled, “Maybe if we both survive this war you can repay me sometime.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Damar handed back the notebook and pencil, Yelgrun furtively shoving them back into his jacket as Luaran walked back over.

“Right,” she said, “It’s been lovely having you Legate, but we need to get you back on the road. You’re making Eris nervous.”

Damar looked over his shoulder at the pair of Vorta at the back of the barn, the one under the blanket now sitting up, her eyes boring into Damar as if she knew his every secret and shame. He met her eyes only briefly, unable to hold her gaze for more than a second before looking away.

He coughed, standing, “Right…well, I’ll need the bottle and any formula you have.”

Soon Damar found himself seated once again inside the planet skimmer, watching as Luaran, Gelnon and Yelgrun got smaller and smaller. The baby started to grizzle not long after takeoff, as if he knew he was leaving behind his people.

Damar held him against his shoulder and patted his back, trying to remember if he’d ever done this for his own son. Probably not. He’d been off world when his wife went into labour and hadn’t returned until just a little after the boy’s first birthday. That wasn’t an unusual story among Damar’s peers though, the State always came first, especially for those in the military.

He sighed, watching that tiny face scrunch up and then relax, then scrunch up again.

“So…any ideas for what to do for the next three days, soldier?”

The baby sneezed, depositing a large glob of snot onto Damar’s armour and, before Damar could even react, rubbing his face into it and smearing it everywhere.

“Ugh, look at you! You’re a mess!” He held him out at arm’s length, watching a transparent line of snot and dribble stretch from his armour to the baby’s mouth and nose, “Straight to the brig.” He put the child down into his duffle bag crib, ignoring the cries that started as soon as he did and stood to go find a cloth to clean them both up with.

His back was only turned a moment when he heard a soft retching. He rushed back only to see the baby, his swaddling, the blankets, and most of the interior of the bag covered in a layer of horribly milky vomit. He sighed.

Three days. It was only three days.

Chapter Text

‘Doctor Bashir to medical’.

Julian rolled over in bed. Noo…just a few more hours sleep. He was so tired.

‘Doctor Bashir to medical. Priority one.’

Garak grumbled beside him bed, pulling his pillow over his head. “Is Doctor Sonak aware you just pulled a double shift?”

“I’m sure he is,” Julian took a deep breath and sat up, forcing his body to comply with his mind. He gave Garak’s thigh a squeeze over the blanket, “Go back to sleep. It’s probably that Andorian premature birth, Sonak doesn’t have any neo-natal experience. I’ll be a while.”

‘Mister Garak to holding.’ Odo’s voice sounded over the comms system. ‘Mister Garak to holding, priority one.’

Now it was Garak’s turn to push himself up, exhaustion written on his face. He’d gotten maybe five hours of sleep over the last three days, trying to break the encryption of the new Cardassian top secret code, going off on short flights on the Defiant with Major Kira and Worf to try and intercept more transmissions and create a larger sample size for decryption.

Julian for his part had been working for almost 20 hours straight. The USS Tjandamurra, a Miranda class, fresh from a dog fight with a Dominion patrol fleet had just docked at Deep Space 9, its CMO severely injured. He had been required to oversee or assist in almost every surgery, and that was before Lt Cmdr Olles, the acting science officer, went into premature labour (tragically most likely brought on by the death in combat of one of her husbands). The war weighed heavily on them both.

“Meet you for breakfast?” Julian asked, doing up the final zip on his uniform.

Garak leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Julian’s lips, “Of course, my dear.”

The exited their quarters in tandem, both walking off in opposite directions.

Julian reached medical first and was surprised to find his second in command, Dr Sonak, standing waiting for him with Kira and Worf.

“I gather this isn’t about Baby Olles, then?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

.

“His ship appeared on our sensors approximately 20 minutes ago,” Odo strode back and forth in front of a holding cell, “A poorly faked Federation distress signal got our attention soon after.”

“Not poorly faked. Poorly duplicated! I was trying not to get shot at on sight.” Damar answered from inside the cell, “Planet skimmers aren’t meant to make deep space flights. The ship was barely holding together!”

“Hmph, a likely story!”

Garak stepped forward, giving Damar a sympathetic look, it wasn’t often he got to play (as Julian would say) ‘good cop,’ “Faked or duplicated, Legate, you have to understand, it’s certainly suspicious to see your good self on a joy ride in Federation space when last we heard you were the leader of the Cardassian Union. What exactly are you doing here?”

.

“He claims he didn’t have a choice,” Kira leant against a wall, sipping a ratkajino and looking down into the humidi-crib the Vorta baby had been placed into, “He was apparently locked out of the controls in that planet skimmer with the path already laid in. And now, you’ll love this Julian, he wants us to just let him go so he can lead the Cardassian revolution against the Dominion!”

Julian gave an incredulous look, running another scan on the strange, almost-elfin baby, “That’s all a bit convenient, isn’t it?”

“I know, right? How stupid does he think we are?”

Worf gave a low rumble in the back of his throat, “I do not believe he is lying about starting a rebellion. He did help Ezri and I escape from Cardassia after we were captured by the Breen.”

“You’re far too trusting Worf,” Kira shook her head, “He won’t even tell us the truth about this baby! How can you expect him to tell us the truth about anything else?”

.

“But I am telling you the truth about the baby!” Damar begged through the cell’s force field, “It’s Borath 9 and First Nilig’xal’s! They were in love for 327 years! And Borath 9 had the baby in a subway station, but Luaran had to cut it out of him with a fish knife! And there was blood everywhere! And he thinks it’s a boy because it doesn’t have a penis! And then Nilig’xal bought me to help because he thought I helped Weyoun 6 escape but really I just looked the other way! It had to be a secret because the Founders are going to wipe the slate. And then they gave me the baby and Nilig’xal took me to the ship and I haven’t slept in three days!”

“Mmm, very interesting Damar,” Garak sketched a few notes on the PADD at his side. Rush on toxicology report. Otherwise: psychotic break? Check with Julian.

“You can check! Run a DNA scan on him. You’ll find he has a combination of Vorta and Jem’Hadar DNA.”

“We’ll certainly do that at the earliest opportunity,” Garak crossed one leg over another in his seat, he could really use a tea but didn’t want to break the momentum of the interrogation to get one, “Now tell me, where are Borath 9 and First Nilig’xal now?”

Damar’s face fell, “They’re both dead. Borath was already dying when Nilig’xal bought me to him.”

“And First Nilig’xal?”

“He killed himself.”

“Dear me. Certainly a very dramatic turn of events.”

“And convenient…” Odo added, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m telling you the truth. How could I make this up?”

Odo and Garak shared a look. This sort of story did require a lot more creativity than the intelligence the Federation had on Damar indicated he had.

Garak took a deep breath. He had a feeling he was going to be here a while. None of this made any sense.

“Alright, Damar. Let’s go through this step by step. You said Luaran cut the baby out – “

“With a filleting knife!”

“Yes, with a filleting knife. Why would she do that?”

.

“Now that’s one big noggin you’ve got there!” Julian checked the measurements the humidi-crib’s internal scanners were providing on the baby against his own, blinking as they matched up. He reached into the crib and gently gave one of the baby’s long ridged ears a little squeeze, getting a warning growl in response. Hmm, very firm cartilage for a newborn…

“My money’s on it being Damar’s lovechild,” Kira said between bites of toast, she’d taken the liberty of replicating herself breakfast, much to Julian’s chagrin (Crumbs! Everywhere!).

“I’ll take that bet!” Ezri waved a stuffed toy lizard the baby had been clinging to when it was bought in over the crib, dark purple eyes following it intently. “It’s big, much bigger than you’d assume a Vorta baby would be. Could be Jem’Hadar, like he was saying.”

“There’s no scales though! If its part Jem’Hadar you’d expect to see some scales,” Kira gestured with her toast for emphasis.

“Well to be fair, you’d expect to see some scales if it was part Cardassian too,” Julian said. The computer gave a quick bee-beep and he rolled his wheeled stool over to the station, where the results of the DNA test he’d done were being displayed. “Look!”

Ezri, Kira and Worf all huddled over Julian’s shoulder, looking at the computer screen. There it was in black and white, the baby’s genetic material was a combination of Vorta and Jem’Hadar.

“Well…would you look at that…” Kira said softly, taking another bite of toast and sending a small shower of crumbs onto Julian’s shoulder. “It might be time to wake up the Captain.”

.

Odo gave a slight jerk of his head towards the door. Garak cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs.

“How about a short break? We’ll be right back, Legate.”

Outside the holding cells, Odo turned to face Garak, “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

Garak gave a contemplative noise, “Well since I’m not permitted to use some of my more creative interrogation techniques, I can’t say for sure…but he isn’t showing any of the classic signs of lying either.”

Odo gave a characteristic harrumph, clearly not convinced.

“We could try and prove or disprove some of the parts of his story…” Garak offered, heading over to the replicator to order himself some tea, “There’s some things in particular that’ll be very easy to find out the truth of…”

“The DNA results?”

“Well…yes,” Garak took a sip of his tea, “I was more thinking some of the information he’s given us about the inner workings of the Dominion, their strategies. There’s one person who could confirm or deny that very easily…”

Odo’s face instantly changed, almost bristling, “I’d rather not involve him in security matters.”

“He’s been thoroughly debriefed, Constable. Starfleet Intelligence is certain he poses no risk to operations.”

“Good for them. I’m still not convinced.”

Garak sighed, he was too tired for this. Odo’s continued and obvious displeasure at the presence of Weyoun 6 on the station had been understandable at first but was increasingly becoming a source of some frustration. Weyoun was an incredibly valuable intelligence asset, and Odo’s refusal to let him take part in anything but the lowest level briefings (apart from the times Captain Sisko had insisted of course) was starting to affect Garak’s work.

He had tried to be understanding. Working with someone who was a literal physical manifestation of the crimes of your people was a pain Garak was more familiar with than he’d ever admit to anyone. He felt what was no doubt a similar pain whenever he saw the marks of Cardassian torture on a Bajoran walking through the Promenade, and they at least never crossed the threshold of his shop. But Odo would have to come to terms with that at some point and start including Weyoun in the work he’d been kept on Deep Space 9 to do!

“Maybe we should involve the Captain in this. He will no doubt enjoy being woken at this hour because of your trust issues, Constable.”

Odo made a disgusted scoffing noise, turning away as Garak tapped his commbadge.

“Mister Garak to Captain Sisko, I’m so sorry to wake you so early but-“

.

“Mister Garak, no need to apologise, I was already up,” Captain Sisko said, an almost giddy smile on his face as Julian passed the tiny Vorta into his arms, “I just heard we have a very special guest on the station.”

‘That’s the reason I’m calling, Captain. The interrogation of Legate Damar has reached a bit of an impasse and-‘

“Hmm? Sorry, the interrogation of who?” Captain Sisko was barely listening, running a gentle hand over the surprisingly thick shock of black hair on the baby’s head, “Aren’t you just the cutest?”

‘Oh well…that’s very kind of you to say Captain. I have been using a new scale oil and I’ve found it has-‘

“He’s not talking to you, Garak,” Julian sighed, “He’s talking to the baby. What’s the problem?”

‘Well, I’d like to speak to Weyoun 6 about some of the things Damar has bought up in our discussions. It might be helpful if we can confirm – ‘

“Weyoun 6!” Sisko looked up, the baby making a hissing noise and starting to wriggle around in his arms, “He should know about this!”

“Ah, Captain…” Ezri made an awkward noise in her throat, “That might…we should probably introduce the idea first…I just mean, I don’t think he, and by that I mean the Vorta, have a lot of experience with…”

But she was too late…

“Captain Sisko to Mister Weyoun, if you wouldn’t mind joining us in the sick bay at your earliest convenience.”

.

Weyoun 6 tugged at his sweatshirt one more time before he left his quarters to walk from the habitat ring to sick bay. The Captain had asked for him specifically and he wanted to look his best, it was the first time in weeks he’d been called on to assist in…well, anything really.

It had been hard, not having much to do with his time. After his debriefing, Star Fleet Intelligence had suggested that Weyoun would be most helpful close to the front, and what better place to keep him than at the heavily defended Deep Space 9, close to both the Bajoran Wormhole and Cardassian space. When he had first heard that he’d been thrilled, a chance to stay close to Odo (his Founder now), and to prove himself useful in some way.

As time went on however, he had found his usefulness to the war effort had been vastly overestimated. Apart from weekly therapy sessions with Dax or occasionally helping Garak with some limited decoding, he didn’t have anything to do. He had tried going to Quarks, but the other inhabitants of Deep Space 9 found his presence uncomfortable. That he had expected to a degree. He had tried helping Odo, only to find himself politely and firmly shown out of the door. That…had hurt a little more.

But today perhaps things would be different. Captain Sisko had asked for his help! That was very exciting. In the corners of his mind that Weyoun 4 and 5 still inhabited the admiration for Captain Sisko radiated outwards. Six was perhaps not quite as enamored of the Captain as his previous selves had been, but it was hard to ignore them completely.

He paused outside the sick bay’s doors, patting his hair and tugging at his shirt one more time, before pressing the button to enter.

.

“Mister Weyoun, good to see you this morning! There’s someone we think you should meet.”

Captain Sisko put a hand on Weyoun’s shoulder as he came through the door. Julian watched Weyoun look around, nodding a greeting to everyone in the (increasingly crowded) sick bay. They all stepped to the side as he was lead towards the humidi-crib.

Ezri sidled up to Julian, whispering urgently in his ear, “I really don’t think this is a good idea. The Vorta…they don’t get born as infants the way Jem’Hadar do, their muscles don’t need to develop the same way. They get birthed-“

“We haven’t given him a name yet,” Sisko was saying, hand still on Weyoun’s shoulder as they looked into the crib. Julian couldn’t see Weyoun’s face from this angle. “We were wondering if you could help with that.”

Weyoun looked into the crib for a long time, hands resting on the edge of it. His lips parted slightly and one word came out:

“Abomination.”

Sisko leant back, “What was that?”

“Abomination.” Louder this time, more venom behind it.

“ABOMINATION!!” Weyoun started to scream the word, making a grab for some equipment on the side table, scrabbling with his hands.

“Mr Worf! Doctor!” Sisko yelled.

Everthing happened at once. Worf made a grab for Weyoun’s hands, now holding a used hypo like a knife, Sisko grabbed the baby out of the crib, jumping away. Weyoun was still screaming that one word over and over again, eyes wide and manic, legs kicking, as Worf got a hold of him around the waist and lifted him from the ground.

“ABOMINATION! ABOMINATION!”

He was still screaming it when Julian jabbed the hypo to his neck, body going limp almost instantly as the tranquiliser moved through his system. The medbay was suddenly far too quiet, everyone standing around in shocked silence. Even the baby hadn’t made a peep.

And to think. It’s wasn’t even 6:00am yet…

Chapter Text

Damar slept in fits and starts. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t get comfortable, not when he was completely unaware of anything going on outside the narrow confines of his Federation cell.

What was happening on Cardassia right now? Had Yelgrun gotten his message through? Had Rusot acted on it, for that matter? Was his family in hiding? Would they see the message he recorded for them? No doubt Weyoun 8 had already found someone to replace him as leader of the Union. Probably that idiot Broca; that one had never seen a boot he wasn’t begging to lick.

Damar rolled over on his bunk, throwing the too soft pillow he’d been given onto the floor and tucking his arm under his head instead. He closed his eyes, trying to find sleep again (Union knew, he needed it), but the questions kept swirling and repeating around his mind, jumping from one worry to the next .

What had happened to his followers, the nascent leadership of the Cardassian Liberation Front? He and Rusot had had contingency plans in place if he was discovered or captured, but had they actually been put into action? Not to mention those plans hadn’t really included him being in Federation custody. If he didn’t get out of here fast it’d be a disaster. He’d be a traitor, a Federation puppet…

“Legate Damar,” a familiar voice caught his attention and he turned on his bunk to see the exile Garak, returned to the seat he had occupied for most of Damar’s interrogation.

“Where’s Odo, or did you two have a fight?”

Garak gave a short laugh, “Always a wit, Legate. Have you slept?”

“Not really.”

“What a pity.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

Garak clasped his hands over one knee, “Such as?”

Damar huffed a short sigh, “How much I need a drink. How the rebellion is probably falling apart as we speak. How Cardassia will never know freedom again…”

“And your part in that perhaps?” Garak lifted an eye ridge.

Damar glared at him, but then looked down, “…perhaps.”

“Well, I might have some news to ease your troubled mind then.” Garak leaned forward in his seat, “The Federation is very interested in the work of…what were you going to call it again?”

“The Cardassian Liberation Front.”

“Yes! The CLF, very snappy! The Federation is considering backing you and it in your fight against the Dominion.”

Damar sat up on the bunk, eyes narrowing, “So you’ll let me go?”

Garak’s head tilted contemplatively at that, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’ll be meeting with Captain Sisko and Vice Admiral Ross soon to discuss it. We might even be able to find you some supplies and weapons. Anything for a freedom fighter.”

Damar barked a laugh, “Do they want the rebellion to fail? You know as well as I do, returning with a Starfleet phaser in my hand would kill the CLF faster than any Jem’Hadar could,” he gave Garak a scathing look, nodding towards the Starfleet issue commbadge attached to his chest, “Not all of us are comfortable as Federation lapdogs.”

“Oh, I’m very aware of the delicacy of the situation, Damar,” and here Garak’s head tilted down, a more predatory air coming over his features, and Damar could suddenly believe the rumours he’d heard that Garak was ex-Order, “But, and you will forgive the human expression, beggars cannot be choosers in these matters. Despite the addition of the Breen to the Dominion’s coalition, the war isn’t going well for your old masters. There will no doubt be other high profile Cardassian defectors before long. Gul Ocett is apparently very unhappy, according to our intelligence.”

Garak stood, stepping closer to the cell, “So really Damar, all you have to decide is whether you’d like to go down in history as General de Galle or Marshall Petain.”

“That would probably be a more effective threat if I knew who either of those people were,” Damar said, crossing his arms.

“Figures from Earth history. I’ll bring you some reading material on them. Maybe it will help you put your situation into perspective,” Garak started to leave, “I’ll be back soon to escort you to your meeting with the Captain and Ross.”

“Wait,” Damar paused for a moment, “How’s Motivation?”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“The baby…it’s what I’ve been calling him. How is he?”

Garak turned back, giving an amused smile, “A virtue name. A little old fashioned, don’t you think?”

Damar shrugged, “I had a great grandfather who was called Ambition. But it was more something Borath said…when he gave him to me.”

“Well he’s fine, a little grumpy but otherwise in excellent health.”

“Sounds about right,” Damar rubbed a hand over his face, “Luaran said it was the first live Vorta birth in over a thousand years. It makes you wonder how many non-live ones there were…”

Garak blinked at that. He seemed to think for a moment, tapping his index finger against his thigh, once, twice, three times, before stepping closer to the cell again, “We’ve been discussing whether to tell you this or not…I for one think we should. He still talks about you and…given recent events I think he’s going to need all the help he can get.”

“Who needs my help? Tell me what?”

Garak paused a moment longer, reading Damar’s face, “…Weyoun 6 is alive.”

Damar’s world compressed to a single point, his head spun, and he stepped back, the back of his knees finding the edge of his bunk. It caught him as he sat (fell) backwards. Weyoun 6 had lived. It was impossible! How...?

“...quite ingenious really.” He hadn’t even realized Garak was still speaking, “Then it was just a matter of recording a fake death and sending it to you and Weyoun 7 so you’d allow Odo to return to Federation space.”

“Where is he? Where are you keeping him?” Damar slammed his fist onto the wall, harder than he intended and wincing as his hand throbbed.

Garak rolled his eyes, “We’re not keeping him anywhere. He has free reign of the station and enjoys all the privileges and comforts of Federation citizenship, including one of those comfortable stipends they like giving out.”

“I want to see him!”

“You’re in no position to be making demands Damar, though perhaps something could be arranged if you behave yourself during your meeting today,” Garak looked up at the wall above Damar’s head, presumably at the time displayed there, “Speaking of which, we had best be on our way, especially since we now have to stop by the medbay to have your hand looked at. Now come along.”

~*~*~

He is Weyoun but he is not himself. This much is obvious.

This is not Deep Space 9. The sun is too harsh. There is a sun for one thing, the light so bright he has to keep his eyes mostly closed, seeing out through tiny slits. The ground is broken and rocky beneath his feet and he realizes he isn’t wearing shoes, or any other clothing for that matter. He isn’t cold though, if anything he is too hot, and it is this knowledge that makes him realize that he is not alone, that in fact he is surrounded by many other bodies.

He looks down and this further confirms this is not him. Or maybe it is? Some previous version of himself perhaps, or some small part that has been spliced into himself: a sense for analytics, a diplomatic tone of voice, an upturned nose, long fingers. He is the result of many years of selection after all.

Most obviously though, he knows he is not himself because in this body, sweating and naked and feet aching, he has breasts, and more curiously still: nipples, purple, slack in the heat. The Vorta have not had nipples for a long time, thousands of years perhaps.

Other Vorta surround him on the rock, and as he looks around he realizes this is a rock, jutting out of an endless ocean which has the shifting colours of a sunrise. The feeling of reverence and wonder he feels is automatic, here he is surrounded by God it/themselves.

But there is fear also. He looks up and can see it on the faces of the others around him (there is no-one he recognises, no Vorta he knows, another proof this is not him and not his time).

Suddenly the painful light dims and they are in shadow. He finally looks up and a great wave has risen out of the Link, a wave that a deep voice booms from.

“YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.”

The surrounding Vorta remain silent. Some fall to their knees.

“YOU ARE CHOSEN TO WITNESS JUDGEMENT.”

Somehow Weyoun knows where to look and he turns his head without any instruction to where a small plinth sticks out from the rock. There is a Vorta there (one whose large eyes have echoes of Keevan and long nose could be an ancestor of Deyos’s) and a Jem’Hadar standing beside her. Both hands are manacled, as are their ankles. Long chains extend from their ankle restraints, attached to weights. She is defiant, staring up at the wave unblinking and unafraid. Weyoun feels his (her? this?) body begin to shake.

“ALL ARE SOLID. ALL ARE IN SIN.”

And here the assembled Vorta whisper the words back.

“BUT SOME ARE GREATER SINNERS THAN OTHERS.” And now God it/themselves addresses the Vorta and Jem’Hadar chained on the rock, “THERE CAN BE NO GREATER SIN THAN TO REJECT THE LOVE OF GOD. TO REJECT OUR PLAN FOR YOU, MOST GIFTED OF SERVANTS.”

Here Weyoun begins to shake harder, some of the other Vorta are swaying or jumping, all moaning, working themselves up to a frenzy. Tears begin to fall down his cheeks. Some of them are chanting softly, whispering “sinners, sinners, sinners” over and over again.

“YOU HAVE REJECTED OUR PLAN AND SUPPLANTED IT WITH YOUR OWN. THE SIN IS KNOWN, THE SENTENCE IS KNOWN.”

“Sinners. Sinners. Sinners. Sinners.” The chorus builds in intensity as more voices join.

“THE SENTENCE IS RECLAMATION!”

A scream works its way out of Weyoun’s throat, and then all of the Vorta join.

He sees the Jem’Hadar reach out for the Vorta, covering her distended stomach with his body in some final moment of loyalty as the Great Wave, judgement it/themselves, comes crashing down on them both.

The chorus changes, “Reclaimed. Reclaimed. Reclaimed.”

When the wave recedes, the sinners are gone. Weyoun knows already there will be no bodies to recover.

“Reclaimed,” he whispers with the others.

“Reclaimed. Reclaimed. Reclaimed…”

Weyoun woke with a start, that word on his lips and the taste of bile in his throat. He was cold and shivering, covered in partially dried sweat and, in what was no doubt an oversight, completely alone and unrestrained on a biobed in sickbay.

He blinked and ran his hands over his face, his arms, anywhere he could easily reach. A technique Dax had taught him to help him remember what was real and what wasn’t, to remind him the dreams were just that: dreams.

But that wasn’t a dream. That was a memory. Not his memory (or not his as he exists now), something left buried deep by the Founders, to be called on only when needed. When confronted by the correct stimulus. Tears pricked at his eyes as memories from the morning came back to him: Captain Sisko, everyone crowded into the sick bay, staring down into the crib, then something old and ancient taking over his body, something older even than Weyoun 0, whose voice he rarely heard anymore.

His ears pricked, hearing the unmistakable sounds of two infants breathing in the next room, both asleep. He got up from the biobed and walked towards the sound. There were two humidi-cribs, side by side, one holding the tiny white-furred body of a baby Andorian and the other holding the much larger baby Vorta.

He stood over the crib and felt no compulsion to harm this time, only sorrow, deep as the abyss. This child was alone, as he was alone, sinless and sinning. He reached in and pressed one fingertip to the back of a tiny hand, skin dappled with patches of purple, soft and new. The child’s eyes opened and blinked up at him, giving a little yawn.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t know what he was apologising for (possibly the attempted murder). All he knew was that every version of himself had stilled, silent and unable to contribute to this novel situation. He was Weyoun 6, but in this moment might as well have been the first Weyoun, the unnumbered original. Tears came, properly this time as they did in the dream, and in that moment he wished Dax was there to comfort him, or Odo to absolve him, or that Damar would take him in his arms as he had with Five. (So sad that with close to four hundred years of life and those were the only examples he could conjure up as people who had comforted him.)

“And that’s how deadly pre-eclampsia can be in zhens. It’s still the number one cause of post-partum mortality on Andoria, you know?” Weyoun heard Dr Bashir’s voice as he came through from the operating theatre, Dr Sonak on his heels, “That was a very good catch for you to notice the swelling in her antennae and the lethargy, if it had been a few more minutes…”

His words faded off and tense silence fell. Weyuon heard Dr Sonak whisper to Bashir, asking if he should call for security, Dr Bashir hushing him.

“Weyoun…” he said cautiously, a note of warning in his voice, “Are you alright?”

Weyoun sniffed, “I…I don’t know, Doctor.”

“Can you step away from the crib for me?” Weyoun looked up and Dr Bashir was right next to him, smiling kindly, that carefully measured tone to his voice that people often used with dangerous animals, “If we go back into the other room we can talk about it…about anything you like.”

Weyoun sniffled again, “Yes…yes, that might be best. Can we call Dax?”

“Of course! We’ll get her here right away,” Julian put his hand over one of Weyoun’s on the edge of the crib, gently removing it and turning Weyoun around.

“Can I come back and see him later?” Weyoun hesitated for just a moment, pulling back towards the crib, “When I’m feeling better?”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem. We’ll talk about it with Ezri.” Julian started to walk him away, signaling to Sonak with a jerk of his head to check on the infants.

“Yes…yes, that’s a good idea…”

Julian led Weyoun back into the main room of the medbay, already adding to the mental list of all the things he had to do before he could take a break for lunch. Call for Ezri to consult on both Weyoun and Lt Cmdr Olles (who was showing a lot of the signs of post birth traumatic stress) and reprimand security for leaving Weyoun alone despite orders were added right at the top, above chat to Miles about temporary fostering and make a decision about a name beyond Vorta Doe.

He had just gotten Weyoun settled, sitting back on the edge of a biobed, when the telltale sound of the sick bay doors sliding open sounded behind him. Julian sighed, if that was security coming back it had been have been an absolute emergency which dragged them away from watching a potentially volatile patient…

“My dear Doctor…”

Ah, security’s thorough bollocksing would have to wait a little while longer at least.

“I know you hate it when I drop in without an appointment, but if you could run your expert eye over our friend here’s hand, it would be most appreciated.”

Julian was just about to turn and deal with Garak but was caught by the look of ‘deer in the headlights’ shock on Weyoun’s face as he did. He turned, following his eye line. There was Garak at the door, and standing next to him, Damar, looking only slightly less like a stunned animal.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, an inhale of breath, as everyone stared at each other, the seconds stretching out to what felt like an hour.

Damar broke the silence first, always a creature of action, “Weyoun…I…I can’t believe-”

That was all he got out before Weyoun fainted dead away, pitching forward on the bed and only saved from a very undignified fall to the floor by Julian’s quick action.

“Perfect timing Garak,” Julian said, sighing and positioning Weyoun properly on the biobed.

“Is he alright?” Damar asked, trying to walk over but stopped by Garak’s hand on his arm, “What have you done to him?”

“We haven’t done anything to him,” Julian grabbed a tricorder off one of the computer stations and grabbed the wrist Damar was holding close to his chest, the one he guessed (rightly it seemed as the tricorder noted a cracked metacarpal) was the injured hand, “He’s just had a hard morning.”

Damar blinked at him, looking at Julian all of a sudden as if he’d grown a second head that was reciting Latin. He sniffed, looked over at Garak (who was suddenly very interested in looking at an educational poster on common Bajoran STDs), back at Julian, then sniffed again.

“Do you need a tissue?” Julian asked, picking up the osteo-regenerator and quickly knitting the crack in the bone.

“No, no…no. I’m fine. Just…yes, I’m fine.” Damar seemed embarrassed, not meeting Julian’s eyes all of a sudden.

“Well, since you’ve made a remarkable recovery…” Julian finished by giving Damar a quick shot with a hypo of painkillers, “and as much as I like seeing you during the day, Garak, you can both make yourselves scarce. I have a lot to do.”

“Of course, my dear. Shall I bring you some lunch once I’m done with this meeting?”

“I think it’s the only thing you can do since you stood me up for breakfast!”

“You wound me, dearest. Absolutely wound me.”

Damar stayed silent until he and Garak were well clear of the sickbay before rounding on the other Cardassian.

“I can’t believe you!”

Garak blinked his round wompat eyes at Damar, playing innocent, “I get that a lot. You’ll have to be a little more specific about what.”

“He…he practically stinks of you,” Damar hissed, “It’s obscene! Like you’ve just rolled out of bed. Have a little decency!”

Garak’s eyes hardened, “Oh forgive me for not playing the weeping sexless exile, just to make you feel comfortable. If I’d known you were coming I’d have made sure Doctor Bashir gave himself a thorough scrubbing so as not to offend your delicate nostrils and sensibilities.”

Damar gaped, unable to respond to such…such blatant debauchery.

“Now come along. We’ll be late,” Garak grabbed Damar’s elbow, nodding to the security detail which had been following them at a distance since they had left the holding bay, “I can stomach being a degenerate but never let anyone say I’m not punctual.”

Chapter Text

After he’d woken from his second unexpected session of unconsciousness for the day, Dr Bashir had suggested that Weyoun go back to his quarters and rest for a while. A good idea, especially since Ezri was going to be with Lt Cmdr Olles for a while, but she would pop around and see Weyoun as soon as she could.

Weyoun was curled up in a ball on his couch, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, when Ezri poked her head inside his quarters.

“Heey, how are you feeling?” she gave one of her sympathetic tight lipped smiles.

Weyoun looked at her askance, narrowing his eyes, “Don’t give me your therapy face. I can’t handle the therapy face right now.”

“Fair enough. Can I come in?”

“I have a feeling you’re here under Captain and Doctor’s orders, so you might as well.”

Ezri sat on the far end of Weyoun’s sofa, not in his eye line, “You had a rough morning. Everyone just wants to make sure you’re alright.”

“I tried to kill a baby. ‘Rough morning’ might be a bit of an understatement,” Weyoun pulled the blanket further up, so it was a hood over his head. “How is he?”

“He’s doing fine. We’re trying to find someone to foster him, but he seems very happy at the sick bay in the meantime.” Ezri paused for a moment. “Do you want to talk about what happened this morning?”

The blankets sighed, “It was like…it was like it wasn’t me. Like…I was watching, like my predecessors do. Does that make any sense?”

Ezri nodded, “It does to me, probably not to many other people on the station.”

“I feel so…ashamed. I can’t remember, in any of my lives, ever losing control like that.”

“Can you remember ever seeing a baby Vorta and Jem’Hadar before?”

He paused for a moment, “No.”

“Well, I think we can file this as a unique experience then,” she picked up a little clay bird Weyoun must have bought from one of the Bajoran owned shops on the Promenade, turning it over in her hands, “We’ve talked a bit about this. The Founders kept a very tight hold on the things you were exposed to, both positive and negative. And there was a reason for that…”

“So they could control us.” Weyoun’s voice was small.

“That’s right. And what happened this morning: that was a part of that. We really know so little about how the Founders built your psyche, the things they’ve put in there. So don’t beat yourself up,” she put the little bird down on the table and slid it so it was in front of Weyoun, “You’re going to have good days and bad days out here.”

Weyoun picked up the little bird, his fingers rubbing a circle around its black glass eyes, “It’s frightening sometimes, not knowing whether it’s going to be a good day or a bad day…”

Ezri chuckled, “Tell me about it. I think that’s just part of being alive.” She paused for a moment, letting the silence stretch, “So, how do you feel when you think about the baby now?”

Weyoun kept playing with the little bird, “Sad. He’s so alone. And angry…not at him, at them.” He looked up, meeting Ezri’s eyes for the first time, “They took so much away from us, the Vorta and the Jem’Hadar. Even the simplest parts of…of being alive. Sleep, taste, sight, procreation!”

“Those things aren’t the sum total of being alive. There’s plenty of sentient species that don’t experience one or several of those things.”

“But I think you’ll find all of them procreate, Dax!”

Ezri’s head tilted, she had to concede that point. “You know, this is the first time you’ve expressed anger towards the Founders. I think that’s a positive step.”

Weyoun huffed, “Is it? It doesn’t feel like it.” He pointedly put down the clay bird, crossing his arms over his chest, “Can we talk about anything else for a while? I’m so tired of thinking about them.”

“Anger’s just like any other emotion, it can be helpful or harmful. It’s how you use it,” She smiled and tucked her legs up under her on the couch. “But, if you’d like to talk about something else…Julian told me you and Damar ran into each other this morning, rather unexpectedly.”

Weyoun groaned, eyes closing. The blankets found their way over his head again. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go back to my deep religious trauma.”

“Sorry, it doesn’t work that way. We’re on the Damar train now. Choo choo.” Ezri laughed as Weyoun gave her a withering look, “We’ve spoken a bit about him before…”

Inside his mind, Weyoun felt Five stir just at the mention of Damar’s name. He tried to quiet him. There had been a month, only a month, between Five’s death and Six’s defection. A month where Weyoun was so terrified and paranoid he shrank from every attempted touch, placed Jem’Hadar outside his door with strict orders to send Damar away (with force if necessary) if he came slinking around at night like a tom cat in heat. (Such a strange image to conjure, Damar couldn’t ‘slink’ if his life depended on it.)

“He was…he and Five were very close.”

Ezri raised an eyebrow, “Intimate?”

Weyoun muttered something into his blankets.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Yes! Yes, alright! There was some…intimacy between him and Five.”

“Some?”

“…a lot.”

Ezri chuckled, “Did you try to continue the relationship after Five’s death?”

“He did. I...I wasn’t in a good place.”

“You thought everyone was trying to kill you…”

“And that’s a very bad place!” Weyoun made an exasperated gesture.

“True,” Ezri said. She shifted in her seat, “You’re in a better one now though. How would you feel about speaking to him while he’s here?”

Weyoun looked down at his hands, “I don’t know…”

Ezri gave a short exhale, “I’m not just asking as a theoretical. Garak came to speak to me. Damar’s been asking to see you. He’s worried about you. And Garak thinks it might be helpful to the Federation’s negotiations with him…if Damar knew you were safe here, that you weren’t being hurt.”

“He’s really that worried?”

Ezri nodded, “He’s asked to see you a few times now. Do you think that’s something you’d be open to? I could be there if you wanted. You wouldn’t have to be alone with him if you didn’t want to.”

Weyoun got up, blankets still wrapped around his shoulders, and walked over to the window of his room. Five was still shifting and stirring in his mind; sending out waves of want, flashes of memory, fuzzy around the edges, blurred images and half heard words…

“I suppose…if it would help the negotiations…” he said. He lifted his hand, almost touching his ear where he was certain he could almost feel familiar fingertips tracing over its edge.

“Would you like me to come with you?”

Weyoun took a deep breath, “No…no, I think I can handle it.” He turned to face her, finally taking the blanket off and starting to fold it, “I’d like to help.”

~*~*~

“I don’t know Julian…” Miles reached down into the crib, offering a finger so the baby could grip and ungrip it with its little purple tinged hands, “We’ve just got Kirayoshi sleeping through the night, and I’ll be honest here, I don’t think Keiko and I can handle another newborn, especially given the current circumstances. I’m sorry, wish I could help more…”

Julian sighed, “No, no, don’t worry about it, I completely understand. Just thought I’d ask.” The baby started to grizzle, a pained expression on his little face, and Julian picked up the regnar toy (Reggie the regnar as he’d started to be called) and gave it to him, the baby instantly wrapping its arms around it, pressing one of his long ears to the side of the toy. The pained expression dissipated a little. “I’m thinking of just taking him myself…”

“Oh yeah?” Miles leaned against the wall, “You and Garak been having the kids discussion again?”

Julian gave a contemplative wiggle of his head, “Maybe…it’s still pretty theoretical, as far as discussions go. But this could be a good trial run…at least until something more permanent is found.”

“Aye, poor little mite can’t spend the rest of his life in a sick bay. Has anyone had any thoughts about a name by the way?”

“It’s funny you mention that. Garak popped by to bring my lunch and he said Damar has been calling him Motivation.”

“Motivation?” Miles said incredulously, “That’s…a choice.”

Julian shrugged, “Apparently it’s not completely outside the norm on Cardassia, a bit on the old fashioned side though. Virtue names were a trend a few hundred years ago.”

“Cardassian virtues, I gather?”

“Oh yes,” Julian leaned down, re-wrapping and picking up the baby when he started to grizzle again, Reggie getting left behind, “Go a few generations back in the State Archives and you’ll find plenty of Ambition’s, Motivation’s, Respect’s, Obedience’s.”

“Not quite as many Charity’s and Faith’s though, I imagine,” Miles held out his arms, taking the baby from Julian and gently bouncing him until he stopped making that noise.

Julian chuckled, “No, I imagine not. Maybe we could go with Moe for short.”

“Now that’s a bit less of a mouthful, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” Miles spoke to the baby, chuckling as a little arm wriggled its way free from its swaddling and gripped the front of his uniform, “You look like a Moe, don’t you? A big bruiser of a fellow.” He looked up at Julian, “How much does he weigh, out of curiosity?”

“Just a little under 5 kilos, 10 pounds 8 ounces in the old money, putting him very much in the heavyweight division for newborns. He’s almost double the size of Baby Olles,” Julian walked over to check the vitals on Baby Olles’ humidi-crib, slightly adjusting some of the temperature settings. “I’ve been thinking about it actually, that may have been why Borath couldn’t give birth vaginally. If he had similar proportions to Weyoun, I don’t think his hips would have been wide enough to pass the head.”

“Ugh, poor thing,” Miles pried Mo’s little fist off his uniform, looking at the splotches of purple on the back of his hand and arm, “Do you think these are permanent? Or have I just missed that Weyoun has spots?”

Julian chuckled, taking Moe back from Miles, “I have a theory about that as well. Look…” he put the baby down on a biobed, unwrapping his swaddling and then turning him gently over onto his belly, showing Miles the irregular pale purple spots that extended down Moe’s back. “I think it’s camouflage dappling, maybe to protect them from predators in the rainforests they evolved in. I’m working on a larger theory that Vorta were a prey species. They’ll probably fade as he gets older.”

“Makes as much sense as anything else, I suppose.” Miles smiled, watching Moe wave his arms and legs around, clearly quite pleased to be free of the swaddling. He held out a hand as Julian went to re-swaddle him, “I’d let him be for a while before wrapping him back up, he seems happy.”

“But the newborn field guide says that he should be swaddled almost all the time. I’ve already given him some mobility time today…”

“Julian, if you’re going to be a parent you’ll need to learn very quickly that babies don’t adhere to a Starfleet issue field guide. Just let him wiggle around there for a while, he’s not hurting anything.”

Moe, enjoying and making full use of his new freedom, managed to get his arms under him and started pushing his head up, giving a satisfied little groan at the effort.

Julian gasped, “He’s lifting his head! That’s new! That’s definitely very new! I have to get his chart!”

Miles rolled his eyes, “Oh yes, got to fill in the chart.”

“You don’t understand!” Julian rushed over with a PADD, “According to the field manual he shouldn’t start lifting his head until he’s about three months old! This is incredibly advanced development for a newborn! Maybe he’ll start rolling over soon!”

As if on cue, Moe, who had been swaying back and forth on his arms, decided this was the exact moment he would try that very move, and with a great grunt of effort rolled himself to the left, pitching himself right off the biobed! Julian made a startled squawking noise, rushing forward and catching him just before he hit the floor. Moe gurgled triumphantly, looking very smug, if it was possible for a three-day-old to look smug.

“Alright, maybe he goes back in the swaddling for a while,” Miles said, watching Julian pant.

“Might be a good idea,” Julian took a deep breath in then out, giving a nervous laugh, “Hopefully that’s the last surprise for a little while…”

Moe gave a short hiss, reaching up and giving Julian’s nose a gentle squeeze, right before trying to jam his whole fist into Julian’s eye.

“Ah! Alright! You’re going down for a minute. I think Reggie likes having his eyes poked, try that move on him.”

Moe went down into the humidi-crib, Julian putting Reggie the regnar right next to him, who quickly got pulled into a hug, Moe giving a satisfied yawn and closing his dark purple eyes.

Julian took a few readings from the crib before looking back up at Miles, eye looking a little swollen, “You’re sure you’re not interested in fostering?”

Miles gave a thin lipped smile back, “Yeeeah, it’s just not going to work. And I better be getting back to it actually, got a lot on today.”

“Alright, see you later Chief,” Julian gave a half wave as Miles left the sick bay, leaning down over the crib and running his fingers through Moe’s dark curly hair, “I guess it’s just you and me, old chap.”

~*~*~

Damar had been moved from his cell. Apparently he had ‘behaved himself’ to an appropriate degree during his meeting with Sisko and Admiral Ross, and he had been deemed trustworthy enough to be moved from a cell to one of the guest rooms on the station, one of those normally reserved for heads of state.

Most heads of state visiting Deep Space 9 probably didn’t have Starfleet security stationed outside the door, a (suspected) ex-Obsidian Order handler, strict orders not to leave the room, and all internal communications disabled, however. Or at least not all of those things at the same time. It occurred to Damar as well that, because of the war, the diplomatic rooms of the station were largely unused and he could more easily be isolated and observed from there.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?” Garak asked, he gestured to a platter which had been artfully placed in the middle of a dining table, “Have some of the fruit. I understand they had it brought up from Bajor specially, not replicated at all.”

Damar continued to stare out the window of the suite.

Garak helped himself to a few milaberries, “Did the conversation with Gul Rusot not go well?”

Damar finally turned from the window, “Not one of our better chats.”

It could have gone a lot worse, Damar had to concede that. At the end of talks with Ross and Sisko he had insisted on being allowed to contact Rusot, if anything to see if he was still alive, that he’d managed to get out of Lakar before the inevitable leadership purges. They’d established a secure channel and Rusot had been less than pleased to see Damar sitting comfortably in a conference room of the Federation held Terok Nor.

“Well…of all the people I would expect to see in the arms of the Federation, you were one of the last, Damar.”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

He’d crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair, “Oh? Then explain to me what it does look like?”

Things hadn’t really improved from there. Rusot had at least gotten the message Damar had sent through Yelgrun, had gotten Niala and his son into hiding to a safe house off-world. That was a huge relief. It was clear though that he wasn’t happy, even with Damar’s promises of supplies and weapons from the Federation.

“Oh so we need their help now, do we?”

Damar sighed, “Yes, Rusot, we do actually need their help. How many extra guns do we have?”

Rusot spluttered, “Plenty! There’s plenty of guns!”

“Really? Because last time I counted we had 27.”

“We can share!”

“A battalion can’t share 27 guns!”

Conversation had continued roughly in that vein until Rusot had agreed to accepting the Federation’s help, and holding off on any major attacks until Damar was able to join them.

Garak moved from finishing off the milaberries to the mango slices, making an appreciative noise, “You know, they say replicated food is molecularly identical to the real thing, but honestly I’ve never tasted a replicated mango that was even close to one that’s been grown in the earth.”

Damar made a non-committal noise, picking up a deep red peach and turning it over in his hands, not bothering to eat.

“Not hungry Damar?” Garak shrugged, “Perhaps you’ll have worked up an appetite by the time your visitor gets here…”

Damar looked up, eyes narrowing, “Leave the games for your Doctor. What visitor?”

Garak looked down his nose at Damar, “You’re being very ungrateful to an old degenerate. I had to pull a lot of strings to get him here. The Captain wasn’t going to allow it at all…”

“Garak…” Damar growled.

The door chime pinged, Garak sweeping out of his seat at the sound, “That will be him now…”

Garak opened the door and there, standing in the doorway, wearing the same floppy grey clothes that made him look like a prisoner, a slightly nervous smile on his face, was Weyoun 6, a ghost bought back to life.

“I’ll leave you both to get reacquainted.” Damar barely heard Garak’s words, eyes focused solely on Weyoun as the other Cardassian slipped out of the door.

They stared at each other across the space of the living room for some time, neither sure what move to make.

“It’s…it’s good to see you...” Damar broke the silence first, hands clenching and unclenching, “I…would you like some fruit?” He gestured to the half-eaten platter on the table. “It’s from the dirt.”

Weyoun looked at him oddly, “Why would I want dirt fruit?”

“It tastes better…apparently.”

Silence fell again. Weyoun walked over to the table, choosing a pomegranate after a few moments and picking at a few seeds from the open wound at the top of the fruit, fingers coming away stained red as human blood. He sucked on his index finger, trying to get the colour out, keenly aware of Damar’s eyes burning into him from across the room.

“I missed you,” Damar said, sudden and just a touch louder than perhaps he’d intended. He paced in front of the large window of the state room.

Weyoun ate a few more pomegranates seeds, slowly, measuring each word as he spoke, “I missed you too.”

It’s Five who was loudest in Weyoun’s mind at that moment, even more than when he was speaking to Ezri. Images flooded his consciousness from Five’s memories, uncalled for, unprompted, and clearer than they’d ever been before. A grey skinned hand brushing against his, a sliver of moonlight through curtains dancing across a broad back, fingertips tracing the edge of his ear, the sound of his name whispered, being pulled into an alcove to kiss, secret and stolen, the taste of kanar.

The images, the sensations, came so fast and bright Weyoun suddenly felt muddled, the line between him and Five blurring.

“Damar…” The voice that came out was one of Five’s breathy gasps, and Weyoun found himself closing the distance between them, pressing his face into Damar’s chest. Arms encircled him, and although Six and Damar barely touched in their time together, Weyoun knew the hand on the back of his head, knew to angle himself slightly to the side of the spur jutting out of the front of Damar’s armor, knew the lips that murmured by his ear.

He felt Damar give a great exhale, “Are you alright? Do they treat you well here?”

Weyoun nodded, looking up at him, “Yes…yes, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You can tell me,” Damar takes Weyoun’s face in his hands, turning his head slightly from side to side, as if looking for injuries, “You haven’t been hurt at all?”

“No, of course not. Everyone’s been very nice.”

Damar gave a little scoff, “If you say so.”

Weyoun wasn’t sure if it was him or Five who placed his hands over Damar’s, him or Five who leant in to kiss him, though it was almost certainly Five who started unclasping Damar’s chest plates. It was Weyoun 3 though; a tactician by training, more measured and cautious than his successors by nature; who whispered that perhaps this wasn’t a good idea, that neither he nor Damar were in the right frame of mind to be making this kind of leap. Five responded be sending out more memories, including that one time in the shower (a particularly fond memory of Five’s), easily drowning Three out.

There was a comment from Damar: that Weyoun’s new clothes were much easier to get off than his last ones, voice husky as they stumbled towards the bed. Weyoun gave a breathy laugh, falling backwards onto the sheets and pulling Damar down after him.

“You smell different,” Damar whispered, running his lips down the curve of Weyoun’s neck, pressing kisses to his collarbone.

“I am different,” he gasped back, legs wrapping around Damar’s hips as he entered him.

Then Weyoun wasn’t capable of any other words and the only sound was the slap of their flesh, Damar’s groans, Weyoun’s whimpering out at that feeling of being full, impossibly full, new to this body but still so familiar.

It was quick, hurried like they often were in the past, Weyoun grabbing a handful of Damar’s hair and pulling his head to the side so he could bite down hard onto his neck ridge. Damar gave a strangled cry, hips stuttering as he came.

He breathed heavily, wrapping his arms around Weyoun and holding him almost too tight until he caught his breath.

“Did you…?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the ridge that extended down Weyoun’s jaw, feeling more than seeing Weyoun shake his head.

He shifted to side, sliding off Weyoun slightly and reaching between his legs, Weyoun giving a soft exhale as he felt Damar slide his fingers between the folds of his sex, finding their mark and bringing him to a peak that, even after all this time, Weyoun still thought of as a sin. The best sin. The softest. The one you fell gently into…

When they were done and Weyoun was laying, almost cradled, on Damar’s chest, lulled by the slow beat, ba-beat, ba-beat, of his heart, he realised that all of his previous selves had stilled once again. Even Five, usually the loudest, seemed content, humming quietly in his corner of Weyoun’s psyche.

Damar ran his fingers slowly back and forth over the ridge of Weyoun’s ear, chewing on the red peach he had picked up earlier.

“You’re very quiet,” he said gently, “Are you alright?”

Weyoun looked up at him and smiled, “Oh yes, I’m fine.” He gave a contented sigh, “Just…enjoying the quiet.”

Chapter Text

“You did WHAT?!”

Garak blinked innocently up at Captain Sisko from where he sat in front of the command desk, the Captain staring down at him, face a mask of thunder.

“Captain, I merely went along with the plan we discussed yesterday. We all agreed that, if Mister Weyoun was amenable to it, he would be allowed to see Damar and assure him the Federation wasn’t keeping him in some sort of torture dungeon?”

“’See him,’ Mister Garak, the relevant words there being ‘see him,’” Sisko measured each word out carefully, “Not be left alone with Damar for…” he glanced quickly up a the clock on his wall, “almost 12 hours now.”

“Has it been that long already?” Garak placed a hand over his mouth, giving a very theatrical yawn, “I suppose it’s true what they say about being a new parent, you just lose track of time so easily.”

Odo hmph’d from where he stood by the desk, “Cut the games Garak. We both know what you’re doing. What was that old Order saying, if you can’t be the honeypot, find someone who can?”

Garak gave a low chuckle, “I’m hurt you’d think that I’d ever need to find anyone to replace me as a honeypot, Constable. I may not be your type, but I like to think I still have my charms.”

“Yes, thank you, Mister Garak, very helpful,” Sisko rubbed a hand over his face, “That doesn’t really explain why you’ve allowed a vulnerable civilian to be left alone with the leader of an enemy state we’re currently at war with!”

“With all due respect, Captain, you aren’t giving Mister Weyoun much credit. He’s a three hundred year old diplomat with field command experience, not a child. If he didn’t want to see Legate Damar then he had more than enough opportunity to say no and, I might add, he isn’t exactly locked in there either. He can leave whenever he wants.”

“And you’re missing the point!” Odo snapped, “They’re former compatriots! If you can’t see the security risk inherent in that-”

“Ah hah! And there it is!” Garak punctuated his point with a stab of his index finger, looking very smug, “You still don’t trust Weyoun, Constable. Despite all the progress he’s made, all he work he’s done, you still don’t think he’s on our side.”

“It doesn’t matter what work he’s done! He’s still a product of the Dominion!”

Garak’s eyeridges climbed up his forehead, “A product, what an interesting choice of words, Odo.”

“You know I didn’t mean it-”

“Enough! Both of you,” Sisko barked, holding up a hand to stop Odo’s response. He took a breath, then addressed the Cardassian, “Mister Garak, I am not pleased with this situation, and I will be keeping a closer eye on your handling of Legate Damar going forward.”

Odo gave a triumphant grunt, already looking smug.

“As for you, Constable, it’s also come to my attention you’ve been cutting Mister Weyoun out of briefings, in direct contravention of Starfleet orders, I might add. That is to stop immediately. I don’t care how uncomfortable he makes you, Mister Garak is right about one thing, he’s made a lot of progress and deserves to be given a chance to do his job!”

It was Garak’s turn to look smug. He took a celebratory sip out of his mug of ratkajino (not normally his morning drink of choice but it had taken Moe a while to settle in his new crib last night and he needed the extra caffeine).

“Now, both of you are to head down to the state rooms and calmly and politely check on Mister Weyoun, and Odo, you’re going to ask him if he’d like to help you with…something.”

“With something?” Odo folded his arms over his chest, “Pray tell, what do I need his help with?”

“I don’t know, Constable” Sisko sat back down behind his desk, picking up one of the many PADDs scattered on there, “It’s a bit of walk down to the state rooms, I’m sure you’ll have thought of something by the time you get there,” he made a dismissive gesture with one hand, “That is all, gentlemen.”

~*~*~

Damar existed in that wonderful space between sleep and waking. He wallowed there, warm and content, arm thrown over Weyoun’s body beside him, chin resting on the top of his head. For a moment, just a small one, the war, the Dominion, the rebellion, seemed far away. He felt the smaller body beside him shift, Weyoun’s hand coming up and tracing his fingers down the ridges on Damar’s arm, pausing where the line was broken abruptly by an old scar. Damar gave a contented sigh, hand shifting down to Weyoun’s lower back and pulling him closer, enjoying the fit of soft flesh against his own.

“Are you awake?” he heard Weyoun whisper.

He chucked, “No. Are you?”

Weyoun wiggled beside him, shifting up the bed and kissing him on the chin, then the mouth. He smiled into it, feeling clever little hands drift down his arms to his hips, then between his legs tracing over the lips of his ajan, right over the slit. Damar’s hands slid lower, squeezing Weyoun’s bottom.

“You’re adventurous this morning…” he murmured, letting himself be pushed gently onto his back, Weyoun getting on top of him, blankets falling down off his shoulders. Five had always been much more passive, sexually at least, “Is it morning? I can’t tell.”

Weyoun shrugged, “It’s late morning. You slept for a long time.”

“Did I?” Damar folded his arms behind his head, stretching out his back, “Well, you wore me out.” He placed his hands on Weyoun’s hips, “You know I never remember you being this…passionate.”

“I told you, I’m different,” he leant down and kissed the teeth indentations on Damar’s neck ridge where he had bitten him last night, ground his hips down onto Damar’s, “Besides…I haven’t had a lot to do since I got here. I’ve found the holosuites to be quite a good way to pass the time.”

“The holosuites?” Damar licked his lips, his half-everted prUt sliding against the folds of Weyoun’s wet opening. Weyoun moved his hips slowly, no urgency there, enjoying himself. “Any particularly memorable programs I should know about?”

“Why? Jealous?” Weyoun smirked, sitting up suddenly, Damar sliding inside him with a few careful wiggles of his hips.

“Uh…n-o, just curious where your tastes lie these days,” Damar gasped out, fists curling in the sheets.

“Oh well,” Weyoun kept rocking his hips, smiling down at Damar’s obviously flustered state, “There’s a variety. Vulcan Love Slave III is a lot of fun, but it’s always booked out…”

“A-hh…that one’s popular everywhere.”

“Then there’s the Klingon Conquest series, that has its charms.”

Damar only nodded at that, eyes closing as his gripped Weyoun’s hips, trying to keep control of the rhythm.

“Then there’s one called Trill Spa Gangbang. That was a donation to Quark’s library from Dax’s previous symbiont, not really a favorite, more just memorable in general.

Damar felt Weyoun lean down, their chests pressing together. One of Weyoun’s long fingers traced, feather light, around the rim of Damar’s chufa, making him arch up into the touch and groan. He was so close…so close…

“But I’d have to say my favorite is one of the older titles,” Weyoun pressed a kiss to the line of Damar’s jaw, “Quark’s had it since the station was in Cardassian hands the first time: The Lusty Interrogator. It’s apparently a classic of the genre.”

“Hmm, it has its moments…” a familiar voice came from near the door. Damar’s eyes shot open. “But I’ve always felt the Interrogator series peaked with its third installment: Lusty Interrogator III: Lakarian Drift.”

Damar grabbed Weyoun and roughly pulled him off his lap, grabbing the blankets and pulling them all the way up to cover them both, so much so Weyoun was almost completely hidden, only the puff of the top of his hair poking out the top of the sheets.

“Garak!” Damar snarled, “Get out! Get out now!”

“A very pleasant morning to you too, Legate. And you as well, Mister Weyoun.” Garak looked like the tasper who had stolen the cream right off the top of the morning milk. Odo, standing next to him, and silent so far, looked distinctly less pleased.

“Good morning, Mister Garak,” Weyoun’s muffled voice came from under the sheets.

“What part of ‘get out’ don’t you understand?” Damar put on his most threatening voice, the one he used to use on new garreshs back on the Groumal, trying to hide his mortification, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be on our way soon enough,” Odo said, voice gravelly, “We’ve come to collect Weyoun.”

“Collect me?” Weyoun said, poking his head out of the blankets.

“Yes,” Odo folded his arms over his chest, he seemed to sigh (an odd affect, considering he didn’t actually need to breath), “Come on, get dressed.”

“For what?”

Garak and Odo shared a look, Garak making a small gesture with his hand, as if to say ‘go on.’ Odo suddenly seemed a little flustered, as if he’d just assumed Weyoun would leap out of bed at his command, not that he’d be questioned. How easy it must be, Damar thought, to fall into the pattern of master and slave, even unintentionally.

Weyoun was still waiting for an answer, “Well?” he asked, an impertinent edge entering his voice, “What are you collecting me for?”

Odo blinked, then set his mouth firmly, “I’ve got some work for you to do.”

“Really?” Weyoun arranged some of the sheets over himself, pulling them further up and making clear he had no intention of moving, then crossing his arms, “You’ve all but ignored me for months, and now I’m urgently needed?”

“You’re here to work aren’t you?” Odo grumbled, “I’ll explain on the way. Now get dressed, we’re leaving.”

Weyoun’s eyes narrowed. Damar saw his knuckles were white where he was gripping his arms. “No,” he said simply, “I don’t think I will.”

Odo’s mouth fell open. Not in a grand dramatic gesture, just a small movement born mostly of surprise. He blinked, made a small spluttering noise.

“What Odo meant to say, Weyoun,” Garak took over, smiling politely, “Is that Julian was wondering if you’d like to spend a little time with Moe today? He’s got the day off to help settle him in but I’m sure he’d love it if you watched him for an hour or so, just so Julian could catch up on some of his research journals.”

Oh now that was a different proposition entirely. Damar watched as Weyoun’s face changed in an instant, defiance melting away.

“Well…I suppose I could help with that. In an hour or so? I need a shower, some breakfast…”

“I’ll let him know to expect you.”

The decision having been made, Weyoun threw back the sheets and (much to Damar’s horror) walked naked as a kovabug to the refresher.

As soon as the refresher door was closed, Garak turned slightly to face Odo, “Handled with your usual tact and light touch, Odo.”

Odo made a disgusted grunt, “Just make sure he leaves. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to be doing.” He turned and stomped from the room, Garak giving an exasperated roll of his eyes.

Garak turned back towards Damar once they were alone, “Well, that went as well as could be expected, didn’t it?”

Damar stayed where he was, blankets still pulled up high, as Garak sauntered over, unable to keep the smile off his face as sat himself down on the end of the bed.

“It’s a good thing he knows the routine, isn’t it?” he said, voice conspiratorial. He nodded towards the refresher, where the sound of running water could be heard, “In the early days did you have to tell him how thoroughly he had to scrub himself after you’d been together, or was it something he already knew? I imagine the Dominion briefs its diplomats very thoroughly.”

“Go on, get it out of your system,” Damar snapped. “Enjoy it.”

“Oh, I absolutely intend to, my fellow degenerate.” He chuckled.

Damar looked down at his lap, “How long have you known?”

“About you two?” Garak nodded his head from one side to the other, contemplatively, “Well, I didn’t really know until this morning. But I’d suspected Weyoun had a Cardassian lover for some time, he picked up the early signs of my last shed, something only someone with a very intimate knowledge of Cardassian anatomy would know. After that it was just a process of elimination about who that lover could be. Once you factored in things like rank, availability, proximity, you were the obvious choice. Well…you and Dukat, but frankly Weyoun has better taste than that.”

Damar was still looking down at his hands. He stayed silent, unable to stop himself from running over every interaction he’d ever had with Weyoun in his mind, wondering who else had figured it out. Maybe he’d gotten too comfortable with Five in those last few months, taken too many risks…

Garak seemed to take pity on him, “As much as I am enjoying this…you know there’s not really anything to be ashamed of. I for one think he’s good for you. You never know, he might make you a bit less of a miserable bastard.”

Damar gave Garak a withering look, “You do remember I’m married. I have a son.”

“As if that ever mattered amongst the officer class. And if it’s any consolation, your wife has been having an affair with her research partner for years. Mala, that’s her name isn’t it? The research partner, not your wife.”

“Yes, thank you, I am aware of Mala and how…close she and Niala are.”

“Well then take it from someone who was exactly where you were….oh, 15 or so years ago,” Garak stood as he heard the water stop in the refresher, “Everybody else cares a lot less than you do. Now, get dressed and we’ll replicate some breakfast, you have a big day ahead of you.”

~*~*~

It had all been going so well. Moe had taken the move from the sick bay to Julian and Garak’s quarters well the first night, grizzling a little when he was settled down but soon falling asleep in his usual way, his arms wrapped around Reggie and an ear pressed to his side. For most of the day afterward he’d seemed fine as well. A little fussy perhaps in the morning until Weyoun had come to spend some time with him, but he’d improved after that.

Weyoun arriving had been a bit of a surprise, but a welcome one. It had been Julian’s first day off in months, and he’d fully expected to spend all of it watching Moe, but with Weyoun taking the baby and watching an old movie with him on the couch, Julian had a blissful few hours to catch up on personal emails and new research.

But by midafternoon the tide had turned and things were going terribly. All Little Moe did was cry. A horrible, pained, exhausted cry, and nothing Garak or Julian could think of to do would help. When it had first started Julian had even taken him back to the sick bay to run tests but there was nothing physically wrong with him. They’d even tested to see if he was experiencing ketracel-white withdrawals, but the scans showed none of the signs of dependency that the Jem’Hadar foundling had exhibited. That wasn’t the answer.

Moe was fed (eventually. He was so distressed after the first two attempts at feeding he’d thrown up all over himself), he was dry, he was held and cuddled and given his toy, walked around the room, rocked at varying degrees of force, everything they could think of, and nothing stopped the crying. The worst part was how pained he looked, face in a permanent expression of deep suffering. It pulled at Julian’s heartstrings in a way he’d never experienced before. He felt so helpless.

They had, on Miles’ suggestion, even tried getting Worf to hold him for a while, but as soon as Moe had gone into Worf’s arms, wriggling around until his head was against Worf’s chest, his crying had only redoubled.

That though had been the seed of an idea.

“Do you see that?” Julian said, “How he moves his head every time he’s picked up. It’s always the same…with the ear against the chest. Here, give him back to me.”

Worf passed Motivation back, the baby repeating the movement until his ear was pressed against Julian’s chest, then whimpering and starting to cry again, evidently not soothed.

“He’s trying to listen, for a heartbeat maybe!”

“A Vorta’s heartbeat, no doubt,” Garak said, wiping a hand over an exhausted face.

“Weyoun did say they were a tree-dwelling people, the babies would have clung to their parent’s chests as they climbed…being soothed by the heartbeat.”

Everything started to click together in Julian’s mind: the clinging behavior with Reggie, how calm and quiet Moe had been with Weyoun while they’d watched Casa Blanca, even Moe’s early development of the upper body strength needed to hold his head in place! The joy of finding a hypothesis that could be tested gave Julian a little hope and he quickly put a call through to Ezri.

Weyoun had greeted Ezri and Julian at the door of his quarters, as always in his ever present grey ‘Niners’ sweat suit.

“Weyoun…I want to make sure you’re comfortable with this,” Ezri sat down next to him on his couch, “We’re talking about you taking a much more active role in Moe’s care for a while. But if you’re not ok with that, I’m sure we can work something else out.”

“Yes, of course!” Julian jumped in, “I could take a recording of your heart for example, we’ll put it in a little music player on repeat, sew that into Reggie the Regnar...”

Weyoun blinked at that suggestion. How appropriately artificial. The Founders piped low rhythmic noise into the cloning tubes too…

“No…no I want to help. Let me try.”

Ezri squeezed his hand, “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

He nodded, “Can we…do it in here? Not in the sick bay.”

“Of course,” Julian said, “wherever you feel most at home. Now?”

“No time like the present, I suppose.”

Julian left to go get Garak and Moe, returning quickly with both of them. The baby was still crying, weaker now though, more exhausted.

“Here we are,” Julian said, jiggling him, “Come and say hello…” Julian sat down on the couch next to Weyoun, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He held out his arms.

Julian passed Motivation into Weyoun’s arms, “There we are, just like earlier today. Let’s see how he likes it…”

There was a moment of held breath, a collective inhale, as Motivation repeated his head pressing move, the long curve of his ear finding Weyoun’s chest after a few moments and then…

…blessed silence.

The crying stopped, the distressed wriggling stopped, the pain in the baby’s little features, that wrinkle between his dark eyebrows, all of it melted away. Motivation gave a short satisfied little huff, as if to say “Finally!”, and instantly fell asleep, head pressed to Weyoun’s chest, little hand gripping a fistful of his shirt up near the shoulder.

Julian almost cried.

Chapter Text

Rom once told Weyoun a saying from one of the great thinkers in Earth’s history, that ‘there are decades where nothing happens, and then there are weeks where decades happen.’ It certainly seemed relevant to life in war time. Time could be divided into two distinct phases in the those final months of the Dominion war: long stretches of quiet where life, somehow, went on as it always had before, and brief periods of intense activity, where it seemed like it was all you could do to hold on and deal with whatever crisis was unfolding immediately in front of you.

The period from when Damar appeared at Deep Space 9 with Motivation heralded one of those lulls. Outright hostilities continued to bubble along, skirmishes and attacks were traded, but both sides seemed as if they were holding their breath, waiting on some unseen precipice for the other to make a decisive move.

And in the meantime, life continued. People walked through the Promenade and bought from the shops, Quark overcharged for drinks and fixed the dabo tables, ships came and went from the Station, people worked and cried and fell in love and checked casualty lists and played dabo and everything else that made up the pieces of everyday life.

Weyoun moved into quarters closer to Julian and Garak’s after a week or so of sharing care for Motivation with them. The arrangement was working out very well overall, especially with how busy (and erratic) Garak and Julian’s schedules could be. The image of Weyoun, Motivation strapped to his chest or back, became a common one around the station. For his part Motivation seemed very pleased with this arrangement, the center of three people’s lives now rather than merely two.

Weyoun’s days fell into a comfortable pattern. He would get up and eat breakfast then wander down to Garak’s shop. Garak would hand over Moe and Weyoun would usually spend a while in the shop, giving Moe his second breakfast bottle and helping Garak with either folding new stock or some decoding. He’d then head off to Keiko’s quarters and spend some time in the smallest (or perhaps “most exclusive” as Keiko liked to say) crèche in the sector.

Before Moe had arrived Keiko’s crèche had just been Kirayoshi and the two youngest of Liutenant Vilix’pran’s hatchlings (though it was hard to count them to be honest, their eyes weren’t even open yet and all they did was swim around in their mobile pool, cheerfully echolocating to each other and stretching their wings). Molly was there was well of course, though she often tired of ‘baby things’ and went to play or draw in her room.

Weyoun had never been particularly close to Keiko before. She had always been friendly and kind towards him, showing him how to order from the replimat in his first days on the station, but they had never had much in common before now, before Moe. A lot of Weyoun’s life could be divided into before and after Moe now…

Keiko for her part was thrilled to have another (less aquatic) baby on the station. She was always finding “just one more thing” for Moe that Kirayoshi didn’t fit into anymore or some toy or baby gadget that was just gathering dust.

“Try this! A Bajoran friend of mine from the University gave it to me but we just never got around to using it,” she said that morning, presenting Weyoun with a soft pink Bajoran light box, fat little native animals cavorting around it, “See, just press this button here…”

Weyoun did, a soft little tune starting to emanate from the box and the animals rotating slowly with a low yellow light glowing through them. Motivation, free from the sling and stretching out on the floor, hummed appreciatively, staring transfixed at the rotating animals.

“See! He likes it.” Keiko smiled, “Have a cup of tea with me, sit for a while.”

“Just for a while,” Weyoun settled down on the floor next to Moe, pressing the button again on the lightbox when the song had finished, “Would you mind replicating me another bottle for him while I’m here, standard infant formula 7 is his favorite.”

“Of course,” Keiko walked over to the replicator, “Can’t keep the station’s champion eater waiting. How much is he up to a day?”

“Almost a liter at this point,” Weyoun patted Motivation’s tummy affectionately, watching as the baby absently gummed on his foot, still entranced by the light box, “Now, I think you were telling me all about invasive Cardassian species on Bajor yesterday. There was this strangling vine you were studying…”

“Yes, they almost completely devastated one of the major feed grain crops on Bajor before we got them under control. But the interesting thing about them was how they reproduced…”

After a cup (or several) of tea, Weyoun would re-strap Moe to himself and head down to the sick bay. Julian would usually be finishing first shift and would take Moe for lunch and then set him down for his afternoon nap.

That day, Weyoun entered the sick bay with Moe cooing happily at his new absolute favorite thing: the light box. Julian was nowhere to be seen, but he could hear a low sonorous voice, singing gently from the back room of the infirmary, the room where they kept the humidi-cribs.

He walked towards the sound, coming into the back room and seeing a stocky, round faced Andorian man singing gently into Baby Olles’ crib. He looked up as Weyoun entered, giving a tired smile and dipping his antennae in greeting.

“Sorry…I was just listening.”

“No need to apologise,” the Andorian said, “I tend to lose track of everything else when I’m singing.” He paused for a moment, then nodded towards the sling, Moe’s fingers curling and uncurling on the edge of it, “I heard Neri here had a roommate for a while. Is that them?”

Weyoun smiled, nodding and walking over, pulling open the sling so the other man could look down into it, “This is Motivation, two days older I think than Neri.” Moe reached up, trying to grab the man’s antennae and grunting when they eluded him.

The Andorian chuckled, “I suspected that might be the case, there can’t be that many infants on a station this close to the front. I’m Olles ch’Rene, one of Neri’s fathers…” he stopped short, mouth trembling for a moment before pulling it into a pained smile, “Their only father now, I suppose.”

ch’Rene’s antennae dipped, he stood back up and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, “Sorry, sorry.” He took a deep sniffing breath and heavy exhale, “It’s still so hard…to remember things like that.”

“Apologies,” Weyoun bowed his head, “I’ll leave you be.”

“No, no!” the Andorian blinked rapidly, wiping his cheeks, “Please, don’t go. It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Doctor Bashir is in with someone right now, I think he’ll be a while. Please, come and see Neri.”

Weyoun walked over to the humidi-crib, looking down into it. Neri was looking better than the last time he’d seen them, their eyes were open, less tubes and monitoring equipment surrounding them. He said as much to ch’Rene.

“They are doing well, aren’t they?” he smiled down into the crib, “They look just like th’Endress, especially around the nose, the chin…” He looked up at Weyoun and smiled, “My husband. That was his name.”

Weyoun tried to smile back, “I’m sure you miss him very much.” He was silent for a moment before speaking again, “What song were you singing, when I came in?”

“Oh, it’s an old one, very old. The Song of Welcome,” ch’Rene said, reaching down into the crib to rub his finger back and forth over his baby’s stubby little antennae, “On Andoria we keep newborns together in birth nests. It helps them stay warm and it’s safer if they’re all together. And there’s always someone with them, singing that song. It’s the first one you learn.”

“Would you sing it for me,” Weyoun asked, he looked down at Moe, “For us…”

Music is a temptation that has followed Weyoun through many lifetimes, and as ch’Rene starts to sing, he feels his past selves listen in as well. Three in particular had been very fond of music, collecting instruments from every world he visited, every planet he had assisted the Dominion in conquering. He could never figure out how to play any of them though, no matter how hard he tried.

He wasn’t even sure if he could appreciate music, could tell what was a good song or a bad song, but he figured that what ch’Rene was singing must be beautiful, it must be. It was low and gentle, with a simple even beat and words the translator couldn’t pick up. It made him feel sad, made him long for something his heart remembered but his mind could not. Weyoun wrapped his arms around Moe and held him close in the sling, hearing him make a little grumbling noise at the movement.

“Oh…oh, I’m sorry, have I upset you?” ch’Rene said after he’d finished the second verse, breaking off suddenly.

“No…no,” it was Weyoun’s turn to wipe away tears, “It was just…it was a lovely song.”

“Thank you,” the Andorian sat down with a little sigh, “It’s one of my favorites. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are your favorite songs?” ch’Rene asked, antennae twitching, “Or the ones your people sing to their young?”

Weyoun blinked, he looked down at Moe still holding the Bajoran lightbox. Andorian songs, Bajoran songs, Human songs, he’d heard them all and many more besides. But there were no Vorta songs. Nothing he could sing to Moe, nothing to pass on to him, nothing that the Founders hadn’t wiped away thousands of years ago…

“Weyoun…” The Vorta looked up to see Julian’s kind face looking down at him from the doorway, “Sorry I’m late, I had an emergency patient.” His forehead creased in concern as he saw Weyoun’s face, “Is everything alright?”

“Y-es,” he sniffed, “Yes, everything’s fine. I think Moe needs to be changed though,” he stood and bowed his head to ch’Rene, “You have a lovely singing voice Mister Olles. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

ch’Rene bowed back, “You too.”

Julian steered Weyoun back into the main room of the medbay, “Are you sure you’re alright? You seem very pale…”

“I’m just…just a little tired.”

Julian helped Weyoun unstrap Moe and put him down into a nearby crib, then helped Weyoun sit up on a biobed.

“Well you have been a lot busier lately, between helping out with our little mate here…and spending your evenings with Damar,” Julian gave him a wink as he ran a scanner quickly over Weyoun’s forehead, checking for an elevated temperature.

Weyoun felt heat rise in his face, “Not every evening!”

“Oh no, I’m sure there’s one or two you’ve spent the whole night in your own bed,” Julian looked down at his tricorder, pleased to see everything was normal (he really couldn’t afford to lose such a dedicated nanny, especially the only one in the Quadrant who was able to get Motivation to sleep of an evening), “So…how long have you two been an item?”

Weyoun gave a little sigh, closing his eyes, “Since the first time I lived here. He was…he always treated me like a person, not as a means to an end. That was…refreshing. Frustrating sometimes, though.”

Julian gave him a knowing look, “That’s Cardassians for you. They have a way of getting under your skin.”

“Ugh, I know. Everything always has to be an argument.”

“Mmm, not to mention how grumpy they get when they’re shedding,” Julian picked up Moe out of the crib, giving him an experimental sniff to see how bad the damage was. (Quite bad, as it turned out).

“Oh, it’s terrible! Like dealing with a huge, itchy, five year old who just wants to lie in the bath all day!”

Julian laughed, clearing a space on a spare bio-bed and laying down a steri-sheet, putting Moe on top of it and undoing his romper to change him.

“Ahm…Doctor, I’m going to…”

Weyoun and Julian both looked around, Odo standing at the door to one of the back rooms of the sick bay. Weyoun met the Changeling’s eyes briefly then looked down, lower lip hardening.

“Odo...” Julian said, “I thought we agreed you were going to rest for a while.”

“There’s not much good that’ll do me. I’d prefer to be back at work,” Odo stepped closer to Julian, trying to look over his shoulder at Moe, “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine,” Weyoun’s voice was final, inviting no further conversation. He folded his arms over his chest.

Odo looked from Weyoun to Julian and back again. He cleared his throat, “Good…very good. I’ll be on my way then.”

Julian sighed, giving Weyoun a look, “You two need to talk at some point, you know that don’t you?”

Weyoun rolled his eyes, “So Dax keeps telling me.”

“Well, I’d do it sooner rather than later. Can you replicate me a nappy, please?”

“What do you mean by that?” Weyoun jumped off the bed, walking over to the replicator.

Julian paused from where he was wiping Moe down, realizing far too late he’d said too much, “Odo’s not well, Weyoun. That’s all I can really say. And he’s probably going to be leaving with Damar and the others soon…to help with the resistance,” He took the new nappy Weyoun offered him, throwing the old one into the recycler with practiced ease, “So if you have anything you need to hash out with Odo, I’d do it soon.”

~*~*~

Damar had been worried, after Garak and Odo had come to collect Weyoun that first morning, that he might not have been able to see him again. That that night was the one gift from Garak, a sweetener to keep him compliant and shut him up about asking for Weyoun.

But he was wrong, and never more pleased to be so. As he sits in the state room he’s been provided, reading the books Garak dropped off (he’s decided he would much rather be de Galle than Petain) and waiting for the promised weapons and replicators from Starfleet, he has one thing to look forward at night: Weyoun slipping through his door, usually just after third shift starts.

Tonight he’s a little late and comes in a little harried, seems distracted.

“Sorry I’m late, Moe took forever to go down tonight. We think he’s going to start teething soon,” Weyoun lets Damar wrap his arms around him, kiss him on the forehead.

“It’s alright. Have you eaten?” He asks, tilting Weyoun’s head up, “You seem a little stressed.”

“I had something with Garak and Julian…but I could eat dessert.”

“Dessert?” Damar chuckles, “Isn’t that a bit redundant? You can’t taste it.”

“Dessert has the best textures!” Weyoun says, impertinent and smirking, “Replicate me some ice cream, anything with nuts in it. I like the crunch.”

Damar replicates two bowls of mova-nut toffee crunch (very popular on the station according the computer) and brings them to the bed, where Weyoun is already making himself comfortable under the covers.

They eat in silence for a while, Weyoun’s head resting on Damar’s shoulder. He’s warm and soft, less lean than he was back in the Dominion. Damar no longer feels the press of hip bones against him when he holds him close, can’t see as many ribs when Weyoun stretches his arms over his head. He rather suspects Weyoun’s stopped fasting, a positive development to his mind, and not just because he likes the feel of him now.

Fasting was a common thing with Five. He was always refusing food for one reason or another, either something based on the Dominion’s endless calendar of religious holidays, or as penance for some sin, anything from not anticipating the Founders needs to the great crime of humming along to a tune he heard over the loudspeakers.

By the time half the bowl is gone, Damar can feel Weyoun start to unwind, and he starts telling him about his day: Moe’s latest advancements, gossip from around the station, the specials at the Klingon Restaurant, all the usual things.

Damar is hit by a realization, as sudden as it is simple. He’s happy, grateful even, that Weyoun is here, that he fled to the Federation of all groups. That he’s here and alive, not Borath in his bed of blood, not the gaunt and haunted faces of Luaran, Yelgrun and the others on Kotak V. Not a dead body in a shuttle somewhere in Cardassian space. Weyoun is here, well fed and dressed warmly and pressed against him, the second chance he doesn’t deserve.

Weyoun is still chattering away, pausing only to lick the last scraps of ice cream from the bowl, when Damar interrupts him.

“The weapons will be arriving soon. Within a week,” he takes one of Weyoun’s hands, “I’ll be leaving. I wish…I wish I could promise you anything.”

He doesn’t expect to survive this war. He doesn’t need to say that.

Weyoun gives a sad smile, hushing him, “I know. It’s just like Julian’s movie. There’s no promises, but you and I, we’ll always have Paris.”

Damar blinks, “Who’s Paris?” The word sounds vaguely familiar, was it a character from one of the books Garak gave him?

“You know, I’m not really sure,” Weyoun’s head tilts, as it often does when he’s considering something, “But I think you’re meant to kiss me now.”

~*~*~

Weyoun stands with Julian, Moe in his sling, in Shuttle Bay 7. There’s an old Deltan transport freighter Chief O’Brien and the other engineers have spent the last few days altering to look like a passable, if old, Cardassian re-fueler ready to take off. It’ll get Damar, Kira, Garak, Odo, all the weapons Starfleet can spare, plus a few garrison size replicators, through the lines, hopefully all the way to the resistance base Rusot has holed up in.

Captain Sisko says a few words, wishing the resistance good luck. Quark hands out drinks, and even Weyoun can see the shake in his hand as he hands one (superfluously) to Odo. Odo takes it, without complaint for a change. There won’t be any goodbye between them beyond that, Weyoun suspects.

Julian wanders over to Garak, offering his palm as a goodbye, only for Garak to reject it in place of the more intimate pressing of foreheads. Julian isn’t long for the station either, the Defiant is rejoining the front soon and he’ll be going with it as the ship’s CMO. Weyoun will probably evacuate to Bajor with Keiko, the children, and the other civilians on the station.

Weyoun feels a presence beside him and looks up, Odo standing there all of sudden. His voice is even gruffer than usual when he speaks.

“Can I…can we talk?”

Weyoun nods, jogging Moe in his sling as he starts to grizzle. He digs in his pocket for a teething ring and hands it over, Moe going at it with gusto.

“He’s looking well,” Odo says. He’s holding a small box in his hand, wrapped with a white ribbon.

Weyoun can’t help but smile a little, “He is, isn’t he? Julian says he’s almost doubled in weight since he arrived. I’m not surprised, he’s always so hungry.”

“So are you.”

Weyoun gives Odo a confused look at those words, making Odo splutter, “I mean…you look healthy. Happy…with him.”

They fall into an awkward silence. Weyoun breaking it after a few mortifying moments, “Julian says you’re not well, that all the Founders are ill. Should you be going?”

Odo sighs, “I don’t know. I think it’s the only thing I can do.” He stands straighter, seems to steel himself. “I…I wanted to let you know that if we win, if I survive this war, it’s not going to be the end. I want to try and change things with my people. I want to convince them to let the Vorta and Jem’Hadar go.”

Weyoun snorts, despite his better instincts. He knows the Founder, his Founder, better than most. She’ll never let the Link agree to it. “Good luck with that.”

Odo continues, as if Weyoun hadn’t spoken, he’s rehearsed this, “And I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. For how I’ve been acting. You remind me…you show me how awful my own kind can be. That’s not your fault…but I took it out on you anyway, and, uh, I shouldn’t have.”

It has been many months since Weyoun has really thought of Odo as a god, but the words still send him reeling. A god, a part of the Holy and Unknowable Link, apologizing to him? He thinks he stammers out a suitable response, he must, because Odo almost smiles and shoves the box he’s holding into Weyoun’s hands.

“Here, something for him,” he nods towards Motivation, “Quark ordered it from Bajor for me. It’s a petal-wood teething ring…they’re traditional.”

Weyoun undoes the box, pulling out the small engraved ring made of a dark, almost spongy wood. Petal-wood was popular for teething rings and medical items but very expensive, the tree being quite rare. When chewed the wood produced a mild acid which had an analgesic effects, perfect for sore mouths.

“It’s lovely. Thank you, Odo.” Weyoun tries to extricate the plastic ring from Moe’s mouth in order to swap it for the gift, only to get a sharp growl in response.

“Ah…he can try it later…”

“Might be best.” Weyoun gives a slight bow to Odo, not the complete and correct Posture of Obedience he would have given to a Founder in his previous lives, but still a show of respect, “Goodbye Odo.”

“Goodbye Weyoun.”

The last one to say goodbye to him is Damar, and he does so without words. They already said goodbye properly this morning (twice).

Damar comes over, pulling Moe’s sling open slightly when he’s standing in front of Weyoun. He smiles down at the baby, looking so healthy and plump, eyes always alert and watching everything that comes within his field of vision, so different from the silent bundle he was handed on Cardassia.

He presses his forehead against Weyoun’s in farewell. He can smell himself all over the Vorta, on his clothes, in his hair, imprinted onto his skin. They stayed in bed too late, didn’t have time to shower this morning before Garak came to fetch him for a final briefing with the Captain.

If they were on Cardassia, perhaps Damar would mind. But here, it doesn’t matter. Just here, let Weyoun be his. Let him have this, just for a moment…

“You have to go,” comes Weyoun’s whisper. Damar nods.

“They’re waiting for you.”

He boards the shuttle and doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Birth is pain. This is known.

It is a welcome pain however. To know the pain of birth, or re-birth as the case may be, is to know that the Founders have chosen you for life. Your genes have been knitted together from the almost infinite genetic databases at the Dominion’s fingertips. Out of all the combinations and permutations of life you could be, the Founders have chosen that you be you and if you die, that you are you once more.

He is re-born with this knowledge, as he has been reborn with it many times before. The Jem’Hadar are not given numbers the way Vorta are, but it is common that successful lines are repeated, often reassigned to the same field commander, the same squadron, the same rank (barring some form of poor service), over the course of many lifetimes. He is First Nilig’xal, and his line has always performed well.

As an infant, the Vorta of the hatchery whisper in his ears the first words: “Praise to the Founders, praise to the white” and bounce him on their knee. In two days, when he is fully grown, he will remember this and hope one day he will be able to do the same with his own son.

On his second day, his day as a child, he is given the first dose of the white after pushing one his brothers to the ground in a fit of rage. The Vorta holds his hand and strokes over the thickening bone plate on his forehead as the catheter is inserted into his neck and he has the first taste, familiar and euphoric. He does not cry and the Vorta says he has done well, giving his hand a little squeeze before moving away to the next table where the procedure is about to be repeated on one of his brothers.

On the third day, after his first kill (a holographic Vulcan warrior whose throat he cuts with his short training knife) his hair is tied back by the same Vorta who has been at his side for the whole three days. As he is given his uniform with his many brothers and a disruptor is placed in his hand, he is given his assignment. The Vorta tells him he is reassigned to his old squadron, they are to train and do drills until their field commander is ready.

I’ll find you again. In this life or the next.

The Second and Third of his squadron stand to attention when he re-enters their barracks.

“When will the Vorta join us?” he asks simply.

Second Domed’edon responds, “He is still in the other place, unborn. Two days.”

First Nilig’xal nods simply. He has two days to find a ship. A better one than an old planet skimmer, one big enough for two.

“When Borath tenth of his line returns, will he be the same?” Third Ookem’umur asks, tilting his large head to the side. Ookem’umur is huge, tall and wide, even for a Jem’Hadar, and the muscles in his back ripple as he shifts, slightly uncomfortable, “Will he be as…round as he was before?”

First Nilig’xal gives him a warning growl, watching with some satisfaction as the Third shrinks back, “The Vorta and his…roundness, is no concern of ours. All that should matter to you, to any of us, is that he hands us the white as reward for our obedience. Remember, obedience brings victory…”

“And victory is life!” both bark back at him.

He is life.

Borath ninth of his line’s roundness had been of little consequence at first. Vorta, especially lower ranked field commanders, spend little time around other Vorta. They can spend years with their squadrons, not seeing another of their kind apart from over viewscreens when orders are given and reports are made. It was easy to hide with a few simple adjustments so the screens only showed him from the face and shoulders up. It had not been the first time Borath had gained weight in that way either. There had been two times before, once with Borath 6 and once with Borath 7.

Borath 7 had terminated, when the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Nilig’xal disposed of the body alone, not quite sure why. It was the first time he had known fear.

But as Borath 9 had gotten rounder and rounder, eventually struggling to walk from one end of their attack ship to the other and having to sit as he handed out the white, First Nilig’xal knew this time was different. When Borath came to him, placing Nilig’xal’s hands on his stomach, and telling him a child would soon emerge from within him, it was the first time he had seen Borath cry, not knowing what to do.

First Nilig’xal had been confused. A child? But where was the egg? Where would they put it with no incubation tube? Would it join the squadron after three days? Borath had only cried harder as he explained, clinging on to Nilig’xal as they sat on his narrow bunk.

Once he understood, knew fully what was happening, Nilig’xal had known then, he had sworn, that he would get Borath out, with the child that was coming. There would be no failure. A child…his child, would not live under the Founders.

He is life.

It had taken him weeks, months, of whispered conversations and half asked questions when they docked for refueling or resupply of the white, before he learned a name, only a name, of a Vorta who could help, one who knew how to run. More time still before they were able to meet with her on Cardassia Prime.

When she came aboard their ship, ostensibly for an inspection of the comms array, she had given a low exhale at the sight of Borath, heavy and clumsy, struggling to pull on his shoes.

“You have maybe a month before that child needs to be out, probably less. If it lives-”

“Of course he’ll live!” Borath snapped, voice cracking, “Why wouldn’t he live?”

Luaran’s lips pursed, “Listen…you’re not the first one of us to end up carrying a Jem’Hadar’s child, not even the first one I’ve helped. But I’ve never heard of a live birth, not in over a thousand years. I’ll admit, you’re the furthest along I’ve ever seen…”

“That’s because he wants to live! I know it,” Borath had crossed the small space of his quarters, taking Luaran’s hand and placing it on his stomach, “I can feel it.”

Luaran gave a long sigh. She was silent a moment, looking carefully at Borath’s face before seeming to come to a decision, “You’ll need a ship, things for the baby, food and water-”

“And the white,” Borath interjected, “We need white for Nilig’xal!”

Luaran shook her head, “I don’t run with Jem’Hadar. That’s not negotiable.”

“Then we won’t run with you,” he’d snapped back, taking Nilig’xal’s hand, “Just help us get to Federation space. There’s a doctor there who can cure white addiction.”

“That’s only a rumour.”

“We’ll take our chances,” he said, resting his weight against Nilig’xal’s side, head on his shoulder, “I won’t leave without him.”

Nilig’xal had thought in that moment that one of his hearts may burst, so full it was with the love that he felt for Borath ninth of his line, for all the Boraths he had had loved before and the ones he would love after. And for the first time of his own volition he touched Borath’s stomach, and felt the child, his child, flutter within, a small point of pressure pressing back against his hand.

That night they sat together, in Borath’s little chamber, Borath on his bunk, Nilig’xal resting his head against the rise of his stomach, listening to the child move around in there.

“Do you think…if we get to the Federation,” Borath had said, voice almost too timid, “Do you think they’ll let him go to a school? A proper one, with other children…”

“I don’t know…” Nilig’xal whispered, “I will ask. When we arrive.”

Borath stroked his hand over his First’s head plate, “I just think that would be nice. If he got to go to school. They have schools on most planets. I’ve seen them.”

Nilig’xal’s vow changed then. They would all get out. No matter what he had to do. He and Borath and his baby would all get to the Federation. They would all be free. His child would go to a school. Maybe even what Borath said would be true and he would one day no longer need the white.

His vow did not change when Borath went into labour only a week after meeting with Luaran. But all he could steal at short notice was a skimmer, and no matter how hard Borath tried the child would not come. After a full day of trying, Luaran told Nilig’xal to go steal a knife, the sharpest one he could find, and he knew then that Borath’s body would not survive the birth. He would have to find someone else to take their child out of Dominion, find a way for them both to be brought back without any questions being asked…

And so here he was, going over Cardassia’s shipyard manifests in the final days of the conflict which he would later learn was called the Dominion War (there were no separate names for conflicts within the Dominion, the Dominion had always been expanding, always been at war in one form or another, for thousands of years). It was easier to find a suitable shuttle this time. They are losing this war and Cardassia is starting to crack around the edges. Forms are no longer being filled in properly, procedure is being ignored, people look the other way as they seek to protect themselves in a crumbling world.

He finds a runabout, a good one; only 5 years old, Romulan build, fuel cells fully charged, a small cloaking device so they can slip past the battle lines. He spends the better part of the night faking requisition forms and orders from the Cardassian High Command but realizes he could have spent it better collecting more supplies for the road. He walks in, barks at the master of the shipyard which shuttle he wants, and finds himself pointed towards it immediately, no questions asked.

He hides it in the same hanger he hid the skimmer in. He meets Luaran there as he’s packing supplies into the hold, mostly things left behind in the subway station where he had held his son in his arms for the first time. She gives him the codes needed to slip past the lines then, in a surprising move, hugs him tightly.

“Good luck,” she sniffs, purple lipstick smearing on his uniform, “I hope you get through. I hope you all do.”

“What about you?” he rumbles as she pulls away, wiping under her eyes as she turns to go.

She shakes her head, “I’ve got to stay in. There’s still…still plenty of us who need to get out. I think I still have a few runs left in me.”

“Then keep all the luck for yourself,” he says simply, “You’ll need it.”

The final step, the most important one, is to wait for Borath tenth of his line to arrive. Then it would be a simple matter of slipping away from the rest of the squadron and making their way to the runabout.

Imagine Nilig’xal’s shock then, when on the day their field commander is due to arrive, Borath tenth of his line does not walk through the doors of their barracks. Standing in his place is a newer Vorta model, one he’s only seen at a distance before.

He stands to attention as she inspects her new troops, coming to stand in front of her First, “I understand we’re to be working closely together,” she says simply, voice the silvery whisper more common to the administrative lines, “I am Loriss 3. You are?”

“First Nilig’xal.”

“Have you completed preparations for departure? Our orders are to join the vanguard of the attack fleet.” Her voice quavers ever so slightly as she speaks, confirming Nilig’xal’s suspicions that she is new to being a field commander. A recent demotion perhaps, or maybe just necessity considering how poorly the war is going. Nilig’xal can smell the fear on her.

“Our attack ship required repairs. We will be ready for departure in six hours.”

She nods her head, “Very good. I will see you then. Praise to the Founders. Obedience brings victory…”

“And victory is life,” he responds, giving a nod back. He has six hours.

Getting into Cloning Facility West District 4 (where all the Vorta lines are kept, separate from the hatcheries) will not be as easy as the ship yard. It is attached to a small medical facility however and, after slamming the heavy steel door of a weapons locker down onto his wrist several times, until he hears the satisfying crunch and snap of his bones, he presents himself there to be healed, lying that he was sent there from the already full Jem’Hadar hospital. He is waved through. The world is collapsing around them after all.

The Vorta doctors heal him quickly, there are many other things on their minds, and then leave him to show himself out. They trust Jem’Hadar, or at least ones well fed on the white. Within the system there are many holes that he can slip through.

The inside of the birthing facility is the most perfect white, sterile, the smell of antiseptic stinging in his nose with each breath, almost too bright for his eyes. The pods are arranged in rows designated by line: diplomatic, medical, research, communications, pleasure. He stops at the row for field commanders, walks down the line until he finds the name that beats in time with his hearts (Borath, Borath, Borath).

Borath tenth of his line’s pod is like all the others, smooth and speckled like an eggshell, almost but not quite organic. His manifest shows in a display panel on the left side, noting ‘GENITAL AND TEMPERAMENT IRREGULARITIES, FOR REVIEW AND DECOMMISSION.’ Nilig’xal overrides the commands, starting the birthing process. The eggshell splits down the centre, light splitting through the crack. He pulls away the spongy white netting that covers Borath’s whole body, wipes the birthing gel from his face, clearing his nose and mouth with the swipe of a finger.

“Borath…” he whispers, “We must go. I found a ship.”

Borath lays still and unborn.

“Borath…we must go. We must find the baby…we must get to the Federation.”

Still he is unmoving. Nilig’xal’s voice starts to waver.

“Borath…please…we must go…”

For the first time in all of his lives, Nilig’xal feels tears slip from his eyes. He traces his fingertips down Borath’s cheeks, gives a shuddering sob. He is too late. He has failed.

He looks up and sees truly for the first time, sees all the caskets that surround him with their true faces. The enormity of it, the horror of it, the deep and terrible sadness of each and every one of these bodies. He realizes then that this pain, this grief that washes over him in waves, was never just his own. For each fragile capsule in this small facility, was there someone out there, Jem’Hadar or Vorta or other species entirely, who aches as he aches? Whose heart breaks as his does now?

He leans in, tears falling freely, and presses his lips gently to the cold and still ones in front of him. Let him have this last moment, let Borath know that he loved him until the last second of both of their lives. They were born and reborn apart so many times, let this death be at each other’s sides.

The air is sucked out of his mouth with a gasp. Nilig’xal opens his eyes. Borath looks back at him, chest heaving with the effort of coming back to life. The Vorta reaches up his hand, still as cold as unbirth and gently touches Nilig’xal’s face.

“I found you again…” he whispers, vocal cords cracking with lack of use.

“In this life or the next,” Nilig’xal responds, taking the hand and warming it between his own. “Come, we must hurry. I found a good ship. Can you walk?”

“I think so…let me lean on you.”

And so it was that, as Jem’Hadar attack ships started to surround Cardassia Prime, as they prepared to rain fire down upon an already exhausted and war-weary people, a small Romulan built runabout slipped through the lines, so small that even without its cloaking device it was unlikely it would have garnered much notice considering the circumstances.

If they had looked back, they would have seen Cardassia start to burn, seen the bombardment as it began, and watched fires bloom across the Northern continent, focused on the twin cities of Lakar and Lakat.

But they didn’t. First Nilig’xal and Borath 10 had eyes only for each other as the autopilot on the runabout took over, taking them not quite as far as Terok Nor (there was the whole of the Federation, Klingon and Romulan fleet between them and Terok Nor, far too dangerous), but to a busy patrol route on the Federation side of the border.

Nilig’xal turned on a standard distress signal as Borath wrapped his arms around his neck, kissing him once, then once more.

“Do you think he’ll remember me? When we find him?” he whispered as Nilig’xal led him to the bunk in the back of the runabout, laying him down and pulling a blanket over his body, Borath was cold, shivering still from the after effects of his birth, no more than four hours ago.

“He will. He will know you. You birthed him. You spoke words into his ear.”

Borath smiled up at him, running a hand down Nilig’xal’s face as his eyes fell closed, “He’ll know you too.”

Nilig’xal let him sleep, taking up a position of guard over him. He would stand there for seven hours, until a Vulcan ship on patrol heard their distress call and grabbed them in their tractor beam.

Chapter Text

Once more, he is not himself.

This body is smaller, he is softer, his hair hangs in a long plait down his back and his breasts ache as he wakes. This is not his bed, neither the simple grey bunk on DS9 nor the larger soft bed with the handmade blue and pink quilt he enjoys on Bajor, it is more like a nest, a pile of fur and bundled feathers held in a simple wooden frame, vaguely oval in shape.

His baby is there. He knows this as well, that this is his baby and that she (she?) isn’t far away. The hands that aren’t his own pull one of the furs down and there she is. Not Moe, Moe’s eyes are darker and he’s much, much bigger. This baby’s eyes are pale, just like his, and she is small, still so small and new.

He is naked in the bed-nest and it’s easy for him to sit up, pushing a few of the furs behind him to make a cushion, and pick up his baby to fit her to his chest. The ache in his breasts, well in one at least, starts to ebb. He hums a simple song…

(A song? A song!! To hum a song! How taboo!)

He hums a song Weyoun doesn’t know (could never know) and rocks the baby as she feeds. He loves this baby, in a simple and uncomplicated way. This is his baby. She gurgles and coos so charmingly, only wants him when she cries, and clings to his chest when he climbs high into the canopy, higher than he should, to show her the stars glimmering in the night sky. He loves her more than anything.

(Like you love Moe? Or Damar perhaps? No. Vorta do not love. They are loved.)

There is a shuffling in the little home (more than just the bed-nest, a small stove and hearth, a wooden floor, furs spread for warmth, walls carved with their family histories, a little shelf with books and puzzles and clever games that They keep giving him) and he looks up. His love is home.

(Damar? Is it Damar? No. No. He’s gone. Cardassia. The war.)

Their face is a blur. No, that’s not quite right. It’s more like his eyes won’t…can’t focus on their face. Like they slide off every time he tries to look at them. He sees the edges of a smile, a crooked tooth, a small scar at their hairline, but nothing more.

“They’ve come again, my darling!” The lover is excited, coming right up to the bed-nest and pressing their lips to his, “They said you passed all the tests again!”

He laughs, switches his baby to the other breast, and pulls his plait over his shoulder. Of course he passed Their tests. He’s clever. Very clever. The cleverest They’ve met by far, or so She keeps telling him. He reads their books faster than They can give them to him, solves Their puzzles in record time, and when he takes the tests he always passes.

“They want to show you the ship this time.”

The ship! He calls it the Spider, because it’s big and brown and crouches low on its many legs. He told that to Her one time and She laughed, transforming into a spider the height of a mkut-deer (three arms higher than the top of his head) and asking him “Like this, little one?” He had shrieked but then they had both laughed.

No-one has ever been allowed on the Spider. They have always come out of it and walked around the village, talking, bringing books and games, healing some of the sick. She always asks to speak to him, because he is the cleverest.

He gets up, pulls a simple shift over his body and re-plaits his hair. Then his lover helps strap the baby to his back and they climb down from their tree (their home, a tree so large that many families live in their own little hollows within it).

She is waiting for him in front of the Spider, it’s door open and ready for him. She holds out her hand and he takes it, looking back to his lover and smiling as She leads him inside.

“I’m glad you passed the tests,” She says, “I had a feeling you would.”

Inside the ship it is cold and he shivers. There are some others of Her kind there and they stop him, a hand on his shoulder. One of them gently lifts the baby out of his strapping, she makes a little coo-ing noise, tries to grab at Their strange flat face.

“Come along, little one,” She still has his hand, gently pulling him along, “I have something I want to show you.”

He is pulled away from his baby. For the first time he resists one of Her commands.

“Just…wait. She’ll get cold. I should…”

She doesn’t speak. Her hand is firm now on his elbow. The baby’s coos change to whimpers then further onto cries. He can’t see her anymore.

“Wait! Please, just let me check on her! She’s cold, I have something to wrap her in.”

Too late he feels the panic start to rise inside him. He can hear her crying. More scared now. More desperate.

“Please! Give her back to me! I just want to see her.”

Crying. Crying. Crying. His baby is crying. He is crying. He is cold and there are straps and the sharp thing is biting and She doesn’t smile anymore.

And there is crying and crying and crying...

.

Weyoun woke to Moe crying. He laid in the bed for a moment more, pressed his hands to his face until they stopped shaking, then got up, heading to the crib. That was the third time for that dream this month.  

It was late autumn on Bajor and the morning air was crisp. He parted the curtains above his bed and saw the white lattice of frost covering the panes of glass. Perhaps it was that which made Weyoun shiver as he walked across his bedroom to Moe’s crib, the baby sitting up and clinging to the bars like a tiny prisoner. (He’s here. He’s safe. Nothing to worry about.)

“Woo…Wooo,” Moe cried out, reaching up with one arm, the other tugging at the ridge of his ear, begging to be picked up the moment Weyoun appeared above him.  

Weyoun held him close, made soothing shushing noises until the crying slowed to a whimper. He changed his nappy, put Moe in a fresh romper (one of the new ones, fleece-lined with the little cuddle bugs on it) and threw on his dressing gown before heading down to the kitchen.

How many months had they been on Bajor now? Long enough that all of these things were habit. Long enough to see the ogeche trees, which had been fat and heavy with fruit when they arrived, drop all their leaves and now stand bare in the front yard. Long enough that Keiko was now on a first name basis with the lady who owned the little café close to their house and had ingratiated herself with the local community gardening co-op.

It was easier, Keiko had said, if they stayed together. Easier for Starfleet to pay the rent on a nice little three bedroom cottage (owned by the friend of a friend of Keiko’s from Ashalla University) a bit further out of town than pay for two apartments right in the middle of the capital. And better for Molly, better for all the children, to have room to run around outside.

Better for them both to not be alone while the war had raged above their heads, when the people they loved were so far away…

The kitchen was cold. Weyoun turned on the temperature regulator before replicating Moe his morning bottle and sitting him down in one of the high chairs. There was some fresh kurna fruit in the bowl on the table (thank you, garden co-op), he’ll mash that up for Moe’s breakfast in a little while. The baby hummed happily as he guzzled his first bottle (of many) for the day and Weyoun took some yogurt from the fridge to eat.

“Good morning!” Molly said, popping her head over the back of the couch where she’d been hiding, “We’re going today, aren’t we?”

Weyoun started, almost dropping his spoon, “Molly! You’re up very early!”

“I couldn’t sleep! It’s today, isn’t it? We’re going in the shuttle today?”

“That’s right,” Weyoun sat down at the breakfast table next to the high chair, “Today’s the day. We’re going up to the station.”

“We’re going to see Daddy and Kira! They’ve been in the war but now it’s over and they’re back so we can go up to the station.”

He smiled at her from the table. The war was, as Molly said, over. The Federation and its allies were victorious. Cardassia was in tatters and the Founder was in Federation custody, no doubt on a Starship right now on her way to The Hague. She came to Deep Space 9 a week or so ago to sign the Treaty of Bajor. Perhaps it was her presence that had started his dreaming again, even if she was several thousand kilometers away in space and completely unaware that he was still alive.

(It took him a long time, and many sessions with Dax, to get to the point where he didn’t believe she could sense he still lived. The Founders were, at most, touch telepaths, not omnipotent beings. She couldn’t echolocate him or smell him, or something equally ridiculous, through the vacuum of space.)

“Are you excited to see Daddy?” he asked Molly, giving a few of the kurna fruit a squeeze to see which one was the most ripe.

“Yes! Look, I drew him a picture,” Molly slid off the couch, jogging around in her footed pajamas, holding a piece of paper aloft. Weyoun took it from her hands and made an appreciative noise.

“It’s lovely, Molly. Is that Daddy?”

“Yes! He’s on the Defiant.”

“I thought so. Though I do think he generally rides on the inside, rather than on the hull there.”

“I’m an artist,” she said simply, giving a shrug and pulling herself up to sit at the table, “Mummy says you’re going to see Dr Julian when we go up. Because you sleep all the time.”

Weyoun paused, looking down into his tub of yogurt for a moment, “That’s right. I have to see Dr Julian because I’ve been so tired lately.”

“Do you think you’ll get a hypo? That’s what I get when I go to see Dr Julian, a hypo and a sticker.”

“Maybe. He has all sorts of things to fix people,” he slid the drawing back to her and smiled, “Can you get me two of the baby bowls and spoons from the cupboard? You can help me make breakfast for Yoshi and Moe.”

“Ok!” she said, already excited, “I’m going to have Quadrotriticale-O’s for my breakfast!”

“If there’s any left. I think your mum had some as a midnight snack.”

Molly opened the pantry and grabbed the brightly coloured box in question, giving it a shake, “No, there’s plenty left.”

Weyoun heard movement upstairs and soon Keiko joined him at the breakfast table, Yoshi not in tow. He tended to sleep a little later than Moe did, or Molly for that matter.

“Morning baby,” she kissed Molly on the head and wiped sleep from her eyes, setting the kettle to boil before sitting next to Weyoun at the table. She gave him a concerned smile, “How are you feeling this morning?”

He shrugged, “Not too bad.”

She put her hand over his but didn’t question him further, “That’s not all you’re having for breakfast, is it? You can’t just live on dairy, you know.”

Weyoun sighed, “It’s all I feel like eating.”

“At least let me make you some toast. I’ll put plenty of butter on for you.”

She stood up to replicate some toast (“Extra butter please”). Molly brought over the little plastic bowls and spoons they use to feed the babies and Weyoun peeled the thick purple striped skin of the ripest kurna fruit, roughly dividing it in two for the bowls.

“Here we go. Molly, you mash up Yoshi’s and I’ll do Moe’s.”

“Ok!”

Keiko brought over the cereal box and toast, smoothing over Molly’s hair, “You’re such a good helper. After you’re finished can you run upstairs and check and see if Yoshi is awake? I don’t want him to sleep too late.”

Moe announced he was finished with the first part of breakfast by giving a small burp and throwing his bottle on the ground. He gurgled impatiently and pap-pap-pap’d his hands on the table of the high chair, hungry for more.

“Alright, hungry boy, there’s plenty more coming.”

Moe took every spoonful of mash like he’d never been fed before and never would be again. Vorta tended not to be big eaters so it must have been the Jem’Hadar in him that wanted so much to eat. It was probably what made him so big as well, he was four months old and was easily almost as big as Yoshi, who was a bit over one now. Weyoun no longer tied Moe to his front, it had to be the back or nothing these days, he was just getting too heavy.

The thought, of tying Moe to his back rather than the sling in the front, bought the dream back to Weyoun’s mind. The smell of toast, Molly’s chattering, the bubbling of the kettle by the window all faded to white noise. Suddenly there were bird calls he couldn’t identify, the earthy smell of rotting leaves, the laughter of someone who loved him, and a hand over his as they carved lines into a small dwelling that was all their own.

The plastic spoon he was holding made a soft plunk noise as it hit the floor, mashed kurna spilling red on the tiles. Moe made a confused, distressed little noise, the beginning of tears, as his breakfast was cut off.

“Oh, don’t get up. I’ll grab that for you,” Keiko picked up the spoon as she came around the table, seamlessly wiping up the spill with a rag in her hand in the other.

She tried to keep the worried look off her face as she saw how pale and drawn Weyoun looked when she handed him the spoon. They couldn’t get up to Deep Space 9 faster in her opinion. Julian was the only doctor Weyoun would see and it had taken her weeks of cajoling just to get him to agree to that!

She just had to get him in the door, Julian would look after the rest. Even if Keiko already had a pretty good idea what the diagnosis would be…

~*~*~

Miles O’Brien paced back and forth in front of the shuttle docking bay, a picture of nervous tension.

“It takes three hours to fly up from Bajor. They left on the 0830 flight and it’s 1135. They’re late! Something’s wrong with the shuttle. We should call up to Ops and check to see if everything’s alright.”

“Miles, calm down,” Julian chuckled, checking on a display monitor, “They’re docking now, look.”

They shuttle bay doors slid open, all the passengers filing out. There were plenty, almost every shuttle from Bajor was fully booked these days, people either returning to the station to work or using it as a first stop before travelling further afield now the war was over. Miles shifted back and forth, trying to see past the other people for the ones he was looking for.

Molly was the first to appear, ducking and running through the legs of the adults until she reached her father with an excited “Daddy!” Miles swung her up in his arms. He’d come down to the planet a few weeks ago for a brief visit, the first change he’d gotten after returning from Cardassia Prime on the Defiant, but the four hours or so he’d gotten to spend with Keiko and the kids had barely been enough, a sip of ale when what he needed was the full glass.

Even today they were only coming up to spend the weekend. There was no point moving the kids up to the Station when Miles had already accepted a teaching post at the Academy. They’d get them packed up over the next few weeks down on Bajor and then do just one big move back to Earth.

Still, it’ll be nice to have them for the weekend. Miles could see Keiko coming now, Yoshi on her hip and Weyoun coming right beside her with that wee (well, not so wee) Vorta baby strapped to his back. Weyoun was looking…

Miles blinked. Weyoun was looking…well it certainly looked like…

Oh dear.

“Hi honey,” Keiko came up and hugged Miles tightly, “It’s so good to see you!”

“You too, Keiko love,” Miles gave her a quick kiss, “And Weyoun, you’re looking...ah…healthy?”

The last part came out of Miles’ mouth with a strange upwards inflection, as if he was asking a question. Weyoun gave him an odd look.

“He is, isn’t he? It’s all that fresh air we’ve been getting” Keiko said just a touch too brightly, smile frozen on her face, “How about you, Weyoun and kids go ahead and get us a table at the Replimat. They’re all getting hungry. I just need to talk to Julian for a moment.”

Miles was about to object (“Why do you want to talk to Julian when you came all this way to see me?”) when he saw the very pointed look on Keiko’s face. He smiled, putting Molly down and taking Yoshi from Keiko’s arms, “Right so, love. I’ll grab us a table.”

Keiko smiled as the group walked away then grabbed Julian firmly by the elbow and steered him into a corner.

“Do you perhaps see what I was talking about when I called last week…” she said through her teeth, both of them watching as Weyoun’s…healthier form walked off with Miles and the children.

Julian cleared his throat, “I am, ahem, beginning to see what you were talking about.”

He watched as Weyoun and the O’Brien’s stopped in front of the tubolifts, Weyoun turning to stand in profile to answer some question posed to him by Miles, the rise of his stomach obvious and unmistakable.

“How long have you suspected?” he asked.

Keiko gave a small sigh, “About a month. He hasn’t really been himself since we evacuated. I put that down to him missing Damar, being worried about the war in general for a while. But then he started sleeping all the time, gaining weight. Then it was the dairy cravings, I once caught him eating butter straight from the tub with a spoon.” They both watched as the small group entered the turbolift. “For a while, I thought it was just…you know, a Vorta thing. But then we took the kids down to the lake to go swimming about a month ago and, well…”

“Yeeeah,” Julian rubbed his forehead, “God…how did this happen?”

“I really hope I don’t have to explain that to you,” Keiko gave Julian a deadpan look, “You knew he and Damar were sleeping together, it was hardly a secret. You never once thought to maybe mention birth control of some description?”

Julian make an incredulous gesture, “I didn’t think it was possible for him to get pregnant! None of us did.”

“You were Moe’s legal guardian, he’s living proof that it was possible!”

“Well, to be fair have you seen a Vorta’s internal organs? They’re a mess! He has at least three livers packed away in there, plus a surprising amount of spleens. How was I supposed to notice a functional uterus tucked away under all that?”

Keiko sighed, “I don’t know. That’s not really important right now. He needs to be told, sooner rather than later.”

“Hence the appointment with me this afternoon, I suppose.” Julian quirked one eyebrow, mouth twisting into something not quite a smile.

“You’re a medical professional Julian, and his friend. I’m sure there’s something in the field manual about this sort of situation,” Keiko paused for a moment, “I’ll make sure Miles can look after the kids this afternoon, in case he wants me to be there.”

Julian huffed a sigh then met Keiko’s eyes, “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. He’s going to need a lot of support in the next few days.”

“Oh, I know.” Keiko and Julian started walking towards the turbolifts, the shuttle bay now mostly empty apart from the flight crew cleaning up after the passengers and getting ready for the return trip. They walked in silence for a while.

“Have you...have you heard from Garak since…” Keiko faded off, instantly regretting saying anything when she saw Julian’s face fall.

“No, nothing,” he said, just a touch too quickly, “But, things are just…it’s chaos on Cardassia right now. Most of the major cities on the Northern Continent are still burning. Communications are spotty at best.”

“Of course. At least he’s alive,” she squeezed Julian’s arm, “That’s the important thing. Damar too. I saw him on the news services the other day. He and a few of the other resistance leaders are trying to set up a provisional government.”

“Yes. Him, Legate Kell and Gul Ocett…Legate Ocett now, I suppose. They’re pretty much the only leaders left to be honest. The press has already given them a name: the Triumvirate.”

Julian’s voice sounded far away. Keiko let the conversation die off, knowing the topic of Cardassia was a sore one, and judging from Julian’s voice, would remain one for some time.

~*~*~

“Do you know what this is?”

“A ruin?”

“Not much of a history student then?” Garak paused, raising one eyebrow ridge as he looked at Damar, who shrugged back at him, “I suppose not.”

It was the first day in a month that the air had been clear enough to risk spending a significant amount of time outside without air masks. Garak, still leaning on a cane after taking a disruptor shot to the knee while storming Central Command, had asked Damar to meet him out at one the Hebitian ruin sites which dotted the edges of the deserts in rural Cardassia. Damar had borrowed a bike skimmer from Ocett and had rode out, trying to avoid looking at the charred bodies which still dotted the road side the further he got away from the city.

This ruin, sitting in the shadow of a narrow pass between two mountains called the Weepers and beside an ancient road which had once travelled between them, was particularly unimpressive. No great spires of the old Emperor’s palace here, no lotus pools of Denen’tat. It was at most a series of low remnants of walls, ranging in size from ankle to almost knee height at its most complete. There were a few small plaques where the walls began, briefly noting the historical significance of the site, warning people not to walk on or attempt hov-boarding along the walls. (A warning clearly ignored by the local teenagers, if the Sluga-Cola cans and small brown piles of chewed snef-leaf were anything to go by.)

“Well, you are right Damar, this is a ruin.” Garak, who had been walking ahead of Damar paused, taking a few breaths, “It’s the final remanets of the summer home of the Red King, Turak IV. His reign was a golden age for the arts, less so for the Hebitian economy, which completely collapsed not long after he died.”

“Fascinating. Why am I here?”

Garak sighed, turning to face Damar, fixing him with a piercing look, “I’m getting to that, if you’ll let me finish.” They walked for a little while longer, Garak looking from side to side, evidently searching for something. “Ah here we are.” He gestured to a small ridge of stones which jutted out of the sand, barely ankle high, a rough hexagon visible if you stood far enough back. “Do you see this?”

“The walls or the used condom just there?” Damar pointed to the offending prophylactic right by Garak’s feet.

Garak made a disgusted noise, jumping away. He used his walking stick to pick the trash up and threw it as far as he could, muttering to himself about the disturbing lack of respect young people had for their heritage these days. That done, he returned to his role as tour guide.

“This here is fairly standard concubine’s chamber,” Garak stepped over the ankle high ruin, using the stick he was carrying to point out the extremities of the space, “This part here would have been her garden, the back bit here where the stone is black the start of her bedroom.” He stepped over more ruins, “Apart from visiting her good king and the communal dining chamber her and the other concubines would have used, Tarak kept over 200 of them you know, she would have spent most of her life within these six walls.” Garak stood at the dead centre of this anonymous girl’s chamber, pointedly meeting Damar’s eyes, “What kind of life do you think she would have had, Damar?”

Damar didn’t answer. He looked down, picked at a fingernail.

“You’ve been making a lot of trips out to the Madro district lately,” Garak tapped his stick against the side of his shoe, “It’s a lovely little spot; isolated but not outside of transporter or skimmer range, lots of cottages that escaped the bombardment, plenty of room for little feet to run around.”

“Is there a point to this?” Damar snapped.

Garak took a slow breath out of his nose, “You can’t keep him here, Damar. It won’t be fair to you or to him, or the child.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“What business?” Garak scoffed, shook his head, disbelieving, “Look around you, Damar! The Union is in tatters! There are people dying and starving in the streets of Lakar and the one thing stopping our fragile State from descending into complete anarchy, for some reason, is you!” Garak’s voice had worked its way up to a yell, he stabbed his finger into Damar’s chest with the final word.

“And you are going to destroy all of that when word gets out, and believe me it will, no matter how hard you try to hide it, that Legate Damar; husband, father, hero of the resistance; is keeping his Vorta lover and a suspiciously fatherless child on the outskirts of town.”

“Motivation isn’t my child,” Damar interjected, knowing he sounded petulant and childish.

“It won’t matter Damar, not to the general population. Not to a people who have spent the last two years being terrified of the Vorta and the Dominion they represented. All that will matter is that their hero has betrayed them, and anything associated with you will be poison.”

Garak took a deep breath, calming himself a little. He traced a small circle in the dirt with his stick, “You or I would be lucky to survive the inevitable coup. Weyoun probably wouldn’t, he’d be too easy a target. I hesitate to think what would happen to Motivation.”

The wind picked up, small eddies of red dirt swirling around Damar’s knees. It blew through the pass, a mournful cry, the Weepers earning their name in that moment.

“So as I see it Damar, you have three choices. One: You buy that little cottage out at Madro to keep Weyoun and the child, go out there on the weekends, play happy families, until the inevitable discovery. Option two: you find somewhere more secret, maybe right in your own family compound, your wife seems like an understanding woman, keep him and Motivation locked away from public sight, your own Hebitian concubine trapped in six comfortable walls. Do you think he’d be happy? How long do you think it would take for him to start to resent you? For you to start to resent him yourself as his jailor? Is that the kind of life you want for Moe to grow up in?”

Damar turned away, sniffed, looking back towards where his bike and Garak’s transport were parked.

“What’s my third option?”

Garak was already prepared, “You do the right thing. You let him stay on Deep Space 9. Kira will give him a job, Moe will grow up with the other station children. He’ll be sad for a while but he’s resilient, tougher than you think, he’ll move on.”

Damar looked down at his feet, stepping one foot and then the other out of the sand which was rapidly building around the edges of his boots. He snorted, “You know, of everyone Garak, I thought you’d be a little more understanding of the situation…”

“Oh believe me, Damar, I am far more sympathetic than most.” Damar turned, seeing genuine sadness written across Garak’s features. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a letter, written on thick crème paper, the kind of stationary a Legate would have, handing it to Damar.

“This should cover everything you’ll want to tell Weyoun. I think I captured your voice quite well. All you need to do is sign it. I’ll take of the rest.”

Damar looked down at the embossed envelope in his hand, up at Garak. He shivered in the wind, “You will, will you?”

For moment, just a moment, it seemed to Damar that there were tears in Garak’s eyes…though perhaps that was just a trick of the light, or maybe the sting of the wing and sand as it picked up more power.

“Oh yes Damar. I have my own to deliver.”

Chapter Text

Weyoun had lived for 307 years, 5 months and 19 days, and without a doubt the last week had been one of the worst periods of that entire time. In the span of four days he had discovered he was pregnant, found out Keiko and Miles O’Brien were moving back to Earth, and Damar had broken up with him via couriered letter.

It was, perhaps, not quite as bad as the sudden decompression which had killed Weyoun 2, and undoubtedly it was better than the poison which had taken a month to kill Weyoun 3 (horrible, but useful in the end, the Founders were able to improve the Vorta tolerance to poison significantly though analyzing his tissue samples), but still, it was its own special pain.

And in retrospect, Julian had handled telling Weyoun about his ‘condition’ very well. Even as Weyoun’s head had swum and he’d nearly fallen out of his seat, Julian had kept him anchored in place. He’d explained everything so well, offered him a termination if he wanted it, said whatever he decided Julian would support him.

He’d even offered to speak to the Federation, see if there were any strings he could pull to try and get a message through to Cardassia, through to Damar. That had made Weyoun pause, Damar had said on that last night he couldn’t make him any promises. He was still married, had a son with his wife, and from the little Weyoun had seen on the news, was trying to hold Cardassia together through sheer force of will. What kind of scandal would it be for Weyoun to appear on Cardassia, the Legate’s Vorta paramour, carrying his child? It would be like something out of a Klingon melodrama, one of the ones where the lover threw themselves off a cliff at the end…

Weyoun had told Julian he’d think about it for a day. About both things: telling Damar and the termination. Then Damar’s letter came, the Tellerite courier making Weyoun sign for a thick envelope of expensive crème paper, and well…one decision was already made.

Weyoun had sunk onto the couch, the letter falling from his hands. He felt…oddly fine. It was fine. The fineness settled over him like a blanket, warm and comfortable. Insulating.

He had though considered the termination more seriously then. He was alone, already caring for an infant, recently unemployed (considering the war was over and his intelligence experience was suddenly much less valued by the Federation). Another child, one growing inside him, it seemed a terrifying prospect.

But then the dreams would come back to him, and he would feel, as strongly as if it happened yesterday, that baby in his arms, smell the cooking of the village, see glimpses of wood carvings that told stories of generations of Vorta. Stories the Founders had wiped from existence thousands of years before his earliest incantation had even been an idea in a Changeling geneticist’s mind.

So much had already been lost…

He went that afternoon to Julian and asked him for a print out of the ultrasound scan he’d taken yesterday. Julian had handed over the little print out, helpfully circling where the baby was in red ink, a roughly cashew shaped little blob, apparently almost 10cm in length already. Weyoun replicated a small frame, tucking it inside and putting it on his bedside table, next to one of him with Moe Keiko had taken on Bajor.

Weyoun contemplated all this as he sat at Quark’s bar and tapped his cup on the table, “One more, Quark.”

“You sure you haven’t had enough there?” Quark looked out at Weyoun from under his brow ridges, polishing a glass.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” Weyoun said flatly, “Another milkshake…and an apple juice for my friend.” He nodded to his left, where Motivation was sitting in his handy ‘attachable anywhere’ clip-on baby seat (a parting gift from Keiko). Moe held out his bottle to Quark, chattering away happily, then went back to gumming one of Reggie’s limbs.

“Coming right up,” Quark shook his head slightly, heading off to grab another container of ice cream from the back of the bar.

Julian appeared beside Weyoun and took a seat next to him at the bar, looking similarly despairing. He’d received a letter too. He flagged down one of Quark’s other bar staff, “I’m going to need the strongest alcoholic drink you have, closely followed by the second strongest.”

The Ferengi nodded, “One Warp Core Breach and a Long Island Iced Tea, straight away Doctor.”

Julian sighed heavily, “Has Ezri been to see you too?”

Weyoun nodded, Quark coming back with his strawberry milkshake and Moe’s apple juice, “She said I should try and find new support structures. I’m currently interviewing for a new crèche.” He gestured towards Quark and the bar.

“I’m just saying. Nog spent most of the first 10 years of his life behind this bar and he’s a Starfleet officer now. You could do worse,” Quark said.

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

Julian’s drinks were delivered, he took a long sip out of the Long Island Ice Tea, “I still can’t believe they’re not coming back. That they’d do this to us,” he took a long sniff, “Garak and I were talking about kids, about the future. We’d been living together for two years. And he couldn’t even dump me in person.”

Weyoun put a comforting hand over Julian’s at the bar, “What did your letter say?”

Julian shrugged, “I stopped reading after seven pages. Lots of stuff about us being like ‘Cassilda and the Yellow King,’ lovers separated by the depth of space and the deep agony of politics, he’ll always hear the wind whisper my name etcetera etcetera. Basically, a lot of words to say ‘you’re dumped, Julian.’”

“Oh, I got the ‘wind whispers my name’ line too,” Weyoun put his chin in his hands, “It must be from a book or something.”

“Probably from one of those repetitive epics they’re so fond of,” Julian gave a deep sigh, burying his head under long arms on the bar.

“At least you two got letters,” Quark kept polishing one of the glasses, a mournful look on his face, “What did I get? ‘Sorry babe, I have revert back to my liquid state and reform my people. Could take a few months, could take millennia. Don’t wait up.’” He pointed at Julian and Weyoun with his rag, “You two got a clean break, I’m stuck with ‘it’s complicated’ for the foreseeable future.”

Moe gurgled, finishing off his bottle. He looked around for something to amuse him, Reggie having only limited potential, he reached for a nice shiny cocktail shaker left on the edge of the bar.

“Aww, you want to learn how to make a Warp Core Breach, little guy?” Quark picked up the shaker and held it just out of Moe’s reach, “See, he’d love it here. He can learn a trade, sleep in the cupboard Nog used to nap in…” At that Quark used his foot to slide open the door of one of the bottom cupboards of the bar, “And think of how good all the talking in here will be for his language development!”

Weyoun and Julian shared a look, Julian making a concerned noise.

“It’s a very kind offer, Quark. I’ll think about it.”

Julian snorted around his drink, giving it a swirl in his glass, “Some might think you’re lonely, Quark.”

“Pfft,” Quark rolled his eyes, gave an incredulous short laugh, “Me, lonely? Never. Why would I be lonely? Just because my boyfriend’s left, and my brother’s the Grand Nagus, and my nephew is in Starfleet, and most of my closest friends who I saw almost every day for six years are all gone, and all of my relationships have ended in disaster…that doesn’t mean I’m lonely! Ferengi don’t get lonely, we’re not pack hunters like you humans, all we need is profit!”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Quark sniffed and straightened his waistcoat, “I’m just going to call my Mother.”

Julian and Weyoun watched him go.

“God,” Julian said softly, “Voluntarily calling his mother. And I thought we were at rock bottom.” He turned to face Weyoun, “How are you feeling today? Physically, I mean.”

Weyoun shrugged, “I’m fine…mostly. Those vitamins you gave me have helped and if I sleep when he sleeps it’s not so bad,” he rubbed a finger over Moe’s fat little cheek, “I don’t…I don’t know what I’ll do when there’s two of them. I don’t know how I’ll cope.”

“It’ll be alright,” Julian gave a reassuring smile, “We’ll work it out. I was thinking I might take a job at a University, something more research focused than teaching. It’ll be less stressful than shift work, better with infants.”

“At a University? What about Starfleet?”

Julian shrugged, taking another long sip of his drink, “Frontier medicine has lost a bit of its gloss, to be honest. Maybe it’s time we both found a place to live with our feet on the ground.”

“You’d do that? For Moe and me and…”

“Of course, I would,” Julian’s mouth wobbled slightly, “If there’s anything the last few months have taught me, it’s to hold on to what matters.”

Weyoun’s lower lip started to tremble as well. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears which threatened to form. Why was he always on the verge of tears these days!? It was so frustrating!

Julian thankfully changed the subject, sniffing then clearing his throat to keep his own tears at bay, “On a slightly different note, while I’ve got access to a full Starfleet medbay, I’d like to have you in at least once a week for a checkup. We don’t know...well, anything about Vorta pregnancies. We don’t even know how long Borath’s pregnancy was. I’d like to measure the fetus’ growth quite closely for a while. If I get a good baseline for the growth rate, I might be able to work out your due date.”

“A due date…” Weyoun whispered. That made the whole thing rather more concrete…

Kira’s voice sounded suddenly over the comms, interrupting their conversation:

“Dr Bashir and Mr Weyoun to Ops please. Priority one.”

Julian frowned, looking upwards, “Ugh, what could that be about?”

~*~*~

Colonel Kira Nerys was having the first day (of no doubt many to come) where she wished Captain Sisko was still here. She sat back in Sis-…her chair behind the command desk of Deep Space 9, putting no small amount of conscious effort into keeping her face a coolly neutral mask. The Station was in Bajoran hands now and this was her turf. She was in control here.

“So explain this to me again,” she said, raising an eyebrow at the middle aged human woman and younger Edosian man sitting across from her, “You claim to have Motivation’s parents?”

The woman smiled warmly (her name was Sybil Wann, but Kira had already named her ‘the Carrot’ in her mind, her taciturn partner in turn being ‘the Stick’), “We aren’t claiming anything, Colonel. Motivation’s DNA was logged into the Federation database by Doctor Bashir, as per Starfleet protocol for foundlings. When Mr Borath and First Nilig’xal surrendered themselves to the T’Kumbra, the CMO performed an analysis of their DNA compared to the child’s and found a perfect match. They are Motivation’s parents, to a scientific degree of certainty.”

The Stick crossed one of his legs over the two others. He was the real mystery here. Wann had been very upfront about her credentials as a member of the Federation Diplomatic corps, but Stick was much more circumspect about…well, everything. Kira wasn’t even sure he’d introduced himself.

“We do understand there are sensitivities in this situation,” he said, “From our information, the child has been being cared for in large part by the other Vorta defector, Mr Weyoun?”

Before Kira could even answer the Carrot had jumped in, “We have no doubt Mr Weyoun has gotten very attached to Motivation, and we want to make this as painless a process as possible, for everyone involved. We may even have a way for him to stay in Motivation’s life, if that’s something he’s interested in…”

“You’re no doubt aware the Changeling Leader is awaiting trial on Earth,” the Stick took over again, “The Federation is in negotiations with its allies about what form that trial will take, but one of the our top priorities will be trying her for crimes against sentience alongside the war crimes charges.”

“And for that you need testimony from her victims…her former slaves,” Kira said quickly, finally managing to get a word in edgewise.

“Exactly,” the Carrot smiled, showing just a few too many teeth for comfort, “This trial presents a unique opportunity for the Federation to strike a blow against interplanetary slavery. Mr Borath and Nilig’xal have both already agreed to testify-”

“In exchange for the return of their child, no doubt,” Kira raised one eyebrow, “And I’m sure you’ve added some other sweeteners in there…”

The Carrot shrugged, “We may have offered them both the change to be resettled on one of the Federation’s more established colonies. T’Kerras III is a lovely little community, well established infrastructure, excellent schools. There’s normally a waiting list to be settled somewhere like that. If Mr Weyoun agrees to testify I’m sure we can find him a place very close by to where Borath and Nilig’xal will be living.”

“Mmm, I’m sure you will,” Kira said flatly. She was silent a moment, taking a slow breath out her nose, “These are all real people you know, not just pieces on a board for you to move around. Weyoun…he’s been through a lot in the last few months. And you’re forgetting that technically Dr Bashir still shares custody of Motivation with him.”

“We’re so glad you mentioned Dr Bashir,” the Carrot completely ignored the majority of Kira’s words, “We understand he’s done some preliminary work on ketracel-white addiction in the Jem’Hadar. We’re going to need to speak to him as well.”

Kira gave a heavy sigh. She didn’t have any cards to play. Shakaar had already been in contact, telling her to cooperate with the Federation on this. Negotiations were about to restart on Bajor’s admission to the Federation now the war was over and everyone (and by that he meant the Bajoran Council, the Board of Ministers, and the Vedek Assembly) was very keen to see ‘things start off on the right foot.’

She gave her commbadge a quick tap, “Dr Bashir and Mr Weyoun to ops, priority one please.”

~*~*~

The handover was a disaster.

Ezri had protested, saying that a gradual change in guardianship (a few supervised hours to start with, followed by spending the day, then a few nights at a time) would be in the best interests of not just Weyoun and the parents, but Motivation as well. This had been calmly but firmly overruled.

“Your concerns are noted, Lt Dax,” the Stick had said, “But we feel a clean break is better.”

“Cat-shit,” Kira had spat the moment he was out of the room, pacing back and forth in frustration, “Weyoun hasn’t given them an answer about testifying against the Founder and they’re trying to force his hand! One of their flagships is due here in two days to take Borath and Nilig’xal to Earth and they want him on it!”

“I think you’re right,” Ezri had run a hand through her hair, giving a sigh, “I wish Ben was here. He’d know what to do…”

The Carrot came up with the idea of hiring one of Quark’s holosuites for Weyoun to meet Borath and Nilig’xal and hand over Moe, neutral ground. Quark provided a little used data-rod with a simple play room programmed into it, making sure to spitefully add (and double) the ‘Federation credit-to-latinum conversation tax’ to the bill. She didn’t even seem to notice, someone higher up had clearly made it clear that credits were not of any concern for this mission. A few moments later the Stick arrived with Borath and Nilig’xal, escorting them inside.

Weyoun arrived not long after with Julian carrying Motivation. It was getting hard, even strapped to his back to carry him around now, even if Moe’s weight on his back did provide a good counterbalance to his ever increasing front.

He took a deep breath and made sure that Moe’s bag was packed properly. Reggie was in there, his light box for if he got upset, his favorite bottle, all his rompers, some nappies, his teething ring from Odo (there was a new molar coming through on Moe’s lower jaw and he could get quite cranky when it got sore). They could replicate anything else they needed. Yes, everything was there. Everything was fine. This was fine.

This was more than fine, he reminded himself. This was a good thing. Moe deserved to be with his parents. Parents who had loved him so much they had died (quite literally) to get him out of the Dominion. Weyoun wasn’t…he wasn’t even sure was able to keep caring for Moe in the way he deserved in his current state.

Weyoun felt Julian’s hand on his shoulder and looked up. Julian gave his best effort at a reassuring smile, through the bags under his eyes and the fact he hadn’t shaved that morning (“It’s my day off, I don’t care if I’m meeting the Under Secretary for Whatever. I’m sure she won’t even notice.”) made him seem more weary than anything.

“Are you ready for this?” he said softly.

Weyoun nodded, “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.” He held out his hands for Moe, taking him from Julian and kissing his cheek, his forehead, smiling when a little hand came up and patted his face. He’d been so good this morning, quiet and watchful, as if he knew there was something coming.

Borath and Nilig’xal were sitting on the ground of the holosuite playroom, next to a pile of carefully arranged soft toys. The Stick was sitting on a chair in the back, more interested in his personal PADD than anything going on in the room. Ezri smiled up at Weyoun from where she was sitting cross-legged next to Borath on the floor.

“Come on in,” she said brightly, “make yourself at home.”

Weyoun took a breath (He could do this. He had to do this.) and set Moe down on the ground in the middle of the play mat, next to a pile of blocks. Moe liked blocks, he liked the click click click noise they made when he banged them together.

“Oh…oh he’s so big,” Borath said, a hint of a tremble in his voice. He put a hand on Nilig’xal’s arm and looked up at him, “Can you believe how big he’s gotten?”

Weyoun maneuvered himself down to floor with a little help from Julian (When did that become hard? Surely he was getting up and down from the floor just yesterday?). He had never met a Borath before, though he’d seen their models several times while providing tours through the cloning facilities to the Dominion’s allies. He was, as far as Weyoun recalled, a fairly standard field commander model. Nothing that would make you think he would be the first Vorta to have a live birth in over a thousand years.

The Jem’Hadar at his side nodded (again, a very standard, if tall Jem’Hadar First model), he looked over at Weyoun, “He has been well cared for.”

Moe, the oblivious center of all this attention, pushed himself up next to the blocks and started clicking two of them together, humming and muttering to himself in amusement. He wasn’t quite crawling yet, though he could sit up by himself and pull himself with his arms for short distances. Nilig’xal pushed some of the other blocks closer, Moe looking up at him for the first time. He made a small “oo-ooo” noise, unsure but curious.

Weyoun cleared his throat, “I’ve written up a document with his daily routine and likes and dislikes. Julian will forward his medical files to your Doctor on Earth when you find one. He’s up to date with his vaccination schedule as well.”

“Thank you,” Borath said, “We’ll make sure he keeps them up.” He shifted towards the baby (his baby), running his fingers through his hair, “I love his name too. I didn’t want to name him until we got to the Federation, so I hadn’t even begun to think of one. Did Legate Damar come up with it?”

Weyoun felt a knife twist right under his ribs. He blinked rapidly.

Julian jumped in and saved him, “Yes, he did. An old fashioned Cardassian virtue name.”

“We really like it,” Borath nodded at the bag at Weyoun’s side, “Are those his things?”

“Y-es, his favorite toys and clothes,” Weyoun stammered out. Suddenly it was all too much. Damar gone. Moe gone. A body he barely understood anymore. He wasn’t fine. He felt tears, burning tracks down his cheeks.

He heard an uncertain noise and looked down, Moe’s head was waving as he looked over at him, that familiar little crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“Woo…?” the baby started to turn, reaching out for Weyoun, “Wooo…”

“I…I can’t…” Weyoun struggled to his feet, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“Wait, Weyoun! You should say a proper goodbye,” Ezri jumped up after him, trying to intercept him before he got to the door.

Moe started to cry properly as Borath picked him up, a little awkwardly, too close to the armpit rather than lifting from under his bottom. He twisted in Borath’s arms, reaching out to Weyoun desperately as he headed for the door. Borath tried to comfort him, jogging him and making shushing noises, Nilig’xal hovering uncertainly beside them both.

Moe started to scream as he saw Weyoun exit through the holosuite doors, leaving his line of sight, wailing out “Woo” over and over again. He shoved at Borath’s chest, his face, trying to get away from him.

“It’s alright. It’s alright baby,” Borath tried (he was trying so hard), “I’m here now. I’ve got you.” Moe only struggled harder, becoming more distressed and pulling at his ears. Soon Borath was crying too. He looked up at Nilig’xal, “H-he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t remember me at all, Nil.”

Nilig’xal made a low noise in his throat, put one of his large hands on Borath’s back, “He is hungry perhaps…or tired?”

Julian was caught between wanting to follow Weyoun and feeling the need to stay in the holosuite with two nervous new parents and a screaming infant. He tried to catch the Stick’s eyes, hoping he’d take the hint and reassert control over the situation, maybe call for assistance of some kind. The Stick stayed firmly attached to his PADD however, seemingly very good at shutting out background noise…

“A bottle might help,” Julian offered after a moment more of waiting. He grabbed Weyoun’s bag and pulling out a prepared bottle of formula to hand it over, “He gets very cranky when he’s hungry.”

Moe continued to scream as Julian handed the bottle over to Borath who tried to fit it to his mouth. It took a few tries and the production of Reggie from the bag as well to get him to take it but Moe did eventually latch on to the bottle, drinking almost spitefully and rubbing his ear against Reggie’s soft belly. His eyes continued to flick around the room, always searching for Weyoun.

The Stick finally looked up from his PADD from his place at the back of the room. He looked around and blinked, relaxing the cranial muscles which allowed him to block his ears. The other Vorta defector was gone, the child was back with his parents. Everything seemed to be going well…

“Ah,” he smiled, unfolding his legs, “I see we’re finishing up here. I’ll let the proprietor know not to charge us for the full hour.”

~*~*~

Borath and Nilig’xal’s sole custody of Moe lasted seven hours. Weyoun was curled on his side on his bunk, trying to find sleep, or perhaps just staring into space, when his door chime sounded. He let it ring two more times before he got up, his heart dropping when he turned on the viewscreen and saw Borath and Nilig’xal on the other side of his door, Borath bouncing a fussy Moe in his arms.

What could they want? How much was he going to be made to suffer today?

The viewscreen had only shown them from a high angle, so it wasn’t until Weyoun opened the door that he saw the distress on Nilig’xal’s face, the tear stains on Borath’s.

“Can you…” Borath took a shuddering breath as Moe started to cry in earnest, reaching out for Weyoun, “…c-an you show us how to give him a bath?”

Weyoun’s shoulders slumped, he took a step back from the door, letting them in.

They did it together. Gave Moe a warm bath, put him in a fresh romper (“He likes to sleep in these ones, they’re softer,”), and they took turns, Weyoun showing Borath how Moe liked to be held, as the baby drifted off, before putting him down in the crib that was still in Weyoun’s quarters.

Borath stared down at Moe once he was properly out, hand hovering about the mess of curls on his head.

“You can touch him,” Weyoun whispered, “He’s a very sound sleeper. Takes a while to get off sometimes, but once he’s asleep he’ll stay that way through the night.”

Borath’s eyes flicked up to Weyoun, then back down to Moe, “Is it strange that I miss him already?”

“No…no it isn’t,” Weyoun stepped back, knowing Borath would follow him into the living space when he was ready.

Nilig’xal was standing at attention near the door when Weyoun came out.

“You don’t have to do that anymore, you know?” Weyoun sat down on his narrow couch.

If anything Nilig’xal seemed to straighten more, “What else should I do, Weyoun sixth of his line?”

“That’s a good question actually…” Weyoun looked around his quarters for something for Nilig’xal to do. Asking him to ‘just relax’ would be a little redundant, you might as well ask a Jem’Hadar to grow wings and fly. He spied a few books Julian had lent him and handed him the thickest one. “Here, read this. Once you’re done, come back and I’ll give you another.”

Nilig’xal grunted his understanding, opening the book and starting to read where he stood. Borath came out of Moe’s room, giving Nilig’xal’s arm a quick squeeze as he passed before sitting down next to Weyoun. All three sat (or stood in Nilig’xal’s case) in silence for a while, both Borath and Weyoun waiting for the other to make the first move.

In the end, Borath took the leap.

“I wanted to thank you personally,” he said after a while, “for taking care of him. I know it can’t have been easy.”

Weyoun shrugged, “I had a lot of help, in the early days at least.”

“It means a lot, that another Vorta was caring for him,” Borath hesitated for a moment, then put his hand over Weyoun’s, “I’m not sure why, but that means a lot to me.”

For the first time in many days, Weyoun smiled. He stayed silent, unable to think of anything to say.

“You…you should come with us,” Borath said suddenly, “When we go to Earth.”

Weyoun pulled his hand out from under Borath’s, “Has the Federation put you up to this? I told them I didn’t know, I still don’t know, if I can testify against her!”

“No…no, they don’t even know we’re here,” Borath said quickly, “I just...I think we can help each other. You can help me now, and I’ll help you when your baby comes!” Borath nodded towards Weyoun’s stomach, eyes pleading.

Weyoun stood and walked away from them, “I…I don’t know.” His head swam. Everything was happening so quickly, changing so much. He just wanted a moment to think! “I can’t face her! I c-can’t let her see me like this!” The words tumbled out of his mouth.

“Like what?” Borath asked, standing as well.

“Like…this! Defective!” Weyoun swept his arms down his body in desperation. Suddenly it was like all of the months of therapy, all the work he’d done with Ezri, was gone, and he was the terrified defective Vorta who could only conceive of leaving the Dominion if it was to serve another Founder. Tears came and this time he didn’t try to hold them back, giving in to the fear and the shame. There was a strange comfort to it, like coming home, a familiar warm bed, thick covers he could hide under…

He felt arms wraps around him, Borath hugging him tightly. He held on to him in return, desperate for comfort, to be held, weeping openly. Borath let him cry for some time.

“I know what it’s like,” Borath said eventually, voice soft, “Being defective…being told that’s what you are. It’s so lonely when you think you’re the only one. I was so alone with it for so long. I had Nil, but I was so terrified of other Vorta, scared one of them would figure it out, that my line would be decommissioned.”

He wiped tears off Weyoun’s face, tried to smile, “I don’t want to be lonely like that anymore. And I don’t want Moe to grow up that way. I want him to be around other Vorta…like you, and like your baby,” he placed a hand on Weyoun’s stomach, looking him right in the eye, “Maybe…they could even be friends.”

Weyoun hiccoughed, “D-o you think so?”

“I do,” Borath nodded, “Weyoun, I don’t care if you testify against her. It’s what the Federation wants, not us…”

Nilig’xal made a rumbling noise, looking up from the book which he was already several pages into, “I want us to. Her crimes are great. Even gods must face justice.”

Weyoun blinked at the force behind Nilig’xal’s words. Borath gave the Jem’Hadar a fond smile.

“Her crimes are great…but more than punishing her, I want us to stay together,” he took one of Weyoun’s hands between his own, “Please tell me you’ll at least consider it. I mean…the war is over, is there really anything holding you here?”

Weyoun sniffed and looked out his single round window, to the black of space, to stars he couldn’t really see, one of them the star around which Cardassia orbited. His heart stuttered in his chest.

“No…no there isn’t.”

Chapter Text

It always amazed Weyoun that the flagships of the Federation were part battleship, part luxury pleasure crafts. The whole thing seemed terribly inefficient to him, especially as the Carrot showed him pictures of the Enterprise and the room he would have on there for the 6 week trip to Earth (helpfully adjoining and connected by an internal door to Borath and Nilig’xal’s room).

They were standing in the middle of Weyoun’s small quarters on Deep Space 9, surrounded by a group of the Carrot’s staff who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and were all madly wrapping and packing Weyoun and Moe’s things.

“All your things will be waiting for you in the residence we’ve secured for you in Amsterdam,” she said, straight to the point as always, holding out a PADD for Weyoun to press his thumbprint to, “It’s very close to the Special Office for the Prosecution. You’ll be able to walk, weather permitting. You’ll love the apartment too, it’s a perfect size for the four of you. And if the trial lasts past your due date and we have another little tenant,” she gave Weyoun’s stomach a condescending pat, “You can apply for a larger residence.”

“How convenient,” Weyoun said, the diplomat’s smile coming easily to his face. Five stirred in his mind, recognizing a kindred soul in the human woman.

He said goodbye to Ezri, to Quark, to Kira, and even managed to fit in a subspace call to Keiko and the other O’Briens. At least there’d be one person on Earth he knew and could visit. For her part, Keiko was so excited Weyoun would be living closer by. She promised she’d transport over the Europe as soon as Molly was settled at her new school in Tokyo and they’d have lunch by one of the Canals.

On his way from the habitat ring to the sick bay for a final appointment with Julian, Weyoun found himself pausing in front of Odo’s old office. He’d come to Weyoun on that last day before his rejoined the Link and had asked to hold Moe.

“I…ah…I want the Link to experience this, the way I am now,” Odo had said, letting Moe squeeze his nose and pat his cheeks, “I want them to feel…to see what they’ve taken from you.”

He hadn’t stayed long, leaving to give whatever goodbye he could to Quark soon after and then on to the Great Link. Weyoun had significant doubts about Odo’s ability to convince the other Founders to free the Jem’Hadar and the Vorta, at least anytime soon. The Great Link was slow to change. It had once taken them 30 years to decide to move one of their administrative centers within Dominion space. (Funny how it never took them that long to decide to go to war however…)

Weyoun shook himself, quickly moving on. He was trying not to think of the Link or anything related to the Founders until he got closer to Earth. Stress wasn’t good for him, or the baby.

Inside the medbay, Julian was sitting behind his desk, practically buried under a pile of PADDs, a slender red-haired woman perched on the edge of it. Julian introduced her as Dr Crusher, the CMO of the Enterprise.

“She’ll be looking after you until you get to Earth. I should get there a few weeks after you do, I just have to finish up handing over running of the medical center to the Bajoran authorities,” Julian said.

Starfleet and the Federation hadn’t quite finished with Doctor Bashir as it turned out. He’d been asked to move to one of Earth’s research facilities and pick up his work on breaking addiction to ketracel-white. He’d agreed to do it; even if he disagreed with the Federation’s strong-arming of Weyoun into testifying against the Founder (and that was putting it very mildly), helping Nilig’xal and any other Jem’Hadar who defected in the future to live without the white was a worthwhile endeavor.

Plus, he got to stay close to Moe, keep caring for Weyoun through his pregnancy. That had been the real deciding factor.

Dr Crusher smiled warmly at Weyoun, “I’m looking forward to getting to know you and the others. Julian’s already shown me some of your files, everything looks like it’s been progressing very well.” She looked behind Weyoun, checking the door behind him was closed, “I understand the father is Cardassian. Is he…?”

“He’s not involved,” Weyoun said quickly, “It’s…just me.”

Dr Crusher’s smile didn’t falter, she nodded, “I understand. Well, we’ll keep up your weekly ultrasounds and vitamin shots. Normally, by about 4 months we like to reduce the amount of placental stabilizers but after conferring with Dr Bashir I think keeping them up at least until we get you to Earth might be a good plan…”

Two days later Weyoun, Borath, Nilig’xal and Moe were beamed up to the Enterprise for their ‘luxury cruise’ to Earth.

Everyone was so nice, the ship a beautiful testament to the best of the great United Federation of Planets. Their first night they were invited to dine with the Captain, a slightly stern looking bald man who reminded Four a little of Sisko, and the other command staff. Keiko’s ‘attach anywhere’ baby seat found itself bought into action once again.

“Is there anything you’re looking forward to seeing on Earth?” the ship’s counsellor, a kind eyed Betazoid woman asked over the soup course.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Weyoun said, digging Moe’s favorite plastic bowl and spoon out of the baby bag and handing them to Borath.

“I think we’re going to be a little busy preparing for the trial for a while…” Borath poured the vegetable puree one of the waiters had helpfully prepared for them into the bowl, starting the messy process of giving Moe his dinner.

“I would like to see Hobbiton,” Nilig’xal said suddenly.

All the ambient noise of the dinner party stopped. The First Officer was suddenly overcome with a fit of coughing.

“If it still exists, of course, after the war…” he added, wondering if perhaps this was a sore point for humans. There were no doubt still tensions between their species and the others of Earth after the Great War of the Ring. “I was reading all about it…”

The artificial life form, Mr Data, looked like he was about to say something when the Chief Engineer spoke over him.

“Unfortunately, the original Hobbiton doesn’t exist anymore. But there are some reproductions of the Shire you can visit. I’ll show you after dinner.”

Nilig’xal seemed pleased with that answer, he nodded appreciatively and went back to his soup. It was so novel being free, being given food whenever he wanted it. About a third of all Jem’Hadar maintained the ability to eat and drink, a trait the Founders had never been able to completely eliminate from him and his many brothers. Abstaining from ingestion (as it was called) was considered an act of faith, though considering the only sustenance the Founders provided for the Jem’Hadar was the white it was one they had little choice but to observe.

Now he could ask the replicator for food or drink whenever he wanted, could administer his own white (Borath and he had brought several month’s supply with them in their ship but the Federation was able to give him a substitute once that ran out, until Dr Bashir figured out the cure for his addiction of course), could hold Borath’s hand and kiss him whenever he wanted, not having to wait for a stolen moment between shift change. It was like heaven.

And yet…and yet…as they finished up dinner, the Captain of the ship telling them all what a pleasant evening it had been and not to worry at all about the sago pudding Moe had thrown on that sculpture, he was sure it would clean up very easily, Nilig’xal couldn’t escape the strange clawing feeling that it was all too good, too much like heaven.

Moe was fussy after dinner, stubbornly refusing to go down into the porta-crib the Enterprise staff had set up in their room. Nilig’xal’s eyes drifted towards the door that joined their room to Weyoun sixth of his line’s. Weyoun was carrying a child, just like Borath had Moe, but there was no-one to watch over him…

He only had to ask once, for Weyoun to come and lay in the huge bed that had been set up in his and Borath’s room (big enough for a Jem’Hadar and his partner, perhaps they hadn’t realised he couldn’t sleep). Just for a little while, until Moe drifted off.

The clawing feeling receded a little, Nilig’xal now able to see all of them, Moe calmly taking a warmed half bottle of formula from Borath, Weyoun looking through a catalogue of furniture they could order for their future home, a heated pad on his lower back that the Doctor had given him. That was better. Much better.

Just as a Jem’Hadar First had two arms and two legs, he had two duties. First: to command his squadron, and ensure victory for the Dominion, and second: to protect the Vorta assigned to him. One was not more important than the other, but now he was free Nilig’xal had no squadron to command. Perhaps he was meant to focus his energy on protecting Borath and their baby. It was an easy thing to add Weyoun and his future child to that. He was strong. He could protect all of them…

They slept in the same bed every night after that on the Enterprise. It just seemed the natural thing, Moe slept well through the night in this strange new place with both Weyoun and Borath’s heartbeats close to his ears, and Nilig’xal was less anxious if he could stand guard over them both while they slept. They couldn’t be that close to heaven, the clawing feeling telling him that the Dominion would appear in the night and drag them all back to the Gamma Quadrant if he wasn’t keeping watch.

When, many years later, Weyoun would look back on those six weeks on the Enterprise, he would think of them as a strange, dream-like haze. He remembered a lot of time spent in his and Borath’s rooms, weekly appointments with Doctor Crusher, taking his vitamins, the sound of Borath breath while he slept, Nilig’xal with Moe in his lap reading baby books, and rather suddenly needing new clothes, his trusty track pants finally reaching the limits of their ability to stretch around his waist.

The ship’s counsellor helped him replicate new ones, stretchy pants and tunics with plenty of room for his stomach to grow. She was really very kind, Counsellor Troi, even if she was always trying to sneak some therapy into their conversations, asking how Weyoun was feeling, how he and Borath were going with Moe, if he wanted to talk about anything. Not that Weyoun was completely opposed to the idea, but the thought of opening up to a new therapist, only for her to disappear in six weeks when he got to Earth, seemed like an investment he didn’t have the energy to make.

“How do you think Borath and Nilig’xal are going with Moe?” she asked one afternoon, as they folded his new clothes and sorted them into piles, “I saw the three of them heading into the holosuites a little while ago. They seemed happy.”

“Yes, they’re taking Moe to one of the zoo programs, he’s been a bit grumpy lately. We think he’s bored,” he said, hands pausing as he folded, “And…I think they’re going well. Borath’s very good with him, and Nilig’xal…he’s getting more confident. He still worries a lot about hurting Moe accidentally though.”

“Being a parent is always an adjustment, but I imagine it must be a big one for people who didn’t any sort of role models in that regard,” Troi said. She held up one of the tunics, this one deep green with some angular black inserts, “I think this one is my favorite, it’ll look very nice with your colouring.”

Weyoun chuckled, “If you say so. I find it hard to tell.”

Troi was silent for a moment, her black in black eyes studying Weyoun carefully, “And what about you? How have you been?”

“Have you and Dr Crusher been talking about me?” Weyoun rolled his eyes, “Just because I haven’t thought of a name…”

“It’s not just about the name, Weyoun,” Troi said, refolding the tunic and putting it in the pile with the others, “We’re both a little concerned you’re not making any plans about this baby. Most expectant parents are excited; they plan nurseries, buy baby things, research child rearing methods. I’m worried you’re in denial.”

Weyoun snorted derisively, “It’s a little hard to be in denial about your pregnancy when your pants don’t fit anymore.” He struggled up into a standing position, taking a pile of tunics from Deanna and putting them into a draw, next to the new pants and underwear. He smoothed his hands over the fabric, “I’m not in denial. It’s just…hard to think about anything else but the trial.”

He didn’t say the real reason: that thinking of the baby often bought with it thoughts of Damar, the memories of him their own special pain.

“It must be difficult, the thought of facing her,” Deanna folded her hands in her lap, “But this baby is coming, whether the trial happens or not. I know the father isn’t involved but-”

“No, Counsellor, no he’s not involved,” Weyoun said firmly, “And he’s going to stay that way. So anything you were about to say is moot.” He took a deep breath, “Dr Crusher has been trying to talk to me about a birth plan. If I meet with her about it tomorrow will that prove to both of you I’m not in denial?”

Counsellor Troi gave an enigmatic smile, “Not really, but it’s a start.”

In the next room over, Weyoun could hear the telltale sounds of Borath and Nilig’xal coming back from the holosuite with a whimpering Moe. He and Troi walked into the next room, the adjoining door being unlocked (of course).

Borath was cuddling a red-faced Moe, who had one arm around his mother and the other clinging to Reggie.

“We went to the butterfly house,” Nilig’xal rumbled by way of explanation, “A butterfly landed on Reggie. He got very upset.”

“Poor baby,” Weyoun sat down on the bed next to Borath, stroking Moe’s back.

“Can you hold him for a little while? My back is killing me,” Borath said, gently sliding Moe over to Weyoun, “The zoo was bigger than I thought. I think we are going to get one of those strollers I saw in the baby catalogue.”

“I told you we’d need one,” Weyoun felt Moe nuzzle into his neck, giving a soft little ‘Woo,’ “Especially now he’s too big for the sling.”

“We’ll get two,” Nilig’xal said firmly, coming over to the bed and starting to massage where Borath indicated his back was sore, “One for each of them.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Deanna said, smiling meaningfully at Weyoun, he rolled his eyes back at her.

Six weeks passed quickly. By the time they reached Earth, Moe was crawling and had learned to say ‘Muh,’ directing it at Borath just as often as he would call for Weyoun with ‘Woo.’ Nilig’xal had lost his fear of holding him, now happily taking Moe from Borath whenever he got tired.

When the three of them beamed down to the Euro-Interplanetary transporter station one of the prosecutor’s assistants was there waiting for them, really to take them through customs and then on to their apartment.

They were given the weekend to settle in. On Monday they would start to prepare for the trial…

~*~*~

Months pass…

A planet, a whole society on the brink of collapse takes up a lot of your time. Damar doesn’t watch the trial of the Founder, by and large. There are those within the Federation alliance who want him on trial there beside her anyway, he feels like watching it is almost as if he’s giving them the satisfaction (they try Dukat in absentia instead), so apart from when highlights are played on the late news he avoids it.

He works on average around 12 to 14 hours a day; leaving before light and returning well after the sun has set. It’s convenient then that his home is close to the Central Command building, a large suite apartment at the top of one the few residential buildings that survived the bombing, three bedrooms. Niala and Sakal live with him. Mala moves in a few floors down.

The first night he comes home and finds Niala and Mala on the couch watching a movie, Sakal asleep on Mala’s lap, Niala’s hands gently, absently, plaiting Mala’s waist length black hair, they all freeze in place. Damar can’t think of anything to say, anything that would matter anyway, and he simply nods and walks up the stairs to his bed.

Three bedrooms. One for each of them. Very convenient. He’ll move the king bed into Niala’s room this weekend, switch it for her queen. Why have all the space when there’s no-one to share it with? He’s usually too tired at night to even dream (never of pale hands and soft skin and a voice that whispers his name anyway), let alone even think of sharing his bed with anyone. Even if Niala makes the suggestion, pointing out a handsome young Glinn, a protégé of Kell’s, to him at a dinner one night.

“He’s been trying to catch your eye all evening, Corat. Go and introduce yourself.”

He grunts and waves her away, ordering more kanar for the table. Garak’ll probably just put an end to that too. He spies the man in question across the room, by himself at the bar and staring down into a glass of pale pink iddlit-flower kanar. That’s Damar’s only consolation. If he’s miserable, at least Garak is too.

And this is fine. It’s all fine. Cardassia needs him. And at least he has Sakal. He at least is happy when Damar is home on the weekends, playing Durgap’s Jump Adventure II on the vidscreen (they’ve almost beat the casino level), reading him a story at night, taking him down to the park if the air is clear enough. He tries not to think of Moe, if he’s walking yet, saying those first words, if he still needs to hear Weyoun’s heart in the evening before he goes to sleep.

Sometimes, when Damar has a few moments to himself, he opens up the bottom draw of his desk in the Central Command building, the one he keeps locked, and looks down at a small urn. It’s grey, unmarked, inexpensive, the only thing he could find at short notice considering how many people were arranging funerals at the time. In it is Weyoun 8’s ashes. They found his body a few days after the end of the war. Not near to his Founder as Damar had expected, but just…thrown into an old store room, a single perfectly round stab wound through his heart, dumped between a broken chair and a filing cabinet that no longer closed properly. An item found to be no longer fit for purpose and easily disposed of.

Damar had him quickly and quietly cremated. He had never loved 8 the way he loved 6 or 5, he hadn’t even particularly liked him (or 7 for that matter), but it didn’t feel right to dispose of him with all the Jem’Hadar bodies, nor repatriate him to the other Founders, not after what they’d done. So he’d taken care of it himself, and now the little urn is the confidant he whispers to when there’s no-one else around.

All this continues for months. Bland and busy and miserable months. Until there is one day where Damar finds himself with an hour between meetings, nothing too pressing for him to do otherwise, and he turns on the vidscreen in his office, switching to the 25 hour news channel in the hopes he might see some reporting of the big infrastructure appropriations he’s just made.

Instead it’s a report of the Founder’s trial. The one he’s been avoiding seeing. He’s about to switch over to the hound racing channel when a word, a single word, catches his ear:

“…the testimony from the Jem’Hadar and both Vorta witnesses has been crucial evidence in the Federation’s case against the Changeling Leader. Repeating our lead story – Prosecutors have completed evidence in chief for their case before the Interplanetary Criminal Court. Cross examination is due to being tomorrow, where it is suspected the Defence will be focusing on the Prosecution’s star witness, the Vorta defector: Weyoun 6. In other news, the Romulan Star Empire has lodged a further formal protest-”

Damar presses the pause button on the live play, freezing the screen on a close-up shot of Borath and Nilig’xal leaving the court house at The Hague, Borath’s head unbowed, his hand dwarfed by the Jem’Hadar’s much larger one. He barely recognises Borath, he looks so different fully dressed and not covered in his own blood. And behind them, with Julian Bashir’s arm over his shoulder is Weyoun.

Weyoun, as fair and lovely as he had always been. Looking a little tired, a little drawn, red rimmed around the eyes, it had no doubt been a stressful day. Damar feels the urge, sudden and powerful, to reach towards the screen, as if he could reach through it and touch him, run his fingers down the curve of Weyoun’s ear, take him in his arms and whisper his name, let him cry if he needed to.

Stupid. That was stupid. Weyoun is millions of light years away. He slumps in his chair, presses play on the remote. The camera pans out.

The remote control drops from Damar’s hands. His throat constricts. He sees red.

He never told him.

Outside he slams his fist down on one of his assistants’ desk and snarls for him to find Elim Garak, now!

He never told him.

“I saw him a few moments ago. H-he’s with Legate Ocett sir,” the young man stutters back, “W-would you like me to call for him to see you as soon as he’s done?”

But Damar is already out the door, storming down the hall to Ocett’s offices. He barely registers Glinns and Guls scattering in his wake. He ignores Ocett’s new chief of staff (that same handsome Glinn from the party, good to see he landed on his feet…) as he tries to stop him, rudely shoving the young man out of the way as he protests, saying Ocett is in a meeting.

He never told him. He never told him.

The doors slam open and there is Garak, sitting across from Ocett at her desk and laughing (laughing!) about some scheme of theirs. He blinks and everything changes. Garak’s chair bangs on the floor, blue eyes are round and wide as saucers, and his hands are around Garak’s neck, squeezing…squeezing.

“He never told me! He never told me!!”

“Get off him! Never told you what?! Partan! Get security in here!”

Damar didn’t even realise he’d been yelling aloud until he heard Ocett’s voice. He feels an impact to the side of his head, right to the temple, and his vision whites out. When he can see again, Ocett is shaking her hand in pain and Garak is on all fours on the floor, hacking and coughing, trying to suck air into his lungs.

Security arrives at the door, Partan standing next to them.

“Is everything alright in here, Legate…Legates?” the tallest guard says, eyes flicking between all three people in the room. Ocett gives Damar a pointed look, until he steps back from Garak and goes to lean against her desk.

“Everything’s fine,” he hears Ocett speak, “Just a little misunderstanding. Yes, yes darling it’s fine. Just close the door on your way out.”

She turns back to both of them. A hank of her hair has pulled free from its regulation hound-tails. “Now, is one of you going to tell me what’s going on here? Without resorting to attempted murder.”

Damar is still panting, eyes only on Garak. He speaks through gritted teeth, “You…you kept it from me. You never told me he was pregnant. You never told me there was a child!”

Garak coughs one last time and gasps for breath on the floor, “To be fair…Damar…I didn’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me! You returned to Terok Nor, to deliver the letters! You had to see him!”

He struggles to his feet, “I said I’d take care of the letters, I never said I’d deliver them personally,” he takes a shuddering breath, “Besides, you don’t know for certain that it’s yours.”

Garak ends up back on the floor, this time nursing his optical ridge where Damar has just punched him. He groans and looks up at Ocett.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Garak snaps, trying to get up once again.

Ocett shrugs, “I feel like you deserved that one.”

“Oh believe me, he did,” Damar snarls, he looks back up at Ocett, “Do you have some paper, a pen?”

“Of course,” she motions to a jotter pad and a pen on her desk, Damar grabbing them and starting to write.

Garak manages to pull himself up into his chair, his head is still spinning, “Now…let’s talk about this rationally. There’s no need to do anything we might regret.”

“Oh believe me, Garak,” Damar writes his signature with a flourish, “This is the one thing I’ve done in the last six months I’m certain I don’t regret.” He rips off the page and hands it to Ocett, addressing her, “Good luck Malyn, you’re going to need it. Keep an eye on Kell, he’s planning a coup. Our handsome young friend out there is spying for him.”

Ocett raises one eyeridge and gives a dry chuckle, holds out her hand for Damar to grasp, “And good luck to you too Corat. You’re too honest a man for politics.”

Damar squeezes her hand, his only farwell, then is out the door.

As soon as he’s out, Garak snatches the piece of paper out of Ocett’s hand to read it. He breathes out slowly. Garak should have known. Damar was never a man for too many words. The note is simple:

I, Legate Corat Damar, resign.

Effective Immediately.

.

Damar makes only one stop on the way to the transporter station (a last task for his now former assistant: getting him on the first ship pointed towards Federation space she can find): his and Niala’s apartment to say goodbye to Sakal.

He’s thankful the boy is home. He’d normally be at school right now, but the air quality has been awful today and the school sent them home. Mala is there too, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Sakal,” he squats down next to his son where he’s sitting at his small study desk, practicing his cursive, “I…I’m sorry but I have to go. There’s something very important I have to do.”

Sakal turns to him, scratches the side of his nose with his pencil (just like his mother does. Union, he’s so much like her), seems to think for a moment.

“Has the war started again?” he asks after a second.

“No…no, it’s not the war. There’s no war anymore,” Damar strokes his hand over Sakal’s hair, gently grips his shoulder, “But I’ve made a big mistake, and I have to go and fix it. And that means I’m going to be gone for a while.”

Sakal takes all this in, his serious little face working this information over. His father has been a distant, almost mythological, figure for most of his short life. One of his few clear early memories being watching him be sworn in as Legate from the side of the stage, impossibly tall and stern looking. Having him be here in the new house (the new new house really, there was the old house, then the new one off-world and now this one) with Mother and Mala has been strange, like having an ancient Hebitian God (perhaps Tofftheesa the Blacksmith, whose bellows create sandstorms!) pop in for dinner and hang around in sweat pants and his socks on the couch on weekends.

Father is very good at Durgap’s Jump Adventure though. And he always pushes him the highest on the swings when they go to the park. Mala doesn’t like pushing him too high, she always worries he’ll fall off and split his skull.

“Will you come back?” Sakal asks, squeezing his pencil in his fist, “Durgap’s stuck in the casino still…”

Father puts his hands on both of Sakal’s shoulders, turning him so they’re looking eye to eye, “I swear to you I’ll be back. I just…I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” His eyes start to water all of a sudden and he presses their foreheads together, something they’ve never done before, “But I love you son. No matter what anyone says, remember that I love you.”

He pulls back, takes a long sniff, blinks many times, “Now…be good for your mother, and Mala too. And listen to your teachers.”

“Yes, Father.”

He stays a moment more, running a hand over Sakal’s hair one last time, “I’m very proud of you, son.”

Sakal says nothing, not knowing what would be appropriate to say in return (‘thank you’ seems too formal, ‘you too’ a little strange). He just watches as his Father walks out his door, his face set and his back straighter than he has seen it in many months…

Chapter Text

He was being followed.

Damar had suspected as much for the last few stations of the commercial space-bus liner he was travelling to Earth on. They were currently stopped for a few hours on the Actium II space station and the whole time he had spent wandering around between cheap souvenir shops and food stalls (stale sandwiches, day old ploemeek soup in disposable tubs, greasy Andorian dumplings, burnt coffee) he had felt the burn of unknown eyes tracking his every move.

He threw his dumpling wrappers in a nearby bin and picked up his duffle bag, throwing it over his shoulder, pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head. Damar walked casually (not too casually) towards the toilets, specifically choosing the less used (and clean) ones down at the depot part of space station, where all the commercial liners were docked, either boarding passengers or letting them disembark.

Inside, it was empty, most sane travellers using the must nicer toilets up in the station’s replimat. Perfect. He quickly dropped his duffle bag inside the stall furthest from the entrance and pulled the door closed, then slipped inside a larger disabled access stall directly across from it. The lights above that row of stalls were broken and it was easy for him to melt into the darkness.

Now all he has to do was wait…

And not as long as he thought he’d have to. It was only 10 minutes before he heard the creak of the door to the toilets opening. He felt someone moving in the semi-darkness, cautiously, silently…

Just as he planned, his stalker spotted his duffle bag and walked straight to the closed door of the stall. You’re losing your touch, friend. They stood in front of the stall door, one hand hovering as if not sure what to do.

He put his whole weight behind ramming into them with his shoulder, hearing a strangled exclamation as the figure hit the stall door face first, instantly off balance. He grabbed them by the back of the shirt and spun them around, throwing them against the tiled wall hard enough to knock the wind out of them. Then he has his forearm against their throat, his other hand raised in a first, ready to land a blow that would leave most reeling, if not unconscious.

Damar blinked, “Garak?”

“Legate Damar,” the other Cardassian croaked out, “What a pleasant coincidence!”

Damar made a disgusted noise, letting Garak free and stepping back, “That was pathetic! Aren’t you meant to be ex-Order? I’ve known you were following me for days!”

Garak coughed, slumping against the toilet wall, “I may be a little out of practice.”

“What were you planning? Drug me, drag me back to Prime? You’d need a whole extraction team for that and I highly doubt Kell or Ocett would authorise it, they’re both in a better position with me gone.”

“Nothing that dramatic, Damar,” Garak rolled his eyes, “I was just…concerned for your wellbeing. The Federation isn’t a friendly place for Cardassians. The war’s been over less than six months, wounds are still fresh!”

“And yet the only threat I’ve noticed since I’ve left Prime has been you! Remarkable!”

“Not true! That Bolian at the sandwich stand on Starbase XI gave you a very dirty look!”

“Because I was complaining about his sandwiches!” Damar threw his hands in the air, “His egg salad smelled like it was a week old, and it was! I was attached to the toilet in my cabin for days afterwards!”

“Wait…your own toilet? You got a sleeper cabin!?” Garak said, affronted, “Ocett only authorised coach tickets for me! I’ve been trying to sleep sitting up next to a pair of teething Klingon twins for nearly a month!”

“The privileges of being a former Legate, I suppose,” Damar smirked, getting no small amount of pleasure from the image of Garak jammed into a tiny coach seat for the last month they’d both been travelling to Earth. He picked up his duffle bag out of the toilet stall and started walking for the door, “Come on, there’s a small bar on the third level. You can buy me a drink and tell me why you’re really here.”

They picked a small table in a dark corner of the bar, Damar ordering Andorian fluff-wine for the table (no kanar available). As much as Damar had claimed to Garak that the only threat to his person during his travels so far had been a dodgy egg sandwich, he was still trying to keep a low profile. It took only one bereaved Starfleet officer or a group of Klingons with a grudge and his incognito journey would be interrupted by a trip to the nearest hospital, and he needed to get to Earth fast.

“So,” Garak said, using a straw to poke the fluff topping his wine into the beverage itself, “I am willing to concede that…” he sighed, looking askance, “That our last meeting was not pleasant.”

Damar just grunted, knocking the fluff into his wine as well, “That’s an understatement.”

“I’ve gotten Ocett to keep your ‘resignation’ a secret for now. As far as the people are aware you’re completing shri-tal with your dear Great Aunt on Amleth Prime.”

“Oh, really?” Damar took a sip. Ugh, it was like drinking pure sugar, “What’s Great Aunt Convenience dying of?”

“Kerrett’s Epihypodosis Syndrome. It’s very serious,” Garak gave Damar a withering look over the top of his glass, “And it fortunately takes months for people to succumb to, with intermittent comas being one of the main symptoms. It should buy us at least six months to think of a solution our little problem.”

“Oh! Our problem, is it?” Damar chuckled darkly, “There is no ‘our problem’ Garak. You need to get that through your head. ‘Aunty’ could linger for decades and it wouldn’t make a difference. I’m not coming back. Not in the way you want, anyway.”

Garak almost choked on his drink, “And what about Cardassia?”

“What about it, Garak?!” Damar rubbed his hands over his face, “Cardassia doesn’t need me! I’ve been gone for a month and you’ll notice it hasn’t descended into anarchy. Ocett and Kell are perfectly capable of keeping the lights on.”

“Well, it’s funny you mention Ocett and Kell,” Garak reached into a pocket inside his jacket, bringing out a small PADD and sliding it across the table, “Looks like some of your instincts were correct…”

Damar took the PADD, it showing the front page of the Lakarian Times from a week ago:

THE ‘KELL-ER’ MOVE – INSIDE THE ATTEMPTED COUP AGAINST OUR UNION

Legate Kell arrested for treason and acts against the State – Ocett addresses the people

The photo beneath the headline showed Ocett, the flag of the Union rippling patriotically behind her as she gave a press conference, a smaller insert showing Kell being lead out of his compound in chains. Damar couldn’t help but notice the handsome face of young Glinn Partan standing behind Ocett, slightly obscured by the flag. Landing on his feet once again, apparently.

Damar make an uncomfortable noise, “Alright, I’m willing to concede that’s not ideal.”

“Oh, that’s not the best part,” Garak slid his finger over the PADD screen, flicking the pages over to the social section, where one of the smaller articles towards the bottom of the page ‘was pleased to announce the engagement of Malyn Ocett (spinster) to Keny Partan (bachelor).’

Damar groaned, putting his head in his hands. That was definitely not ideal.

“Do you really want to leave our Union to young Keny there?” Garak took the PADD back, slipping it back inside his coat, “Because at the rate things are going he’ll be running the show within the year, mark my words.”

Damar was silent, looking down on the words ‘TOKKA 4EVA” someone had carved into the tabletop. He ran his index finger over them (Weyoun 4eva), breathed out through his nose, “Maybe I am, Garak.”

He waited for Garak’s inevitable rebuttal, for the monologue about duty and responsibility and that ‘there are some things far greater than all of us, Damar!’ Nothing came, and after a long stretch of silence Damar spoke again, voice soft.

“I couldn’t keep doing it, Garak. It was killing me…not all at once, not straight away, but I was dying back there,” he pulled the fluff-wine closer to him, drinking again despite the sugary taste, “Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same. I know it was killing you too.” He finally looked up, Garak not meeting his eyes, “And it’s not just about me now, Weyoun’s carrying my child. Even…even if he doesn’t take me back, I need to be a part of their life.”

Garak’s lips pursed, “All very noble, and perhaps true, sentiments Damar, but it doesn’t really help with our situation.”

Damar downed his glass. Over the loudspeaker the call went out that their space-bus was ready for re-boarding. “I’ve made my choice, Garak,” he shrugged, “But it sounds like you still need to make yours.”

Garak gave one of his incredulous blinks, as if surprised by the very idea, “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“If you really needed me back on Prime, I’d already be back there,” Damar stood, picking his duffle bag back up, “I know your vintage of Order agents, you were all trained by Tain. One of the greats according to everything I’ve read. You’re not ‘out of practice’ or ‘concerned for my wellbeing,’ you’re trying to find a way back to him…because you still love him.”

“And what if I do?” Garak toyed with the dregs of his own drinks, turning the long stemmed glass slowly in his hands, “One gets the sense the damage has already been done.”

“Well, we have three weeks left of this trip,” Damar looked up as a second boarding call was announced, “Maybe we’ll have figured out a way to win them both back by the time we get to Earth. Now come on, your coach seat awaits.”

~*~*~

Weyoun’s favourite part of the apartment in Amsterdam was the little balcony off his bedroom, overlooking one of the canals. Before Borath or Moe woke up in the morning, and while Nilig’xal was off on his morning walk around the neighbourhood, Weyoun would slip out of their shared bed in the larger master bedroom, replicate a mug of warmed milk and honey, and then go and sit on the balcony, watching the other early risers of the city go about their business. There was the old man who came out to fastidiously clean his little boat moored on the canal every morning, the young Vulcan who did yoga on the grass by the water, the Kaelon and human couple who walked back from their night shifts at the local hospital, chattering the whole way. Weyoun and the old man were now on ‘friendly nod’ terms, something Weyoun counted as a personal victory.

It was perhaps too fine of a point for Weyoun to call the room the balcony joined onto ‘his bedroom.’ It had a bed in it, and it was definitely his, since he used the closet inside it to store his clothes and the desk to display the small possessions he’d accumulated since he’d lived on Deep Space 9. But he’d never actually slept a full night in there, still spending the night in the master bed with Borath and Moe, Nilig’xal sitting in an easy chair and quietly reading through the night next to them.

When they had first arrived on Earth, Weyoun had had every intention of moving back into his own bed and making sure Borath and Nil had their own space. But on the first night, as he’d headed towards his side of the apartment after his shower, Borath had taken his hand, asking where he was going. The foot and calf rub Nilig’xal had given him as Moe settled (drinking some water from his new sippy cup and getting a story from Mumma) had only further sealed the deal. If Borath and Nilig’xal wanted him in here, who was he to argue?

There was a third bedroom, officially the nursery, small but flooded with light in the mornings. Things were coming along in there. Moe’s crib and change table had found their way there from Weyoun’s quarters on Deep Space 9. There was also the recent addition of a nice big chest of drawers for Moe’s clothes, as well as housing the things Weyoun was gradually collecting for his own baby.

Despite not being completely on board with Counsellor Troi’s concerns that he had been ‘in denial’ about his pregnancy; events had happened so quickly after he was told he was pregnant, within a week Borath and Nil had appeared and within two he was on the Enterprise; arriving on Earth had shifted something in Weyoun’s feelings about the baby.

Maybe it was the finality of actually reaching a destination, or something about having his feet on solid ground again, or maybe it was as simple as the appearance of long purple stretch marks, etched like lightning strikes on both sides of his stomach, but the baby seemed so much more real here on Earth. When the social worker the Earth Government had assigned to them, a friendly young Denobulan man named Trax, had suggested a trip to a large baby goods store outside of town, Weyoun had not just agreed to go, he had even bought things!

Not a lot of things. Just a few newborn sized rompers, a little sleeping sack and matching hat that caught his eye, and some cream for his stomach that was meant to help with the stretch marks. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Borath on the other hand had taken full advantage of the trip, buying a baby stroller he’d seen in the catalogue, a play mat, more winter clothes for Moe, some baby massage balm that promised to send Moe off to sleep in an instant, baby books with lots of pictures of Earth animals, and a big stuffed shark toy that Weyoun suspected was really more for Borath than for Moe.

Borath enjoyed having things, no doubt a response to many lives as a field commander, a job within the Dominion which encouraged, if not demanded, asceticism. Soft toys and anything pastel coloured were particular favourites, and he’d taken to collecting a line of squishy toy owls that came in various colours and wore different outfits. There was now a small pile of them on a shelf in their bedroom and Borath took great joy in dusting and rearranging them based on which ones he thought were most pleasing that day.

Mr Trax thought this was a very positive thing, giving one of his happy, plump smiles when he saw the collection, “What’s life without a few pleasing little things to make us smile, Mr Weyoun? My grandmother has been collecting Deltan wall scrolls her whole life and it’s bought her so much joy!” He chuckled to himself, “And at least Mr Borath’s collection can be shown to polite company, dear Gammie’s cannot boast the same.”

“Now, Mr Weyoun, I’m glad we have a moment,” and here Mr Trax had looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, “I’ve been wanting to ask you, and please just tell me it’s none of my business if that’s the case, but the file I was provided on you and the others from the Federation was very slim…is Mr Nilig’xal the father of your child as well?”

Weyoun had smiled, “No, he’s not. But…he and Borath have both been very supportive.”

Ah, the question everyone was either too polite or too scared to ask. Weyoun had overheard some of the younger members of the prosecutorial team speculating about the same thing. It was a subject of some fascination for the mostly young women Tellarite lawyers acting on behalf of the ICC (Tellarites made very good lawyers, as Weyoun had quickly learned), any form of polyamory centred around the father of the children in a family being quite taboo in their culture.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” he’d overheard one saying to her friend as they loitered in the hall outside the apartment after a long day of interviews, “I mean, how does it work? I can’t imagine sharing Grex and Nem with anyone.”

“Well, that’s because you’ve only had one litter,” her friend had shot back, humour in her voice, “Wait till you’re on your third and I think you’ll find sharing your husbands will seem like a much more pleasant prospect.” They’d both laughed then started bickering about whether to get sushi or try that new Klingon food cart for a snack after work.

The interesting thing to Weyoun was that, like Trax, there were a few people who managed to work up the courage to ask the question: “Is Nilig’xal the father of your child?” But few then went on to ask the (obvious to him) second question: “If not him then who is the father of your child?” Depending on who asked, he might have told them, he hadn’t been sworn to secrecy in the matter, and certainly had little interest in protecting Damar’s reputation.

So far he’d only told Borath, who asked him on a cold and rainy morning when they were both huddled under the blankets of their shared bed, Moe murmuring in his sleep between them. He hadn’t been surprised, giving a little ‘ah’ and nodding, as if the final piece of a puzzle had suddenly fallen into place and everything now made sense.

Weyoun was pulled from these thoughts by the sound of the balcony door sliding open, Borath poking his head through with a half-smile.

“Morning,” he slipped out the door, sitting down on the other chair on the balcony, “Today’s the day. How are you feeling?

Weyoun shrugged, tucking his legs under him, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Borath reached over and took his hand, “I’ll be there, Nil will be as well. And Ms Gaavr, she’ll make sure they don’t go too far.”

Weyoun nodded his understanding. Ms Gaavr, the chief prosecutor, was a formidable woman; whip smart with a tongue as sharp as the small tusks that protruded out on either side of her snout. If it was anyone but the Founder Weyoun would be much more likely to believe she was capable of protecting him.

Weyoun finished his milk and put the mug down on a small side table, “Is Moe booked in at the Court day care today?”

“Oh yes, they’ve already sent me an email with today’s lunch and snack menu,” Borath dug into his dressing gown pocket for his personal PADD, showing Weyoun the message from Happy Hague Day Care with brightly coloured little cartoons showing all the food options available for the different age groups, “You know he snorted at me last night? I think he’s picking it up from all the Tellarite babies.”

“Maybe he’ll grow up to be a lawyer,” Weyoun mused, standing and stretching out his lower back. He paused for a moment, watching the old man finish up cleaning his boat and then go back inside.

He could get through this. He had to. Then maybe he’d finally be free of Her.

~*~*~

The trial wore on, the cross-examination of Weyoun dragging on and on for weeks. Every day Nilig’xal would watch (he’d given his own testimony weeks ago and could now sit in the Court room and observe) as Her lawyers would ask question after question of Weyoun (How much control was your Fifth incantation given over the occupation of Deep Space 9? How aware were you of Cardassian battle tactics in the Chin’toka System? Who gave the order to bomb the civilian settlements, my client or Weyoun 5?), trying to muddy the waters enough to support their defence, that the Founder was nothing more than a ceremonial leader, merely a god-head of the Dominion, all the atrocities of the war committed by its devoted servants, in particular the Weyoun line of clones.

Most days Weyoun would leave the stand on the verge of tears and on returning to the apartment would walk straight to his room, lying in there in the dark and refusing food. His eyes took on a hollow look and he no longer wanted to share the bed with Borath and Moe, drawing away from all of them. Dr Bashir came every day, rather than his usual once a week, giving Weyoun his vitamins by hypo and speaking softly to him in his room, sometimes even helping him get up and dress in the mornings.

At a certain point, the questioning passed over the line of a spirited defence to the sadistic, to the point where one of the Vulcan judges intervened on the 12^th day in a row of cross examination.

“Honoured Advocate,” she said softly, addressing the Founder’s Chief Counsel, a sharp faced Romulan man, “The Bench wonders if your questioning of the witness will soon conclude?”

“Your Honours,” the Romulan lawyer said, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. My client is entitled to the best defence I can provide her and we still have several areas of responsibility within the Dominion governmental system we wish to discuss with Weyoun 6!”

Nilig’xal watched, Borath’s hand inside his own, as the questioning resumed. The clawing feeling, which had receded a little when the four of them reached Earth, returned in full force, and all the worse because there was nothing he could do to protect Weyoun from this enemy. His strength, his precision, the tactics which were implanted in his mind before he was even able to speak them aloud, counted for nothing on this battlefield.

His eyes fixed on Her, where she sat in the glass box which was either for her own protection or to prevent her escape. Every day she sat largely unmoving, her face a blank and emotionless slate, but each morning when Weyoun walked across the Courtroom to enter the witness box, his stomach round and jutting out in front of him, her eyes would follow him like a shark’s followed a wounded seal, intense and predatory. Nilig’xal was certain, on occasion, he saw her colour change, just ever so slightly, a whiteness born of pure rage blooming on her skin.

After close to a month straight of questioning, Her lawyers came to the prosecution with an offer, and he, Weyoun and Borath (and Julian, who was a regular presence at the Court as well) were called into a small conference room. Ms Gaavr was sitting there, as well as her many assistants, and the personal lawyers that had been assigned to the three of them to protect their interests.

“So, her people say they’re willing to end the cross examination, but she wants something in return,” Ms Gaavr said, sitting her ample form sideways in the wide conference room seat, tapping the fountain pen that was never far from her hands. She was clearly displeased. “She wants to meet with one of you.”

“What?!” Julian exploded, outrage twisting his features, “This can’t be legal! She’s effectively holding Weyoun hostage on the stand and now she’s making demands so she can further abuse her victims! We’re not doing it! We’ll lodge a protest with the Justices! Weyoun will never meet with-”

Gaavr held up a placating hand, “She didn’t ask to meet with Weyoun specifically, just with any of them. And don’t worry, Dr Bashir, I have every intention of bringing this behaviour to the Justices’ attention…”

‘Wait…” Nilig’xal spoke up, eyes flicking briefly to Weyoun where he was sitting, eyes downcast, quietly despairing, “If I go…if I speak to her, the questioning will stop?”

Gaavr blinked, “Well, yes…but Mr Nilig’xal I want to make clear that you’re under no obligation-”

“Then I will speak to her,” he said, nodding his head firmly, “But the cross examination ends today.”

“Nil,” Borath put his hand on Nilig’xal’s forearm, “Are you sure about this?”

Nilig’xal lifted Borath’s hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, “More sure than anything.”

Things moved quickly after that, messages flying between both camps, and not long after lunch Niliig’xal received word that She was ready to meet with him. Federation security arrived not long after to escort him down to the basement, to her cell.

Nilig’xal walked into the room. It was bare, a wall of transparent aluminium running down the middle of the space demarcating her cell. Her only furniture was a bench, a simple bucket tucked underneath it. The lights on her side were dimmed, only increasing as Nilig’xal got closer.

Borath stared back at him from the other side of the glass, completely naked, a smile on his face.

“I thought you might be the one to come,” she said, speaking through Borath’s mouth, “Vorta are lazy by nature. They’ll always find a way to get someone else to do their dirty work.” She crudely parted Borath’s legs as she spoke, giving a low laugh.

“You said you wanted to speak to one of us. What is it you wanted to say?”

She shrugged, “I was merely curious. Your kind have worshipped us for millennia. What must it be like to betray a god, one that has only sought to give you the stars?” She reached between her legs, starting to masturbate in front of him.

Nilig’xal looked on impassively, “Many of my kind have gone generations without seeing one of you. To us, you are distant gods. Many do not believe.”

“Really? How interesting. What of you? Do you believe?”

“No. I don’t think I do.”

Borath’s eyebrows crept up his forehead, she stopped touching herself, “Why not?”

Nilig’xal thought on this for a moment, head tilting, “You’re small. I would think a god would be larger.”

She barked a laugh, Borath’s skin shimmering and rippling as she transformed into Weyoun, pregnant stomach and all, still naked, “Tell me First: Borath gave evidence about that whelp of yours. Is Weyoun 6’s child yours too? Did you catch that little bitch while he was in heat as well?

“Weyoun sixth of his line’s child is not mine.”

“Interesting,” Weyoun’s mouth hardened, not quite a grimace, “Whose is it then?”

Nilig’xal shrugged, “That is not my story to tell.”

“What an interesting turn of phrase,” Weyoun’s mouth curved up into a plastic smile, before Nilig’xal saw the lips turn grey, and soon a random Jem’Hadar stared back at him, “Did you know your people were great storytellers once, before we found you? No written word but a very developed oral tradition. You told your stories though weaving. Your histories, your legends, the false gods you worshipped, all of it was woven into the tapestries. We burned them all, when your conversion was complete.”

“Why are you telling me his?”

She stood, the Jem’Hadar body walking right up to the glass, and for the first time the voice that came from her lips was her own, “You think you’ve won. By having the Federation lock me in here, you think you’re free!” She laughed manically.

“You will never be free of me.,” she snarled, speaking through clenched teeth, “Of my people! We destroyed everything. You may go home tonight, you’ll feed your whelp, maybe you’ll fuck one or both of those traitors, but you will never be free, not from us. We’re a part of you now, the largest part! What exists of the Jem’hadar that wasn’t a creation of ours!?”

Towards the end of this speech she was unable to hold the form she’d taken, and Nilig’xal watched as the Jem’Hadar form melted off her, revealing the small, humanoid body she seemed to prefer.

This was all meant to upset Nilig’xal, and on some level perhaps it did, but he didn’t let it show, he didn’t have a chance. Because in one flash, one brief moment, he understood this Changeling, this tiny and unimpressive god.

“You’re alone.” He said simply, head tilting to one side, “That’s why you did all this…I understand now. You created a whole empire, destroyed billions of lives, whole species and races, all so you wouldn’t be alone.”

Her face changed instantly, she stepped back from the glass.

“So someone would…love you.”

She snarled and suddenly the Founder’s body was gone and she was replaced by some alien creature he didn’t recognise, all heaving bulk and four inch long teeth, slamming impotently against the glass. A show that couldn’t scare him.

“You’re small,” he said simply, “And you’re alone. And maybe all the songs of my people are gone. But tonight I am free. I can do many things. Perhaps I will teach my son new songs. You, on the other hand, will sit in here. And you will be alone.”

Nilig’xal turned and left the room as she started to scream.

He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you don’t want a photo? I can get the PADD right now.”

Weyoun rubbed his hand over a forehead, “I am certain I don’t want a photo.”

“But it’s so exciting! Why not?” Borath stood in the doorway to the bathroom, hands clasped in front of his chest.

“Because I’m sitting on the toilet Borath,” Weyoun swept his hands down his body, where he was, in fact, sitting on the toilet, his long nightgown hiked up around his hips, “And I’d rather that not be the first photo of the baby album!”

Weyoun’s waters had broken, and as was often the case, in a quite inconvenient manner. He was a light sleeper these days and had been awake in the early hours of the morning, lying in bed next to Borath and Moe, his baby swirling and moving inside him as they often did. There had been a strange feeling all night of a gradually growing pressure deep in his groin, and he’d really only dozed on and off, unable to get comfortable. He hadn’t been too concerned, there had been a few nights like this before in the last few weeks, where he had been certain things were about to kick off, but the pressure had always dissipated by the next morning.

That was until exactly 4:47am of that morning, when he had heard a surprisingly loud pop and felt a small trickle of liquid work its way down his inner thigh.

Nilig’xal appeared over Borath’s shoulder, PADD in one hand, drowsy Moe on his hip, a picture of nervous tension, “I have called Dr Bashir, he says there’s no rush. We should wait for the waters to finish running, then you can have a shower if you like, he said it’s probably the last proper one you’ll have for a day or two, then we can meet him at the birth centre. Your bag! The hospital bag!” Nilig’xal passed Moe over to Borath, who made a grumpy little noise at the movement, “I’ll go and get the bag! And your ‘going to hospital’ clothes!”

Nilig’xal turned to run towards the door only to stop in his tracks at the sound of the apartment buzzer, “That will be Mrs O’Brien. I’ll let her in, then the bag!” He turned and ran in the opposite direction.

Keiko had offered her services (and been on call) to look after Moe and help out around the apartment when Weyoun was due. He heard the sound of the door opening and closing, Keiko’s bright voice, full of excitement, and (slightly more concerningly) Miles O’Brien’s voice as well.

“Good morning! Oh, isn’t it exciting!” Keiko swept into the bathroom, a weekend bag over one shoulder, a big soup pot in her hands. “How are you feeling, honey?”

“Like it’s half past five in the morning and I’m on the toilet,” Weyoun said flatly, “Good to see you too Chief O’Brien.” He gave a small wave.

“Morning Weyoun,” the Chief said, hovering behind Keiko, weighed down with several large plastic food containers “Honey, do you know where I should put the rice and fish? The boxes are a bit hot…”

“Oh, let me help you with that, Chief,” Borath turned, Moe still on his hip, “I’ll show you where they can go, we’re all so excited to try some traditional Japanese breakfast…”

Borath and the Chief left, leaving Keiko and Weyoun alone. He gave her a tired look from his throne.

“Is there anyone else who’s going to see me like this? Any waiting members of the press? The Federation President perhaps?”

Keiko chuckled, putting the soup pot down on the bathroom sink, “Sorry about that, I needed Miles to help me bring over the food. Plus he’s hoping Julian might have a few minutes for a coffee or something.”

“Who’s looking after your kids?”

“Oh, my mum has Yoshi, and Molly’ll be in school until 3 this afternoon, Japan time at least. That’ll give Miles plenty of time to get back there and help mum get dinner on,” she leaned against the sink, “How are you really feeling?”

Weyoun sighed, “A little nervous. But mostly I just want it over. It feels like I’ve been pregnant for a decade.”

Keiko made a sympathetic noise, “I know, it’s like that towards the end. But, you’re going in for a Caesar and…” she looked at her watch, “…by about 3 this afternoon, you’re going to have a beautiful baby and all this will be a hilarious memory.”

“Oh, side splitting I’m sure,” Weyoun shifted on the toilet, “I think it’s finished, can you help me up?”

Keiko helped him stand, “Did Julian mention if you could eat anything before you went in?”

“I’m meant to be on clear fluids after my waters break…”

“Well, I’ll make sure there’s some warm miso broth ready for you after your shower. Do you need a hand? I can send Borath in if you like…”

“No, I’ll be alright,” Weyoun steadied himself against the wall as he felt a contraction start, “Ooohh…Can you just make sure Nil eats something while I’m in the shower? He’s off the white now but he still forgets to eat sometimes, and he’s already so nervous about today…”

“I’ll make sure he cleans his plate,” Keiko gave Weyoun’s hand a squeeze, “You just take your time getting ready. It’s going to be a big day.”

~*~*~

The line inched forward through Earth customs and immigration and Damar was certain if he didn’t get to the end of it soon, he might die. There was no exaggeration there, he was certain that if he spent another moment in that line, inching along at a glacial pace, the miasma of all these other people around him, he would actually lay down on the hardwearing grey carpet, curl up into a little ball, and just expire.

He was exhausted, he was filthy (the space-bus’s communal showers, temperamental at the best of times, had given up their valiant service in the last three days of the trip), and the closer he got to Earth and Weyoun it seemed like the slower their ship went. He wasn’t sure what he needed more: a shower, a nap, or just to open his mouth and start screaming!

It didn’t help that Garak, Damar’s unwanted travel companion, had grown quite attached to the set of Klingon twins he’d been seated next to and was now holding a grumpy K’Lana while the mother had ducked away to the toilets to change her sister, L’Kana.

“I do hope things work out for Valkra,” Garak was saying, holding a soft little targ toy in front of the toddler’s face, “She’s starting at Cairo University next month as the new Klingon Studies lecturer, I think I mentioned that…”

“Mmm, you did,” Damar responded quickly.

“…Which is really such an excellent opportunity for her. I mean she’s only 34 and it’s a tenured position! But it’s just so hard to start over after a divorce, let alone with two little ones and on a whole new planet to boot!”

The line moved forward a single step. Damar craned his head over the rest of the crowd, several people ahead of him a Vulcan man seemed to be arguing with the immigration officer. Garak kept talking.

“…So I said to her ‘My dear, if your ex-husband is opposed to the university day care because it’s full of humans, then might I suggest you offer him the option of paying for a full time Klingon nanny for the girls.’ Surely if it’s such a deeply felt issue for him then money won’t be an issue.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Damar said, only half listening as he shifted his duffle bag, suddenly more heavy than he remembered it, jealously eyeing Garak’s trolley. Up ahead of him the Vulcan seemed to be pulling up a copy of the Earth immigration regulations on his PADD. The longsuffering official picked up his phone, presumably to call his supervisor.

Valkra and L’Kana came back from the toilets, L’Kana also grizzling and on the verge of crying, despite being freshly changed.

“Many thanks, Mr Garak. I don’t know how I would have gotten through this trip without your help,” Valkra put L’Kana back into the borrowed spaceport stroller, taking K’Lana off Garak afterwards, “How can I ever repay you?”

“The only repayment I require is that you send me a copy of your book, my dear! I’ve been dying to read it ever since you told me about it!”

“Oh, you should have just asked,” she said, digging into her handbag, “I’ve got copies tucked into every ridge, war never helps book sales. Here, one for your friend too.”

Damar took the slender volume Valkra handed him. The Limits of Honour: Klingon feminism and the House system stared back up at him. Hmm, could be an interesting read.

The Vulcan immigration expert must have been a fairly frequent traveller, because the immigration supervisor soon appeared, the original officer moving to the next station and opening it. The line started moving a little more quickly after that and before too long Damar and Garak were through immigration and heading to the public transporters (after a quick and slightly teary goodbye to Valkra and the girls of course, Garak promised to write).

They paused in front of one of the tranporters, an automatic model where you just keyed in the coordinates of your destination and you were there in a flash. Damar scratched his chin, looking down at the coordinates pad.

“So, should we key in for Amsterdam city centre? I was thinking we might try The Hague first, see if we can get any information out of the staff there about where Weyoun and the others are living, but if you want to check into a hotel we could do that beforehand. Start fresh in a few hours…”

Garak tsked and pushed Damar out of the way, “You think I came all this way with no idea where to start looking for your paramour? You underestimate me, Damar.” His fingers flashed over the console, “Dr Bashir never removed me from his social media, and thanks to his addiction to Fleetstagram and need to tag every location he takes a photo in, I not only know where he lives, works and buys his coffee, but I also know the street Weyoun lives on.”

“That’s a little concerning,” Damar said.

“Ugh, I know. Julian has no sense for personal security.”

“No, I meant-”

Damar didn’t get a chance to finish, Garak passing the other Cardassian his PADD, showing DrShakenNotStirred41’s Fleetsagram page. A recent post showed Julian Bashir sitting across from Weyoun on what seemed to be an apartment balcony, one of Amsterdam’s canals visible in the background. The caption read: ‘Final countdown! Only a few weeks to go. First days of spring will be good ones,’ then a tag for a nearby coffee shop where Julian had apparently bought the two coffees which sat between him and Weyoun.

Damar was struck by how far along Weyoun was, he looked even bigger than he had in the news story he’d seen. He must be due any day now. But, in that one captured moment, with the morning light bright behind him and his hands wrapped around a disposable coffee cup, he looked…happy. Plump and comfortable…well cared for. A strange feeling filled Damar, a sort of wistful longing, a wanting without jealousy. A simple desire to be on a sunny balcony near the water, listening to Weyoun laugh.

“Come on, Damar,” Garak called, a little snippy, from the transporter pad, “We don’t have all day for you to moon over a social media post.”

Damar mumbled an apology, jumping up to the transporter and handing Garak back his PADD. The neat impersonal walls of the public spaceport dissolved in front of his eyes and were replaced almost instantly by a cool (to him) sunny day and the slow ripple of nearby water. The street Bashir had tagged in that Fleetstagram post appeared, almost too bright and saturated with light after so many weeks in space. Damar instantly shaded his eyes, was the whole planet this horribly saturated with light?

Garak looked around, sliding a pair of small round sunglasses out of his pocket and slipping them on. He pulled out his PADD once again and started tapping buttons.

“Wait, where did you get those?” Damar gestured at the glasses, “Did you get me a pair?”

“Here,” Garak, more interested in the PADD, pulled another pair out of his mysterious pockets, Damar quickly putting them on, “Now, the coffee shop Julian tagged is just around that corner there. Judging from the steam coming off Julian’s drink, it’s very recently made. Now, factoring in the reported weather for the date and time of the post and the general cooling rate of Julian’s favourite drink, which as we both know is a white chocolate latte with two shots of vanilla syrup made with unsweetened almond milk…”

“Do we both know that?” Damar muttered, turning around in the street and trying to get his bearings.

Garak kept going, “Then, factoring in Julian’s average walking speed, a solid 6.3 Federation kilometres per hour, we can triangulate the location of Weyoun’s apartment to within a four point-”

“Garak?!” a woman’s voice came from somewhere above them. Damar’s head snapped around to see a human woman with shoulder length black hair leaning over the edge of a nearby first floor balcony, eyes wide, “Garak, oh my God, is that you?”

Garak froze in spot, his ocular ridges going wide around the glasses, “Keiko! Keiko, my dear, what are you doing here?!”

~*~*~

He was trying so hard. Nilig’xal knew that.

“Come on, let’s try standing and walking again for a little while,” Luaran said, slipping her arm behind Borath’s shoulders. She addressed Nilig’xal, “First, help me get him up.”

Borath started to sob, “I c-can’t. I…I-I’m so tired.”

“I know you are darling, I know, but we have to try,” Luaran’s mouth was tight, her forehead knotted, “Take a little walk around the room with Nilig’xal. I’ll get you some water while you do.”

Nilig’xal held Borath around the waist as they made a slow circuit around the tight space, Borath’s every step a stumble. Nilig’xal looked back at Luaran, she wasn’t getting the water, she was intently staring down at a PADD, flicking through pages of the book on birthing she had on there.

Nilig’xal whispered to Borath, “I wish I could take this from you. This pain.”

Borath tried to smile up at him, “I know, Nil. It’s alright. It’ll be worth it when we’re out. It’s all going- Augh!”

He doubled over suddenly, a sound of pure pain working its way out of his chest. Nilig’xal looked down and the inside of Borath’s thighs, all the way down to his knees, were covered in blood, dark purple and viscous.

“Get him down again! Quickly,” Luaran took Borath’s other arm and laid him back down on the mattress. She fitted one of the magnifiers from the stolen medkits to her eye and looked between his spread legs. Borath didn’t see, but Nilig’xal did, the look of momentary depair that passed over Luaran’s face. She jerked her head, motioning Nilig’xal away from the bed.

“You need to go out there and find us a knife,” she hissed. She shook her head when he reached for the short blade all Jem’Hadar were assigned for close combat, “No. It needs to be sharper…cleaner too. There’s a medical centre not far from here…” she seemed to think for a moment, “…no, that’ll attract too much attention. Try the fish restaurant above Station West first, get a filleting knife, they’re almost as good as scalpels.”

He turned to go, but stopped as she grabbed him, shoving something into his hands, “Hey! Wash up before you go out there.”

He looked down at his hands. Heliotrope blood and a water bottle…

.

Nilig’xal blinked, looking at the water bottle Borath was offering him. He shook his head slightly.

“Are you ok, Nil?” Borath’s head cocked to one side, “Did you want something other than water?”

“No…no, it’s fine,” he took the water bottle, moving slightly to the side so Borath could squeeze beside him on the plush couch he was sitting on, “Thank you…I am thirsty.”

He put his arm around Borath’s shoulder, letting him fit neatly against his side, warm and comforting. Weyoun wasn’t there, he was being prepped in another room for the surgery to take the baby out, ‘clean and quick as sticks’ as the head nurse had said jovially.

Dr Bashir had told Weyoun his only real option was a caesarean section. Like Borath, his hips were too narrow to pass the head of the baby. Weyoun could be awake for it, or asleep. He’d asked to be asleep, memories of some procedure being performed on one of his previous selves making the very thought of being awake for surgery terrifying for him. After the procedure was done, they’d move Weyoun and the baby to one of the recovery rooms where he would spend the night, just to make sure he was alright.

Nilig’xal liked this birthing centre. It’s whole air was one of peace and calm; over-stuffed couches, all the walls painted in soft shades of blue, pink and yellow, friendly nurses and aids wearing similar pastel coloured scrubs. He, Borath and Weyoun had gone for a tour (organised by Dr Bashir) there a few months ago, looking at all the bright, clean facilities, the machines and computers, the operating and recovery rooms. At the time it had made him feel a lot less worried about Weyoun’s labour. It was certainly a vast improvement from an old mattress in an abandoned subway station.

Still, he was nervous. Very nervous. Images of Moe’s birth, those last hours of Borath 9’s life, kept flashing through his mind. There were no Weyoun bodies left on this side of the wormhole. If he died, there would be no coming back. Nilig’xal’s hearts stuttered at the very thought. Reflexively he reached for the left of his chest, where until recently, his white supply would have sat in its dispenser in a specially created pocket inside his clothes, connected to the catheter which had fed directly into his blood stream.

He no longer wanted the white, Dr Bashir had seen to that, but he sometimes missed the comfort of the dispenser’s weight inside his clothes, it’s faint warmth against his heart. Today was one of those days.

The warm weight of a hand came to rest on his chest, right where the dispenser would have been. He looked down, then at Borath, who smiled up at him.

“Everything’s going to be alright, Nil,” he said softly, “He’s going to be fine. I promise.”

Nilig’xal took a shuddering breath and nodded. He put his own hand over the top of Borath’s on his chest.

“You always know just what to say,” he murmured. They sat in silence for a while, until the sound of the waiting room door broke the quiet.

“Borath, Nilig’xal,” Dr Bashir said, smiling broadly as he came into the waiting room. He was already wearing his bright red surgery scrubs on the bottom half of his body, his top half only clad in a grey t-shirt, “Well, we’re just about ready to get started. Weyoun and the baby are both doing fine, he’s prepped and ready to go. We’re just waiting for another surgery to finish and then we’ll take them both in. Do you both want to go in and sit with him until then?”

Julian got Borath and (a clearly nervous) Nilig’xal settled in the surgery waiting room next to Weyoun on his bed. He stayed for a little while, chatting and putting the three of them at ease, checked the foetal heartbeat monitor and Weyoun’s vitals, then left them be. He checked his watch. It’d be close to an hour before the operating theatre was ready, plenty of time for a quick coffee with Miles…

~*~*~

Hot water was, in Damar’s opinion, the greatest invention of all sentient life in the galaxy. He gave a small groan as he felt the water, temperature set to just below scalding, sluice away the grease and dirt he’s accumulated in those last three days of travel. He could have kissed Keiko when she’s suggested at least one of them hit the showers in the apartment immediately, her nose wrinkling as both he and Garak had stepped through the door into Weyoun’s apartment.

“God, no offence Garak, but both of you stink,” Keiko tried to cover a cough as she spoke, walking over to a nearby window to crack it open, “At least one of you has to bathe before we talk about anything. Give me your bag Damar, I’ll throw your clothes through the fabric refresher while we’re at it.”

He scrubbed himself twice with soap and a flannel, making an annoyed noise when he felt more skin than usual come away under the cloth. Just his luck, he was trying to get back in the good graces of the love of his life, and his shed was starting! Wonderful. From the feel of things it promised to be a flaky and itchy shed at that, probably not helped by the stress and weeks of dry artificial air on the spacebus as well.

Feeling a little more civilised, Damar towelled himself off, ‘borrowing’ some of Moe’s baby lotion to try and help his itchy skin. His clothes weren’t done in the refresher yet so he wrapped what he assumed was Nilig’xal’s robe around himself and came out of the bathroom.

He couldn’t hear Garak or Keiko from the bathroom so he walked cautiously through the apartment, looking into one bedroom, little used from the look of things, the room next to it set up with two cribs and all the other baby furniture, then poking his head into the master, the bed stripped of its sheets and quilt (probably being washed), a comfortable looking easy chair with a pile of books next to it, a laundry hamper with clean and half folded laundry resting on a chest at the foot of the bed, a shelf covered in strange pastel bird toys.

He wandered down the hall, coming out into the living room, a large section of which was portioned off as Moe’s playpen. Damar stared down at Moe, amazed at how much he’d grown. The last time Damar had seen him he’d been only a month old, a cosy bundle in a sling attached to Weyoun’s chest, now he was a robust 11 months old, resting on some fluffy animal pelt draped over a beanbag, drinking lazily out of a sippy cup with one hand while clinging to Reggie with the other. He eyed Damar suspiciously from his spot on the ground, giving a little warning growl when Damar stepped closer.

“Hey, I named you. How about a little gratitude, soldier?”

This only earned Damar a grunt, Moe giving a long stretch and distorting the cute little whales printed on the front of his romper.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Keiko’s voice came from over his shoulder, brushing past with another basket full of laundry (the bed sheets), “He’s being a little grumpy-grump because he was up very early this morning and he misses his mum.” She leaned down and tickled Moe’s tummy, getting a similar growl and a petulant little ‘hmph.’

“Have you eaten? There’s plenty of leftovers from breakfast,” she called out, gesturing towards the kitchen as she walked past Damar to the master to drop the sheets off.

In the kitchen Garak was shovelling rice into his mouth like it was going out of style. Thank the State Keiko had apparently been planning to feed an army for breakfast that morning, neither of them had eaten since they touched down on Earth and there seemed to be plenty of leftovers from whatever had happened here this morning. Damar helped himself to rice, the soup, all the leftover omelette and a nice big piece of fish.

“So…” he said, nudging Garak, “What have you found out? I gather he’s living here with Borath and Nilig’xal, but where are they all?”

Garak swallowed and took a breath, “Yes…well, about that…if I tell you, you have to promise to let me finish my breakfast and have a shower before you do anything rash.”

“See, if you say that you’re pretty much guaranteeing I’m going to want to do something rash,” Damar held out a mug, letting Garak pour him coffee, “But alright, I promise not to do anything rash, until you’ve had a shower at least.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Garak took a deep breath, seemed to brace himself, “You’re right, Weyoun is living here with Borath and Nilig’xal, that much is obvious. As for where he currently is…” and here Garak took another breath, “…he’s at the birthing centre. He went into labour early this morning and he’s about to go into surgery-Ah! Ah, Damar! Might I remind you you’re not wearing any clothes under that robe and that you promised!!”

Damar stopped mid stride where he, up until a second ago, had been making a very quick dash for the door. He purposefully counted to five, reminding himself that one: Garak was right, he was only wearing a robe, and two: he didn’t actually know where this birthing centre was.

“That’s right,” Garak gave an approving nod as Damar slowly sunk back down at the kitchen table, “Let’s sit back down and think about this. Now, the advantage of this situation is that Weyoun isn’t going anywhere, certainly not anytime soon. He will still be at the centre by the time we get there, after a hearty breakfast and a clean set of clothes. Now, finish your fish, you’re going to need your energy. I have an idea for how you’re going to get back in Weyoun’s good books. ”

~*~*~

“One extra-large white chocolate latte on almond milk, two shots of vanilla for…” the barista looked down at the cup in question, “… a Lurian?”

Julian sighed, “That’s me. Thank you.”

He took his coffee and joined Miles where he’d grabbed them a seat on one of the benches out the front of the large hospital the birthing centre was attached to. It was a lovely day, bright and sunny, and after a long and miserable winter, it seemed Spring was finally really here.

“So, how’s the apartment in London?” Miles asked, leaning back and letting the sun really hit his face.

“Eh, it’s one of those older ones, circa late 2250’s, so there’s been some damp in the walls over winter,” Julian shrugged, “But the location’s good, I’m about 50 meters from a tube station so I can zap down to Casablanca where the research labs are, or over here to check on Weyoun and the others.”

“Ah, that would be good,” Miles took a sip of his coffee, “That’ll be coming to an end soon though won’t it? I mean, you’ve got the big fella off the white, the testimony stage of the trial is over. Your part’s pretty much done. How’re the places on T’Kerras III coming along for the four…well soon to be five, of them?”

Julian looked down into the plastic lid of his coffee. Trust Miles to cut to the heart of matters before he’d even got halfway through his cup.

“The T’Kerras authorities say it’ll be another couple of months. They’ve sent through pictures of the cottages, you’ll have to ask Borath to show you some of them,” he said, starting to pick at the plastic.

“And what about you?” Miles gestured with his cup towards the hospital, “Thinking of going into obstetrics?”

Julian gave a long sigh, “I don’t know Miles. I don’t know what I want to do. Starfleet wants me on more research projects but working for them…it doesn’t feel as good as it used to. It’s that or ask for another posting, on a starship maybe,” he made a dissatisfied noise, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, “…it just feels like I’m at a crossroads right now and I have no idea what road to take. Maybe I peaked too young.”

“Ah come on now, no talking like that,” Miles gave Julian a friendly shove, “Don’t worry about it too much. Something’ll come up. And hey, you could always come and teach at the Academy, they’d love to have you. We could hang out in the faculty lounge!”

“Ahhh, there we are,” Julian chuckled, “You just want us both in that lounge, sitting around in tweed jackets, smoking our pipes…”

“Don’t forget the leather patches sewn on the elbows! That’s a vital element,” Miles snorted and sucked down the last of his coffee, “I’m just saying, it’s an option. One of those forks of your crossroads.” He dropped his empty cup into a nearby bin, “Now, do you reckon we have time to pop into that florist there? I told Keiko I’d pick up some flowers for Weyoun as a present from the family.”

Julian looked at the chono on his PADD, “Yeah, we’ve got time.” His empty coffee cup joined Miles’ in the bin, “Then I’d better go, got to start scrubbing and suiting up.”

“I’ll be quicker if you tell me whether to look in the girls section or the boys,” Miles said, giving Julian a questioning look as they walked into the florist.

“Weyoun wants it to be a surprise, but…” Julian leaned in conspiratorially, “If you head towards the girls section you might get lucky, probability-wise.”

“Ah, thanks Julian, you’re the best.” Miles quickly disappeared down the ‘It’s a girl’ aisle, leaving Julian alone near the front of the store.

As was often the case, the hospital florist was also a gift shop, and Julian found himself lingering near the front of the store, wondering if he needed (actually needed) an ‘I <3 Amsterdam’ coffee mug, or maybe a box of chocolates. He sighed. That was a thought: going home after delivering Weyoun’s baby tonight to his awful damp, cold apartment and just eating a box of chocolates for dinner. You’re living the life, Julian. On top of the world!

He groaned inwardly. He hadn’t wanted Miles to see how badly he was doing, how he was still in a deep funk and had been ever since Garak had sent him that letter. Ezri had told him not to try and rush the grieving process he was going through for this relationship. He and Garak had been together for a little under half a decade (if you counted that six months he’d been in jail, and Julian certainly did, he still had some of those letters Garak had sent him), he couldn’t expect to be over it immediately. But still, it had been about six months since the end of the war, and everything still hurt just as much as it had the day he’d received the letter. Julian still woke up in the morning expecting Garak’s head to be next to his on the pillow, was still surprised when he didn’t see any fancy scale oil next to his shaving balm on the bathroom sink, he even found himself occasionally buying extra baking soda out of habit, something he’d used to keep in the fridge to absorb the odour of Garak’s awful rokassa juice.

Sometimes, it was almost like he could still hear his voice…

“Now, my dear, if you could help my friend here, he has some rather specific needs. He needs a bunch of flowers that say ‘I love you,’ that say ‘I made a huge mistake,’ and most importantly that say ‘I’m sorry for abandoning you whilst pregnant.’ Is that something you could help us with?”

Julian felt the blood in his veins freeze, all the heat in his body rushing to his face. It…it couldn’t be. He wasn’t meant to be here, he was meant to be on Cardassia. He was meant to be rebuilding Cardassia!

“I have just the thing,” the young man with a heavy German accent behind the counter said, offering Garak a PADD with a catalogue on it, “These are all my own original floral arrangements, I replicate them to order out the back. I call this the ‘Heinous Douchebag Collection.’ Very popular.”

“Oh, I think this is exactly what we’re looking for. You’re a man who just screams ‘heinous douchebag,’ aren’t you Damar?”

Julian couldn’t turn around. His hands were shaking. His throat felt like it was closing up.

“You might be right, Garak. But we have to get something for you too,” came another familiar voice, “Do you have any other collections? Maybe one for manipulative cu-”

“What the fuck are you doing here!?”

Miles! Julian’s eyes went wide. He spun where he stood, finally turning to face the cashier, Garak and Damar standing in front of him, and Miles standing behind them both, his face as black as thunder.

“Chief O’Brien,” Garak said slowly, he didn’t move, “Fancy meeting you here. It’s been a while.”

“Aye, and it’d be a good while longer if I had anything to do with it,” Miles pulled himself up to his full height, “What happened to spending the rest of your life in service to Cardassia?”

“Ah, I see Julian’s told you about my letter.”

“You keep his name out of your mouth! You broke his heart!”

“Oh wow,” the cashier said, looking between all the parties.

“Miles,” Julian finally found his voice, he clenched his hands into fists, “Miles, just leave it. Come on, pay for the flowers, we have to go.”

Garak turned towards the sound of Julian’s voice. There he was. Almost incandescently beautiful in only red scrubs and a grey shirt, as he always was, as he always would be. In the Never Ending Sacrifice, one of Garak’s favourite sequences was when Cretak saw his lover Ulal again for the first time in 20 years, at a distance, across the floor of the salon. Cretak held the bouquet of kana flowers he had brought for his wife (the woman he was forced to marry over Ulal) so close to his chest that the thorns had bitten into his skin, making him bleed and staining every white petal a deep blood red. Garak had never really understood that longing before, that degree of devotion. Perhaps he understood it now…

“Dr Bashir,” Damar spoke up, “Where’s Weyoun? Is he alright?”

“Oh what? You think you can just waltz in, Mr Legate-Come-Lately, at the ninth hour with a bunch of flowers and it’ll all be alright?” Miles snapped, “Well, it won’t be!” He shoved past them both and paid for the pink bouquet he was holding with an angry press of his thumbprint.

Damar bristled, he squared his shoulders, “He’s having my child! I have a right to speak to him!”

The cashier held his hands to his chest, “Oh, the scandal!”

“Actually, no you don’t,” Julian said firmly, “In about 10 minutes he’ll be going in for a caesarean to deliver the baby. I’m his doctor and in my opinion seeing you now will be harmful to both him and the child.” He put the Amsterdam mug he hadn’t realised he’d still been holding back on the shelf. His eyes flicked to Garak (still so mysterious, so dashing, the slightly haunted look he now had around his eyes only adding to his appeal).

“But…after the birth, I’ll let Weyoun make the decision about that,” Julian turned to leave, “Go to the birthing centre. Nilig’xal and Borath are there, they’re hard to miss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a surgery to scrub for.”

And with that Julian was out the door, Miles following closely on his heels, only looking back once to throw Garak and Damar a dirty look from over his very pink flowers.

Garak’s shoulders slumped after they’d left, he braced himself against the counter, suddenly at a loss for words. He felt there was enough pain within him to paint every white petal in the whole store red.

Damar made an awkward noise, turning back to the cashier, “Uhm, sorry about that. I’ll just choose some flowers and we’ll go.”

“Choose anything you want,” the cashier practically shoved the PADD catalogue into Damar’s hands, “Anything, free of charge! I’ll replicate it right away. The show was worth it.”

~*~*~

They split him open like a kava nut.

For the first time in many months, Weyoun did not dream. The sleep they gave him was one deeper than darkness, deeper than unbirth. Within the Dominion it was unusual to undergo surgery of any kind during life. So much easier to put off anything elective until your next iteration was required, and if any surgery required wasn’t so elective, then it was encouraged to activate your termination implant and have any rectifications done in that time between lives.

Something had happened to Weyoun 2 though, something painful, something that had been taken from his memories (perhaps it was why he so rarely heard Weyoun 2’s voice), that made him fear the thought of being awake for the caesarean more than the uncertainty of the black-deep sleep.

When he awoke afterwards he was cold, his feet bare and feeling almost frozen. He shivered and tried to blink his eyes, only to find he was almost blind, everything clouded with darkness. He let out a soft noise, his throat too sore to do anything more.

Almost instantly he felt a comforting warm hand on his wrist, “You’re alright, sweetheart, you’re alright. Just relax.” It was the nurse, the one with the round face and curly black hair who’d wheeled him into the operating theatre.

“M-y baby…I can’t see…”

“She’s alright, Dr Bashir’s just doing some quick tests on her and we’ll bring her right in.”

He felt a layer of warmth cover him, a blanket being spread over his body, tucked under his feet.

“And don’t worry about your sight. That’s a very common side-effect of narcotyptolan, the anaesthetic we gave you. It can bring you in and out of consciousness in a snap but it does have some funny effects on the eyes while it’s still in your system. You’ll be able to see again properly in an hour or so.”

“Now,” she continued, “you did lose a few litres of blood during the surgery so you’ll need to take it easy, and we might keep you in recovery at the centre for an extra day or so, just to keep an eye on things. You’re lucky though, you’ve got my favourite room, it gets lovely morning light, so nice and warm in the mornings.”

In the brisk, efficient way typical of her profession, the nurse quickly shifted the blankets she’d put on Weyoun up his legs and examined him briefly, then finding nothing wrong, tucked them back into place and moved up the stretcher. She undid the ties of Weyoun’s hospital gown, pushing it down his chest. A great shuddering shiver worked its way down his body.

“I know, it’s a bit cold in here,” she said, adjusting the blankets so they covered his now bare skin, “But I’m just getting you ready for some skin time with baby. Very important for the bonding process.”

For a while Weyoun drifted, aware only vaguely of the nurse moving around the room, the blankets scratchy on his bare skin, and the soft beeping of the monitors somewhere around his head. Perhaps he slept again, if only lightly. He did hear the door open though.

“Here we are, look who’s back,” the nurses voice came, “ready to meet Mum.”

The blankets were pulled down and Weyoun whimpered, tears tracking down his cheeks as a soft weight was placed on his chest, impossibly fragile, a miracle. He felt her move, making a soft ‘ehh ehh’ noise as her head came to rest against his chest. The nurse picked up one of Weyoun’s hands and placed it gently on the baby’s back, then pulled the blankets back up. A great sob worked its way out of Weyoun’s throat. He could feel her, she was right here, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the tiny thump thump thump of her heart…

He vaguely heard whispered voices of the nurses in the room, “There we are, the heartbeat’s much more stable now. Oxygen saturation is improving too…”

“Dr Bashir said to bring the heat up a few more degrees in here, and the recovery room as well,” the new nurse whispered to the original one, “And you wouldn’t know where they keep the humidifiers, do you? Dr Bashir says we should have one in there too.”

The original nurse whispered to her companion to ask Nurse De Vries, he had the keys to all the storage cupboards, and to try the ones on the top floor for humidifiers. Weyoun heard all this as if he was listening from a great distance. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered in the whole galaxy but him and his baby and the beat of her strong little heart.

The nurse came back over, “Now, we’ll just wait for Dr Bashir to clear you for recovery then we’ll move you and bubs right over there, then she should be ready for her first feed. Now…” the nurse picked up a PADD at the end of the stretcher, holding Weyoun’s chart, “…have you decided on a name? No pressure if you haven’t dear, but if you have I’ll add it the charts while I’m here.”

“Yes…yes, I’ve already got a name for her,” Weyoun said absently, gently running a fingertip over the long curve of the baby’s ear. “It’s Imzadi.”

“Imzadi,” the nurse said, keying it into the PADD, “That’s pretty. It’s Betazoid, isn’t it?”

Weyoun nodded, unable to drag his eyes away from her. The darkness in front of his eyes was lifting and he could see her now, the perfect swirl of wispy dark hair on the top of her head.

“Yes…it means beloved.”

Chapter Text

Julian threw his scrub gown into the recycler, and rolled his neck, then his shoulders.

“Went that well, did it?” Dr Crusher asked, one leg crossed over the other where she sat on one of the benches in the doctor’s locker room.

“Ninety per cent fine…” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “Ugh, but that last ten per cent was a bit of a struggle.”

“Oh yes?”

“Mmm, very normal caesarean, completely textbook, right up until we removed the placenta,” Julian went to one of the sinks and turned it on, splashing some water on his face, “He just started haemorrhaging. I’ve never seen a case of uterine atonia like it. I had to pump enough syntocinon into him for about four patients before it started to take, and by then he’d lost almost three litres of blood.”

Beverly made a concerned noise, “Remarkable. The uterus didn’t start to contract at all?”

“It was like a dead fish, just lying there. I had one of the nurses physically massaging it to encourage contraction and it did nothing,” Julian grabbed a towel and wiped his face, “It was almost…unnatural. I can’t help but think it’s another gift from the Founders, just another little punishment for any Vorta that manage to breed.”

“Knowing what we do now, you might just be right,” she said, “Well, it’s not every day you go into a routine surgery and end up foiling a God. How are they both doing now?”

“Weyoun’s fine, but we’ll be keeping a close eye on him and he’ll stay in recovery a few extra days. Baby’s heartbeat was a little thready at the start there but once we got her warmed up she was fine. I think there’s quite a bit of her father in her.” Julian grabbed his non-surgery clothes and ducked into one of the cubicles to get changed.

“Speaking of,” Beverly spoke up so Julian could still here her, “I was speaking to Nurse De Vries, his boyfriend runs the florist. He happened to mention there was a little…altercation between a pair of Cardassians, an Irishman and a handsome young surgeon there this morning.”

“Well that just sounds like the opening of a bad joke,” Julian said, giving a nervous laugh. “And I didn’t know you and Nurse De Vries were friends.”

“We lunch. A cousin of his was on the Enterprise for a while.”

“Ah…” Julian nodded, licking his lips, “Well, I’ve never paid much attention to hospital gossip. How are you? How’s the leave going? Your son? He just made lieutenant junior grade, didn’t he?”

“Julian,” Beverly’s voice took on a warning tone, “You can’t avoid the subject forever.”

“I think you underestimate my ability to avoid things,” Julian stepped out of the cubicle, now wearing a pair of soft black pants and an interestingly cut purple and blue shirt.

One of Dr Crusher’s eyebrows crept up her forehead, eyeing Julian’s choice of clothes, “Mmm, when you want to at least. That’s a nice top, by the way. It’d look great on Wesley, where’d you get it…”

“You know, I honestly can’t remember.”

“Really, well maybe I’ll get one made. You wouldn’t happen to know a good tailor would you? I’ve heard Cardassian workmanship is excellent…”

“Fine!” Julian threw up his hands, “Garak made my shirt, he’s here, so’s Damar. And if the florist to Nurse De Vries gossip pipeline hasn’t already informed you, Damar is the father of Weyoun’s baby.”

“Damar? As in one of the current leaders of Cardassia, Damar? That Damar? He’s the father? De Vries didn’t mention that, just that it was some Legate…but knowing his boyfriend he probably didn’t recognise him, he doesn’t really follow the news.”

“I’m shocked,” Julian said flatly, walking past Beverly to the recycler and tossing the rest of his scrubs in. He sighed, “Damar wants to see the baby. As for why Garak’s here…” he shrugged, fading off.

“I have a feeling it’s not to expand his tailoring business,” Beverly finally stood, “Are you going to talk to him?”

Julian folded his arms, “Maybe…I don’t know. Actually…no, no I won’t, not first anyway. He’s the one who broke up with me. He should make the first move.”

“Good plan. Take a firm line,” Beverly said, nodding slowly, “Make him come to you.”

“Exactly! Now, on a less personal note, do you want to come with me to see if Weyoun can be cleared for recovery? You were a consulting and assisting physician for this pregnancy, after all.”

Beverly smiled and slid her arm through Julian’s, “I’d love to. Let’s go.”

~*~*~

Damar had hoped; with the end of the Dominion War; that the part of his life where he got started at threateningly by Jem’Hadar might be over.

He had been wrong.

Damar had been sitting in the waiting room in the birthing centre for a bit over an hour and the whole time he’d been there, constantly shifting where he sat on a very squishy couch he kept sinking into, Nilig’xal had sat across the room from him, glaring at him with an intensity that was usually reserved for the moments immediately preceding a murder.

Damar had tried everything to avoid eye contact: scrolling through his PADD, reading some of the provided magazines and pamphlets (Post-Partum Depression and You; Bottle, Breast and the Rest: Making the right choice for your family), he’d even cracked open Valkra’s book and, although interesting, it was clearly a converted PhD thesis and the opening chapters spent a lot of time crunching data and discussing previous Klingon feminist works. Chapter three was a very in depth critique of the book From Lukara to L’Rell: Women Chancellors in Leadership and Praxis and honestly he didn’t have the concentration (or the background) to wade through it.

Eventually Damar had given up on trying to avoid Nilig’xal’s eyes and stared back, trying his best to look intimidating, as intimidating as he could look to a nearly seven foot tall Jem’Hadar with shoulders like a bull zabu (one that was very intent on keeping Damar away from the does in his herd).

Garak was, of course, being completely unhelpful. It was like seeing Doctor Bashir again had broken the last part of him that was in denial about his feelings for the good doctor. Damar had practically had to carry Garak across the hospital grounds to the birthing centre (not an easy feat considering he had to carry a very large bouquet of flowers in his other arm), and ever since they’d arrived he’d been lying in a foetal position on one of the other couches, facing the cushions.

One of the nurses came in, heading towards Borath and Nilig’xal. She was young, with short cropped ashy coloured hair and a broad smile.

“Good afternoon everyone,” she said brightly, a little jump in her step, “Weyoun and the baby are both in recovery room four, so if the family wants to follow me…”

Nilig’xal, Borath and Damar all stood at the same time, Borath grabbing a weekend bag that was by his feet and putting it over his shoulder. Garak didn’t move, still apparently in the pits of despair.

“Oh…uh…” the young nurse held up her pen, a little nervous, “Mr Weyoun is a little weak after the surgery, so hospital policy is to limit immediate post-partum visitors to the father or…fathers…maybe...” Her eyes darted nervously from person to person in the room.

“That’s me!” Damar said urgently, “I’m the father. I’m going in.”

“You will not!” Nilig’xal snarled, drawing himself up to his full height. He turned to face the young nurse, “Weyoun sixth of his line is under my protection. He shares my bed with Borath tenth of his line. We will go in!”

The nurse blinked a few times, she pulled a hand-PADD out of her pocket, “Mmm, ok…well, there’s not really anything in the policy book about…”

“He does what?” Damar said, starting to close the distance between himself and Nilig’xal. He didn’t care how big he was. The bigger they were the harder they fell!

“You heard me, Legate,” Nilig’xal turned to face Damar head on, “You will not see Weyoun or the child, unless he wishes it!”

“Ok, it’s my second day, and I…I…” their attention was both drawn back to the nurse, whose voice was now a bit louder and higher. She swallowed a sob, “I’m gonna get Nurse De Vries to deal with this! Please hold on.”

With that the poor girl made a hasty retreat from the waiting room. Damar and Nilig’xal continued to glare at each other. Borath sighed and walked back to his seat.

“Well, that went wonderfully, now we’re making nurses cry. Nil, come on, sit down with me.”

Nilig’xal made a low growl in the back of his throat, staring at Damar a moment longer, before slowly turning and re-joining Borath back on their couch. Borath ran his hand down Nilig’xal’s cheek, whispering something in his ear once he was back in his seat. Damar returned to his own chair across the room.

“I got your son out,” Damar said to them, voice low and accusatory.

Nilig’xal sat further back in his seat. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. Borath kept a calming hand on his chest. Damar took a moment to regard them both, Borath looked much the same as he had on Cardassia, though like Weyoun had on Terok Nor, he’d gained some weight and generally looked more comfortable and healthy. Nilig’xal had undergone a more significant change however; not only was the ketracel-white catheter gone from his neck but he no longer wore his hair in the tightly wrapped ponytail that was regulation for the Jem’Hadar, choosing instead to have it in a loose plait that reached all the way to his lower back.

After a few moments another nurse entered the room, this one a young-ish man with blonde hair and a tired look around the eyes, presumably Nurse De Vries. More surprisingly through was the presence of Julian Bashir at his side, also looking less than impressed with the current circumstances.

“Right, so, what’s the problem in here?” Nurse De Vries said, hands on his hips.

No-one spoke. Damar and Nilig’xal continued to stare at each other across the room.

“Oh, we’re all very quiet in here all of a sudden, are we?” he continued, “Well, it’s preferable to the alternative, I’ll say that. Now, before we talk about Weyoun or the baby I would like to remind everyone here: this is a place of healing. If I hear anything else about any poor behaviour from anyone in this room, especially if it’s upsetting my staff, I won’t hesitate to have hospital security remove you from the whole centre. You can go and find a nice high ladder and view the baby through the fourth floor window. Do I made myself clear?”

Damar nodded, Borath murmured a soft “We understand.”

“Very good. Now, I believe Dr Bashir, you have something to say?”

Damar was still too busy trying to stare down Nilig’xal to notice anything else really, but if he hadn’t been, he might have noticed Garak’s whole body stiffen at the mention of Dr Bashir’s name.

“I’ve been in to see Weyoun and cleared him and the baby for recovery,” Julian said, eyes hard as he glanced towards the Cardassians, “He’s lost some blood and both he and Imzadi are going to be staying at the centre here for a few days, until they’re both a bit stronger.” Julian paused, measuring his next words, “I’ve told him who’s here and asked who he wants to see. For reasons I’m not sure I understand, he wants to see you, Damar. He wants you to meet Imzadi.”

“Imzadi…” Damar murmured, “Is…is that a boy or a girl’s name?”

“I think it’s fairly unisex, but in this case it’s a girl’s name.”

A daughter! Damar’s heart stuttered in his chest. He and Weyoun had a daughter!

Dr Bashir was still talking, “…I want it to be very clear, he’s quite weak and may be a little disoriented. If you do anything to upset him-”

“I won’t! I swear I won’t!” Damar begged, standing up (making sure to take the embarrassingly large floral bouquet with him), “Is…is she in there too?”

Julian nodded, “The baby’s in there. She’s asleep. You can go in for a while, then he’d like to see Borath and Nilig’xal as well.”

Nurse De Vries showed Damar to Weyoun’s room, opening the door for him. It was dim inside, and pleasantly warm and humid. Weyoun’s bed took up the centre of the room, but there was also a large reclining armchair in one corner and a day bed (presumably for the recovering parent’s partner) under the window along one wall. All very cosy and welcoming. Damar put his flowers down on a shelf along one wall

Weyoun was in the bed, the back of it raised so he was somewhere between sitting and laying down, blankets covering him, a lump under the covers where he was cradling something against his chest.

“Damar…” his voice was so soft, he smiled up at him, blinking slowly, “You came back…and bought flowers.”

“I did,” Damar tried to smile, he hesitated a moment before closing the distance between them, pulling a chair from near the wall so he could sit down next to the bed, “How are you?”

“It feels like I’ve been ripped in two,” Weyoun gave a gentle exhale, “But, I’ve been worse. Do you want to see her? Our baby…” He adjusted the blankets slightly, showing Damar a pale little body under the blankets, eyes squeezed shut and lower lip thrust out in a surprisingly familiar facial expression. Damar was a little surprised to see she was naked apart from a nappy, as was Weyoun’s chest under the blankets.

“Her name’s Imzadi,” Weyoun said, “I head it on the ship that bought us here…I liked how it sounded.”

“It’s beautiful, she’s beautiful,” Damar whispered, reaching out to gently run one finger across a delicate hand where it rested on Weyoun’s chest.

She was tiny, so much smaller than Moe had been, or even Sakal (but then he had only ever seen pictures of Sakal as a newborn, hadn’t been there in person after he was born), with pale Vorta skin and those long distinctive ears, a dusting of curly black hair on her head. Not a lot of scales but there was a tiny indent of the beginnings of a chufa on her forehead. Her eyes were closed, so Damar couldn’t tell if her eyes were purple like Weyoun’s or maybe grey-blue like his own but she was, undoubtedly, perfect. Damar slipped his hand further under the blanket, gently running his fingers over her head, then letting his hand come to rest on her back, his fingertips brushing against Weyoun’s warm arm.

“I missed you,” Weyoun said softly, tearing his eyes away from the baby to look at Damar, “…so much.”

“I missed you too,” Damar moved even closer, running his other hand down Weyoun’s cheek, “These last months have been just…a nightmare.”

“Then why…” he asked, tears coming to his eyes, “Why did you leave me behind, why did you send me that letter?”

“I thought I was protecting you, protecting Moe. I thought…” Damar shook his head, “I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping you away from Cardassia. I was wrong, I was an idiot. I should…” he sniffed, “I should have gotten on the first ship heading back to Terok Nor. I should have found you again and never let you go.”

Weyoun blinked again, looking down and then back up at Damar, “And I should have told you…about the baby.”

Damar leaned in and kissed him softly, gently, “I didn’t give you a chance to. But I’m here now, and I’m never leaving you again.”

Weyoun gave him a look, like he didn’t quite know what to do with this information, but then Damar felt movement under his hand, Imzadi shakily lifting and moving her head around, rubbing her face against Weyoun’s chest. She made a soft little cry, searching for something.

“Oh, she’s waking up,” Weyoun reached under the blankets, pulling out the nurse call button on its long wire and pushing it, “The nurse said to call…”

It seemed like only a few moments before the nurse appeared, a dark skinned woman with a round, comforting face, “Hello sweetheart, how are things going in here?”

“She’s waking up, I think she’s ready to be fed,” Weyoun leaned back, letting the nurse pull the covers back slightly and have a look at Imzadi.

“Oh yes, she’s looking for a nipple, that’s for sure,” the nurse said (Nurse Visser, according to her name badge), “Alright, the colostrum we have from the milk bank should be ready, I’ll just go grab it, give it a zap in the warmer and then we’ll be ready to go. Is Dad staying for the feeding?”

It took Damar a moment to realise Nurse Visser was speaking to him, “Uh…yes…yes, if it’s alright?” He looked over at Weyoun, who gave a tired smile and nodded.

“Lovely. And I understand there’s some other family who’re waiting to come in. Want me to bring them with me when I come back?”

“Yes, that’d be nice,” Weyoun nodded, stroking over Imzadi’s head.

“Alright, I’ll be right back.”

Damar stayed seated by the bed, entranced by Imzadi’s every stretch and murmur, letting her grip his index finger with her tiny fingers. He barely heard the door reopen, the nurse coming in with Borath and Nilig’xal.

“Now, Doctor Bashir says both you and Imzadi need some rest,” Nurse Visser said, addressing Weyoun in her friendly, no-nonsense manner, “So we’ll get her fed, get your bag unpacked, but then we might have to clear the room so you and bubs can sleep for a while. Who’s going to spend the night?” She nodded towards the day bed by the window.

“I will be,” Nilig’xal said firmly, shooting Damar a pointed look from where he stood.

“Yes, I’ve got to get back to my little one,” Borath added, putting the weekend bag on the day bed by the window, “We’re still co-sleeping.”

“Oh lovely,” the nurse said, as she sat down on the edge of Weyoun’s bed, handing him a small bottle with some thick, yellowish milk inside (presumably from this mysterious bank, Damar wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that), “Alright, let’s see how she goes with this…”

Imzadi took the bottle well, forming a nice tight latch around the teat, and Nurse Visser left them to it. Borath came over once he’d unpacked Weyoun’s hospital bag a little, putting some extra night gowns into some of the draws built into the wall, taking a small toiletry bag into the bathroom, and then spreading a pink and blue quilt over the end of Weyoun’s bed. Damar’s mouth tightened just a touch as he saw Borath lean in and kiss Weyoun on the lips, before turning to Imzadi and pressing his lips to her forehead.

Damar’s eyes flicked over to where Nilig’xal was watching from the end of the bed. Within this room at least there seemed to be a truce between the two of them. Damar was even willing (if not exactly happy) to concede spending the night in the hospital room to Nilig’xal. For one thing: he was exhausted and he had to admit an unsleeping Jem’Hadar would probably be a better support for Weyoun tonight than he would be. For another: even in his wildest dreams Damar hadn’t expected to be welcomed back into Weyoun’s arms immediately. Today had gone well, better than expected even, but there was a long road ahead of him.

It was with these thoughts in mind, that when Nurse Visser came back about half an hour later and said it was time for Weyoun and Imzadi to rest, Damar left without any protest, pressing a kiss to the baby’s cheek and to Weyoun’s palm and promising to return tomorrow when visiting hours started.

Overall, he felt quite positive. Weyoun was safe, Imzadi was healthy and warm. These were the most important things. Everything else could wait until tomorrow, when he and the others were well rested and thinking more clearly.

This put Damar into a more practical frame of mind. He and Garak would both need to find a place to sleep tonight, and if the snippets of the news he’d caught while trying to district himself on his PADD were anything to go by, that might turn out to be difficult. There was some big sports tournament happening tonight (something called sollar? Sopper, maybe?) at one of the Amsterdam arenas and people had flown in from systems are far as Vulcan and Tellar to see it. Garak would probably be able to pull something out of his sleeve though…

Damar walked back out into the waiting room and looked around. A few humans were sitting in there, waiting for their own good news, but there was no Garak to be seen, the couch he’d been curled on now pointedly empty.

Damar made an annoyed noise. Just what he needed. Where could he have wandered off too?

~*~*~

A shower of PADDs, pens, medical journals and other ephemera from the top of Julian’s desk at the hospital hit the hard linoleum floor with a clatter. Neither Garak nor Julian even seemed to hear it, Garak panting as Julian bit hard onto his neck ridge, just where he liked it, just where he needed it.

“This…this doesn’t mean anything,” Julian panted, breaking contact with Garak only to pull the other man’s tunic open, “You haven’t…we’re not…”

“Darling, please…” he grabbed at Julian, pulling him back in closer, wrapping his legs around him as he was pushed back onto the desk. He kissed down the lovely column of Julian’s neck, feeling the heat coming off him, the taste of soap and aftershave, that tiny patch where he always missed shaving, everything so familiar and yet still so exciting, so new again…

“D-on’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that,” Julian groaned out. Garak heard the sound of fabric moving, buckles being undone. “Turn around, bend over…f-fuck.”

Garak was more than happy to comply, feeling his clothes being pushed down. He was so wet, it was obscene. He needed this. So badly. How could he have gone without Julian, Julian’s touch, Julian’s sound and scent and heat, for so long?

His legs were pushed apart and for a moment he felt only hands on his hips, heavy breathing, cold air on bare skin, then a slippery tongue like flames sliding over his ajan. Garak groaned, surprised at the volume of his own voice, the need in it.

“Shut up, Dr Sonoda is right next door!”

“Oh do forgive me,” Garak snapped back, “Might I remind you, I suggested a hote- ohh heavens, Julian...”

Julian made no response, having found a better use for his devil-tongue, driving Garak to the edge of sanity. Garak, already half everted, started to stroke himself, encouraging himself to fully evert. He needed Julian, needed him inside.

He got his wish, Julian standing and thrusting harshly inside Garak’s ajan, just a little too soon, the stretch of him hurting just enough and in just the right way. Garak was pushed further forward onto the desk, sending a little potted cactus onto the floor. Julian set a demanding pace, fucking into him like he hated him, or like he loved him, it was hard to tell at this point.

It didn’t last long. Neither of them had expected it to of course, emotions were too high on both their parts. Garak was surprised though when it was him who came first, his orgasm circling around the corner of his hind brain and rushing at full speed down his spine before he even understood it was coming. His cum sprayed down the front panel of Julian’s desk. Another reason he’d suggested a hotel, his own kind were messy creatures when it came to love making.

It wasn’t long before Garak heard Julian moan softly, his thrusts becoming more erratic, shorter and faster. A hand left his hip and braced itself against the desk as Julian thrust in a few more times, fingernails scratching the wood veneer.

“Fuck Garak…fuck…”

Garak didn’t say anything in reply. Just panted against the desk. The only sound in the room for some time.

After a few moments Garak pushed himself up, still a little winded. His knee, the one that had been shot during the storming of Central Command, was throbbing from being pushed at an awkward angle against the desk. Yet another reminder he was getting far too old for this kind of assignation.

When he finally turned, after pulling up his pants (never the most dignified of moments) and closing his tunic, he saw Julian had flopped himself down in one of the chairs which until very recently had been neatly facing his desk. He was panting, spent cock still obscenely flopping out of his smart black pants, head resting against the heel of his hand.

“What are we doing Garak?” he said after a long stretch of silence.

Garak’s hands clenched momentarily. He picked up a box of tissues from where they had fallen on the floor, pulling a few out and briskly wiping the mess from the front panel of Julian’s desk, “I would think that would be rather obvious, my d-…Julian.”

Julian’s eyes flashed up at him, “You know what I mean.”

Garak sighed, he threw the tissues in a nearby recycler. For once in his life he was at a loss for words. He leaned back against the lip of the desk.

“I don’t know, Julian. I honestly don’t know.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe there wasn’t a single hotel room in the whole of Western Europe! All because of a sopper game!” Damar grumbled, slapping the top of a pillow to try and flatten it down.

“Soccer. I keep telling you, it’s pronounced soccer,” Garak said, bringing over more blankets from the small replicator in Doctor Bashir’s apartment, “And apparently it’s a rather big deal. Federation Cup qualifying match between the Netherlands and Vulcan’s S’Lara United. We should be thankful we’re not sleeping in a park tonight.”

“Believe me, I am. Dr Bashir really came through for us.” Damar said simply, frowning as he watched Garak spread the blankets over the sofa bed as if he was getting in there too…

“So…” Damar’s frown deepened as his worst fears came to pass, Garak getting under the covers of the bed right next to him, “You’re sleeping…here?”

“I don’t see any other beds, Damar,” Garak said shorty, arranging the blankets over himself. He looked around for a moment, then made an exasperated noise, throwing them off to go and get a glass of water.

“But…I thought…” Damar nodded towards the narrow hallway which lead to Julian Bashir’s bedroom (the door of which was pointedly closed), “You know…when I found you this afternoon things smelled like they were working out between you too.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to judge the world from the tip of your nose?” Garak walked back towards the sofa bed with a glass of water in his hand, tone very snippy, “And, if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t, no, things are not ‘working out’ between us. Not right now at any rate.”

He got back under the covers, lying down and immediately turning away from Damar in the bed.

“Wait!” Damar said, feeling his portion of the covers being stolen away from him, “But what if our feet touch?”

“Oh well, if our feet touch Damar we’ll have to have sex, won’t we.” Garak snapped, “Now, go to sleep. And try not to shed on my pyjamas, these are Andorian cashmere.”

“These are Andorian Cashmere,” Damar imitated, giving a hard tug on the blankets and pulling them back over himself, before lying down and turning over, facing away from Garak. If he was going to be in a mood then Damar could be in a mood too!

They were both silent for a while, presumably trying to find sleep. Damar felt Garak shuffling around on the thin sofa bed mattress, turning over a few times.

“Did you get to see the baby?” Garak said softly after a few minutes.

Damar breathed out (oh, now he wanted to talk), “Yes…Weyoun had her.” He turned onto his back, “She’s beautiful…looks a lot like Weyoun, I think. Very Vorta-ish.” He was silent a moment, his mouth twisting down at one corner, “They were feeding her from some sort of bank. Do you think that’s normal?”

“A bank?” Garak repeated, looking over at him, “What kind of bank?”

“Some sort of bank for breast milk, apparently. Presumably because Weyoun doesn’t have any…” he waved his hands in the air vaguely.

“…Milk?” Garak offered.

“Nipples.”

“Ah,” Garak made a contemplative noise, “Well, if they’re getting milk from a bank, whose account are they making a withdrawal from?”

“I don’t know. That’s the issue!”

Garak made an exasperated noise and shook his head, “Ugh, typical Human-Federation touchy-feely, do as you please, suck on any old nipple that walks past, nonsense. You should put your foot down about that. She’s your daughter too!”

“Oh, I will! Believe me,” Damar crossed his arms, the small kernel of concern he had been growing now having bloomed into a healthy ball of outrage.

“Very good!” Garak nodded, pulling the sheets up higher over his chest (exposing Damar’s socks), “Don’t worry yourself about it too much, though. A certain degree of Federation excess was inevitable here. Once we have Weyoun and the baby back on Cardassia all of this nonsense will stop.”

Damar was about to strongly agree, readying to pass his ball of outrage back and forth between himself and Garak for the rest of the evening, only to find it swiftly deflating at the mention of Weyoun and Imzadi being ‘back on Cardassia.’.

He barely heard Garak say goodnight, rolling back over (and taking yet more of the covers with him). Damar stayed staring at the ceiling, hands gripping onto what remained of his blankets, and despite how tired he was found it very difficult to find sleep…

~*~*~

The next morning Julian Bashir awoke to three messages on his PADD. The first was from his mother, telling him that his father had been caught moving contraband through the penal colony in New Zealand and his sentence had been extended, he’d really appreciate a visit. The second was from that Dramian violinist he’d been dating telling him he was a lovely humanoid ‘but he just wasn’t feeling that spark he needed.’ The third was from the apartment managers telling him the damp in his walls was causing mould and he’d have to find another place to live for three months (“Perhaps with a close friend or family member,”) while they peeled back the plaster and gave the whole building a thorough fumigating.

Julian groaned quietly and pulled the blankets back up over his head. Maybe if he went back to sleep for, oh – only the next year or so, he might wake up and his life wouldn’t be a complete mess.

Through the thin (and mould infested, apparently) walls of his apartment, Julian could hear his houseguests waking up. He heard Damar’s low voice speaking, Garak’s more sibilant tone in response, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. How had he ended up with both of them crashing on his couch again? It must have been a fit of post-coital madness on his part.

He sighed, throwing off he blankets and sitting on the edge of his bed. He needed to get up, if only because he had to check in on Weyoun and Imzadi today. The cold in the apartment settled into his bones almost immediately and he wrapped himself in his dressing gown and put on slippers, taking a deep breath to steel himself before stepping into the living room.

Garak stopped where he was folding blankets, the fold out bed already put away and Julian’s red sofa back in its original form.

“Good morning,” Garak said simply, nodding to Julian as he headed to the kitchen.

“Morning,” Julian said back, tone carefully neutral, “Where’s Damar gone?”

“He went for a walk. He missed a call from his wife while we were asleep, he’s going to try and call her back.”

“Ah, right,” Julian replicated himself a coffee. He took the steaming mug from the repicator tray, warming his hands. He stared down into the dark brown liquid for some time. “Maybe…maybe we should talk, about yesterday. About anything.”

“Perhaps we should,” Garak gave a small sigh.

Both stood in silence for a while, neither willing to make the first move.

Garak eventually took the plunge, though when he did it was more like dipping his toe into the shallows. “How long have you been living here?” he asked.

“A bit over four months now, since I got back to Earth,” Julian gave an amused snort. He walked back into the living room from the kitchen, leaning against his small dining table, “England is almost as far away from where my parents live as physically possible while still being on the same planet.”

Garak chuckled back, “A sound strategy.”

“Where are you living…on Cardassia?”

“Lakarian City, an apartment…not too different from this, a bit smaller though,” he paused, “Are you seeing anyone?”

Julian shrugged, “A few people, here and there. I was dating this violinist for a while, a Dramian…”

“A Dramian!” Garak looked towards him, “You were dating a Dramian?! They don’t even have fingers.”

Julian scoffed, “They have finger-like tentacles! And what do fingers have to do with anything!”

“Well, it raises the obvious question of how he plays the violin.”

Julian put one hand on his hips, the other still holding his coffee, “He plays excellently! That’s why he’s in London, he’s the artist in residence at the London Conservatory of Arts this season!”

“Oh well, how could I ever possibly compete with the artist in residence at the London Conservatory of Arts and his tentacle fingers!” Garak snapped sarcastically, wiggling his own (non-tentacle) fingers in the air to make his point.

“I wasn’t aware there was a competition,” Julian snapped back, stalking back into the kitchen and throwing his barely drunk coffee down the sink, “Or if there is one, I thought you’d very clearly withdrawn from the race!”

Silence fell again, more awkward this time. Garak rubbed his hands over his face.

Julian braced his hands on the edge of the sink, looking at the dregs of coffee, “Garak…God…” he gave a sniff, “I k-now I’m not supposed to do this. I’m not supposed to show you how much you hurt me. How much I still miss you.” A tear worked its way down his face, “But I do. I do miss you. I miss you so much. You hurt me so much.”

“Julian…Julian darling,” Garak walked into the kitchen, taking the other man’s face in his hands, “I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to protect you. Cardassia…it’s too dangerous, too volatile.”

Julian pushed his hands away, “Too dangerous! For who? For you? For me? Because last time I checked Garak, I was in the war too. We were right next to each other in the camp, on the Defiant, battle after battle!”

“That’s different!”

“Is it? Then tell me how!” Julian grabbed Garak’s shoulders. Garak found himself unable to reply, nothing seemed good enough to say all of a sudden, all of the previous reasons and justifications he had for keeping Julian away from Cardassia having deserted him.

“Even if it is that different, that dangerous, then that was my choice to make!” Julian’s voice was pained, “And that’s what really hurts me the most Garak…that you didn’t trust me enough to make that choice.”

Garak felt Julian’s fingers digging into his shoulders for a moment more, sitting on the edge of pain, before the other man suddenly pulled away, wiping the end of his dressing gown’s sleeve across his wet cheeks.

“You’re right,” Garak said after a few moments, “I should have trusted you. Those letters were the greatest mistake I’ve ever made, in a life full of a great many mistakes.”

Julian’s brow creased, he turned towards Garak, “Those letters?”

“Ah…” Garak realised his mistake a moment too late, “I…uh…may have assisted Damar with his letter to Weyoun as well. Ghost written, you could say.”

Julian made a noise, somewhere between disgusted and almost amused, “I should have guessed. Flowing prose is hardly Damar’s style, is it?”

“He’s more a man of action,” Garak replied. He ran his finger through a few drops of coffee where they had spilled, “So…where does this leave us?”

Julian gave a small shrug, “I don’t know Garak. I honestly don’t know. I still love you, despite everything, but I need time to think.”

“Of course, I understand,” Garak stepped back, letting Julian walk past him out of the kitchen.

“The Netherlands v S’Lara United match is over now. There should be some hotel rooms available tonight,” Julian said, pausing outside his bedroom door, “I think it’d be best if you and Damar found one.”

Garak’s heart fell, he nodded, “Naturally. That sofa bed is terrible for my back.”

“Right,” Julian looked over at Garak one las time, tears still in his eyes, “Let me know when Damar is back. We’ll head over to the hospital together.”

“I will, Ju-” Garak only got part of the word out before Julian’s bedroom door closed, sudden and final. He let out the breath he felt he’d been holding for the whole conversation, tears following quickly on its heels. He whispered the final words to the empty room.

“Julian, my darling.”

~*~*~

Damar walked quickly down the London side street, looking around him for the park he’d noticed on the walk from the tube station on the way to Julian Bashir’s apartment last night. He’d woken this morning to a missed called from Niala, the first contact he’d had from his wife since leaving Prime, and rushed out to call her back before it got too late on her side of the Galaxy.

The park was small, really just a few benches and a playset with some grass built in to fill space at the end of a block. It was deserted though at this time on a cool weekday morning, and Damar had it to himself, choosing a bench with a little weak sunshine shining onto it to make the call.

“Hi,” he said simply, holding his PADD a little further from his face when she picked up.

Niala’s unamused face looked back at him, “Hello Corat. Where are you?”

“A park, on Earth more specifically.”

She made a surprised noise, “So you actually made it all the way there. I’d congratulate you if I was feeling a little more charitable.”

Damar looked down, gave a sigh, “I gather you know why I’m here then.”

“Oh yes. Garak came to see me before he left, he thought I might have some idea how you were planning to get to Earth. I had to tell him I wasn’t even aware you weren’t at Central Command.” She folded her arms, her eyes hard as flint.

“Right…sorry about that. I had to leave quickly.”

“To find your pregnant mistress, yes. He told me all about it.”

“It’s not like that, Niala,” Damar felt his hackles rise, “And you’re a fine one to judge!”

She laughed incredulously, shaking her head, “Me? At least I know how the game is played! I never blindsided you like this!”

“No, you just had Mala practically move in with you the moment I was off-world!”

“I had a newborn, Corat, your child. Remember him? I needed some support!”

“As if I ever had any chance to support you!” he pointed his finger at the screen, “Even when I was back on Prime, you moved to South Western the first chance you had. You had zero interest in me being a part of Sakal’s life!”

“Oh right, because I’m supposed to just wait around like Reka weeping at the window for Sigue. You knew when we got married that my career was important to me. All the weapons labs are on South Western, what did you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know Niala, maybe not give up completely on our marriage the moment you got what you wanted out of me!”

Her mouth tightened, Damar saw her blink several times, tears forming in her eyes. He looked down, knowing he’d stepped over the line.

“That’s unfair, Corat,” she sniffed, was silent for moment.

“I know. I’m…I’m sorry.”

He watched her dab at her eyes with a handkerchief, “I tried you know. For the first couple of years we were together, and even after Sakal was born, for a little while at least, I really thought we could make it work.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping, “So did I.”

“A-nd then I met Mala and…it was like I was alive for the first time in my life, really alive,” she looked down and then back up at him, “And once you’ve had a tiny taste of that, you can’t go back to being dead.”

The image of Weyoun as Damar had seen him yesterday; drowsy and soft, lifting the blanket and letting him see Imzadi, the feel of his hand, the warmth of his lips, Imzadi’s funny wrinkly little face as she fed; flashed into his mind. He understood her, perhaps better than he ever had before.

“But you probably don’t know what that’s like,” Niala said softly.

His mouth twisted at one corner, “I think I do actually.”

She sniffed one last time, “How is he, by the way, your Vorta? Has he had the baby?”

Damar nodded, “He had her yesterday. It’s a girl. He’s fine, but very weak. The baby, Imzadi…she’s so beautiful, very small though.”

Niala gave a tired smile, “Enjoy that. It won’t last long.” She shifted in her seat, chuckled to herself, “I’m not sure exactly what you told Sakal when you left but he’s convinced you’re on some sort of secret mission for the Union. He hasn’t touched the VidGame either, he says you’re going to play together when you get back.”

Damar’s gut twisted at the mention of Sakal, guilt flooding through him. He hadn’t thought about him much since getting to Earth, he’d been so focused on Weyoun and Imzadi.

“How is he? Can I speak to him?”

Niala made an uncertain noise, “I just sent him to bed…but he’s probably still reading. Let me see if he’s still up, if he is, you can talk for a little while.”

Niala disappeared from in front of the screen. Damar heard distant voices, her and Mala talking briefly, then silence for a while. He waited on the park bench, pulling his jacket more closely around him in the cool morning air.

Soon Niala reappeared, bringing Sakal with her, the boy pulling himself up into the chair, Niala bringing another chair closer so she could sit to the side, still visible to Damar.

“Hello Father,” Sakal said, waving at the screen, the loose sleeve of his wompat-print pyjamas flapping around, “Where are you?”

“I’m on Earth, in a park. You want to see?” Damar smiled down the line as Sakal nodded enthusiastically. He turned his PADD around, giving him a slow pan of the park, pausing and zooming in on the children’s playset, “Look, they even have swings here, just like the ones near our house.” He turned the PADD back around, “What do you think?”

“It’s really green! Like the hothouse we went to for our school trip to the museum.”

“Is it? I didn’t know they had a hothouse at the Children’s Museum,” Damar remembered Sakal’s trip to the museum well, it was all he could talk about for a week after and he’d been obsessed with finding fossils ever since.

“They do. It’s not as good as the dinosaur and mega-fauna room though.”

“Of course,” Damar chuckled then took a breath. He looked meaningfully up at Niala who gave him a quick nod of understanding in return. “Sakal, do you know why I’m here on Earth?”

Sakal’s head tilted to one side, “Not really. You said you had to fix a mistake.”

“That’s right, I did say that,” he took a deep breath, “I’m here because…you have a little sister. She was born yesterday. Her name’s Imzadi.”

“A sister…” Sakal blinked, he looked around, peering over Damar’s shoulder, as if she was hiding just behind him, “Where is she?”

“She’s still in hospital, baby,” Niala said, running a hand over Sakal’s head. “Babies are often in hospital when they’re very new, so doctors can help look after them.”

“Oh…” Sakal nodded slowly, “Do you have a picture of her?”

“No, I didn’t get a chance to take one,” Damar kicked himself internally for not thinking of that, “But I’m going to see her today and I’ll take one then. I’ll send it to your Mother’s email and she can show you.”

“When you wake up in the morning, after breakfast,” Niala added, smiling down at their son, “Speaking of, it’s late and you have school tomorrow. Say goodnight to your Father, you can talk again later in the week.”

“Yes, Mother,” Sakal answered. He said a quick goodbye to Damar, not before quickly asking for three photos of his new sister, and maybe a few pictures of the park as well, only if Father had time though (to which Damar quickly agreed), he waved goodbye and slid off the chair, heading back to bed.

“I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in again,” Niala said to his retreating form, waiting until he was out of the room before turning back to Damar, “There’s going to be a lot of questions if that girl doesn’t look Cardassian,” she said flatly. Damar gave an awkward laugh in response, making Niala give a low groan, “Right, well, I guess I’ll handle that too.”

“Sorry,” Damar shrugged, “As I said she looks a lot like Weyoun…at this stage at least.”

“I’m sure I’ll see it when you send through those photos.” Niala sighed, leaning her chin on her fist on the table, “So…where does that leave us?”

Damar was prepared for this. He’d been preparing for this conversation since he walked out of their apartment the day he left Cardassia. It didn’t make it any easier though.

“I want a divorce, Niala,” he closed his eyes, “You can file, blame it on me. I think fathering a mixed species child outside of wedlock is still one of the standard grounds for divorce.”

“It is. It’s right under discovering your spouse is a practicing homosexual,” Niala said, giving a wry smile, “Thank you though. I appreciate it. Mala has a cousin who’s a lawyer, I’ll give him a call in the morning and get things started. You’ll probably have to come back to Prime at least once though to be served and sign everything.”

Damar nodded his understanding, “I’ll make it happen. I’m not sure when that’ll be though, it may be a few months.”

“I suspected as much,” she shifted in the chair, tucking her feet under her, “So, what’s the plan for you then? Staying on Earth for a while?”

“I don’t know,” Damar sighed, “We still have to figure that out. I’m not sure if there even is a ‘we’ to be honest.”

Niala gave him a sympathetic smile, “You’ll work it out. If there’s one thing about you Corat…you have a way of always landing on your feet.”

They said their goodbyes and Damar slouched down on to the park bench, tucking his PADD into his pocket. What was his plan? Garak still seemed convinced Damar would obediently return to Cardassia, though his vision of this seemed to have altered enough to include bringing Weyoun and the baby with them.

He thought of the airy apartment he had walked through yesterday morning, Weyoun’s little balcony where he drank coffee, the sunny bedroom with its cribs. He thought about replacing that with a Legate’s compound (because it would undoubtedly have to be that. Garak had been right about one thing when he convinced Damar to sign that letter, it would be far too dangerous for him to be with Weyoun publicly on Cardassia), high stone walls, air that was breathable maybe two or three days a week, private tutors for Imzadi rather than going to school, no friends, no games of ring-hit or glinn-in-the-corner on the playground. No sort of childhood at all.

Could he abandon Cardassia though? Sakal and Niala? He sighed, wishing he had the faith that Niala seemed to have in him and his ability to land on his feet. To him it more seemed like he crashed through life like a hound in a tea shop.

He got up from the park bench, hands in his pockets as he headed back towards Dr Bashir’s apartment, wondering how Imzadi was doing today and how Weyoun would take the news of his divorce…

~*~*~

Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and…

Nilig’xal looked up from the book he was reading, the light knock of the door signalling the nurse coming in to the recovery room. It had been an uneventful night, the nurses coming around ever three hours or so to check on Weyoun and help feed Imzadi. Nilig’xal was used to it by now, the nurse coming in, checking the monitors around Weyoun’s bed, changing the drip bag, moving the blankets over Weyoun’s legs and checking between them to make sure he wasn’t bleeding too heavily, then placing Imzadi into his arms and handing him a bottle to feed her.

The last time Weyoun had been very tired, the loss of blood and lack of sleep catching up with him, and the nurse had suggested “maybe Dad would like to give her this feed,” nodding towards Nilig’xal. Weyoun had given an exhausted nod (so tired he hadn’t bothered to correct the nurse about his baby’s parentage), almost instantly falling back asleep as the young woman had brought Imzadi over, so small when she was passed into the Jem’Hadar’s arms he could almost have held her in just one of his hands.

There was an interesting symmetry to that moment, Nilig’xal had found himself thinking as Imzadi suckled gently at the bottle. Here he was, feeding Legate Damar’s child, just as Damar had fed Moe in those first days on the journey to Deep Space 9.

Legate Damar…Nilig’xal wasn’t sure how to feel about his rather sudden reappearance. The first and strongest emotion was anger, disbelief even, that he would leave Weyoun alone, unprotected and undefended in a universe of many dangers for beings like Vorta, and then simply reappear, expecting to be allowed back into Weyoun and Imzadi’s lives like he had only been out for a walk!

Closely following on from that was his almost instinctive urge to protect. A not so small part of him suspected Damar and his strange friend could be here to coerce Weyoun into returning to Cardassia (or worse! Kidnap him!), taking Imzadi with them. He would break every bone in the Legate’s body before he allowed that to happen!

Imzadi was Damar’s child though, as Moe was his. He tried to imagine a life where he was prevented from seeing Moe; couldn’t read him stories on his lap, hold his hands while he tried to take those first steps (he was so close, it could be any day now that he walked!), give him his bath and spend far longer in there playing with all his bath toys than actually bathing him. The very thought sent a bolt of ice cold fear through Nilig’xal’s hearts.

Damar had another child as well, a son. Nilig’xal remembered seeing pictures of them on the news services during the brief times he’d been on Prime during war, the Legate speaking sincerely to the camera with the boy’s hand in his, telling his people to ‘Fight! Fight for the future of the Union!’ That boy, with his serious face and Damar’s blue-grey eyes, was Imzadi’s brother.

Nilig’xal had brothers, millions of them, all of them still trapped within the Dominion and by the hold of the white. In his own way he missed them, missed his squadron, and wished more than anything that they could be free like he was now.

He had sighed, Imzadi falling back asleep as she finished her bottle. He held onto her for a few minutes longer, his eyes catching the small indent on her forehead, the mark of Cardassia on her skin. She deserved to know her brother, the other half of her heritage. But that shouldn’t have to be at the expense of her only connection to other Vorta besides her mother!

In the end, this was all Weyoun’s decision though, Nilig’xal mused, looking across the room at the Vorta’s small form in the hospital bed. It would break Borath and Moe’s hearts (not to mention his as well) but if Weyoun wanted to follow Damar back to Cardassia, there wasn’t anything they could do to stop him…

He had lain Imzadi down in her crib, wondering just how many more chances he would have to hold her, and had gone back to reading. Perhaps his books would have some wisdom to offer. That had been a few hours ago though, and as this knock on the door came, sunlight was peeking around the edges of the curtains, the nurse coming to wake Weyoun and get him ready for the day.

“You’ve got a busy day today, Mr Weyoun,” he said as he changed the drip bag once again, “We’ll get you and baby washed up and fed, there’s a meal coming for you too Mr Nilig’xal. Then if the staff doctor clears you in morning rounds we might see if you can get up and have a little walk. Dr Bashir wants to check in on you today as well and I just got a call from your social worker, Trax I think he said his name was, he’ll be coming this morning to formalise Imzadi’s birth records and register her for social services.”

“And I gather that’s all before visiting hours start?” Weyoun said groggily, pressing the button to raise his bed so he was sitting up.

“Got it in one,” the nurse replied, a sympathetic smile on his face, “It’s a busy time, having a baby. You’d be surprised how quickly these next few days will just fly by!”

Nilig’xal stood, walking over to where Imzadi was still asleep in the crib. He really hoped that wasn’t the case…

Chapter Text

He’s dying.

An arm has been blown off by the rebels. This isn’t enough to take him down normally, he’d usually at least be able to drag himself back to the ship with only one limb taken out (his kind are meant to clot quickly), but a few of the rebels’ shots hit him in the chest and now it’s hard to breath. Perhaps his lungs are damaged…

Still, his duty has been done. The rebels on Prokerral IX have been routed, flushed out of their warren in the mountain caves with barely a day’s work. He can vaguely hear his Second and Third arranging the executions. They’ll be scalped, the rebels, making sure to capture their long soft ears so they can be presented to the Prokerralan President. He’s the reason they’re there, not all of his citizens are happy with his decision to ally their people with the Dominion. Or at least not all of them were.

They’ll present the scalps to the President, a significant act within Prokerralan culture. This has all been decided beforehand, even down to the detail where the scalps will be returned to Borath fifth of his line, only after they have been turned into a fur coat for him however (dyed lavender, of course).

He feels an emptiness at this thought, a strange longing, something he can’t quite describe, that he will be dead when this happens, or at least unborn, still being grown in his egg. He won’t be there to see Borath be given the coat, Second Domed’edon will be at his side.

Borath fifth of his line is at his side now though, holding his remaining hand. He should be overseeing the executions, but instead he stays at his First’s side, his small hand, cool and gentle, resting on his forehead.

He coughs and sees a fine spray of blood settle on Borath’s jacket.

“Are you in pain?” Borath asks, “I can get you another vial of the white…”

“There is pain…but I am fine.” He doesn’t want that cool hand to leave his forehead, “Did the squadron lose any others?”

Borath shakes his head, “Fourth Tasi’Dosr took a shot to the leg, but he’s fine. You took the worst of it.”

Nilig’xal’s tries to suck more air in his lungs, each breath getting harder and harder to take. He tries to focus his eyes on Borath’s face, “I had to. T-they were aiming for you.”

Borath blinks at that, pulling back slightly. Nilig’xal wonders if he’s said too much, revealed too much of what he’s tried to keep hidden.

Second Domed’edon comes over, barking orders at the members of the squadron standing guard at the perimeter of the rebel base they’ve captured. He stands to attention in front of Borath, “The prisoners are awaiting execution, Borath fifth of his line.”

Borath doesn’t look away from him, his hand moves from Nilig’xal’s forehead and he wipes blood away from under his First’s bottom lip, “Very good, Second. You may begin.”

Domed’edon pauses, his head tilting to one side. Nilig’xal can feel him watching the two of them.

“You do not wish to observe?”

Borath finally looks up, “This is not the first rebel base we have routed, Second. I wasn’t aware I had to look over your shoulder to make sure you finished your work.” He is silent for a moment, considering his next words, “You’ve all done very well today. There will be an extra ration of white for the whole squadron tonight. Begin the executions, I’ll inspect the scalps once you’re done.”

That seems to satisfy the Second. He nods and walks over to the line of prisoners, ordering Third Ookem’umur to begin. Nilig’xal hears the scream of one of the other rebels as the first is shot, a piercing sound that starts as suddenly as it ends. Soon there is only the sound of knives passing through flesh.

“What can I give you?” Nilig’xal focuses back of Borath as the Vorta speaks (it’s getting harder, the very air around them becoming dim). When he doesn’t immediately answer Borath speaks again, “Everyone else if getting a reward. You know I always like to treat my squadron equally. What is there I can give you?”

When he will look back on this moment, many hundreds of years in the future, Nilig’xal will be amazed at his boldness. The rest of his squad is less than 50 meters away. It is a minor miracle that they weren’t seen and reported that very day. Perhaps it was the loss of blood, or maybe the pain that even his Jem’Hadar mind was unable to compartmentalize away that made him do it. Whatever it was, this is the moment, more than many others, that changes both of their lives.

“A k-iss,” he gasps out, hand clasping around Borath’s much smaller one, “I-if you will give it to me.”

Borath starts, his cheeks flushing violet. His eyes dart around over Nilig’xal’s head, checking to see if they’re being watched. They aren’t.

“Are you…do you know what you’re asking for?” Borath hisses, leaning in closer. He’s still blushing.

“I k-know it is the only reward I…I w-want.”

Borath pulls back slightly, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, Nilig’xal thinks he has made a mistake, pushed too far and too fast, curses himself his boldness.

And then Borath leans down and presses his lips to his, and for the first time in all of his many lives, First Nilig’xal dies happy…

~*~*~

A few hours after his call to Niala, and a quick transporter trip across the Channel later, Damar walked into the Amsterdam birthing centre, Dr Bashir leaving for his own office to check in before seeing to Weyoun and Imzadi and Garak saying he was going to see about getting them a hotel room.

Damar walked down the hall to recovery room four, now helpfully labelled with a pastel yellow cloud sticker saying “Weyoun & Imzadi,” and knocked gently on the slightly ajar door.

“Come in,” came Weyoun’s voice from inside.

Damar poked his head around the door and was surprised to see no sign of Nilig’xal, a young Denoulan man sitting by the bed instead, plump and cheerful as his people tended to be. Weyoun smiled up at him, nodding to Damar to take a seat on the other side of the bed.

“Morning,” he was holding Imzadi in his arms, wrapped up tightly in blankets this time, “Have a seat, we’re just finishing up.”

The Denobulan gave one of those characteristic wide smiles at Damar, unconcerned by the Cardassian’s presence, or at least good at hiding it if he was, and turned quickly back to Weyoun, handing him a PADD.

“So, if you have a look here, we’ve registered Imzadi’s birth and taken her thumbprint. She’s got her own identification and Federation services number now, and in 24 hours her details will appear here,” he pointed to something on the screen, “…on your Fed-ID. You’ll show that whenever you want to use Federation services; doctor, child care, school eventually; just like you and Borath have been with Moe.”

“Thank you, Mr Trax,” Weyoun said, handing the PADD back with a smile, “You really didn’t have to come in, they have a social worker here at the hospital.”

“Oh I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, I wanted to drop in anyway and meet our newest little citizen,” Trax reached out and rubbed the back of one finger on Imzadi’s soft little cheek, “But I must be on my way, I have another appointment I have to keep. I’ll be popping in for a check in with you and Borath next week, just to see how you’re coping with the new addition when you’re back home. I’ll be in contact with your home care nurse as well. And if you need anything else, just let me know.”

Damar watched the Denobulan leave, waiting until the door closed before he spoke, “So…she’s a Federation citizen, huh?”

Weyoun’s eyes flashed, “Yes, just like I am. Is that a problem?”

“No...no, I suppose not,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “The Federation takes care of its own.” He pulled his chair closer to the bed, “How is she today? How are you?”

Weyoun couldn’t help the smile that grew on his features, full of pride, “She’s doing so well. Finishes every bottle. Her heart rate is perfect now.”

“Perfect now?!” Damar blinked, “When was it not perfect?”

Weyoun’s eyes flicked down, adjusting the blankets slightly, “When she was first born. Dr Bashir said it was weak at first, but she’s fine now. She just needed to be warmed up.”

“So she was born cold? Why wasn’t it warm enough in the delivery room?” Damar pressed.

“I don’t know. I don’t think they were sure what temperature to have it! Cardassians aren’t exactly open about the birthing habits of their people, Damar.”

Damar sat back, crossing his arms over his chest “Well, they should have tried to find out! She could have died if she wasn’t warm enough!”

“Don’t say that! That’s horrible!” Weyoun hugged Imzadi closer to him, placing a hand behind her head, tears coming to his eyes.

Damar grimaced, shifting in his seat (way to start things off on the right foot), “I’m sorry. I…I’m just worried about her. How they look after babies here…it’s different.”

Hatcheries were so different on Cardassia. In ancient times they had all been built around hot springs or geothermal vents, using natural warmth to keep the eggs at the perfect temperature. Even now, modern hatching hospitals tended to be built in the same places, a combination of tradition and energy efficiency. If you were lucky enough to be born near one, or were wealthy enough to be able to travel the distance, you’d have a baby born strong, warm and fat as the egg that bore them (as the old song went). The poor and rural (and how often those two things overlapped, no matter what planet you came from) kept their eggs near the hearth, a much less precise system that tended to produce much weaker offspring.

In the hatcheries, parents kept the eggs their children hatched from, drying and saving pieces of the shell to be framed or kept inside jewellery. The very wealthy had the whole broken egg cast in bronze. The poor ground up part of the leathery egg shell, mixed it with zabu milk and used it for the baby’s first meal, an important source of nutrition when there often wasn’t much to go around. The rest they burned, coating the infant’s body in the ash for reasons that had been lost to history.

Sometimes Damar was certain he could remember the burn of the ash on his skin…

Damar shook himself. He reached out, placing his hand over Weyoun’s where it was holding their daughter, “How are you doing? Is there much pain?”

Weyoun sighed, relaxing slightly, “A little, but we Vorta are very good at dealing with pain. I impressed my nurse this morning, I walked all the way into that bathroom there for a shower,” he pointed to the small bathroom, its door in one corner of the room.

“A feat of true strength! Did you get much sleep?”

Weyoun took a sip from a plastic cup of water by his side before speaking, “Not nearly enough…but I think that’s going to be a fairly common thing going forward. They say the second night is tougher than the first.”

“It is,” Damar gave a rueful smile, “I don’t think Moe slept more than two hours at a time the second day on that skimmer.” He shifted in his seat, “So…I got a call from my wife this morning…”

“Oh…” Weyoun said simply. Imzadi made a soft gurgling noise, Weyoun pulled the swaddle blanket open slightly, letting her free one of her arms to wiggle it around. “How is she? Your son?”

“They’re both fine. I told them about Imzadi, how she’s doing,” he paused, reaching out and letting Imzadi grip his index finger, “Sakal’s more excited than I thought he’d be, he wants pictures of his little sister.”

“We’ll have to take some then,” Weyoun looked down at Imzadi, giving a small smile. How interesting. Quite liberal of Damar really, to have his legitimate and illegitimate children be aware of each other. Most Cardassian officers kept their ‘second families’ very separate from their first.

“And…Niala and I spoke,” Damar emphasised the final word, weight attached to it, “I asked her for a divorce.”

“What?!” Weyoun looked up, meeting Damar’s eyes, “Is she filing?”

Damar only nodded in response.

“But…that’s political suicide! Your career…” Weyoun couldn’t claim to be an expert on Cardassian family law, but Five had been briefed on the basics in order to work with Dukat. Niala would file, probably on the grounds of Damar fathering Imzadi, a mixed-species child. He’d have to resign from any positon he held in the government. Frankly, he’d be lucky to keep his commission as an officer!

“Did you…you didn’t do this for me, did you? For us?” Imzadi started to grizzle in Weyoun’s arms. He looked down, she was probably getting tired again. He pressed the call button for the nurse, she needed another bottle. “I never wanted you to do that! To give up your whole life on Cardassia for us!”

Damar shook his head, giving a thin smile, “I didn’t do it for you. Don’t get me wrong, you and Imzadi were definitely a factor,” he took a deep sigh, “But Niala and I…we’d been lying to each other for so long, it was like we didn’t even know each other at the end there. Like we were both married to these...versions of ourselves…who we wanted the other to be.”

The nurse, never far away, appeared with another bottle of milk, handing it over to Weyoun and asking if they needed anything else before lunch.

“No, thank you, we’re fine,” Weyoun took the bottle and waited for the nurse to leave the room. He looked down where Imzadi still had a firm hold on Damar’s index finger, the dappling on the back of her arms just starting to come in.

“Do you want to give her this feed?” he asked, holding out the bottle to Damar.

“Me? Are you sure?”

Weyoun nodded, “You’re her father, it’s even on the birth certificate. And…I could use a little rest.”

Damar slipped his arms inside Weyoun’s, taking the baby (making sure to support her head with the crook of his elbow) and the bottle. Imzadi’s soft crying amped up a little as she moved to unfamiliar arms but soon changed to satisfied grunts as she took the bottle. For the first time, father and daughter regarded each other, Imzadi opening her eyes and blinking up at Damar. Damar smiled back.

“She’s so beautiful. Her eyes are the same colour as yours,” he said softly, Imzadi’s hand coming up again to rest on one of his fingers where it was holding the bottle.

“I think she has your mouth though, your chin too,” Weyoun replied, pressing the button on the remote to lower the top half of the bed so he could lay down. He turned onto his side, tucking one hand under his head so he could watch them both.

The nurses had warned Weyoun, as had Keiko and Julian, that the days following the birth would be erratic ones, emotionally speaking. He was trying to hold himself in check, even as he felt his throat closing as he watched Damar feed their daughter, smiling down at her. Oh…why did he have to look so good like that, holding the baby, the light from the window shining onto his shoulders, occasionally smiling over at him as he murmured nonsense to Imzadi? Weyoun didn’t even have a sense of aesthetics! How was he being affected like this?

“So…”he said softly, “What are your plans then? If you’re not going resume your position in the Cardassian government?”

Damar looked up from Imzadi’s face, “That’s the big question, isn’t it? I…I suppose it depends a bit on you. I don’t know how much you remember of yesterday, but I told you I’d never leave you again, and I meant that. I want to be a father to Imzadi and…and I want to be with you again, if you’ll have me. But I don’t know what to do about Niala and Sakal…”

Weyoun took a long breath, mulling over Damar’s words, “Well, I’m sure you’re not the first person to get a divorce, not even the first to try living on another planet from their ex-spouse. According to her psychographic profile, Niala’s a clever and resourceful woman. Between you, I’m sure you’ll work things out.”

Damar was silent for a moment, Imzadi slowly emptying the bottle, her eyes closed as she started to drift into sleep, “And…and what about us?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Weyoun said, shifting in the bed, “I want you to be involved with Imzadi, as much as you want to be. But I think we, you and I…should take things slowly. I care about you a lot, but I can’t get hurt like that again.”

Damar nodded, his mouth tugging up at one corner, not quite a smile, “That’s fair. We’ll take things slow. Union knows, we’ve rushed into things often enough…”

Weyoun gave a short chuckle, “That we have,” he pushed himself up slightly, reaching out to move Imzadi’s swaddling slightly to check on her, “She’s out. You can put her down into the crib if you like.”

“No, she’s fine. I can hold her for a little while longer,” Damar put the now empty bottle down on the side table, “I’ll put her down in a moment, I still have to take a few photos for Sakal as well, don’t let me forget.”

“I won’t,” Weyoun gave a yawn, he wasn’t sure he’d make to lunch without a nap. He settled into the bed, warmth flowing through him as he watched his baby sleep in Damar’s arms. It was so hard to stay strong…

“Do you want to sleep here tonight…” he said suddenly, the words coming out of Weyoun’s mouth before he could even think about them, “…In the daybed?” he added quickly, as Damar’s head shot up. He felt his cheeks grow hot, “Nil won’t say anything but he hates being away from Borath at night.”

A slow smile spread across Damar’s face, “I’d love to, as long as Nilig’xal doesn’t mind, I don’t think I’m his favourite person at the moment.”

Weyoun smiled back, shrugging, “He’ll get used to the idea. Besides, I think he and Borath need some time to themselves. He’s popped home to have a shower and see Moe, but he’ll be back after lunch.”

“Well, as long as you break the news to him,” Damar carefully got up, taking Imzadi to the crib and placing her gently inside, “I’d better get a hold of Garak, tell him he doesn’t need to find me a hotel room tonight.”

“Garak’s here?” Weyoun asked, fighting against another yawn, “I didn’t know he was here too. Has he seen Julian?”

Damar gave a cryptic snort, “Oh he’s seen him alright.” He turned and pulled the blankets up over Weyoun’s shoulder in the bed, “But don’t worry about them. You just rest. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

“You’ll wake me when lunch comes?” Weyoun murmured, already half asleep.

“I promise.”

Weyoun slipped into sleep almost immediately, Damar walking across the room to close the blinds, sending the room into semi-darkness. He pulled his PADD out and took a few photos of Imzadi, sitting down to email them to Niala. He smiled to himself. Maybe Weyoun was right, maybe things could work out…

~*~*~

Borath slipped through the master bedroom door and closed it silently, walking on tiptoes towards the bed, “I don’t know how she did it, but Keiko got Moe down in the crib and he is out like a light!”

Nilig’xal looked over from where he was sorting through his books, looking for which one he would read that night, “Really?” he said, watching Borath stretch out on top of the bed, eyes sliding up the length of his legs where they lay naked against the dark blue sheets.

“Mmm hmm, he’s in there in his little fleecy sleep sack cuddled up to Reggie, sleeping like an angle.”

Nilig’xal smiled, putting the books down on the floor, “I think the saying is ‘sleeping like an angel.’”

Borath shrugged and rolled over onto his stomach, smiling up at the Jem’Hadar, “It’s been a while since we’ve had a bed to ourselves…”

“Indeed it has, not since the Enterprise.”

“Maybe you should join me then. I’m very used to company,” Borath didn’t wait for Nilig’xal to reply, getting up and sliding into the Jem’Hadar’s lap where he sat in his comfortable chair.

Borath put his arms around Nilig’xal’s neck and kissed him, gently at first, a quick pressing of their lips, then running his tongue along the fork in Nilig’xal’s when his mouth opened, one of his hands running over the short horns that studded his jawline. Nilig’xal slipped his hands under Borath’s sleep shirt, making a pleased hum when he found there was nothing underneath it.

“Oh! Wait,” Borath said suddenly, pulling away and hopping off his lap, “Wait, wait, wait! I got this the other day, just for this sort of occasion!”

“What did you get?” Nilig’xal asked, watching Borath skip to the wardrobe, taking a small bag from inside and then putting his finger to his lips to hush the Jem’Hadar before slipping into the en suite bathroom.

Nilig’xal waited, sitting on the edge of his seat, wondering what Borath had planned.

The bathroom door re-opened and Borath stepped out, wearing a short piece of floaty lace, pale blue in colour, and held together (quite tenuously, Nilig’xal thought) with little satin straps. He gave a little turn.

“Do you like it?” he asked, looking back at Nilig’xal over one shoulder, “The person at the shop said it was one of their biggest sellers…”

Nilig’xal tilted his head to the side, “It’s…very small. I can see your whole bottom.”

“That’s the point! You’re meant to see my bottom. It’s sexy!” Borath turned back towards him, less sure all of a sudden. He rubbed one hand on his forearm, “Do you think it’s sexy?”

Nil made a contemplative noise, “Come closer.” He hooked an arm around Borath’s waist, pulling him back onto his lap, “I always find you very appealing, no matter what you wear,” he whispered into Borath’s neck, pressing his lips to the edge of his ear. “Do you doubt my desire for you?”

Borath wrapped his arms around Nilig’xal’s neck, “No…but…” he took a breath, pressing his forehead against the Jem’Hadar’s and looking him in the eye, “It’s just…it’s been a three weeks since we last had sex. I know we’ve both been worried about Weyoun, and Moe’s sleep has been all over the place and the T’Kerras houses are taking longer than we thought but…we’ve never gone that long before, unless we were separated.”

Nilig’xal heaved a sigh. Everything Borath said was true. Thinking about it, it had probably been more like a month since they were last intimate. It certainly hadn’t been easy, between a clingy baby and Weyoun sharing their bed, it was difficult to find time for sex, but they’d always made it happen, even if it was just a quick tumble on the unused bed in Weyoun’s room or a shower together while Moe was napping.

“Keiko said…she said it’s pretty normal for there to be a bit of a dip in sex after a new baby,” Borath closed his eyes, voice very soft all of a sudden, “But…I’m worried you don’t find me…us, as exciting now it’s not a secret. Now we don’t have to hide.”

Nilig’xal blinked, looking at Borath in surprise, “Borath…never think that! Every day I am thankful we no longer have to hide, that we can live like this,” he gestured around their room (with his books and Borath’s owls and the pile of laundry that never seemed to end), “And you are still the most beautiful, most desirable creature I have ever seen. If anything you’re more beautiful here, because I can see how happy you are, how happy Moe makes you.”

He took a deep breath, “But you’re right, we have been in a bit of a…what did Keiko call it?”

“A dip.”

“Yes…a dip,” Nilig’xal’s mouth twisted, he leant his forehead against Borath’s. He was silent for some time, “Things have been…different for me, since getting off the white. Everything feels a little different, not worse…just strange. It’s like I have to relearn what food tastes like, what I enjoy…what desire feels like.”

Borath ran his fingers along the thick ridges of flesh on Nil’s neck, “And I want to help you do that. Because I love you Nil.”

“I love you too,” Nilig’xal leant into the soft touch, “And I do like your sexy outfit. Blue suits you.”

“That’s what the shop person said,” Borath smiled, long arms wrapped around his neck, pressing their lips together, “I missed you last night, my First, my wonderful fool.”

Nilig’xal’s fingers slid up Borath’s hips, pulling the lacy fabric with it. He was always amazed at the softness of Vorta skin, the vulnerability of it, like their whole bodies were made of underbelly. He slipped the garment over Borath’s shoulders and off him, licking his lips.

“Do you remember the first time I saw you like this?” Nilig’xal said, standing and taking them both to the bed.

Borath stifled a laugh as he fell backwards onto the sheets, “Oh goodness, that was so long ago. That awful mud-ball of a planet, Zentra II. I fell and you took me to that spring to wash off. You were so embarrassed,” he ran his fingertips over the bony growths that jutted out on Nilig’xal’s shoulders and down his arms, “I thought your eyes would pop out of your head when I started undressing.”

“They very nearly did.”

Nil kissed down Borath’s chest, his belly, listening to the soft sigh that escaped his mouth. He pulled him so his hips were at the edge of the bed, settling between them and licking, tasting, gently parting the folds of Borath’s cunt to go deeper. He needed to be ready, needed to be so lovely and wet.

Borath threw a hand over his mouth, trying not to be too loud. Moe was asleep, Keiko was just down the hall. He couldn’t help but think back to that day on Zentra II as well, the first day he’d caught his First staring at him, the first day he’d felt the heat of his eyes, had felt that first flutter within him that maybe welcomed that stare, even if it was a sin.

Nilig’xal’s tongue flickered over his cunt, the fork of his tongue brushing along each side of his clit. Borath’s rested his feet on Nil’s shoulders, toes curling as that tongue kept moving.

“Oh Nil…Nil please…” he gasped, “I need you…”

Nilig’xal smiled up from between his legs, “What do you need, Borath tenth of his line?” He rose from where he was kneeling, leaning over Borath’s much smaller body, nuzzling his neck, breathing in the heady smell of Orinion taska flower oil he’d started using as a perfume.

“I need you…inside me.”

Nilig’xal pulled his loose sleep shirt over his head, letting Borath push down his flannel pyjama pants. The plait of his hair came undone, long black hair falling down over his shoulders and framing both of their faces as Borath pulled him down onto the bed.

Borath pushed him onto back, dragging his lips slowly down Nil’s chest, then licking over the sensitive lumps, not so different from the ones on his forehead, that formed a trail from each hip to his groin, roughly following the line where his thigh met his hips. The two lines met in groin, the nodes clustering there, varied in size, disguising the sheath which hid his cock, the tip of which was already everting, its heads red and slick.

There were certain…limitations to their lovemaking, ones bought on by both Nilig’xal’s size relative to Borath, and the unique nature of the Jem’Hadar organ. Many years of experimentation had found that the two best positions were either Borath on all fours, or laying on top of Nil, taking as much as he could.

Nilig’xal liked it when Borath was on top, when he could hold onto him and watch his face. He licked his lips as Borath straddled his hips, grinding down on the nodes, rubbing against them, moaning softly. He stroked his hands down Borath’s ears, traced his fingertips down his neck, the pale chest, over his newly soft stomach and fuller hips. Borath was wet, so wet, his flood mixing with the moisture coming from Nil’s nodes, a wet noise coming from where they rubbed together. Borath could cum from this alone, from the friction…

Not tonight though. Tonight Nilig’xal wanted all of Borath, it had been so long. He gripped Borath under the arms and pulled him up, so their chests were pressed together. His cock, the three heads straining, fully everted, jutted up at an angle towards his head. He let Borath situate himself, bracing himself against Nil’s chest before moving his hands, gripping Borath’s thighs and groaning as he gently guided Borath down onto him, slowly, watching Borath’s face the whole time.

Borath gasped, “Oh Nil…Nil please…”

He was careful, always careful. Borath could take about half of his length before it was uncomfortable. But Founders, it was hard to control himself tonight. It had been so long. As Borath slowly started to rock back and forth, Nil’s cock sliding in and out of that tight heat, Nil threw his head back. Borath put a hand over the Jem’Hadar’s mouth, trying to muffle the low growl that came out of his throat.

There was on old saying popular in the Gamma Quadrant, that there was nothing more dangerous than the Iron Flats of Althair IV, nothing more terrifying than the refineries of Mu Aquilae, and nothing wetter than a Vorta’s cunt. Nil had been scandalised the first time he’d been told that, by a trader king his squadron was escorting on behalf of the Dominion through the Badlands of the Eldath System. But after the first time, and every time thereafter, he had known it was true.

Borath rode him, panting, hands digging into Nilig’xal’s shoulders. Nil could smell Borath’s arousal, a base of musk below the perfume he wore, almost as strong as those times he’d been shaking and moaning on the ship, when he’d begged for Nilig’xal’s touch and they’d made love on that awful narrow bunk. There were times that scent had been so strong even Second Domed’edon, usually very devout and completely uninterested in any physical pleasures, had been seen loitering outside their Field Commander’s quarters. A few quick blows from the First had always sent him quickly on his way.

Borath came with a gasp, burying his face in Nilig’xal’s neck, his arms shaking where they held onto Nil’s shoulders, kissing and rubbing his face into the ridges on his neck. Nil gripped hard to Borath’s hips, thrusting up until his own orgasm followed, a burst and shudder, just like that first hit of the white. It was different now, more intense, coming from somewhere deeper inside his body. Oh, so deep.

He breathed deeply, panting, as he felt Borath move against him, rolling off and to the side.

“Oh Nil…that was…” he faded off, giving a soft laugh, “Mmm, I missed that.”

“Me too,” Nilig’xal said breathlessly, he rested one hand on Borath’s thigh, gently stroking his fingertips over the soft hair that was there. After a while Borath rolled over, pulling one of Nil’s arms over his shoulders and curling against his side, giving a contended little sigh.

How wonderful to lie like this, with the one he loved in his arms. Nilig’xal could relax like this, wait for his cock to retreat on its own rather than having to quickly (and uncomfortably) force it back into his sheath.

Or at least in theory he could…

A few coughs, then a warning warble, then a full on cry of “mummaaaaaa” came out of the baby monitor on the bedside table. Borath and Nil both gave low groans, Borath sitting up and scooting to the edge of the bed.

“Pass me my night shirt Nil,” he said, giving a wry smile.

“You don’t want to wear this out?” Nil held up the lacy thing, voice teasing.

“Maybe not while we have a houseguest,” Borath leant back over, pressing a quick kiss to Nilig’xal’s lips before getting up. Nil leant over and grabbed Borath’s night shirt off the floor, throwing it to him before grabbing his pyjama bottoms and slipping them on, covering his slowly retreating member.

“I’ll see if he goes down after a cuddle, but if he doesn’t I’ll bring him in. I don’t want to keep Keiko up all night listening to him cry.”

Nilig’xal nodded, giving a grunt as Borath left the room. He flopped back onto the bed, picking up the top book on his pile. Things Fall Apart…he’d already finished that one. He’d found himself wondering as he read it whether some ancient ancestor or progenitor of his had reacted the same way to the appearance of the Founders; whether, like European colonists, they had bought their faith with them first before annihilating everything that was Jem’Hadar. He’d probably never know. He’d felt more of a connection to Obierika, measured and questioning, than to the hot-headed main character Okonkwo, but the book had been his favourite this month by far. He’d have to see if he could get some of the other books in the series out from the library when he went back there next.

He looked up from his book as he heard the bedroom door open, Borath coming back sooner than expected, concern on his face and Moe in his arms.

“I think we need to call Doctor Bashir,” he said, worry in his voice as he sat down on the edge of the bed, “There’s something wrong with Moe…”

Nil sat up instantly, looking at Moe in Borath’s arms. His little face was a picture of misery, one eye crusted shut, a mess of mucous under his nose, running down to his chin. He gave a wet sniff and wiped his messy face on Borath’s shirt, giving a sad little “mumma” as he clung to his mother.

Oh dear…

Chapter Text

Julian ran his diagnostic tricorder over Moe’s forehead, though doing so was only for Borath and Nilig’xal’s benefit. He already knew exactly what the poor little chap had, the tricorder readings only confirming it.

“What we have here,” he said with a slight smile, “Is a cold, with an added case of gunky eye, not to get too technical on you.”

“Oh, my poor baby,” Borath said, cuddling Moe closer as he sniffled and whimpered, clinging to his mother, “Can you fix him? Will he be alright?”

Julian gave a slight chuckle, “He’ll be fine. To be honest, I’m surprised it took him this long to catch his first case of the sniffles. I was half expecting him to pick up Tellarite jub-jub pox from Happy Hague this winter, that was running through the day care for weeks there! He’s a tough little guy though.”

“He’s just like his Father,” Borath smiled up at Nilig’xal where he was sitting next to him on the bed.

Nilig’xal made a satisfied sounding rumble, rubbing Borath’s back as he addressed Julian, “Is there a medicine we can give him to cure this cold?”

“I’m afraid the common cold isn’t something we’ve conquered yet,” Julian picked up a set of plastic toy keys from the floor and jangled them in front of Moe’s face, “But we can make him more comfortable while he fights it himself. I’ll send your replicator the code for a dilute paracetamol solution, it’s cherry flavoured. Give him some of that as per the directions on the bottle. That’ll bring down his fever and help him sleep tonight. I’ll also give you the code for a chest rub to help to clear his chest and nose…oh, and some drops for his eyes. Apart from that, my prescription is lots of fluids, rest and cuddles.”

“…rest and cuddles…” Nilig’xal muttered, tapping every word Julian had said into his personal PADD. “Thank you Doctor Bashir.”

“Yes, thank you,” Borath echoed, “We really appreciate you coming out this late. You’re probably so busy over in London.”

Julian’s smile faltered for only a second before recovering, “Oh, I can always make time for my favourite patients! I’ll pop in and see how he’s doing tomorrow after I check in on Weyoun. I probably wouldn’t take Moe into the birthing centre either, both for his health and Imzadi’s.”

Julian showed Nilig’xal how to access the ‘medication and personal care’ part of the replicator menu in the kitchen and then said a quiet goodbye (so as not to wake Keiko), making his way down onto the dark Amsterdam streets.

The night was cold, a constant drizzle of rain in the air and wispy beginnings of fog hanging over the water. Julian’s shoulders slumped, the miserable weather seeming all the worse, thrown into sharp relief against the cosy, warm domesticity of Borath and Nilig’xal’s apartment. He sighed and reached his hand into his pocket, pulling his PADD out. Maybe there was a café or bar open nearby he could drop in to, anything to avoid being alone for a while.

He looked down at his PADD in his hand, his fingers traitorously flicking past the map app to open messages. The top message was from Nilig’xal, sending him a photo of Moe and asking if he could come over. The second was from Garak, letting him know he’d found a hotel room in Amsterdam city centre and had left the spare key to Julian’s apartment in his letterbox in the lobby.

Julian swallowed. His finger hovering over Garak’s message. Somewhere down the street Julian heard the tapping of two set of shoes, a low voice, quickly followed by a high pitched laugh. A couple wandering home after a night out, hugging close to the buildings and each other to avoid the rain. He scratched the back of his head, looking down to avoid making eye contact as they passed him.

His eyes caught Garak’s message again.

Anything to avoid being alone for a while…

<hey. you up?”>

~*~*~

Weyoun ended up staying in the birthing centre recovery rooms for four days, a long time considering that most caesarean sections were day surgeries with maybe an overnight stay at most. After Moe caught his nasty cold Julian decided to keep both Weyoun and Imzadi in for a few extra days, at least until Moe was a bit less contagious. Imzadi was a delicate little thing, her birthweight barely 2.5 kilos, and her catching that cold would have been a bit too much for her brand new immune system to handle.

Damar stayed at the hospital, making trips back to the apartment to get more clothes for Imzadi and Weyoun, drop off the used ones to be washed, and bring news from the apartment and the outside world. Not that there was a lot of news from the apartment. Every time Damar popped in for those first few days, Borath could be found in the big puffy recliner, Moe cuddled on his lap with Reggie, and seemingly endless episodes of Moe’s favourite show Toby Targ playing on the viewscreen.

Nilig’xal treated Damar with a cool detachment, polite but not much more than that. He didn’t seem to trust Damar, or even like him particularly, but as Weyoun had said, he seemed to be ‘getting used to the idea’ of Damar being around. So far all of Damar’s bones remained intact, so that was probably some form of victory.

On the morning of the fifth day Julian checked on Weyoun one last time, seeing how the site of his surgery incision was healing, checked Imzadi’s heart rate and general condition, and with the knowledge that Moe was over the worst of his cold back at the apartment, cleared them both for release.

Weyoun was thrilled, talking to Damar and the nurses all the way through breakfast about how excited he was to be going back to his own bed, how much he was looking forward to Moe meeting Imzadi.

“Some of the books we’ve read say he might be a bit jealous, but I’m sure he’ll adjust. He’s very good at sharing at the day care, all of the carers there said so,” he said, gulping down his toast and orange juice while Damar gave Imzadi her bottle.

Not much later, after all the final paper work at the hospital was done, and Weyoun had decided on a time for Nurse Visser (his home care nurse) to come and do a 2 week check in on Imzadi at the apartment, it was time for him to go.

Weyoun put on the outfit he’d planned to go home in, dressed Imzadi in the romper with little foxes on it (a present from the prosecution team at the Hague, Ms Gaavr had popped in for a visit yesterday), gently fitting a woolly hat over her head and ears to keep her warm, and very gently placed her down into the car seat Damar had bought back from the apartment on one his trips there, ready for the taxi ride home.

The ride back was a blur, as was the excited greetings of Borath and Nilig’xal and even Moe’s delighted squeal of ‘Woo’ as he and Damar came through the door. Before he could even take anything in, Weyoun was in his bed in the apartment, his Bajoran quilt over his legs and Imzadi rugged up in a bassinet by the bed.

Borath bought in Moe, who looked around curiously, his face lighting up when he saw Weyoun in the bed.

“Woo!” he squealed happily, holding out his arms and reaching for Weyoun as he was bought closer, Weyoun taking him in his arms with a laugh and kissing his mass of curly hair.

“Oh, I’ve missed you too, Moe,” Weyoun hugged him close, “My big strong boy.” He looked over at Borath, still stroking Moe’s back, “How has he been?”

“He’s good! The cold took a bit out of him but he’s bounced back,” Borath made himself comfortable next to Weyoun on the bed, “He took his first steps last night, three steps in fact!”

“Really!? Did you get a video?”

Borath nodded, “Got it all on Nil’s PADD. I’ll show you in a little while.” He took hold of Weyoun’s hand, “We’ve missed you around here, if it wasn’t obvious,” he said, indicating where Moe was attached to Weyoun like a limpet, ear pressed to Weyoun’s chest to listen to his heart, “Aand…Damar’s sticking around for a while, I gather?”

Weyoun gave a little sigh, “Maybe more than a little while. His wife is about to file for divorce. It’s going to be a bit of a scandal…”

“Ah…” Borath said simply, “That kind of divorce, is it?”

“There’s really only one kind on Cardassia.”

“Right…” Borath turned on his side, “Are you happy with that? Having him here? Because I’m sure Nilig’xal would be more than willing to tell him to leave if you don’t…”

“No…he’s been helping. And…we’re trying to work things out, see if we can be together when we’re both not in the middle of a war,” Weyoun squeezed Borath’s hand, “You don’t mind, do you? Him staying here for a while?”

“If you’re happy for him to be here, then so am I,” Borath chuckled, “We’re probably going to need all the help we can get in the next couple of months, between these two, and hopefully the move to T’Kerras…”

“Has there been any movement there?” Weyoun asked, “I haven’t checked my email in days.”

“We’re getting closer. They sent through some pictures of the kitchens and I think there’ll be an email for you to choose some tile colours and the replicator model you want. One came through to us yesterday. I chose chertan yellow for my backsplash, it’s going to look beautiful!”

“I’ll have a look after lunch,” Weyoun made a slight groan, “if I can concentrate long enough. I tried to read some news articles this morning and I could barely make it through one. The nurses have diagnosed me with something called ‘baby brain.’ Oh…speaking of, she’s awake. Moe, do you want to meet Imzadi?”

“Zadi?” he echoed, looking around where Weyoun was pointing. Borath picked him up again, putting Moe on his lap as Weyoun got Imzadi out of the bassinet.

“See, it’s Weyoun’s baby. She’s a baby just like you,” Borath whispered into Moe’s ear.

“Ay-bee,” Moe said, as close as he got to saying baby. He pointed to himself, “Ay-bee!”

“That’s right! You’re the baby, and Imzadi is a baby too, just smaller,” Borath smiled, “Now, gentle hands…”

Weyoun bought Imzadi closer, Moe peering into the swaddling and reaching out to touch her face. He patted at her chuva, intrigued by the little dent, the skin around it already becoming a little more raised and scaly. Imzadi moved her head, giving a little yawn and blinking up at Moe.

“Ay-bee,” he said again, leaning in and pressing a messy baby’s kiss to her blankets near her face.

Borath made a soft noise, “Oh, I should have bought in my PADD! I knew he’d love her.”

~*~*~

Damar woke to sunlight like butter streaming through a gap in the curtains. He blinked and scrubbed his hand over his face where he had been lying on the couch in the apartment’s living room. It had been a tough night. Imzadi had slept in bursts of about one hour at a time, waking with the kind of plaintive cry that just broke your heart to be fed. She’d feed for about 30 minutes until she fell asleep and then in another hour the process would repeat.

Damar had discovered one thing though, that Imzadi liked movement, particularly the rhythm of being walked down the hall and around the living room. That would get her calm enough to take the bottle and would get her off to sleep faster once she was back in Weyoun’s arms. Just like Moe, it helped a lot to have a Vorta’s heartbeat nearby when she needed to sleep.

The two (three really) of them fell into a rhythm through the night, both Damar and Weyoun existing in a place somewhere between full consciousness and sleep, going through the motions of feeding and caring for Imzadi with minimal thought. At one point in the early hours of the morning Damar had realised why the Obsidian Order had used sleep deprivation so liberally as a torture technique, at that moment he would have readily agreed to telling his every deep secret to anyone who asked if he was allowed to sleep just for two hours instead of one.

Damar sat up on the couch, taking a moment to stretch his back and shoulders. Maybe he’d go down to the cafe down the street and get coffees for everyone this morning. Borath and Weyoun had both developed a taste for the drink since being on Earth, and Nilig’xal didn’t mind it either. As for himself, it wasn’t rokassa juice but Damar’d take anything to help wake him up at this point.

He quickly washed his face and put on some fresh clothes, then poked his head into Weyoun’s room, walking on silent feet to peer into Imzadi’s bassinet. Both her and Weyoun were sound asleep, both on their sides with one hand tucked under their heads, almost mirror images of each other. He smiled, hand ghosting over Imzadi’s head.

Outside, he put on his sunglasses in the bright morning sunlight and walked down the street towards the café. Perhaps the inhabitants of this little neighbourhood were getting used to the sight of him, or maybe the multicultural nature of Amsterdam was working in his favour, because few people looked his way even as he stood in line for his coffees. He shouldn’t have been completely surprised though, there was a small Cardassian diplomatic presence in Amsterdam, mostly operating out of the Romulan Embassy to respond to the trial in absentia of Dukat.

“Well, well…what a happy coincidence!”

Damar felt every scale on his neck ridges contract. He’d know that voice anywhere. He turned, seeing the familiar form of Garak at a table in a corner of the café, PADD in his hand, looking at Damar over the top of a coffee covered in whipped cream. Damar sighed. Of course it was him.

He ordered the coffee and walked over to Garak’s table.

“How long have you been coming here hoping I’d turn up? You didn’t know I’d come and get coffee today.”

Garak had the gall to look offended, “I have a life outside of you, Damar. A rich and full one. This café simply has excellent coffee and the kind of homey atmosphere that just makes you feel…” he made a vague wave of his hand.

“At home?”

“Precisely! But since you’re here, join me. We have things to discuss.”

Damar groaned. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like this.

As soon as he was seated Garak handed him his PADD, the screen showing the front page of the Culat Observer. Damar’s eye ridge cocked.

“I didn’t peg you as being one for tabloid rags.”

“And I didn’t peg you as such an elitist,” Garak said, “The Observer produces some of the best investigative journalism in the Union.”

“See the ridges on this sexy engineering student – our new page 5 girl!” Damar read out flatly from the front page.

“Yes, alright, point made. If you wouldn’t mind turning to page 7…yes, down the bottom there…”

Damar looked where Garak was pointing, seeing a blurry photo of Niala, dressed discretely and accompanied by a plump middle aged man (probably that lawyer cousin of Mala’s), leaving the Family Court building in Lakarian City. The article accompanying it was brief, a list of various snippets of lower level gossip that either couldn’t be fleshed out into full articles or wasn’t newsworthy enough to be worth doing so.

Comings and Goings

The wife of Legate Damar was seen today leaving the Family Court with noted divorce archon, Ekell Tajar Esq. Sources within the Court have confirmed that she is filing for divorce but were tight lipped on the grounds applied under. As most of our readers will know, Legate Damar has been on personal leave for over two months now as he completes shri-tal with a close family member on Amleth Prime. This intrepid reporter wonders if perhaps he’s gotten in some trouble in the colonies, perhaps a bright young thing has turned his head! If you have any information on this emerging story our ears are always listening!

“I have to say I was disappointed,” Garak said archly as Damar read, “I thought we were better friends than me finding out about your divorce from a tabloid.”

Damar shrunk down in his chair, “I was going to tell you. I’ve just had a lot going on lately.”

“Oh, is that so? Do pardon me, I wasn’t aware!” Garak rolled his eyes.

“Well, it’s not that bad. The divorce was going to hit the news services eventually and at least they still think I’m on Amleth with Aunt Convenience! No one knows I’m here, they don’t know about Weyoun or Imzadi.”

“And how long do you think that’s going to last? The might not know you’re here now, but it’s really only a matter of time before it gets out,” Garak sighed, “I just wish you’d told me, Damar. I still have contacts in the Courts and the press, I could have planted all sorts of misinformation.”

“Lamar! Four coffees for Lamar!” The barista called out from the counter, sending a shock through Damar’s system.

“Just…ugh,” Damar rubbed a hand over his face, “I’ll be right back.”

He got up and grabbed the coffees, bringing them quickly back to the table, sighing when he saw the open PADD again.

“So what do you want from me, Garak?” he said (he was far too sleep deprived to fight about this), “I’m not getting Niala to un-divorce me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Garak gave him an exasperated look over the top of his drink as he took a sip, “Nothing that dramatic. Just keep a low profile for a while, stay out of public places. And no more surprises, if you please. Let me do what I was trained to do and protect what remains of your legacy.”

Damar grunted dismissively, “My legacy? Is that worth decades of Obsidian Order training to protect?”

“The legacy of the beating heart of the Cardassian Liberation Front is worth a lot more than that,” Garak said, voice surprisingly firm.

“Well...when you say it like that…” Damar sat back, scratched at his (still) shedding ridges for a moment, “You’ve changed your tune. Not trying to drag me back to Prime by the hair to resume my service to the State anymore?”

Garak took another long sip of his drink before answering, “I have always prided myself on knowing which battles to fight. This one was perhaps not worth fighting.”

“And that’s got nothing to do with that bite mark on your neck there?” Damar pointed out the mark in question on Garak’s left neck ridge, partially covered as it was with an understated grey scarf.

Garak made a series of disbelieving scoffs, as if the very idea he’d have a bite on that sensitive third scale of his neck was patently absurd.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know,” Damar couldn’t help himself, smiling over the top of his drinks at Garak, “I, for one, think he’s good for you.”

“Don’t you dare!” Garak’s eyes turned murderous, “Or Weyoun won’t be getting a coffee this morning, he’ll be arranging a funeral. Dr Bashir and I’s relationship is a completely different situation to yours and Weyoun’s. I’m rather unlikely impregnate him, for one thing.”

“You know, I thought the same thing and here we are,” Damar chuckled and shrugged, “You want to come up to the apartment? I’m sure Weyoun would like to see you, and you haven’t met Imzadi yet have you?”

Garak sniffed and finished his coffee, “I may have a spare moment this morning. A gap between my many pressing engagements. I suppose I can pop in…”

“Come on then,” Damar said, jerking his head towards the door, “Before the coffee gets cold.”

~*~*~

Time passed, and as Damar’s shed reached its final days, the skin of his back coming off in irregular flaky strips and the flesh beneath it showing up shiny and taut, the shine of the new baby started to wear thin as well.

Where Moe had been a sound sleeper from almost the moment he’d had a stable place to lay his head, Imzadi never seemed to do more than doze, the slightest noise waking her. She cried and ate and filled her nappy (a remarkable amount) and through all that clung to Weyoun like her life depended on it. Weyoun found it harder and harder to get out of his bed for any length of time, it was just easier to stay in there, he was so tired after all.

Two weeks after Weyoun and Imzadi returned to the apartment, Nurse Visser came for Imzadi’s two week check-up. She weighed and measured the baby, checked her heart rate, and tested her reflexes and responses to stimuli.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to know, our little girl is doing excellently,” the nurse sat down on the edge of Weyoun’s bed, inputting information into her PADD, “Heart rate is perfect. The only thing is I’d like to see is for her weight to be a little higher, she’s not underweight but she’s on the low end of normal. How often are her feeds?”

“Every three to four hours or so, I think. Whenever she wakes up really,” Weyoun said, looking down into Imzadi’s bassinet. Did she look skinny? She was smaller than Moe had been definitely, but he had always been a robust little fellow. “And she always finishes her bottle.”

Nurse Visser nodded, reaching over and giving Weyoun’s wrist a comforting squeeze as she saw the worry on his face, “Don’t worry, you’re doing all the right things. She’s growing so quickly at this stage it’s normal for her weight to have some ebbs and dips. What we’re going to do is I’m going to arrange for you to get more colostrum in the milk we’re giving you from the milk bank. And what I’d like you to do is start waking her for feeds, every three hours. Does that sound ok?”

Weyoun give a sniff, nodding, “Does this…does this happen with other mothers who can’t breast feed?” He wiped under one eye.

“Oh sweetheart,” Nurse Visser moved closer, grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and handing it to him, “This sort of thing happens with breast fed babies, bottle fed babies, all the different types of feeding you can imagine! You’re doing so well with her, really!”

Weyoun nodded, wiping his cheeks, “I-I’m sorry. I’ve b-een cr-crying at the drop of a hat lately.”

Nurse Visser gave a gentle smile, “That’s something that happens to a lot of different people too. How have you been lately? It must be tough; another baby in the house, an interplanetary move coming up, Imzadi’s Dad being…involved again. That’s a lot going on, even without a new baby.”

“It is, it just feels like so much,” Weyoun gave another sob, “A-and I feel so bad, because they’ve all been helping so much. Damar is s-so good with her, he’s always taking her when I’m t-ired. And Borath and Nil, they’ve been doing e-verything around the apartment because I can’t get out of bed because I’m so tired all the ti-ime.”

He dissolved into sobs, letting Nurse Visser wrap him up in her plump, comforting arms, repeating ‘I’m so tired’ over and over again into her chest.

“Alright sweetheart, it’s all going to be alright,” she said softly, rubbing his back.

“I w-was never like this with Moe,” he said softly, when he’d calmed down a little.

“Well, you didn’t give birth to Moe, sweetie. This is a different situation entirely.” She let him sit back on his pillows, “When was the last time you got out of bed?”

“This morning,” he said softly, “I had a shower and gave her a bath.”

“That’s good, you’re taking care of both of you,” she gave his hand one more squeeze, “Ok, you have a little rest in here, and I’m going to have a talk with Damar about how you’ve been feeling. Is that alright?”

Weyoun nodded, laying down and pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, hand resting on the edge of Imzadi’s bassinet where it was pushed up next to the bed.

Outside, Nurse Visser sat Damar down at the kitchen table, Borath hovering nearby next to the fabric refresher.

“He’s very tired, and I’m a little concerned about postpartum depression,” she said simply, folding her hands on the tabletop, “But I have a feeling you’re probably concerned about the same thing.”

Damar nodded, looking down at the table, worry written on his face, “He’s so tired. We all are, but he’s barely sleeping these days, even when Imzadi is. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“Well, that’s how I can help,” Nurse Visser gave a small smile, her voice switching quickly to that tone of comforting, no-nonsense authority which brokered no argument, “First, I’m going to prescribe him an anti-depressant. Make sure he takes it in the mornings with breakfast. Second, he might not like this but you’re going to have to get him out of bed. A walk outside for an hour every day, without baby, has been shown to help a lot in these situations."

“We can take Imzadi for an hour,” Borath said quickly, worrying a towel in his hands, “It’ll be no trouble at all.”

“Excellent,” Nurse Visser nodded, “Apart from that, the main thing will be encouraging him to sleep as much as he can. Dad, you might have to do a night or two with Imazdi by yourself so Weyoun can catch up on sleep.”

“Of course, anything,” Damar nodded his head. A small price to pay for Weyoun to get better.

Nurse Visser emailed the prescription for Weyoun’s new medication to Damar’s PADD and explained Imzadi’s new feeding schedule, mentioning they could expect a delivery from the milk bank tomorrow morning.

“I’m going to be in contact Mr Trax and Dr Bashir about this as well and I’ll be popping in next week to see how they’re both going. Mr Trax will have some details for counsellors and support groups, though I know with you all moving it might be hard to get involved in something like that.” she said as Damar walked her to the door. She turned to face him, giving Damar a kind smile, “I know this may seem scary, but this is very common. They’re both going to be fine. Call me if you need anything.”

Damar nodded, thanking her and saying a quick goodbye. As soon as the door closed he breathed out, leaning his head against the wood of the door, fighting tears. He wiped his face and grabbed his jacket from the peg by the door, walking back to the living room and kitchen to grab his PADD.

“I’m going out…going to get Weyoun’s medicine,” he said, to no-one in particular.

“I’ll accompany you,” Nilig’xal announced, Damar sighing as he saw the Jem’Hadar pulling on his boots. There wasn’t really any point in arguing, Nilig’xal wasn’t someone you could stop from doing what he’d set his mind to do.

They set out, a light drizzle falling from the overcast sky, Damar determined to ignore Nilig’xal for as long as it was possible to do so on this little outing.

“You are worried for Weyoun?” Nilig’xal’s words came out somewhere between a question and a statement.

Damar sighed, “Of course I am! And for Imzadi! She barely sleeps and she’s…she’s so tiny!” He wiped his face again, not sure if it was rain he was wiping at or tears.

Nilig’xal made a contemplative noise, walking silently by Damar for a while.

“Weyoun is small. Perhaps Imzadi is small like him.”

Damar scoffed, “Well if there were any other points of comparison apart from Moe, who is huge, I might be more willing to believe that!”

“That is fair,” Nilig’xal nodded.

Damar stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, “Is there something you wanted to say to me? Some reason you’ve followed me out here, or do you just really like going to the chemist?”

“The chemist has many interesting items,” the Jem’Hadar said, a touch defensive, “But…I do want to speak to you.”

“Well,” Damar swung his arms wide, “Let’s hear it.”

Nilig’xal growled quietly, narrowing his eyes, “Fine. I think Weyoun should return to Borath and I’s bed.”

“You think what?!”

Nil held up his hand as Damar advanced on him, “Just for a few nights, so he can sleep properly.”

Damar clenched his fists, turning away from Nilig’xal on the street. He took a breath, then another, reminding himself that the only effect of him punching Nil in the face would be him breaking a few of his fingers.

“I heard…last night.”

Damar froze, Nilig’xal’s words cutting through his anger like a scalpel.

“You…you heard all of it?”

Nilig’xal nodded, “He’s been dreaming again, hasn’t he?”

The previously night had been particularly rough, with Imzadi barely sleeping for 20 minutes at a time unless Damar was walking her up and down the hall. Eventually she had drifted off and Damar had sat down on the couch, thinking he’d just rest there a moment before putting the baby down in the bassinet. He’d snapped awake an hour or so later to the sound of different kind of crying.

Damar had been so sleep deprived that, for a moment, he’d thought that maybe ghosts were real on Earth, that maybe some mournful spirit was wandering the halls of the apartment. That was until it opened its mouth and spoke with Weyoun’s voice, whimpering softy that someone had taken his baby. No matter what Damar had said Weyoun barely seemed to hear him, and he eventually realised he wasn’t really awake, but was in some strange walking dream. Only when he had taken Weyoun’s hand and led him back to the bed, putting Imzadi in his arms did he seem to calm down and fall into a proper sleep.

It had been strange, disturbing, to hear Weyoun’s soft weeping and being unable to rouse him from whatever dark maze he had been trapped in.

Damar looked down at the concrete, “He just kept saying that someone took his baby. I tried…I said Imazadi was right here but…but he couldn’t hear me.”

Nilig’xal wiped along his jawline, brushing away the raindrops that tended to gather and drip from his horns, “I am not a nurse or a doctor, but I am always awake. And I have seen that when Borath and Weyoun sleep in the same bed, their sleep is deep. They rest well. Moe has been sleeping in his crib for the last week or so. Let them both sleep in the bed together for a few nights. I will help you with Imzadi.”

Damar blinked, “You’d…you’d do that?

The Jem’Hadar nodded simply, “He is your mate, but Weyoun sixth of his line is…dear to me. When we first got Moe back he helped us…and he and Borath are very close. I want him to rest well and be happy again.”

The rain was coming down harder. They were both going to be soaked to the bone by the time they got to the pharmacy. Damar sighed and started walking again, wishing he’d thought to bring an umbrella, or had just waited for the weather to improve.

“Does Borath…did he ever dream? Like Weyoun does?” he asked after a while.

Nilig’xal grunted a yes, “Before Moe…before we ran, Borath used to dream as well. Of tall trees, of wood that whispered stories to him. I’ve heard them speaking of it. They dream of the same place but…different lives. Lives from before the Founders converted them.”

Damar mulled this over for a while. “And what about you? Do you dream of anything?”

Nilig’xal chuckled, “I do not sleep.”

They had reached the pharmacy, but Damar paused outside, not going in despite the rain.

“We’ll try it,” he said firmly, “If Weyoun wants to, of course. He and Borath can have the master bedroom for a while. You and I will take shifts with Imzadi, and Moe if he needs it. You…” he poked Nilig’xal in the chest, “take first shift tonight. Union knows I need some sleep myself.”

Nilig’xal nodded once in agreement, “Agreed.”

Damar nodded back as he stepped into the pharmacy, shaking some of the water off him. Nilig’xal squeezed the end of his plait as he walked in, heading straight to a rotating display of the ‘Hello Owly’ toys Borath collected. Damar watched him pick over the toys, seeing if there was one Borath didn’t have.

Maybe Nilig’xal was right. He had been by Weyoun and Borath’s sides since the end of the war. Not to mention he’d been in a relationship with a Vorta for hundreds of years, he had some experience in the matter.

It was a bitter pill to swallow though, that Nilig’xal might know what Weyoun needed more than he did. Damar mentally shook himself, taking a fortifying breath and walking up to the prescription counter. Petty jealousy wasn’t any use to either him Weyoun right now.

As he had always done in the past he focused on the practical tasks right in front of him: getting Weyoun’s medicine, asking him if he’d like to sleep in with Borath tonight, taking him for a walk tomorrow.

He just had to focus on that…

~*~*~

It was remarkable what a difference a night of much needed sleep made.

Weyoun woke the next morning to a world much brighter than the one he had inhabited yesterday, the sound of Borath’s breath as he slept beside him comforting and familiar. He had felt so guilty last night, convinced he was a terrible mother who after only two weeks was needing time away from his child, but even that feeling seemed a little silly now he’d slept. Of course he needed sleep! Everyone did! (Well, except Nilig’xal.)

Borath woke with a long stretch not long after. He rolled over, giving Weyoun a lazy smile, “How did you sleep?”

“Like the unborn,” Weyoun chuckled.

“I’m glad,” Borath said. He pointed to the small pill bottle and glass of water on the bedside table on Weyoun’s side of the bed, “Don’t forget to take your medicine.”

Weyoun picked up the bottle, turning it over in his hand, “But…I feel better. Maybe I don’t need it.”

Borath yawned as got up, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching under it for his slippers, “If you don’t take it you have to be the one to tell Nurse Visser why you didn’t…”

A terrifying thought! Weyoun quickly opened the bottle, “Well, it won’t hurt to give it a try…”

“Good plan,” Borath meandered around the bed, pulling a soft cardigan out of the laundry basket as he passed and slipping it on. He leant down and kissed Weyoun on the cheek, “Stay in bed for a while. I’m going to see if Nil and Damar need some help with breakfast. I’ll get Damar to bring Imzadi in if she’s up.”

“Thank you,” Weyoun squeezed Borath’s hand, “for everything.”

“It’s nothing,” Borath said, squeezing back, “we’re family.”

The morning passed in the usual pattern of feedings and changings and watching Mummy Targ and Daddy Targ and Toby deal with the problems of the day. Today Toby had Andorian mumps but still wanted to go to a birthday party; a true quandary and a still a more compelling plot than the Never Ending Sacrifice, Damar found himself thinking.

A little after lunch, when Moe had gone down for his afternoon nap and Weyoun was sitting on his bed, giving Imzadi a bottle of the new (fattier) milk delivered that day from the milk bank. Damar walked into the room, watching Weyoun as he fed the baby for a moment before announcing himself.

“Hi…” he said, flopping down on the bed, holding out a little yellow daisy to Weyoun, “For you!”

“For me?” Weyoun took the little weed, smiling at Damar over the top of it, “What’s the occasion?”

Damar shrugged, “No particular occasion. I’m more trying to butter you up.”

“Oh? What do I need to be buttered up for?”

“Because I want to ask you out…on a date.”

“A date?” Weyoun chucked, “I gave birth to your child two weeks ago, isn’t a date a little redundant?”

Damar shifted up the bed, resting his head on one of Weyoun’s legs, “You said you wanted us to take it slow. I think a little walk around the neighbourhood, just the two of us…that’s a nice start. You never know, I might even let you hold my hand.”

A smile tugged at one corner of Weyoun’s mouth, “I’ll have to be on my best behaviour then. What about Imzadi?”

“Borath’s already said he’ll watch her for a little while. We’ll only be gone an hour, she’ll probably sleep the whole time.”

Weyoun gave a little exhale out his nose, already weakening, “Well…alright. But we walk slowly! I know what you’re like, you march everywhere and my legs are shorter than yours!”

“We’ll go as slow as muba-snakes, I promise,” Damar sat up, taking Weyoun’s hand that was holding the daisy and kissing the back of his knuckles, “When do you want to go?”

“Let me finish her lunch feed and get her down for her rest, then we’ll go.”

Damar smiled broadly, “It’s a date.”

Outside, it was a lovely spring day, the breeze pushing puffy white clouds across the sky. Damar took Weyoun’s hand as he came out of the apartment building’s atrium, strolling slowly down the street. They didn’t speak for some time, Weyoun just enjoying the sound of the water in the canal and the vibrant green of the fresh spring growth on the trees.

This was nice. Nicer than Weyoun had thought it would be. The fresh air, the sights and sounds of this quiet little part of the city. He felt so…calm. His worries about Imzadi seeming a little smaller, a little more manageable, when exposed to the sunshine of the outside world.

After walking a little while and crossing one of the stone bridges that dotted the canals they came across a bunch of planter boxes, a rainbow of tulips growing inside, the colours so vibrant that to Weyoun’s poor eyes they looked like clouds of pure colour. Bunches of them were for sale and Damar bought two, a yellow bunch for the kitchen table and a pale pink bunch for Weyoun’s room.

“They’ll look nice, brighten the place up,” he said as Weyoun reached out, running his fingers over the petals.

They took a long slow circle of the street running on either side of the canal and eventually came to some benches shaded by cherry trees. Weyoun complained of tiredness and they decided to sit for a while and watch the water, Weyoun wrapping his arms around Damar’s bicep and leaning his head onto his shoulder.

“Thank you…for suggesting this,” he said softly, “It’s so nice out today.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Damar replied, moving his arm so it was draped over the back of the bench, Weyoun fitting against his side, “So…does this count as a successful date?”

Weyoun made a contemplative noise, “Semi-successful.”

“Semi-successful?!” Damar was outraged, “I bought you flowers!”

“But you didn’t buy me anything to eat! I think you’ll find most successful dates involve food of some kind, Damar.”

“I’ll buy you a bag of chips from the corner store on our way back,” Damar chuckled, picking a cherry blossom petal out of Weyoun’s hair where it had fallen, “And you can call me Corat, you know. You did give birth to my daughter.”

Weyoun looked up at Damar suddenly, “Are you…” he paused, blinking, “A man giving away his first name. That’s a significant act on Cardassia. A sign of deep trust…deep emotion.”

Damar placed his fingers under Weyoun’s chin, tilting his head up, “My first name was always yours Weyoun. You only ever had to ask.”

And then Damar leaned down and kissed him, gently, like he had kissed him every time before and yet somehow completely unlike it. Weyoun sighed, head feeling light as Damar moved to nuzzle at his neck, has hand coming to rest on Weyoun’s soft waist.

They were so wrapped up in each other, just two new parents enjoying a moment of peace by the water, that they didn’t hear the click of a camera shutter going off from across the canal…

Chapter Text

“Happy birthday to you,

Happy Birthday to you,

Happy birthday dear Mo-oe!

Haaaaaappy birthday to you!”

Everyone clapped and cheered, Moe looking around, somewhere between confused at all the fuss and revelling in the attention. He threw his head back and laughed, clapping his hands along with everyone, not quite in time. As he looked up and back he smiled, reaching up to touch the shining centre of the world, the whole universe in fact: his mumma’s face smiling down at him, haloed by sunlight and the beautiful bright blue sky.

“Blow out the candle baby…look, right there, big breaths.”

With a few puffs (and a little help from his Dad), Moe blew out the single candle on the centre of the heavily frosted cupcake Borath was holding in front of him to more applause. He squealed, delighted, as Borath picked the candle off the cake and handed it to him, immediately mashing it into the general area of his mouth.

They couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day for Moe’s birthday picnic, a fact everyone was thankful for considering how temperamental spring weather could be in Japan. Keiko had made the suggestion of having Moe’s first birthday party at one of her favourite parks in Japan, a place up in the hills surrounding Kumamoto City, since the day itself would fall at the height of cherry blossom season. They could combine it with hanami, barbeque some food, and all around have a relaxing afternoon.

“Remind me again what this hanami is?” Damar had asked as he followed Weyoun up a small trail to the park ground, grunting as he carried the baby bag, one of the coolers, a picnic basket, not to mention a few of the picnic blankets thrown over his shoulder.

Weyoun (carrying only Imzadi in her sling) spoke over his shoulder to him, “It’s a traditional Japanese custom. People get together and enjoy the cherry blossoms while they last. It’s all about appreciating the transient beauty of nature.”

“It’s a chance to get drunk outside and eat barbeque,” Miles said, coming up beside Damar as they walked up the hill, also weighed down with food and coolers, not to mention Keiko’s mother’s special orthopaedic outdoor chair, “Ah, Jesus, why are all these parks at the top of bloody mountains?”

Damar gave a short chuckle, struggling and weighed down himself. He looked sideways at Chief O’Brien. Of all the humans Damar had met in his time here, Miles O’Brien was by far the pinkest. He’d known that among Andorians in particular, humans were often referred to as ‘pinkskins’ but he’d always thought it was a little strange, humans were by far nowhere near as pink as Andorians were blue for instance. Seeing Miles O’Brien huff and puff up the hill however, he could understand it.

They soon got up to the park grounds and found the little barbeque area they’d booked for the afternoon, starting to set up. The group consisted of Damar, Weyoun and Imzadi, Borath, Nil and the birthday boy, the O’Briens (plus Keiko’s mother), Julian Bashir, Garak, and, a late addition, the Klingon academic Garak had become fast friends with on the space bus: Valkra and her twins.

The day was beautiful; the sky a pale, endless blue, the cherry blossoms crowded on the branches of every tree. It was a little cool for Damar’s tastes but the sight of many of the humans in the park wearing short sleeves made him think that it was perhaps just him. The little group set up their blankets, brought out far too much food (including birthday cupcakes made by Borath), and Miles and Julian started up the barbeque while the kids set off, running off some of their pre-lunch energy.

Damar sat down on one of the picnic blankets next to Weyoun who had undone Imzadi from the sling and set her down on her belly to stretch out a little. Just like Moe she had been fast to raise her head and develop upper body strength, though her teeth didn’t seem to be coming in as quickly. She was filling out too, the extra colostrum in her milk doing its job and transforming a lanky newborn’s body into a plump baby’s one, with rolls in her legs and chubby little cheeks.

Weyoun smiled down at her, handing her one of her favourite toys, a floppy, long eared rabbit toy that had become known as Softy Bunny, to cuddle. Today was a good day. Imzadi was happy, the sun was warm, and Damar was handing him a cool drink, welcome after the walk uphill to get to the park grounds.

Weyoun looked out over the park, watching Nil let the small children use him as an extension of the play equipment, Moe hanging on to one of his father’s arms. In only a short period Moe had graduated from walking to running, and he, Kirayoshi, and the Klingon twins were off like tiny rockets, Moe almost as big and as mobile as K’lana and L’kana despite them being 9 months older than him. He seemed to take their roughhousing with good humour as well, though he had growled at K’lana when she bit him a little too hard, causing Borath to profusely apologise to Valkra.

She had only laughed in response, “Please, don’t worry yourself. The girls need to learn they can’t bite like they used to do back on H’atoria. Its good practice for them, they’ll be in a day care with all kinds of species once classes start up again at the University.”

“Indeed,” Garak said, bringing Valkra a plum wine and soda, “I was just reading that Cairo University has one of the most diverse teaching faculties in the Sol system.”

“It’s a point of some pride,” Valkra gave an amused snort, “Or so the head of the xeno-sociology school keeps telling me.”

Valkra and Keiko’s mother all fell into conversation after that, Valkra and Mrs Ishikawa (“Please, call me Haruna!”) trading stories of the universities they’d worked at and the struggles particular to working in the social sciences. Borath settled down between Keiko and Weyoun in a patch of shade, helping himself to the inari-zushi and a piece of rolled omelette.

Soon it was time for lunch (a combination of Japanese yakiniku, Rokeg blood pie and a Persian zucchini frittata), then birthday cupcakes, then Moe got to open his presents. Damar couldn’t help but smile, watching Nilig’xal gently help Moe rip at the first present’s brightly coloured wrapping paper to reveal a set of wooden fruit and vegetables, complete with little play knife and saucepan so he could play at cutting and cooking them.

“Oh! They’re so cute!” Borath sounded more delighted than Moe (who had quickly moved on to the next set of wrapping paper), “He’ll love them! He’s always trying to help at dinner time. Thank you Julian!”

Julian smiled warmly, “I had a set just like it when I was about his age. Toys like that are great for developing his manual skills too.”

Borath was so happy, practically glowing from under a wide brimmed hat he’d bought to protect his pale Vorta skin from the sun. Moe gave a delighted yell of ‘Toby!’ as he revealed his next present, a large soft toy version of Toby Targ (complete with his Magical Bat’leth of Friendship sewn onto one of his hooves) from the O’Briens.

With the presents done, the group settled down in the warm afternoon sunlight, everyone picking at the copious amounts of remaining food, chatting and watching the children play. While most of the mammalian members of the party seemed to be falling asleep after a big meal, Damar felt energised, the warmth of the sun spreading through every part of his body. He was almost starting to feel jumpy when Garak caught his eye, silently inviting him for a walk around the park with a jerk of his head.

Damar left Weyoun and Imzadi with the others, spread out on blankets and chatting with Borath and Valkra about when to introduce solids to Imzadi’s diet. He and Garak walked around the edge of the park, near the tree line, Garak remarking how much Terran cherry blossoms reminded him of kana flowers.

“See, that’s what makes you pure Lakatian northerner,” Dama gave a chuckle, “Obsessed with every twist and turn of the kana tree.”

“Quoting Iloja of Prim to me, are you?” Garak snorted, “So rare to find such culture from a military man.”

“Mmm, especially when this military man comes out of the swamps of Lakar. Not a lot of kana trees growing that far south…”

“Very true, which does bring me to why I’ve asked you to come for this little walk,” Garak pulled a small box wrapped in pale gold tissue out of his pocket, “I know today is supposed to be about the birthday boy but it’s a significant time for Imzadi too.”

Damar took the little box from Garak’s palm, carefully pushing aside the tissue and opening the lid. Inside was a delicate blown glass windchime. Damar gently pulled it out, unable to help the smile that grew on his face.

“I had to do a little research, I’ve never had to have one made before,” Garak said, looking very pleased with himself, “She’s born in the month of Cajorn, making her birth flower the Drowsy Touch-me-not, I believe.”

Damar turned the little bauble over in his palm, admiring the delicate clusters of orange flowers, the petals little drooping tear drops, painted around the round bell of the chime. A hardy little flower. The edges of the water in the swamplands of Lakat were covered with them during Cajorn, one of the last blooms of summer generally. Hardy but pretty, a flower associated with the silk harvest and the change of the seasons.

“It beautiful, Garak. Thank you,” Damar carefully put the chime back in its padded box and wrapped the tissue back around it, “Did you have it sent from Prime?”

“Oh no, Julian helped me find an artisan here. It seemed appropriate, she’s a child of many worlds, our girl.”

They continued walking through the park in silence for a while, the small box a warm weight in Damar’s hand. It felt strange, to be holding something so very Cardassian here on Earth. Wind chimes were the traditional gift you provided to a baby the day of their skreb-ket, the day they were bought out of their mother’s bedroom and officially introduced to the family. In traditional households, Cardassians often lived in large extended family groups, several generations living in sprawling compounds that were added to and built upon as the family expanded. After a hatchling was born, mother and child retreated to a specially designated room (one that provided both privacy for bonding and protection from the germs of the larger family while the baby was at their most vulnerable), emerging after a Cardassian month to a party welcoming the baby officially to the family.

Thinking about it, Imzadi was a little young for her first chime, only a human month, not the seven weeks that made up a Cardassian one. But still, as Garak had said she was a child of many worlds.

“When are you going to anoint her?” Garak asked after a few moments. An interesting choice of words on Garak’s part: not ‘if’ but ‘when.’

Damar shrugged, “I’m not sure. It’s going to be hard to find the things we’d need for it…”

Garak tilted his head to one side, making a contemplative noise, “True, sand from all of the Seven Deserts would probably be hard to find in this part of the Quadrant.”

“Not to mention water from the Twelve Oceans…” Damar scratched at his head, “Besides, I’d want to talk to Weyoun about it, see what he thinks. I don’t think he’d say no, but…you know…”

“You don’t want to be making any unilateral decisions about your child at this delicate stage,” Garak offered.

“Basically.”

“A sound strategy,” Garak said dryly.

They walked on, Damar only speaking after they had rounded the halfway point of the park grounds and were heading back in the direction of the barbeques, “So…how are things going for you? That hotel room must be getting pretty expensive by now…”

Garak looked at Damar askance, “I’ve moved into one of those short term stay apartments actually, they have a few floors of them in the same building. They’re a little cheaper by the day, not that money’s an issue.”

“Not with Dr Bashir sharing the bill at any rate…”

Garak gave Damar a sharp look, “Julian was desperate! What was I going to do? Send him back to that mould-infested slum, or worse to his mother?”

“I’m not making any comment,” Damar put his hands up, “Are things…getting a little better for you two?”

Garak gave a sigh, “It’s difficult to say. Some days…some days it’s like we were never apart. Others feel like we’ll never be able to be together again.”

“Do you two want to be together again?”

“I don’t know…” Garak faded off, and for a moment Damar thought he wasn’t going to say anything else, then: “All I do know is the worst times with him are a hundred times better than the best times without…”

Damar smiled, “That sounds like a line from Iloja of Prim.”

“Sadly it’s only a line from Garak of Lakat.”

Damar was just about to suggest Garak start a collection of poetry of his own, when an Orinion man, dressed plainly and with a practiced casualness about him, appeared in front of them both.

“Good afternoon, Legate,” the man said, before Damar could even blink, “Having a nice little party today? Lovely weather for it…”

Damar didn’t get a chance to answer, the flash of a camera going off in his face. He blinked, temporarily blinded.

“Got anything you’d like to say to your wi- Hey! What the fuck?”

By the time Damar could see again, the Orinion was on his knees, all his belongings, not to mention a very expensive looking camera on the ground, its lenses rolling away.

“Oh, do pardon me!” Garak said, squatting down to help the photographer gather his things, “I really need to lie down. I swear, that plum wine goes right to my head!”

“Idiot!” the Orinion brandished his camera and one of the lenses in Garak’s face, “If this is broken I’ll be sending you the bill!”

He stormed off, throwing a few more expletives at Damar and Garak over his shoulder. Damar waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Garak, hissing at him urgently.

“How did they find me!? How did they find us here?”

Garak’s eyes narrowed, watching the man as he crossed the park and got into a small transport, “I don’t know. We’re not being followed, I would have noticed that by now. Maybe he just got lucky…”

Damar couldn’t believe how calm Garak’s voice was, “What about those photos? We have to get them off him!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too concerned about that,” Garak held up his index and middle fingers, a mini-data rod, the kind used in professional cameras, held between them, “I am so terribly clumsy in my old age.” He turned to face Damar, “Listen, let me look into this. Things have been pretty quiet on Prime so far with the divorce, but who knows what stories are in the works with the news services.”

Damar scrubbed a hand over his face and head, “Did you hear what he said? He was asking if I had anything to say to my wife! I’m pretty sure there’s something in the works!”

“True,” Garak mused, “As I said, let me look into it. The vole may not be in the tasper run just yet. Let’s not let it ruin Moe and everyone else’s day.”

They returned to the group, Weyoun smiling up at Damar as he sat down next to him on the picnic blanket.

“Is everything alright?” Weyoun asked, putting a little knitted bonnet on Imzadi’s head as the breeze picked up, “You look worried…”

“We’ll talk about it later, it’s not important now,” Damar pulled the baby bag closer, “Do you want her cardigan? It’s starting to get cool out…”

“Yes please,” Weyoun cocked his head to the side, noticing the little box half hidden in Damar’s hand, “What’s that there?”

“Oh…” Damar blinked, he’d almost forgotten about Garak’s gift, “It’s a present from Garak, it’s for Imzadi.”

Weyoun shifted closer, pulling Imzadi onto his knee as Damar undid the wrapping and opened the box, pulling out the wind chime and holding it up so it caught the light. Imzadi blinked up at it, giving a little gurgle and reaching her pudgy fingers towards it.

Weyoun made a curious noise, “It’s lovely. What flowers are those around the outside there?”

“Drowsy Touch-me-nots, it’s her birth flower.”

“That’s important, isn’t it? On Cardassia…” Weyoun gently touched the fine glass, “What’s your birth flower?”

Damar chuckled, “Well, I was born in Thratton…”

“Thratton 42^nd, if I recall correctly,” Weyoun gave him a cheeky smile.

“You always did have a good memory,” Damar smiled back, “The birth flower for Thratton is athequinus.”

Athequinus, a rare flower that only bloomed for two weeks of the year in the one remaining patch of rainforest on Prime in Morfan Province; wide dark blue and purple blooms with long dripping stamens and a distinctive scent. Damar had always felt having such a rare birth flower was a little wasted on him, he was nothing if not ordinary, much more suited to a Striped Ragweed or a Lek-rose.

“Tell me more about the birth flowers,” Weyoun leant his head against Damar’s shoulder, holding Imzadi on his knees and taking the cardigan Damar offered, slipping it onto her arms and doing up the ties, “And about the wind chimes, I want to know about them too.”

Damar tucked the chime back into its box, putting it carefully into his pocket. He pushed the thoughts of the photographer out of his mind, trying to do as Garak asked.

“Well…I was never much of a history student, but I think it started with the Hebitians…”

~*~*~

Garak woke one morning about a week after the party in the early hours to a very welcome site indeed: the naked form of one Dr Julian Subatoi Bashir next to him in bed; lean and tan, his skin all the more beautiful from the contrast it struck against the crisp white of the bedsheets.

When it was like this, it was fine. When they didn’t talk about the future or the past, when they just were…it was fine. They still laughed, talked, argued about literature and drama, watched tennis matches on the TV (if Julian got to the remote before Garak did), ate takeout on their knees on the bed like they were on permanent vacation, and had sex like they were both going to die the next morning.

Garak got up and padded into the bathroom, splashing some water on his face and running his fingers through his hair. He took the fish oil supplement Julian had recommended, and the vitamins he’d replicated for him to supplement some of the nutrients he wasn’t getting from the food on Earth. Best to take them on an empty stomach a little while before breakfast to let them absorb properly.

He walked silently back into the bedroom, picking up his PADD from the dresser on the way, being sure to dim the screen slightly so he wouldn’t disturb Julian’s sleep while he indulged in a little mindless early morning scrolling.

First he scrolled through his accounts on Fleetsagram, then the Spacebook accounts, then Cardassian social media (Tasper, Prime-chat, Gul-gab), then even a quick check on his one remaining account on Romulan StarSpace (the rest had been banned for spreading disinformation, the nerve) though there was never anything good on that one.

Social media kept up with, Garak moved to the traditional media sources, clicking on the app for (as he had said to Damar) the best investigative journalism within the Union.

The front page for the Culat Observer loaded up.

Garak’s eyes snapped wide open. He sat up in bed.

“Oh…oh no.”

~*~*~

It had been another tough night. Just like Weyoun, Imzadi was fussy and particular, and just like Damar she was stubborn. Despite Nurse Visser’s recommendation that Imzadi be woken and fed every three hours, if Imzadi wasn’t interested in the bottle her parents offered, or if she hadn’t been woken in just the right way, then she’d stubbornly refuse to take it, pursing her lips and turning her head in toward the chest of whoever held her.

Damar had had another long night of wandering up and down the hall and around the living room. Despite Weyoun doing better after a few nights in with Borath, his new medicine, and daily walks around the neighbourhood, Damar still liked to take the bulk of the ‘B shift’ as he had started calling it, napping during the day to catch up on sleep.

“Come on silk-bug,” he’d said, exhausted and desperate at some point around 3am, watching as Imzadi turned her head away from the bottle again, “I know you’re hungry, you barely had anything from the last bottle. How about if you hold Softy Bunny, will that help?”

Imzadi did eventually take the bottle, her face almost saying she was doing her father a favour by deigning to do so. She fell asleep not long after (funny how that worked), and Damar had carried her back into Weyoun’s room, settling her down into the bassinet with Softy.

Weyoun eyes blinked open, hovering just above sleep, “Did she drink?”

“She did,” Damar whispered, “Finished the whole bottle.”

He turned to go, only to stop when he heard Weyoun’s voice again:

“Wait…” he said softly, “Stay…just for a little while.”

Damar turned back towards the bed, hand still on the door knob, “Are you sure?”

Weyoun nodded, “Very.”

It wasn’t the first time Damar had fallen asleep in Weyoun’s bed, though it was the first time he’d been invited to stay. The few times it had happened in the past couple of weeks it’d been because he was so exhausted he’d sat down on the end of the bed after putting Imzadi down and had just collapsed, waking up a few hours later when she’d woken up again.

Damar settled down in the bed, taking his PADD out from his back pocket and slipping it under the pillow, then letting Weyoun hand him some of the sheets. He was certain if he wasn’t so tired he’d feel more excited about being back in bed with Weyoun, would revel more in feeling the warmth radiating from his body and smelling his unique scent (now mixed with Imzadi’s comforting baby smell of talcum powder and milk).

As it was though, Damar fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow…

He barely felt like he’d slept at all when he felt a buzz under the pillow where he’d shoved his PADD. He blinked bleary eyes, rolling over to see sunlight peeking around the edges of the curtains of Weyoun’s room. Still early...

He dug his PADD out from under the pillow, rubbing a hand over his face as a message on the screen from Niala swam into focus:

<call me when you wake up>

Ugh. That couldn’t be good.

As he watched the screen another message popped up:

<its important>

That definitely wasn’t good.

Damar slipped out from under the bedcovers, Weyoun making a soft noise and rolling over in his sleep at the disturbance. He walked around the bed to check on Imzadi (still asleep), and then opened the door to the balcony, walking out and carefully closing it behind him. He took a breath, fortifying himself for whatever it was Niala had to tell him.

She picked up after one ring. The first thing Damar noticed was the long black cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth. The second was that she was on the balcony of the penthouse, usually unused due to the dust storms. The third was that she looked very angry.

“Corat!” she said as she picked up, as if accusing him, “Just…hold on. One second, I need to…”

She fumbled with the phone and something else in her hand. For a moment Damar was given a whirlwind view of the city and part of the balcony before coming to a stop, Niala leaning her phone against something, before sitting down on an outdoor chair in front of the screen.

“Are you smoking again?” he asked, watching as she lit the cigarette with a cheap red lighter (the other thing she’d had in her hand with the phone).

“I don’t know. Are you drinking again?” she snapped, taking a long breath and blowing out a cloud of green tinged smoke like it was life itself.

Damar set his jaw, “Is there a reason you messaged, or did you just want to trade insults? Because I’ve got a sleeping baby in there.” He gestured over his shoulder.

“Funny you mention that,” Niala’s eyes narrowed, she took another puff of her cigarette, “Are you keeping up with the news at all during your little self-imposed exile? Because you might want to check the front page of the Culat Observer from this morning, not to mention the Lakatian Times, The Lakarian Post and the Prime Financial Review. Don’t worry if you haven’t,” her toned changed to the biting sarcasm which always put Damar’s teeth on edge, “Someone shoved a copy of the Observer into our mailbox this morning, just in case there was a chance I missed it.”

She reached beside her and picked up an old style newspaper (Damar didn’t even know they still printed them) and shoved it in front of the PADD camera, filling Damar’s screen. His stomach dropped, a blurry photo of him kissing Weyoun on that bench by the canal, another of him holding an Imzadi-sized bundle outside the café near the apartment, filled his vision, the headline above it suitably crass for the Observer:

LEGATE LOVECHILD: LIES AND DISGRACE

Legate Damar discovered NOT on Amleth Prime, found in the heart of Federation space with his Vorta lover and their half-breed child! Triumvirate in tatters, Ocett to make formal statement tomorrow.

“Seven deserts,” Damar hissed through his teeth. He’d expected a certain degree of scandal when he’d told Niala he wanted a divorce, but he’d been hoping he could keep Weyoun and Imzadi out of it, hoping that the press wouldn’t dig for details of the illegitimate child Niala was divorcing him for, that they’d fill in the blanks with a half-Bajoran or half-Romulan baby, a common enough story among the upper ranks of the military to almost make it banal.

“I suppose this was inevitable,” Niala seemed to calm a little after see put the paper away, perhaps seeing the shock on Damar’s face, “Ocett and her boy were over this afternoon, she’s going to announce your resignation in the morning,” she sighed, ashing her cigarette into an old mug, “Between that and Kell awaiting trial for treason, it’s not much of a Triumvirate anymore. Gul Partan-”

“He’s a gul now?”

“Mm hmm,” Niala nodded, giving Damar a knowing look, “That happened a few weeks ago. He says they’re going to try any run elections in the next few months, get the Detapa Council up and running again,” she gave a sigh, “Honestly, I don’t think her government will last that long. Rumour has it Lemec and that old letch Hadar are planning on making a move against her.”

“Lemec!” Damar blinked, shaking his head slightly, “I thought he was still in Federation custody…” Lemec had been in charge of the brief occupation of Betazed, ruling it from the hastily built Sentok Nor, until the Betazoids had repelled the Jem’Hadar and Cardassian forces and captured him.

“Prisoner exchange. His wife bought in her eight sons and had them all cry on cue in front of Ocett for the return of dear papa, she managed to find a few Klingon officers in our prisons to offer for him,” Niala shook her head, “I knew she’d regret that.”

“You know a lot about this…” Damar said, shifting in his seat.

Niala shrugged, “Ocett has kept me in the loop. At first she seemed to think I was relaying all of this to you, now I just think she likes the company. I don’t think she has a lot of women friends. But anyway…” she stubbed out her cigarette and pulled another one out of the pack, lighting it immediately as she faded off.

“Are you…are you and Sakal safe on Prime? Mala too?”

“Oh yes, we’re safe,” she almost chuckled, “I’m not exactly a political entity Corat, and besides, you know how much the press here loves a wronged Legate’s wife. Athra Dukat’s still living very well off the money she made from interviews and photoshoots after her divorce, and she’s got seven mouths to feed.”

Damar scoffed, “Is that your plan, is it?”

She blew a cloud of smoke right into the camera, narrowing her eyes, “Only widows get pensions, Corat, not divorcees. I can’t keep the penthouse and Sakal in his school with just a Science Ministry pay check and my patents and I’m not moving him again. What did you think I was going to do? Did you think about any of this at all?!”

Damar shrunk down in his chair. He hadn’t. Not in any depth anyway. His pay as a Legate had been going into his and Niala’s joint account since he’d left Prime, he only drawing on what he needed to get to Earth. After that he’d barely touched it at all, so much was just provided for free here. He knew after he resigned he’d be entitled to a pension just based on the length of his service, he hadn’t thought about what Niala was entitled to out of that.

“You know I’d always make sure you and Sakal were provided for, Niala,” Damar’s words sounded weak even to his ears, “I’m not abandoning you.”

“Tell that to the Observer,” she said, voice low and mocking, “We can discuss alimony another day. It’s not the reason I called you,” she took another long breath of smoke, “We need to talk about Sakal.”

“Sakal?” Damar’s chest tightened, his heart suddenly beating faster, “Is he alright?”

She rubbed at the ridge above her left eye, a nervous habit of hers, “He got sent home from school today. He got into a fight,” she lifted her hand as Damar opened his mouth to speak, quieting him, “He’s not badly hurt. He’s got a few scratches and bruises and he’ll have a black eye tomorrow. He was fighting because one of the other boys at school…” she looked away from the camera, “One of the other boys called you a ragrat.”

“Oh…” Damar sat back in his chair, unable to think of anything else to say, “…oh.”

Despite the name, ragrats were neither rags not rats. They weren’t even rodents, or mammals for that matter. They were actually a type of grub, grey and covered in flaky pieces of bark they attached to themselves with strings of slime as camouflage, only the pink and grey tops of their heads visible from underneath, giving them the look of a small rodent covered in rags, hence the name.

What made these unfortunate creatures the subject of one of the more crass insults for homosexual men in Cardassian culture was their love of Strangling-Thorn bushes. The thorns of these bushes released a sweet scented white sap in summer, one the ragrats loved, licking at the thorns with pin-like little blue tongues until they were drunk from it, falling to the ground to be picked up and feasted on by voles. The image of a long blue tongue wrapped around a thorn (a common euphemism for the prUt) was a well-known symbol of excess and debauchery, almost the antithesis of everything a Cardassian man should strive to be (strong, restrained, dedicated to the State, heterosexual).

“He’s been in his room since he came home, he won’t come out, didn’t want lunch or a snack,” Niala looked out over the balcony, giving a long sniff, “Mala even offered to take him to the store and to get him a new vid-game and he said he didn’t feel like it,” her voice quavered, “Have you ever known that kid to turn down a new game?”

Damar looked down at his hands, “Do you think it’d help if I spoke to him?”

“I don’t know…but you two need to talk,” Niala stubbed out her second cigarette, “I’ll transfer you through to the screen in his room.”

The familiar brightly coloured, slightly messy background of Sakal’s bedroom blinked into view; the bookshelf with two shelves dedicated to his collection of rocks and toy military ships, his study desk with his bookbag slung onto the chair, the posters of Durgap and some singers he liked…and the unmade bed, Sakal curled on his side on top of it.

“Son…” Damar called out, “Son…can you come over here so we can talk.”

Damar watched Sakal’s back flex in a sigh before he moved, always a good kid, getting up and dragging his study chair in front of the screen and sitting down, “Hello Father.”

Damar winced, not just at Sakal’s distant tone and formal words but at the bruise on his right forehead ridge, the scratches on his cheek, and the beginnings of an impressive black left eye.

“You mother tells me you got into a fight,” Damar started tentatively, “Who was the other kid?”

Sakal sniffed, “Elok Yarrin. He’s in red class, I’m in yellow. He’s big. He picks on everyone,” his eyes briefly flashed up towards the screen, “I made him cry though.”

Damar couldn’t help a brief flash of pride that passed through him, he fought down a smile, “I bet you did. And I bet he won’t be picking on any of the other kids for a while,” he shifted in his seat, moving his face to something a little closer to concerned, “But…you shouldn’t be fighting. It upsets your mother and…there are better, smarter ways to resolve conflict.”

“I know, Father,” Sakal nodded. He looked down at his hands, was silent for some time, “Father, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course. Anything.”

The boy took a deep breath, “…What’s a ragrat?”

Damar felt his throat close. He was sure the blood must have drained from his face. He panicked. “I-t’s a bug, one that looks a bit like-

“No!” Sakal said, eyes flashing up to the screen, “I know what one is. What does being a ragrat mean?”

Damar swallowed, started gently punching his fist into his thigh below where Sakal could see on the screen, “Well, for…some people it’s a rude word for…for men who love other men.”

Sakal was silent for some time, looking back down at his hands, “Are you? A man who…who’s like that?”

Damar took a long breath. For a moment, just a moment, he wasn’t on the balcony in Amsterdam.

...He was sitting on a low wall on the outside of the shitty town he grew up in in Lakar, his thigh pressed against the thigh of his best friend Prelloc and his chest filling with joy when Prelloc told him they’d be friends forever…

...He was newly enlisted and trying desperately to stare only at a chip in the tile on the shower wall in front of him and not at the naked bodies of his fellow soldiers, in case a single stray look gave him away…

...He was being kissed by Rusot in their dorm in the officer’s college in one breath and looking at holos of Rusot’s fiancé in another, agreeing she’s a fine girl and hating her all the more for it…

...And he was lying in the narrow bunk he was assigned when Dukat took Terok Nor, surrounded by the smell of Weyoun, listening to him scrub himself in the refresher, hard enough that no-one could tell they had been together…

Damar blinked, a warm line of wetness trailing down his cheek, “Yes, son. I…I am a man who’s like that.”

He felt a rip through his heart as he saw Sakal’s face crumble. The boy took a long sniff, trying to blink away tears.

“B-ut why? You and mother are married. S-she’s not a man…”

“It’s…it’s complicated, son.”

“No!” the boy interrupted, voice strained, “That’s just what grown-ups say when they don’t want to explain! That’s not good enough!”

“Son, I love you…and your mother. This doesn’t change that.”

“You love that…that Vorta too!” Anger filled Sakal’s eyes, “Vorta are from the Dominion! They’re bad! Everyone says so!”

“Vorta are slaves in the Dominion, Sakal, a lot of them have no choice about what they do!” Damar tried to keep his tone even, tried to stay in control, “And yes, I love Weyoun. He’s your sister’s mother and-”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Sakal groaned out, sobbing, “He’s a boy! Boys aren’t mothers! A-and Imzadi isn’t a Cardassian, she doesn’t look o-other babies. None of this makes any sense!”

He dissolved into sobs, Damar wishing desperately that he could reach through the screen and pull his son into a hug. He tried to think of something, anything, he could say to make this make sense to an eight year old.

Sakal took a long sniff, scrubbed the back of his hand across his face, “Just stay on Earth. Stay with the Vorta. W-e don’t need you here. Me and Mother and M-mala can look after ourselves.”

“You don’t mean that, son.”

“Yes, I do! Just stay there and don’t come back,” Sakal set his mouth and straightened his back, seemingly having come to a decision, “I have to do my homework now. You’d better go.”

“Alright,” Damar breathed in and out, then met Sakal’s eyes, “I know you’re angry, and I know this is a confusing and difficult situation. But I love you son, and I know one day this will…well, I hope this will make sense.”

Sakal didn’t meet his eyes, clearly not believing him. He spoke simply, “Goodbye Father.”

“Goodbye…son.”

Damar’s PADD flashed to blackness. For a moment he sat on the balcony before looking down at the time displayed on the face of the PADD. Only ten minutes had passed. It felt like an eternity.

In a strange sort of haze he walked back into Weyoun’s bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He felt rather than heard Weyoun roll over and sit up, a warm hand slipping inside his own and pulling him down onto the mattress.

“Did…did you hear all that?” Damar asked, voice breaking.

Weyoun nodded, wrapping one arm around Damar’s chest, wiping the tears off the Cardassian's cheeks with the other.

“I love you, Corat,” he whispered.

It was then, at the sound of his first name, that the dam within Damar broke, and he really started to cry.

Chapter Text

Cheese.

Cheese was very good.

It wasn’t as if Cardassia didn’t have cheese of its own, but the kind produced from zabu milk had never really taken setting well, only able to produce a watery curdy cheese that was most useful as a spread on bread or savoury biscuits. It wasn’t the flavourful firm to hard rounds of cheese that Earth produced from its variety of livestock animals. Damar had recently discovered the many delights of Gouda after Nilig’xal had bought back a few different wedges from the local farmer’s market one day after a trip out with Borath and Moe.

Damar used a small blunt knife to cut another slice off the cheese chunk he’d gotten out of the fridge, sighing and putting it in his mouth. Something tugged at his arm and he looked down, Moe was standing by the couch, the little red walker cart which had been his birthday present from Weyoun and Damar dragging behind him.

“Zadi!” he said firmly, squatting down to pat the bed of the cart, “Zadi…”

Damar pushed himself up with one elbow from where he was lying on the couch, looking over at where Imzadi was amusing herself on the floor on her play mat, reaching for the soft toys that dangled from the play mat’s arch.

“I don’t know soldier,” Damar said, chewing on his cheese, “That might be a little dangerous. I don’t think Weyoun would approve…”

“Zaaaaaaaaadi…” Moe patted the cart bed again, almost slapping it, “Zadi…”

Damar made an uncertain noise but was already getting up, “Alright, but you have to be gentle.”

He padded the cart bed with a blanket and put a small pillow from the couch at the head of it before carefully laying Imzadi down in the walker, propping Softy Bunny next to her. Moe made a delighted noise, stamping his feet on the ground with joy. He took hold of the handle of the walker and started slowly pushing Imzadi around the room, stopping next to various toys and putting them into the cart with her, babbling in his nonsense talk the whole way.

Damar smiled, realisation dawning on him. Moe was taking her to the shops. The smile faded as soon as it appeared, realising why Moe was feeling the need for this play-outing: he and Imzadi hadn’t been outside the apartment for almost a week now, Borath and Weyoun both wanting to avoid them being photographed by the continuing presence of the one or two paparazzi which had parked themselves outside the apartment. They didn’t even want the kids out on the balcony off Weyoun’s bedroom, though the back balcony which overlooked the courtyard of the building complex was still alright, so at least they could get a little sun.

Damar cut off another piece of cheese, giving a long sigh as he watched Moe hand Imzadi half a wooden carrot (only for her to immediately throw it across the room, the little lad running after it good naturedly). This was all his fault.

Niala had called him back about half an hour after he’d finished that conversation with Sakal, sympathetic and just a little exasperated.

“You never do anything by halves, do you Corat?” she’d said with a sigh, rubbing a hand over her face, “I’ll speak to him. He’s upset now, but he’s a kid, he just needs a little while to digest all of this. It’s going to be alright.”

He’d had to take her word from that. He hadn’t heard a thing from Sakal since, though Niala had sent him some papers about the divorce a few days later. How good of her.

If there was one good thing about this whole mess though, it was that it had bought him and Weyoun closer together. Weyoun had held him while he cried and they had spent the better part of that day in bed just talking, getting up only to care for Imzadi and to get food when the urge took them.

“You know, there are a great many worlds that have social taboos around homosexual activity,” Weyoun had mused, gently coming his fingers through Imzadi’s curly hair where she see was laying between them in the bed shaking one of her rattles, “It’s always been one that’s mystified me.”

“Really?” Damar asked, “More than any of the other standard prejudices?”

Weyoun shrugged, “Gender…sex…it’s all so arbitrary. I’ve had so many different permutations and combinations of genitals and genders over my lifetimes, all for the service of the Founders. Being attached to any one of them…it was discouraged,” he paused, giving a small smile, “It was considered…solid to be too attached to one form or another.”

“Is that why…” Damar’s eyes flicked to the rise of Weyoun’s hip, then moved down to the softness of his stomach, hidden behind the fall of the pyjama shirt he was wearing, “Is that why you don’t mind being called Imzadi’s mother? I’d wondered…they just seem to call you that here without question.”

“Oh, they asked me what I wanted to be called when I got here,” Weyoun piled a few of the pillows behind him on the bed and sat up, “My pronouns, preferred terms and such. There were forms I filled out at the hospital. I already knew from the research the Dominion performed on the Alpha Quadrant that the most common word for the parent who gives birth here was mother, so I just chose that,” He tilted his head to the side, thinking for a moment, “And besides, the word mother…it has a nice resonance to it, a good feeling on the ear.”

“A good ear feel?” Damar chuckled, “Is that a thing?”

“It is when your ears are this sensitive!” Weyoun said archy, running a finger along the rim of one long ridged ear, almost teasing.

After that Damar had started sleeping in Weyoun’s bed, a vast improvement over the couch in the living room, in his opinion. Waking up next to Weyoun, having Imzadi close, the conversations he and Weyoun had started having about their future together, it was what was keeping him going as his life back on Cardassia seemed to be imploding.

The feeling of a second little tug on his sleeve bought Damar back to the present. Moe was standing next to him again, this time holding out his hand expectantly, Imzadi still in the cart but now covered in half the toys in the room.

“Here you go,” Damar cut off a small cube of cheese and gave it to Moe, “Don’t tell your Mother I’m ruining your lunch though.”

“Yum-yum,” Moe said, toddling over to his little bean bag and plopping down into it, looking expectantly up at the TV.

“Yeah, I reckon it’s Toby time too, soldier,” Damar picked up the remote, setting up a playlist of Toby Targ episodes (season four, the ‘Mummy Targ becomes Captain of a Bird of Prey’ arc). It was 11 and Damar needed to get Imzadi fed, changed, and hopefully down for her midday nap. Plus, he should probably try to get out of his pyjamas at some point today…

He picked off the toys Moe had piled onto Imzadi and took her out of the cart bed, picking her up and holding her close. She made a grab for his nose, squeezing at the ridge that ran down it and gurgling happily.

“You’re not missing Mum too much are you, silk-bug?” Damar asked, Imzadi giving a little cough and rubbing her face into his shoulder, “I didn’t think so. Come on, Dad’s going to get you fed and settled so you can wake up happy for Mumma when he gets home.”

Damar got up, replicating a bottle of formula for Moe (his pre-lunch snack – his appetite was still legendary) and getting Imzadi’s bottle ready for her. Weyoun, Borath and Nilig’xal had transported over to the Federation’s Department of Immigration and Planetary Colonisation offices in Neo-Shanghai, meeting with their caseworker to finalise some of the details for the move to T’Kerras. They were all hoping there might be an actual moving day after this meeting.

Damar handed Moe his bottle and was just about to find a spare towel to hang over his shoulder to protect his clothes while he fed Imzadi when he heard a tap-tap-tap at the kitchen window, the one that overlooked the back balcony. Damar looked over and sighed, seeing an expectant looking Garak peering through the window.

“How do you keep sneaking in to the complex?” Damar grumbled by way of greeting as he let Garak in, “They’ve changed the codes for the access doors twice in the past month!”

“Oh, Damar, never underestimate how lax people’s personal security is when they’re in a space they feel comfortable. I was going to call for you to buzz me in but I just walked in when someone was leaving,” Garak responded with a flourish of his hand, the one not holding a canvas bag, “Now, how is our girl today?” He looked expectantly towards Imzadi.

“She’s just about to have lunch and a nap, so if that’s another bag of clothes for her, the fashion show might have to wait until after she’s woken up,” Damar closed the back door after Garak, “Actually, make yourself comfortable at the table there. You can feed her while I get Moe his lunch.”

“All by yourself this morning?” Garak asked as Damar handed him the spit-up towel, Imzadi and then the bottle.

“Mmm, Weyoun and the others are doing some paperwork with the Federation this morning,” Damar pulled out Moe’s sectioned lunch plate and started pulling some things out of the pantry and fridge to start his lunch. It’d be just something quick: crackers with hummus and mashed avocado, the leftover steamed carrots from last night’s dinner, some fruit, and a yogurt if he was still hungry afterwards

“Ah, very good. That means we can talk,” Garak tried to fit the bottle to Imzadi’s mouth, only to have her make a dismissive little grunt and turn her head away, “Oh, we’re going to be difficult today are we, Queen Nasian?”

Damar chuckled at Garak’s reference to Queen Nasian, a famously picky eater from the early Hebitian Period, “Hopefully she’ll eat something else in her life than zabu milk and stone fruit. Try just holding the bottle for a while, sometimes she needs to remember she’s hungry.”

He started mashing the avocado up, “So, what did you want to speak about?”

Garak made himself a little more comfortable at the kitchen table, “So…I’ve been thinking about your little situation-”

“Little!” Damar snorted.

“Perhaps not little,” Garak rested the bottle on Imzadi’s stomach, gently running his hand over her head, “I’ve also been speaking to some of my contacts back on Prime. This isn’t going away Damar, not any time soon. And the political situation there is becoming increasingly precarious.”

Damar arranged the crackers on Moe’s little plastic plate, then the carrots and a small handful of grapes and cut apple pieces, “Yeah…Niala mentioned something about that.”

“I think there is still something we can salvage though, but I have a feeling you’re not going to like my suggestion.”

“I never like your suggestions,” Damar gave a snort, walking back into the living room and pausing the TV, much to Moe’s dismay.

“Oh, it’s not that bad soldier,” Damar picked up the wiggling and whining Moe “You can watch Toby for a little while after lunch. Come on, you love hummus.”

It actually wasn’t clear if Moe did like hummus. It was a source of some speculation in the household whether he, and Imzadi, had inherited the ability to taste from their respective fathers. Not long after arriving on Earth Julian had suggested testing Moe’s tastebuds by offering him a slice of lemon to chew on. Moe had reacted to the lemon with the same enthusiasm with which he approached all food however and the mystery remained…though a few slices of lemon had become part of Moe’s snack rotation.

“Here we are. Mmm, yummy lunch for Moe,” Damar settled Moe in his high chair and put the plate and a sippy cup of water on the tray for him.

Moe picked up the cup and waved it at Damar, “Milk…miiiilk!”

“You just finished a bottle. You can have another milk when you finish your lunch,” Damar said firmly. Borath had been (half-heartedly) trying to wean Moe off formula, starting by limiting it more to snack or aperitif status, but it was hard when he was such a hungry little chap. Moe responded to Damar’s edict by throwing his sippy cup on the ground in protest.

Damar sighed, leaning down to pick up the cup. He needed to get Imzadi fed and down for a nap, he didn’t want to fight today, “How about some apple juice instead of water? You like that.”

He poured out the water and placed the sippy cup into the replicator to fill it with apple juice, an offering which was received with much more grace. Moe tucked into lunch and Damar sat down with a sigh, ready to help if things got messy.

After a moment he remembered Garak was sitting at the kitchen table too.

“Ah, you got her drinking, that’s good,” Damar nodded at the sight of Imzadi taking her bottle from Garak’s hand, then gave a pause, “Sorry, were we talking about something?”

Garak shook his head slightly, “Oh, nothing important, only the impending political and social collapse of our homeland.”

“Oh…yeah. That.”

“As I was saying,” Garak shifted Imzadi in his arms, “I know you don’t like to admit it Damar, but your legacy still means something on Prime…” he gave Damar a stern look as the other Cardassian looked like he was about to speak, “Ah! None of the self-effacing nonsense, just listen to me for once.”

He continued, “Despite what you may think from the press coverage, you still have a lot of support amongst the people, the war ended less than a year ago remember, and that matters. You still have a lot of sway and…if you chose to use it, you could be a powerful force.”

“For you ends, I suppose,” Damar used a damp cloth to wipe some hummus off Moe’s chin.

“For the ends of preventing Cardassia from descending into anarchy! You can pretend you’ve washed your hands of our homeland all you like Damar, but I know you don’t want your other child growing up on a planet that’s torn apart by civil war, or ruled by that slimy vole Lemec.”

Damar rubbed a hand over his face. His morning had been so peaceful; just him, the babies and his cheese. Couldn’t he go back to that?

“Can you just cut to the chase, Garak? What is it you want me to do?”

Garak took a breath, “I think you should do an interview with the Cardassian press.”

Damar couldn’t stop the burst of laughter that bubbled out of his chest, “Oh yes, I can see that going wonderfully!” He imitated holding a microphone to his face, “Tell me Legate, have you always been a degenerate, or did your Dominion lover trick you into being one?”

“Once again you underestimate me, Damar. Media work was never my particular speciality in the Order but I know how to build a narrative. Everything would be very carefully arranged and vetted by myself to show you in the best possible light…and prop up Ocett’s government as well.”

Damar said nothing for some time, rearranging some of the food on Moe’s plate and picking some of the larger cracker crumbs off the front of his shirt. He watched as a glob of avocado and hummus fell on the front of Moe’s shirt. Ugh, of course he forgot to put a bib on him.

Garak placed Imzadi’s now empty bottle on the kitchen table, jogging her in his arms, “I’m sure you’re aware that life on Cardassia for people like us…” he paused, looking away for a moment, “For people like you and I, Niala and Mala as well, it isn’t easy. A man like you…a hero, a patriot, being open about who you are, it could change things so much. For the better.”

“I don’t want to be a symbol Garak, I never did,” Damar wiped off the glob of food of Moe’s shirt, “All I want is to be with Weyoun, raise my daughter, try and rebuild some sort of relationship with my son.”

“But that’s exactly why you should do it,” Garak said, just as Imzadi gurgled contentedly in his arms, stretching her arms out, “This dear little creature won’t be a baby forever. She’s going to grow up, there will come a point where she wants to learn more about her homeland, maybe she’ll even want to go there. Don’t you want that place to be better than it is now when she asks you about it?”

Moe finished his last grape with a pleased noise, patting his hands on the tray of his highchair and looking around for more food. Damar stood to get a yogurt tub from the fridge and a spoon.

“I don’t know Garak…” he gave a sigh, “How would I even get there fast enough to make a difference? I’m not sure Ocett will last the month, let alone the 7 weeks it’s going to take me to get there on an express space bus. And I don’t want to leave Weyoun and Imzadi for that long.”

Garak gave a tight smile, “The Federation, and Starfleet by extension, have a vested interest in an at least somewhat stable Cardassia. My Federation contacts are well aware of your presence on Earth, Damar. I’m sure we could arrange for a slightly faster mode of transportation than a space bus. Weyoun and Imzadi would be more than welcome on the trip as well.”

Damar’s hand clenched around the teaspoon he was holding. He couldn’t believe he was even entertaining this.

“It’d only be one…just one interview. And Weyoun and Imzadi wouldn’t have to appear on camera…”

“A reasonable request,” Garak stood, Imzadi giving a little murmur at the movement, “I’m sure that could be accommodated.”

Damar turned to face him, “And only if Weyoun agrees. He needs me and…I promised I’d never leave him again.”

“Never let anyone say you’re not a romantic, Damar,” Garak put Imzadi over his shoulder and patted her back to burp her, “Now, I’m going to change her, because she’s smelling a little ripe. Then I think we’ll have a little while before her nap to try on a few of the outfits I bought, hmm?” He picked up the bag he’d bought with him, thrusting it into Damar’s hands.

Damar gave a short groan, “She doesn’t need any more clothes Garak! She’ll grow out of whatever you’ve made there before she gets a chance to wear it!”

“Garak’s Clothier’s Junior Miss Summer Collection is all adjustable for the growing figure!” Garak said archly, “Now, there’s a few things in there for Moe as well, I found a Toby Targ print stretch jersey in the fabric district in New York that’s made a very fetching set of pyjamas for a certain big boy. You’d better finish his lunch, we don’t have all day.”

~*~*~

Despite the quiet morning, the afternoon turned into an eventful one. Weyoun, Nil and Borath returned from Neo-Shanghai earlier than expected and not alone: bringing with them a young Edosian man in a non-descript Starfleet uniform, conspicuous only in its lack of pips or other identifying markers.

Moe was tearing around the apartment like a creature possessed, worked into a froth by the present of his new pyjamas from Garak, and refusing to either take them off or go down for his nap. When he heard the tell-tale sound of the front door unlocking he sprinted towards it, Damar trying to keep up, straight into Nilig’xal’s wide arms, who immediately lifted him off the ground and into a hug.

“Dadda, look! Toby! Loooook!” he squealed, wiggling around in Nil’s arms.

“Did you get a present? They’re beautiful!” Nilig’xal rumbled.

Damar came into the hall and stopped short, noting not just the unexpected visitor but the tension in everyone’s faces.

“Ah, Legate Damar,” the Edosian said with that strangely pitched, slightly grating, voice so typical of his people, “What an honour we finally get to meet. And with Mr Elim Garak as well, one of the Galaxy’s most well connected tailors. This is a pleasant coincidence.”

Damar, who had been vaguely aware of Garak’s presence behind him in the hall, could almost feel Garak slip into a more predatory state, seeing a threat come into his territory, another breed of spider perhaps.

“I hate to impose but is there somewhere Mr Garak and I could speak privately? We have some things to discuss.”

“We can use the back balcony,” Garak said simply, eyes hard and narrow, voice suddenly severe and cutting. An effect slightly undercut by the little pinafore and bloomer set (covered in a cheerful bumblebee print) he was neatly folding.

The two of them walked down the hall towards the kitchen, leaving the others in the hall. Damar let Nil and Borath walk past him, taking a hold of Weyoun’s hand when he came closer.

“Who is that?” he whispered urgently, giving Weyoun’s hand a comforting squeeze, “What’s happening?”

Weyoun seemed nervous, “I…I’m not sure. He met us when we were leaving the Immigration building, said he wanted to speak to us all together. His name is Ek. He was one of the Federation people who first dealt with Borath and Nil when they defected. Where’s Imzadi?”

“She’s having her nap, I put her down a little while ago,” he gently rubbed his thumb over Weyoun’s cheek, “Garak bought over more clothes for her, we’re not going to need anything new for her for a few months at least. She’s got more clothes than both of us combined at this point.”

That managed to draw a smile from Weyoun who leant in, letting Damar wrap his arms around him.

Garak and Ek spend some time out on the back balcony, the residents of the apartment going about their business inside and trying to act like they weren’t on edge. Nilig’xal put another load of washing into the fabric refresher, Borath read a story to Moe on the couch, Weyoun and Damar started folding and sorting the new clothes. After a little while the buzzer on the front door sounded, Weyoun getting up to let in a slightly harried looking Julian Bashir.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, putting a medical kit down on the kitchen table, “Garak told me to come as soon as I could, I assumed someone was sick.”

Garak and Ek came back in from the balcony not long after, Garak taking a seat next to Julian on the couch.

“Ah excellent, everyone’s here,” Ek rubbed all three of his hands together, “We can begin.” He turned first towards Damar and Weyoun, “Legate, the Federation and Starfleet Intelligence are very…interested in Cardassian politics as they currently stand. As I’m sure Mr Garak has explained, a stable Cardassia with a leader friendly, or at least neutral, towards our interests in the region is something much preferable to an unfriendly one, or your Union descending into civil war. At the current time, the leader most likely to provide that is Legate Ocett and we are highly supportive of any efforts on your part to shore up her regime. Mr Garak has explained his plan to me and we’re very happy to provide anything to you to facilitate it…”

“Plan? What plan?” Weyoun said, looking at Damar beside him.

Damar took Weyoun’s hand, “The plan I hadn’t agreed to yet. Or at least I thought I hadn’t…” he shot Garak a sharp look.

“That doesn’t tell me anything about this mysterious plan…” Weyoun looked between the three of them, Garak, Damar and Ek.

“A strategic media offensive targeted specifically to shore up the Ocett regime and diffuse attention away from her political rivals,” Ek explained (rather unhelpfully).

Weyoun’s eyes narrowed, “What kind of media offensive?”

“An interview with the Cardassian press,” Garak said, “Or perhaps a series of interviews, we still have to iron out the details.”

“Wait! Series of interviews?” Damar interjected, “I haven’t even really agreed to one!”

“Interviews…” Weyoun sat back in the couch, head tilting to one side. Damar could almost see him become more like Five, “It would take the wind out of the paparazzi offensive, that’s for sure. And the right questions could be very effective…”

“Whatever you decide to do Legate, there will be a Luna-class ship ready to take you and your family to Cardassian Space at top warp in three days. That brings me to my next point…Mr Nilig’xal, Dr Bashir, there’s a situation unfolding that requires your attention,” Ek reached into a pocket and bought out a small holo-projector, pressing a button to show a map of a south-eastern quadrant of Federation space, “This is Bellatrix II in the Oran System, it’s not far from a stretch of space that’s largely controlled by the Orion Syndicate. A team of Vulcan exploratory geologists were surveying the planet when they discovered a crashed shuttle.”

The image of the planetary map switched to a holo of a plainly dressed Vulcan woman standing next to a shuttle that looked like it had been through the ringer.

“They found survivors from the crash nearby…” the holo switched, another Vulcan now standing next to two Vorta near the entrance of a cave. Borath gave an audible intake of breath, sitting straight up in his seat.

“That’s a Yelgrun! And an Eris!” he said, holding onto Moe tighter, “Luaran was running with them and…and a bunch of others…”

Ek nodded, “Yes. We believe at least part of one of Luaran’s escape groups was intercepted by the Orion Syndicate and captured.”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with Nilig’xal or I though,” Julian spoke up, arms crossed over his chest, “There’s nothing about two Vorta that can’t be handled by a standard medical team.”

“The Vorta aren’t what we need your help with. The Vulcan team have reported that the Vorta escaped with two Jem’Hadar,” the holo-photo switched to a closer image of the cave and moved in, enhancing a hulking, vaguely Jem’Hadar shaped shadow barely visible in the darkness, “They’re holed up in that cave, low on white and the Vulcans have asked for Starfleet assistance. Dr Bashir, you’re the Federation’s leading expert on Jem’Hadar and white withdrawal…”

“I’m the Federation’s only expert on Jem’Hadar and white withdrawal,” Julian interjected flatly.

Ek continued as if he hadn’t heard him, “And Mr Nilig’xal is well…a Jem’Hadar. His expertise in the matter should be obvious. We will require you both to leave quickly. The Enterprise is in space dock off the Mars Colony shipyards, ready to take you as soon as you can leave.”

Nilig’xal sat stock still. His brothers…two of them, free like he was! His throat felt like it was closing, he put one of his arms around Borath’s shoulders and pulled him closer, feeling one of Borath’s hands rubbing over the horns on his chin.

Ek went on to explain that the Federation had mining interests on Bellatrix II, making this mission technically classified, hence Starfleet Intelligence’s involvement. Nilig’xal and Julian would be the only ones allowed to go. Borath paled at this news.

“Oh! I almost forgot. On the positive side though, the houses on T’Kerras will be ready for you all within a week,” Ek said, as if he hadn’t just pulled the carpet out from under all of their feet.

In the end, it was decided that Borath and Moe would go with Weyoun, Damar and Garak to Cardassia, while Julian and Nilig’xal went to the Oran System, something Damar only grumbled a little about.

“We’re not leaving him to handle the move to T’Kerras by himself, Corat,” Weyoun said that night as he jogged Imzadi in his arms, supervising Damar as he packed their suitcases, “It’d be awful on him and on Moe.”

“Handle the move?” Damar gave a snort, “That Ek fellow is having his people,” Damar rolled his eyes at that, “…come and pack everything up and do all the work, he could have moved into a hotel for the next few days then just hopped on a liner straight to T’Kerras!”

“She’s going to need more outfits than that,” Weyoun was barely listening, nodding at the (too small) pile of baby clothes Damar had bought in from the nursery, “Hmm, I should probably pop out tomorrow morning and buy her a little case of her own, then we don’t have to worry about where we’re going to fit her toys.”

“Probably a good idea,” Damar huffed a sigh, “Since we’re planning, what are we going to do about baths? Should we bring the baby bath or do you think the USS Ganymede will have something we can use?”

“That’s a good point. I might send the ship’s counsellor on the Ganymede a message. Ek gave me his number and said I should contact him if I had any questions…” Weyoun sat down on the edge of the bed, “I was thinking, should we…get Sakal a present before we leave? You said he was very interested in Earth, and fossils too. I’m going to pop over to London to do some shopping. I could go to the Natural History Museum there, pick up a nice big book about Earth fossils maybe?”

Damar paused, then looked up and gave a small smile, “That’s a…that’s a great idea actually. Thank you. I’m not sure if he’ll even see me though…”

Weyoun came closer, pressing a quick kiss to Damar’s cheek, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

The next morning, Julian and Ek appeared at the front door of the apartment to collect Nilig’xal. He seemed more nervous this morning than he had yesterday when discussing their plans after Ek had left, adjusting and readjusting the duffle bag Damar had lent him for the trip.

Nil kissed Borath, then kissed him again, then kissed Moe on his forehead and cheek. They spoke softly for some time, tears in Boraths eyes, before Nil kissed them both one last time and started to walk towards the door.

He stopped in front of Damar, giving him a firm look, “You must make sure Borath, Weyoun and the children are safe on Cardassia. They are…precious to me.”

Damar was suddenly taken back to morning a little over a year ago, when a Jem’Hadar had shoved a silent baby into his arms and almost thrown them both into a barely functional planet skimmer.

They are life.

“They’ll be safe,” Damar nodded, grasping Nil’s shoulder, “I give you my word. They’re…precious to me too.”

“Good,” Nilig’xal nodded, “Be safe yourself as well.

“I will. You too.”

Damar heaved a sigh as he watched Nilig’xal walk down the street with Julian Bashir and Ek. Borath’s nerves were rubbing off on Moe and he was grizzling and wriggling in his mother’s arms. He’d probably set Imzadi off before long. Damar just hoped they both calmed down before Garak got here, he was popping around in an hour or so to talk more about these ‘series of interviews’ Damar was apparently doing.

In three days, after a whirlwind of goodbyes to Trax, the nurses at the Birthing Centre, the prosecution team, and Keiko and Miles (of course), plus more last minute shopping than either Damar or Weyoun had prepared for, they met with the counsellor from the Ganymede, ready to beam aboard and begin their trip back to Cardassian space.

Chapter Text

Second shift ended almost an hour ago, and Weyoun is still waiting. He’s not nervous though. He knows Damar will come.

There’s a mirror in the refresher in his room here on Terok Nor and he walks over to it, looking at himself, turning his head from side to side slightly. Like all Vorta, he has a very limited sense of aesthetics; he knows when he looks the same and like he usually does, or if there is something off…something not quite right, like if his hair needs cutting, or he’s fasted too long and there’s no colour in his face anymore.

Before now, those were the only things he ever cared to notice, basics of grooming and health, the things he needed to notice in order to keep his body functional and presentable for the Founders. Now though, he finds he wishes he could appreciate his face, his body more, the way other species were able to. Could figure out some way to enhance his features with cosmetics, like the new Cardassian engineers who had just arrived on the station, with their sleek hair and perfect blue makeup, could figure out how to make himself more…appealing somehow.

At the moment however, all Weyoun can do is run his comb through his hair and put a little of the perfume he bought from one of Quark’s dabo girls on his neck and wrists (just like she showed him how to), and then tidy his quarters a little.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer though, soon there’s the sound of his door chime and he goes to answer it. There on the other side, tall and dark and smelling just a little of kanar, is Damar, one arm propped above his head against the frame of the door so he leans over Weyoun even before he walks in the door.

“Evening…” Damar says, voice low and smooth.

It feels like a stone has dropped straight into the pit of Weyoun’s stomach, he stutters slightly as he answers “Y-you’re late. Come in.”

He turns his back to Damar, purposely ignoring him until he feels a hand snake around his waist, pulling him back so they’re flush together.

“I wanted to stop by Quarks before I came,” that voice whispers into his ear, the other arm coming over Weyoun’s shoulder and showing him a bottle held in his hand, “I know you don’t like kanar so I picked up something different, Bolian sparkling wine. I think you’ll like the bubbles.”

Damar’s lips press against the curve of Weyoun’s neck, making a low noise. Weyoun takes a shuddering breath in.

“Was it that busy at Quark’s that it took you an hour to get one bottle of wine?”

Damar chuckles, “Don’t be like that. Half of the officers were there, I had to have at least one drink with them. Now come on, I’m on a mission to find at least one liquid you enjoy drinking that isn’t poison.”

Weyoun gives a theatrical sigh, fighting a smile, “I’ll try it, I suppose. Get some glasses,” he tries to sound commanding, in control of this situation, not like he wants to forget the Borian whiskey or whatever it is and just get thrown onto the bed right now!

Weyoun feels another chuckle vibrate into the skin of his neck, teeth scraping sightly, “I don’t think we need glasses…”

The bottle is already unstoppered and Damar presses the rim to Weyoun’s lips, tipping it up so the liquid flows into his mouth, slowly, not enough to overwhelm him. Weyoun can’t stop the soft moan that comes out just as he starts to drink. The hand around his waist starts to snake upwards. Damar’s lips press more kisses up the side of his neck until they brush against the edge of his ear causing Weyoun to shiver. The bottle catches the edge of his mouth and the Bolian wine spills all down the front of his clothes.

“What a mess,” Damar almost purrs. Suddenly Weyoun is pressed against a nearby wall, Damar pulling open his clothes, “We’ll have to clean it up.”

Then he’s licking and kissing, teeth scraping at Weyoun’s neck and chest and Weyoun can’t help himself, he groans and is surprised at the volume of it. He needs this, so badly, it feels like his whole body is throbbing with need, centering to a dull point between his legs when Damar presses one of his thighs between them.

“What a mess...” Damar says again, “What a big mess…”

Weyoun groans again and wraps his arms around Damar’s neck just as strong hands reach under his buttocks and lift him up.

“What a messy baby…”

Weyoun’s eyes open, “What was that?”

“…a messy baby…” Damar says into his chest.

“I’m sorry…I’m not really…” Weyoun pushes him back slightly.

“There’s vomit everywhere...”

.

Weyoun opened his eyes, properly this time, the walls of Deep Space 9 being quickly replaced by the Ganymede’s crème and grey colour scheme. The space beside him in bed was empty and he looked over, quickly taking in the sight of Damar holding Imzadi out at arm’s length as she whimpered, a remarkable amount of vomit (really, how could there be so much of it when she barely seemed to eat anything!?) all down the front of her sleep romper.

“Oh, who’s a messy girl, hmm?” Damar was saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you cleaned up…might just take you straight to the shower…”

“What…what happened?” Weyoun pushed himself up on one elbow, mind still foggy and trying to put pieces together.

“I don’t think that new formula last night agreed with her,” Damar gave a sigh, “Sorry, I was trying not to wake you.”

“No…no, it’s alright,” Weyoun sat up properly, rubbing a hand over his face, “I can’t believe I didn’t hear her cry…”

“She barely got a chance to. I was already up, saw most of it happen,” Damar tried to shift his hold on Imzadi without getting too much sick on himself.

Weyoun looked at the small chrono built into their nightstand, “But…it’s 0300. Have you not been able to sleep again?”

Damar gave a tired smile, “I’m alright. I got an hour or so. Oh Union above, I think she’s pooping! Right, straight to the showers,” Damar started towards the bathroom, speaking over his shoulder to Weyoun, “Would you mind stripping the cot sheets while I get her cleaned up? She got vomit everywhere…”

“Of course, take your time,” Weyoun got up, grimacing as he saw the mess in the cot. No point washing these sheets, straight to the recycler with them and replicate some new ones, “I’ll get her out a new outfit as well.”

“Thank you,” Damar called from the bathroom, the sound of running water already coming from there.

Weyoun gave a sigh, leaning over the porta-cot and starting to gather the sheets. Nothing like waking up to baby vomit to put a rude stop to any amorous thoughts he might have had…

Weyoun balled the sheets up and turned to take them to the recycler. He happened to look up into the bathroom just as Damar peeled his pyjama shirt over his head, throwing it into the corner, showing the scale pattern of his broad back, the scar that broke the ridge on his left bicep, the Engineering Corps tattoo on his back…

Weyoun’s hands clenched around the dirty sheets.

…Dammit.

~*~*~

“Alright, let’s go over it again,” Garak pressed the heel of one hand to his left eye where he felt it start to twitch again, “What made you decide to leave Cardassia and abandon your position within the Triumvirate?”

“Gosh, it’s hard to say for certain. Probably not long after my wife’s lesbian lover moved in and I realised my work was killing me inside.”

“Damar!” Garak slammed his hands down on the table between then, the painstakingly written out question cards he’d prepared scattering, “This whole process would be a lot easier if you’d take it seriously!”

Damar rolled his eyes, seemingly very intent on behaving like a petulant child, “This whole process would be a lot easier if it wasn’t complete tasper shit! No one is going to believe this story you’ve cooked up! It doesn’t make any sense!”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Garak said through gritted teeth, “How many times do I have to explain this to you? People, all people; Cardassian, Human, Tellerite, Bajoran, probably even the Borg; react to emotion. They react to a story, one that speaks to something they already feel is true. The truth,” he held up one hand as if holding an invisible truth within it, “is messy and complex and in extreme cases can mean a horrifying moment of self-reflection for the listener.” He threw the invisible truth away, “Not something we want at all.”

“If we are going to ensure that Ocett’s Government doesn’t end up as a footnote in the history book named ‘Coup of 2377’ we need to construct a narrative people want to believe. One that speaks to their values,” he continued.

“Even if those values list both you and I as degenerates?” Damar said, crossing his arms over his body, “My daughter as an embarrassment, someone to be pitied and sent to an orphanage.”

“Sadly yes,” Garak huffed a sigh, gathering up some of his cards, “The thing about people is you have to meet them where they are, not where you wish they would be. Now…let’s start again. What’s our central narrative?”

Damar groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, “I discover-”

“Ah ah ah!” Garak held up his index finger, “All of it, please.”

A louder groan from Damar this time, “I, staunch servant of the State and devoted father, discovered that a child of mine was born on Earth…”

“…in the bosom of the Federation!” Garak added helpfully.

“Yes, who could forget the Federation’s bosoms.” (Garak chose to ignore that little aside.) “Anyway,” Damar continued, voice flat and reciting like he was reading from a textbook, “I discovered I had a child living on Earth and I had to leave to bring her back to Prime so she could be raised with her people. The Cardassian populace has suffered so much in recent years, all Cardassians must pull together and forget small differences. There is a place for everyone in Ocett’s new Cardassia.”

“Very good,” Garak nodded. He picked up a card at random, “Now, let’s continue…”

~*~*~

The Luna class of Federation ships, of which the Ganymede was one, had an interesting history. Built not long after the discovery of the Bajoran Wormhole and the Federation’s takeover of Terok Nor, they had been designed as scientific vessels, meant for long term, deep space exploration of the Gamma Quadrant. Then the Klingon-Cardassian War had started, the mere prelude to the Dominion War itself, and they had been quickly refitted into battleships, becoming some of the largest and most powerful in the Fleet. No luxury cruise liners here, these were war machines, with very little evidence of their original scientific purpose able to be seen. Though they were fitted out with all the comforts that a Starfleet officer or serviceperson could expect, including a bar (even if it was a little smaller than the one on the Enterprise) and the latest models of holosuites.

Something Weyoun became very aware of when Garak cornered him one morning about halfway through their trip to Prime, and after a very cursory attempt at small talk, asked if Weyoun would perhaps like to take Damar to one of those very holosuites.

“Without the baby, if you catch my meaning…” Garak said slowly (and Weyoun very much did).

Weyoun had just heard Damar storm out of the room he and Garak had been using to help prep him for the interviews, some rather explicit Kardasi that the universal translators didn’t quite pick up (something about Garak’s sister and his father, maybe) coming from his mouth. Weyoun had sighed, patting Imzadi’s back to try and burp her. That was the second time in as many days that had happened. Not that it was a complete surprise; Damar had always hated doing anything with the media once he became Legate, even getting him to do the simplest video for the Propaganda Ministry back then had been one of the most trying parts of Five’s duties.

“He’s very tense,” Garak said, massaging his temples, “And if he storms off like that in the middle of the actual interview…well, I don’t need to tell you how bad that will be.”

“And a night of romance in the holosuite is going to fix that?” Weyoun asked, wiping off Imzadi’s mouth as she burped up part of her lunch (she’d been doing that so much lately…), luckily mostly onto the spit-up towel.

“Don’t underestimate your charms, Weyoun,” Garak reached over and stroked a hand down the back of Imzadi’s head, “You were an excellent influence on him back on Deep Space 9. And won’t it be nice to have a little time just for the both of you? A moment or two of peace before we reach Prime.”

Weyoun made an uncertain noise, “It might be...”

“I’ll make a booking for this evening and arrange for dinner to be delivered. Might I recommend the Risan Temtibi Lagoon at Sunset program, it’s apparently quite popular with couples,” Garak gave Imzadi one last gentle pat on her back, “Wear your green tunic, it’s very becoming.”

Weyoun sighed, watching as Garak made a quick exit from the room, presumably to make arrangements for the evening, “…but the green one has vomit on it.”

Weyoun walked into the little room the ship’s counsellor had set up as a nursery-cum-play room for Imzadi and Moe, Borath tapping at a PADD on the couch while Moe played with some blocks on the floor, chattering away to himself in his baby language. As much as Damar had been uncertain about bringing Borath and Moe with them on the trip back to Cardassia, it had been so good having him here. Not only could Borath look after Imzadi when Weyoun was helping Garak but, through his PADD, he was handling all the last minute details that kept coming up for the move.

Weyoun put Imzadi down onto her play mat, gave her Softy Bunny to cuddle and joined Borath on the couch, leaning against his shoulder.

“I hope Damar doesn’t mind that I’m buying most of the furniture in your house,” Borath said, showing Weyoun a rather full online shopping cart on the Vai’kea webpage.

Weyoun waved his hand dismissively, “You’re doing us both a favour taking care of it all. As long as we have a mattress to sleep on and a place to put Imzadi when we get there, I think he’ll be happy. I know I will be.”

Borath looked over at him, noticing the drawn look on Weyoun face and put his arm around his shoulders, “Is everything alight?”

Weyoun sighed, “Oh yes. I’m having a romantic date on Risa arranged for me as we speak. Garak’s idea. Damar’s…he’s a little on edge.”

“I think we all are,” Borath said dryly, he suddenly gave a long yawn, “Sorry, I’m a little tired, Moe hasn’t been sleeping well. Is Garak being a bit pushy about this date?”

Weyoun didn’t answer for a moment, watching as Moe stood to toddle over, handing both Weyoun and Borath one of his blocks each.

“When did you and Nil start having sex again…after Moe?”

Borath smiled, gave a snort, “Well, in terms of actual time passed: several months. In terms of days lived: only a week or so. When we surrendered to that Vulcan ship they kept us separated for a while, in their holding cells. Though honestly, any room with a ‘meditation annex’ barely counts as a cell in my opinion.”

“Hmm, Vulcans are an odd people.”

“So true. Thank you baby,” Borath took another block from Moe, “But yes, after…I think it was a week, it might have been longer, they moved us to a room together,” He gave a wistful sigh, “…he was so passionate. He always is after we’ve been apart. But…I hardly think Nil and I’s situation is the same as your’s and Damar’s. We both had new bodies, Borath 9 gave birth to Moe, not me. And Nil and I didn’t break up for six months before Moe’s birth.”

“That’s true,” Weyoun nodded.

“Have you and Damar…done anything since he came back?”

“No. I mean…we’ve kissed and there’s been some…you know…”

Borath raised an eyebrow, “Touching?”

Weyoun felt heat rise in his face, “Yes. A little…since we started sharing a bed. But…no sex.”

“Well, that’s understandable, especially since you were recovering from surgery for quite a bit of that time. Did you talk to Julian or Nurse Visser about it at all?”

“Oh, physically I’m fine. Nurse Visser said as long as we’re not too rough and we don’t put too much pressure on the scar for a while sex is fine.”

“I didn’t just mean physically,” Borath shifted slightly as Moe pulled himself up onto the couch for a hug, fitting himself against Borath’s side (he’d been clingy since Nil had left, always sticking close to Borath and Weyoun), “You shouldn’t jump into Damar’s arms because Garak wants you to. You should want to too. Do you want to?”

Weyoun tilted his head to the side, that was a good point, “Maybe…yes? I’m not sure,” he sighed, “It might be nice to have a night with just the two of us. He’s so stressed about this media tour. He’s not sleeping well, barely eating…”

Weyoun was silent for a moment, his eyes drawn to Imzadi where she was wiggling around and kicking her legs on the play-mat, “I…ugh, I told him when he came back I wanted to take things slowly. I don’t want to just…rush into things, even if part of me does want to have sex again.”

Borath made a contemplative noise then pulled up Moe and, in a practiced move, slid off the couch onto the floor, giving Moe a block and sending him back to the haphazard tower he was working on, “I think you’re overthinking this a little. If you want my opinion, I think at the least both of you need a night off from ‘Zadi, these interviews, all of it. It doesn’t have to be about sex either, just… have a nice night together and see what happens.”

“Are you always this sensible?” Weyoun shifted to lay sideways on the couch, reaching out to pat Imzadi’s stomach where she was on her mat, she giving a gummy smile as she chewed on Softy Bunny’s ear.

“It’s a curse,” Borath reached up and squeezed Weyoun’s other hand, “You’re lucky you have me around, I know you diplomatic lines tend to be chronic over thinkers. Would you like me to watch ‘Zadi this evening?”

Weyoun smiled back down at his baby, watching her give a yawn, “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.”

~*~*~

The Risan Temtibi Lagoon at Sunset was everything the ship computer’s description promised it would be and more. A cool breeze was lapping over the water, the sun was warm as it sunk slowly into the horizon and Weyoun took a deep breath as he stepped into the program, the holosuite doors closing behind him.

The program was based on a quite popular resort on Risa, where the rooms were all small bungalows built out over the water. You could walk from your bedroom out onto a patio and step straight into the temperate, still waters of the lagoon. In the non-holographic version of this paradise there were apparently little fish who would come and gently nibble away the callouses of your feet if you sat still in the water long enough, a fact that fascinated Weyoun when he looked up the resort. He hoped they got to go one day so he could see them in action and feel them nibbling at his feet.

Weyoun ran his fingers over the thick mattressed bed with its pristine white sheets, poked his head into the bathroom and examined the expensive looking fittings and towels, adjusted the chairs at the table set for two. He felt…oddly naked without Imzadi, as if he’d forgotten something, despite the fact he knew she was only two floors down and being looked after by Borath.

He stepped out onto the patio, looking down at the water and feeling the breeze on his skin. Almost without thinking he stripped out of his tunic and pants and stepped down onto the little ledge under the water designed to be sat on, and oh…that was nice. So lovely to be in the warm water. He sunk slowly in until he was sitting down, only his head and shoulders above the surface.

It had been so long since he’d been submerged properly in water. The last time had probably been when he went swimming with Keiko, her children and Moe just before winter really set in on Bajor, almost a year ago now! Weyoun paused at the thought…had it really been that long since the day where he’d sat on the shore of a Bajoran lake, held Moe in his arms, and wondered why he was always so bloated and tired all the time?

Almost as a reflex Weyoun’s hands moved to his stomach, feeling the soft skin there, tracing his fingertips over the smooth line of the caesarean scar on his lower belly. Julian had told him during one of Weyoun’s check-ups, that it would be easy work for him to resect and remove the scar completely, he could do it in five minutes with a local anaesthetic and a dermal regenerator in fact. Weyoun had politely refused (he had agreed to Julian removing a few of the larger stretch marks on the sides of his stomach though). Under the Dominion Vorta never had scars, the Founders found them (as they did many other things) distasteful. That alone would make Weyoun want to keep the scar, another little rebellion, but aside from that he wanted it as a reminder, written right into his skin, that Imzadi had grown inside him, her heart beating beneath his own…

“I thought you couldn’t swim.”

Weyoun started and looked behind him, seeing Damar squatting down on the patio right behind him, the start of a smile on his face. He turned properly, leaning onto the patio edge and kicking his legs in the water.

“It was Five who couldn’t swim, I can though. Dax taught me a little after I defected. Water therapy she called it,” Weyoun kicked off from the edge of the patio and did a slow doggy paddle circle in the water.

Damar smiled, “You’re always full of surprises. Is Borath looking after Imzadi?”

“Mm hmm. Why don’t you join me? The water’s lovely,” Weyoun came back to the ledge, “like a warm bath.”

“Well, if you insist,” Damar stood and looked around briefly, “Are we…ah, not doing swimmers?”

Weyoun gave a content smile, he felt so warm and relaxed, “I’m not, but I’m sure you can replicate some if you prefer.”

Damar just smiled back and pulled his shirt over his head, undressing quickly and kicking his clothes away from the edge of the patio before climbing into the water. Weyoun licked his lips, watching Damar undress. Feeling bold, Weyoun sat close to him on the ledge, letting Damar drape his arm behind him and draw him closer.

Damar took a deep breath as he settled into the water. Weyoun could almost feel some of the muscles in his neck and shoulders unknotting as he sat there.

“This is lovely,” Damar said, relaxing more and letting Weyoun perch himself onto his lap, “Did Garak have a hand in it?”

Weyoun stroked his hand down Damar’s face, pressed a brief kiss to his chin, “A small one. But I thought it as a good idea. You’ve been so stressed getting ready for these interviews, I think we both needed a night off.”

“Well…you weren’t wrong about that,” Damar was silent for a few moments, he looked over his Weyoun’s shoulder at the horizon, “It’s not just the interviews. It’s seeking Niala again, talking to Sakal, even how the public and the other Legates are going to react to you and Imzadi…Borath and Moe too. I…I just want you to be safe.”

Weyoun kissed him again, properly this time, “And we will be. We’re not there on our own, the whole time we’re there there’s going to be a Federation warship in orbit around Prime. And if you’re worried about what people will say, don’t be. I’m a Vorta, we’re not exactly popular, even within the Gamma Quadrant. There’s even a saying about it amongst our people, that ‘we have no friend but the Founders.’ Whatever any Cardassian has to say about Borath or I, or the children, we’ve heard a lot worse, believe me.”

Damar looked at him sideways, “You know that’s not a good thing, right?”

Weyoun chuckled, “No, it isn’t. But if it means we can get through this trip, do the press tour, and then start our new lives on T’Kerras, I’ll take it,” he kissed Damar one more time, wrapping his arms around his neck, “In another life we almost bought the Federation and Klingon Empires to their knees. We can handle a few rude Cardassians and your ex-wife.”

Damar finally kissed him back. When Weyoun pulled back he was pleased to see a smile on Damar’s face for the first time in days, “To be fair, you haven’t met Niala…”

Weyoun laughed, letting Damar kiss down his neck, hands gripping his hips more tightly. They didn’t spend long in the water, not as long as Weyoun would have liked, but the sun got lower and the water cooled quickly, forcing Damar out and both of them to the bed.

It was better than the dream, better because here Damar could take more time, could kiss the scar on Weyoun’s belly, murmur some terrible Cardassian poetry into his ears…

“Iloja of Prim isn’t terrible,” Damar almost growled, nibbling on Weyoun’s collarbone, “And ‘would that I could touch you as the sunlight does’ was one of his greatest works! You just don’t appreciate the First Republic romantics.”

“Mmm, tell me some more of it and I might change my mind,” Weyoun said, hooking a leg over Damar’s hip.

Damar smiled down at him, licked his lips.

“Would that I could touch you as the sunlight does, my darling…”

~*~*~

Nilig’xal’s second trip on the Enterprise was uneventful. He found himself restless and spent most of his free hours during the day working through the Klingon training programs available in the holosuite, left there by a previous head of security. During the evening and night he would eat dinner with Doctor Bashir, read (or try and read, it was hard to concentrate), record messages and send them to Moe and Borath, and otherwise wander around the ship, sometimes speaking to the people he came across.

It usually wasn’t long before Nilig’xal would run across Lt Cmdr Data during his nightly wanderings, the artificial lifeform, often enough that Nil initially suspected that the android had been assigned as some sort of minder for him. Even if he was, Nil didn’t mind, the Lieutenant Commander was good company and it was easier to spend the long nights walking with someone rather than walking alone. Not to mention, Nilig’xal felt an odd almost kinship with Data, they were both someone else’s creations, both trying to figure out their place in the Galaxy.

Nil would often sit with Data in 10-Forward showing him pictures of Moe and Borath, something he could do for hours, and Data seemed very receptive to.

“He has gained considerable mass since he was on the Enterprise last,” Data said, scrolling through the pictures on Nilig’xal’s PADD.

Nil nodded, “Indeed. He is in the top 2 per cent for head size and length for his age group.”

Data looked up at him, “That is a good thing?”

“I think so. Watch the next video, it’s the first time he ran across the room.”

Data did just that, then looked at some photos of Moe napping on a blanket on the floor next to Imzadi, looking particularly robust next to her slight frame.

“And this is Mister Weyoun’s child?”

“Yes, Imzadi. She’s on the Ganymede with the others.”

Data nodded, “Are you concerned about them travelling to Cardassia? Recent reports have indicated the political and social situation there is highly precarious.”

“A little,” Nil took his PADD back, looking down at the image of Imzadi and Moe, “I wish I could be with them…but this mission is important too. And Borath has always been resourceful, he will keep everyone safe.”

The android tilted his head to one side, “Vorta Field Commanders are known for their inventiveness…”

“Many years ago, Borath sixth of his line once repaired our ship’s gravimetric dissipation node with only some liquid rubber and fabric from his spare jacket,” Nil spoke with no small amount of pride. He fell silent for a moment, scrolling through some of the pictures, “It is hard though…being apart from them. Not having them around at night especially. Do you have any family Lieutenant Commander?”

“I have a brother. Our relationship is…complicated. And…I had a daughter,” Data held his hand out for the PADD, taking it and scrolling through the pictures again, “I built her positronic brain myself…but her neural net collapsed within a month.”

Nilig’xal fell silent, unable to speak all of a sudden. The loss of a child...the worst thing he could imagine in this life.

“I am sorry…” he said softly, “Do you miss her?”

Data scrolled through the pictures for a moment more, “For many years I did not, before the chip. Now…I do notice her absence.”

After three weeks of travel the Enterprise reached Bellatrix II. The only other ship in orbit was the Vulcan scientific vessel which had bought the geologists, the VSV T’Hath. The Enterprise established contact, received the exact coordinates for the Vorta’s crashed shuttle, and soon Nilig’xal and Dr Bashir beamed down.

There are a few security officers from the T’Hath as well as a woman from the geological survey group standing outside the cave. She gave one of the salutes of her people as they approached.

“It’s good you’re here,” she said simply, Nilig’xal appreciating her directness, “We have been providing what medical care we can to the two Vorta but the Jem’Hadar will not allow us to approach.” She paused for a moment, as if considering her words, “The smaller of the two is quite…territorial it would seem. I mean no offense.”

Nilig’xal took none. He and his brothers weren’t exactly known for their even tempers at the best of times, and who knows how long these two had been without the white. He had known the pain of withdrawal a few times in previous lives; the itching, the thirst, the white hot rage of it; and it was not something he would want to repeat.

He and Dr Bashir walked into the cave, quickly spotting the two thin and ragged Vorta sitting on a pair of camp chairs (probably provided by the Vulcan scientists), an espionage unit and an older administrator model. Nilig’xal hung back, catching the administrator’s flinch as he walked in.

“Hello,” Dr Bashir gave one of his best comforting smiles, “I’m Dr Bashir and this is Nilig’xal. We’re here to help you. What’s your names?”

“I’m Yelgrun 19,” the administrator said, voice wary and tired, “And this is Eris 5.”

He gestured to the other Vorta, who hadn’t looked up as they entered, focused on some spot on the opposite wall of the cave she was staring at.

“Nice to meet you both,” Julian said, putting his medical kit on the ground and pulling out his diagnostic tricorder, moving slowly and with a practiced casualness, “So, how long have you been camping out here?”

Yelgrun shrugged, “Before the Vulcans found us, a few weeks perhaps. One of the moons of this planet has waxed twice in that time, if that means anything. I haven’t really been keeping a diary.”

“Fair enough,” Julian gestured towards Eris with his tricorder, “May I..?”

“She won’t stop you,” Yelgrun said. His hands clenched and unclenched where they rested on his knees, “She…hasn’t said much since we got away from the Orinions.”

“How long were you with them?”

“Too long,” Yelgrun said quickly, “They…” he gestured towards the darkness at the back of the cave, “They were in the fighting rings. They broke us out and we stole a shuttle. We…” his voice quavered, “we had to leave the others behind.”

Julian paused his scans and looked up, “The flight logs on the shuttle you stole were intact, Starfleet is already analysing them. We’ll be able to find the others, I promise you.”

Yelgrun gave Julian a look like he didn’t believe him at all, like a lot of promises had been made to him recently and broken just as fast. Julian started running the tricorder over him a well.

“What’s his story?” Yelgrun gestured to Nilig’xal, who had remained unmoving near the mouth of the cave despite itching to walk further in and find the Jem’Hadar hidden within there, “He doesn’t have a white line…”

“I am free,” Nilig’xal said simply, “From the Founders and the white both.”

“Lucky you,” Yelgrun said dryly, looking Nilig’xal up and down, “You don’t wear a Federation uniform. Not a conscript then?”

“The Federation…Starfleet doesn’t conscript people,” Julian said gently, “Especially not refugees. Besides, Nilig’xal is far too busy with Borath and Moe for a military life these day.”

“Borath…” Yelgrun’s head snapped around. He tried to stand, legs almost collapsing under him until Julian grabbed him, steadying him, “I thought…the Legate said he was dead. That his First was dead too. I didn’t think they’d be brought back…”

“The Dominion needed soldiers,” Nilig’xal said simply, “I was bought back. Then I found Borath and bought him back too.” He couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face, “And then we ran, and now we have our son.”

Yelgrun looked like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He blinked, tears forming in his eyes, “And the baby…he’s alright?”

Nilig’xal nodded, “He’s strong, healthy…loves a cartoon targ called Toby. He is with his mother now on another ship.”

The first of many tears rolled down Yelgrun’s face, “Can we…can we see him? Can we go and see the baby…and Borath?”

“Maybe in a few weeks, when you’re feeling stronger,” Julian said firmly, “But first, we need to get you and the two Jem’Hadar who helped you somewhere safe. What can you tell us about them?”

Yelgrun shook himself slightly, “Uh…yes, of course. The two of them…they were fighters. The Orinions kept them angry, never gave them enough white. We stole some when we left but we ran out a few days ago, just after T’Sai and her team found us.”

Julian nodded his understanding, “That’s alright, we bought vials of ketracel-white with us. Nilig’xal, they’re in the side pocket of my kit there.”

Nilig’xal moved quickly, grabbing two vials of pre-prepared white out. He looked down at them, struck for a moment by how he didn’t want them, not in the way he would have back in the Dominion, now only concerned for the pain they could relieve from his brothers.

Yelgrun was still speaking, “…and I think the bigger one, the Third, he was definitely sick, but the Second wouldn’t let us get close enough to look at him.”

“What were their names?” Nilig’xal said suddenly, looking up from the vials.

“I…” Yelgrun’s brow knitted, he looked down, blinked a few times, “…we didn’t think to ask.”

Nilig’xal gave a short grunt. He turned to Julian, “I will take these to them. Do not follow me.”

Julian stood, “I’d prefer it if someone went with you. A few security officers…”

The Jem’Hadar shook his head, “They will not harm me, I have white for them. And besides…I’m a First.”

Julian insisted Nilig’xal wear a communicator at least but let him go. He walked into the darkness of the back of the cave, a small flashlight shining an arc of light in front of him. The further he got back the more Jem’Hadar habitation became obvious; scratches on the walls, attempts at cleaning the cave, moss scraped from rocks and dead leaves swept into piles at regular intervals. An attempt to recreate a regimented life.

He smelled them before he saw them. There was a distinct odour to panic, one Nilig’xal knew well. It was more than the smell of exhaustion and rage that went hand in hand with white withdrawal. It was sharper, more bitter.

“Brothers…” he said, speaking with the command of a First, “I have the white.”

“Stop! No further!” a voice echoed from the darkness, “Did…did the Vorta find more?”

The voice was familiar. But then many Jem’Hadar voices were the same.

“No. I bought it. You…we are free now. We do not wait on the Vorta to bring us the white.”

Only silence answered him for some seconds. Something shifted in the darkness.

“Give it to us.”

Nilig’xal swung the torch around, trying to locate the voice, “I cannot see you…”

Part of the darkness shifted. The Jem’Hadar stepped into the light and all of a sudden Nilig’xal couldn’t breathe. A face he knew, one he thought he was never see again, a spectre of his former life, stared back at him.

“Domed’edon…” he whispered, barely daring to believe it. His Second for hundreds of years, “What…how did you get here?”

For his part Domed’edon looked just as shocked, “You…you left. You left and we…Ookem and I, we knew you’d run. We thought…we thought we could run too.”

A million questions ran through Nilig’xal’s mind, ones he knew had to wait until the Domed’edon and Ookem’umur had had some white. Nilig’xal held up one of the vials of white so Domed’edon could see it then knelt down and rolled it across the cave floor towards him. The other Jem’Hadar snatched it up like the lifeline it was, his whole body shuddering as he clicked the vial into his white dispenser and the first dose travelled up the catheter.

“Where is Ookem’umur? I have a vial for him too.”

Domed’edon’s eyes were still closed, the white feeding all of his systems. Nilig’xal waited until he opened them again before moving closer.

“He is...” Domed’edon looked up, his hands clenched and unclenched, “Come…he does not like to move.”

Domed’edon led Nil further back into the cave, the dim light from entrance getting weaker and weaker. Soon it was so dark that even with his sharp eyes and the light of the torch he almost missed Ookem’umur’s body where it lay on the ground, curled into a foetal position.

Nilig’xal felt his hearts clench as he knelt down near Ookem’s head. Ookem’umur had always been huge, a creature of pure strength and physical power, even by Jem’Hadar standards. Nilig’xal had seen his Third rip arms off enemy soldiers as easily as you would pluck a ripe fregg-peach from the top of its vine. But he barely recognised the thin creature on the ground, his scales dull, bleeding cracks around his lips from dehydration, so different he was from the robust Third Nil had known and fought beside for hundreds of years.

“I tried to give him food and water when the white started running low,” Domed’edon said softly, hesitating for a moment before placing his hand on Ookem’umur’s shoulder, “There is good hunting on this planet, good meat. I hunted some small creatures for the Vorta and tried to give him some too…but he would not eat.”

Nilig’xal nodded his understanding, not looking away from Ookem’umur’s face. He reached out to the other’s Jem’Hadar’s ragged armour, pulling open the flap which protected the white dispenser (whatever the Orinion’s had been trying to dress him and Domed as, they at least had kept that part of their old Dominion uniform’s the same).

“Brother,” he said softly, “I have bought the white. You are safe now.”

Ookem’umur gave a low groan at that, perhaps recognising Nilig’xal’s voice, maybe being able to smell the white in his hand. Nil clicked the vial into place and watched the first dose move up the tube. He frowned. It moved slowly. Far more slowly than it should considering what stage of withdrawal Ookem and Domed where both in…

Ookem’umur moved slightly, uncurling his body from its clenched state. A wave of scent hit Nilig’xal then. One he knew from many campaigns in the Gamma Quadrent. Sickness…infection more specifically.

“He is ill,” Nilig’xal said simply, turning to his Second, “There is a doctor here. He cured me of the white. He is not cruel like Vorta doctors can be. I will call for him.”

Ookem’umur groaned again, seemed to almost try and say something, Domed’s hands clenched and unclenched again.

“There is something…he has been ill for some time. Back in the fighting pits…” he started to say.

“Do not worry,” Nilig’xal said firmly. He knew they would both be reluctant to trust a Federation doctor, any doctor for that matter, “He will feel no pain. Neither of you will be punished for this.”

Nil tapped his communicator badge, calling Doctor Bashir into the back of the cave. Before long he was there, saying a quick hello to Domed’edon before kneeling next to the Third and running his diagnostic tricorder over Ookem’umur’s chest and head.

Julian’s forehead knitted. He was getting some very odd readings from the Jem’Hadar (hormone levels all over the place), but it was probably his body reacting to the white after such a long period of withdrawal. The more concerning matter was the nasty and widespread metra-vradloccocus infection ripping through his bloodstream. Another day or so and he even a Jem’Hadar’s organs would have started shutting down from that assault.

“Will he live?” Nilig’xal asked Julian softly.

Julian nodded, “Nothing a strong course of antibiotics and some proper care won’t fix, but we need to move quickly,” he tapped his commbadge, “Bashir to Enterprise.”

“Enterprise here,” came the voice in response.

“I have one to emergency beam straight to medical. Do you have a lock on the positon of my patient?”

“Affirmative, Doctor Bashir.”

“Excellent. Have him beamed to a secure medbay on my signal, and advise Dr Crusher to be waiting with a security team. He’s very weak but safety first.”

“Understood. Enterprise out.”

Julian leaned in closer to Ookem’umur, “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. We’re going to take you up to our ship where there’s another Doctor who’ll look after you for a while. Just try and relax.”

Ookum’umur groaned again and seemed to shudder. For a moment he seemed to almost be trying to get up, maybe pushing Julian away slightly. His eyes opened and he looked right into Nilig’xal’s, with a clarity that surprised his old First.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” Julian said firmly, “Enterprise, one to beam now.”

As he started to dissolve Ookem made a grab for Nilig’xal’s shirt, hissing out his words, the ones he had been trying to say this whole time.

“…we have sin-”

And then he was gone. Nilig’xal blinked. How odd. He didn’t remember Ookum’umur being particularly devout…perhaps that was Domed’edon’s influence since he left…

“Oh my God…” Julian said out of nowhere. Nilig’xal looked over at him, confused, then followed his eyeline down to the ground where he was staring. Nilig’xal’s jaw dropped.

“He-he was sick,” Domed’edon said, his voice nervous, almost babbling, “He was sick when we ran from the fighting rings and became sicker when we were here. He was the one who found the cave. He came this deep then dug the hole then…then they came out of him and he laid down and w-would not move. Will…will they be destroyed?”

Nilig’xal barely heard any of this. He was transfixed, his mind spinning, hearts almost beating out of his chest as he stared down at the space left empty by his Second.

There, in the dirt made warm by Ookem’umur’s body, dug into a small shallow hollow, shining dark green and speckled with paler flecks of blue and yellow…were three perfect Jem’Hadar eggs.

Chapter Text

“Alright…” Dr Crusher sat down behind her desk, smoothing her hands over the top of it and addressing her senior medical staff who sat across from her, “All the patients are stable at this time so let’s do a debrief, make sure everyone is one the same page. Shall we start with the Vorta?”

“I’ll go first then,” Nurse Ogawa looked up from the PADD she was holding, “Yelgrun 19, the male Vorta, is moderately malnourished and shows signs of several vitamin deficiencies.”

“Not unusual for Vorta, even the ones in higher positions within the Dominion,” Julian said, “When Weyoun 6 defected he was underweight and malnourished as well. It seems that fasting forms a fairly large part of religious practice for the Faith of the Founders.”

“Yes, but having a particularly large Rigellian tapeworm probably isn’t,” the nurse added wryly, “When I found it I wasn’t sure whether to replicate a strong de-wormer or send it to preschool.”

She turned her PADD around, showing the Doctors the scan in question. Both made uncomfortable noises.

“On a more serious note,” she continued, “We’ve also identified Mr Yelgrun as having a KPV infection on his cervix. Klingon Papillomavirus. He’s confirmed that he and most of the other Vorta captured by the Orinions were being kept in a brothel, a few had already been sold on,” she shook her head sadly, “All of his physical ailments are very treatable and we’ve started him on the standard medications. Psychologically, his treatment will probably take years.”

Dr Crusher made some notes on her desk terminal, “That reminds me, we’ll need to brief Counsellor Troi and get her involved in the continued care of these patients. Shall we move on to the other Vorta?”

Julian cleared his throat, “Yes, Eris 5. Her case is a little more complicated. Physically, I’d say she’s in better condition than Yelgrun, no parasites or infections. Yelgrun told us he’s been giving her most of the food while they were on Bellatrix. The problem is with her brain…or rather what the Orion Syndicate did to her brain...”

“We know from Starfleet Intelligence that the Eris line of Vorta have always displayed psychokinetic powers, which is apparently a common attribute of the espionage lines. In what I think was an attempt to dampen those powers, or make her more compliant, perhaps both, the Orinions have placed several implants into her brain. In some places, over the top of each other. The whole thing is a mess and it’s seriously damaged her mind. If she’s not being directly ordered to do something she’s almost catatonic.”

Beverly looked up at Julian, “Didn’t Yelgrun say Eris was the major impetus behind the escape, or am I remembering wrong?”

“No, you’re right,” he nodded, “I have no idea how she did it, some massive final push of will perhaps to get them out. Whatever it was she’s almost completely shut down now.”

“Do you have a treatment in mind?”

Julian crossed one of his long legs over the other, “I’ve been thinking about that and I really wouldn’t feel comfortable at attempting to remove the implants without at least consulting with an experienced neurosurgeon, preferably one with experience working on psychically enhanced minds. I was thinking of calling a friend of mine from the Academy, a Dr Saavei. She’s a very talented surgeon who specialises in psycho-neurosurgery.”

Beverly made some more notes on her terminal, “I’m sure we can arrange that. Let’s move on to the Jem’Hadar. Dr Selar, you’ve been looking after Second Domed’edon…”

“Affirmative Doctor,” Selar gave a single nod from where she stood slightly behind Julian. She was the only person not holding a PADD, her Vulcan memory doing most of the work, “I would describe Second Domed’Edon’s physical condition as middling to good. He has several poorly healed broken bones which he has consented to surgery for my team to reset. With that and physical therapy there is a 94.72 per cent chance he will regain full range of motion in his left shoulder. A less immediate issue is his lack of a functional digestive system. Surgery to implant an artificial stomach and small intestine will be a relatively simple procedure, however the patient seems resistant to the idea on the basis of his…religious beliefs.”

Beverly looked from Selar to Julian, raising an eyebrow.

“Many Jem’Hadar consider abstaining from eating and drinking an act of faith,” Julian explained, “Even the ones who have the ability to do so and access to food won’t eat or drink,” Julian turned slightly in his seat, including Selar, “If he’s not interested at this time I don’t think we should push him about it. We can continue to provide him with ketracel-white for the foreseeable future and it’s certainly something we can revisit when he’s had some time to process what he’s been through.”

Selar bowed her head, “Your conclusions match my own, Doctor.”

“And that brings us to Third Ookem’umur and…the eggs,” Beverly took a deep breath, “So, the source of the infection was some quite severe tearing to the patient’s genitals and perineum, presumably from the birthing process. I’ve repaired the damage and he’s responding well to the antibiotic regimen we have him on. Physically he’s on the mend. Psychologically…I think he’s going to need a lot of very intensive therapy and care going forward. He doesn’t…” she paused, choosing her words carefully, “…from the brief conversations we’ve had his actions on Bellatrix were driven entirely by instinct. He has a vague understanding of what’s happened to him, but there’s also a lot he doesn’t understand. I asked him who the other parent of the eggs was and he seemed confused by the idea in general.”

“Are we certain there are two parents?” Dr Selar said, “Our current information on Jem’Hadar biology does not rule out single-parent reproduction.”

“Our current information on Jem’Hadar biology doesn’t rule out anything we have so little,” Julian gave a snort.

“I did consider that briefly,” Beverly pressed some buttons on her terminal, one of the larger screens behind her desk coming to life and showing scans of the three eggs, “Briefly being the operative word. I performed DNA scans on all eggs and all three of them show DNA typical of two-parent sexual reproduction. In all three eggs, there is one strand definitely from Ookem’umur.”

Dr Crusher flicked the terminal screen to show a close up of two of the eggs, “Where this gets interesting is that only two of the eggs show a second Jem’Hadar parent. I’m going to assume that that’s Mr Domed’edon since from interviews with the Vorta they were the only two Jem’Hadar held by the Orinions in that location. The third egg…”

The screen switched, showing a photo of the remaining egg, the screen split and showing DNA results on the other side. Julian sat forward in his seat

“Oh my god…” he said softly, “Is that…”

Beverly nodded, “Yes, it’s Gorn DNA.”

~*~*~

Nilig’xal looked through the glass window at the room the Enterprise medical staff had quickly converted into a nursery for the eggs. Each of the three eggs had been placed into square glass incubators, one of the nurses placing little pastel blankets around each egg and a soft toy next to them.

“It’s just nice, you know,” the nurse had said as he closed the lid on the final incubator, “To have children on board again. Even if they can’t really run around yet.”

Nilig’xal pressed his hand to the glass. Each time he had been born it had been inside the darkness of an incubation tube. He didn’t have any particular feelings about this, he didn’t associate those memories with fear or any more pain than the usual pain of being born, but he couldn’t help but compare that to the fact that these children would be born surrounded by light. It seemed…fitting.

“The Doctors advise that each eggs’ status is optimal,” Mr Data said from Nilig’xal’s side, drawing his attention to more concrete matters, “They are trying to determine the gestation period. Do you have any thoughts?”

Nil breathed out through his nose, “A Dominion incubation tube operating within normal parameters can produce and gestate an egg to birth every 7.2 days. The Jem’Hadar born from those eggs reach adulthood in three days after birth.”

Data’s head twitched to the side, “Logs taken from the crashed shuttle and the Vulcans indicate the escapees had been on Bellatrix for 37 standard days before our arrival.”

Nil nodded, “And we did not find three extra Jem’Hadar running around when we beamed down. So I don’t think my experience is helpful here.”

“It would appear not,” Data said, “Do not worry. Dr Bashir and Dr Crusher will be able to determine gestation as they continue to monitor the growth rate of the foetuses.”

“Excuse me, Mr Nilig’xal,” one of the nurses said, poking her head into the room, “You asked me to get you when Mr Domed’edon was finished with the doctors…”

“Thank you,” he nodded towards her, then turning back to Data, “Come and fetch me if there is any change with the eggs,” then said a quick goodbye and walked into the medbay Domed’edon had been having some bones re-set in.

“First...” Domed’edon stood to attention as soon as Nil entered the room, “I await your…” he faltered, blinking, the words ‘your orders’ dying on his lips.

Nilig’xal grunted and sat down, indicating Domed should do the same, “There are no orders, brother. We are free. Please…sit.”

At his First’s words Domed’edon sat down, still at attention, right at the edge of his chair. Nilig’xal gave a small sigh.

“There are no orders, but there are many things we should discuss,” Nilig’xal shifted in his seat, “How did you run for one thing? How did you end up with the Orion Syndicate? How did Ookem…” He faded off, not sure what to say

Domed’edon’s eyes shifted around the room, when he finally spoke it was in a low series of gravelly, rolling grunts, coming deep from within his throat, “The old words…please.”

Nilig’xal blinked. It had been so long since he’d heard the Old Tongue. The one thing…the only thing the Founders had allowed the Jem’Hadar to keep of their own culture before their assimilation into the Dominion. It was a point of some pride among his people: that they alone of all the species owned by the Founders were allowed to keep a tongue of their own. Even the Vorta, most precious of the Founder’s servants, had no records of their own language and spoke only the universal Dominionese of the Gamma Quadrant.

Or at least that’s what Nilig’xal had used to believe…before he was free. Before he had really started thinking about the Old Tongue and the Founders. How did he, or any Jem’Hadar really, know that this was the original tongue of the Jem’Hadar apart from the word of those same Founders who had destroyed every other part of his culture? They certainly weren’t known to tell the truth to their servants. Then there was the language itself which contained only a handful of words for emotions, none for familial terms apart from ‘brother,’ but had several singular words for complex battle tactics. It all seemed rather convenient to him.

Still, whether it was the final remanent of Jem’Hadar culture, a creation of the Founders’, or (as Nilig’xal thought) was some combination of the two, it had its uses. Such as now, when Domed’edon wanted to speak privately. Nilig’xal listened intently as Domed’edon explained how Ookem’umur had suspected ever since the day both Nil and Borath’s previous incarnations had been reported dead in the same transporter accident (the day Moe was born), that the two of them had been trying to run, convincing Domed’edon that they could try too, that with the war going poorly this might be their only chance to disappear. Instead of the Federation, Ookem’umur had said they could run to the Klingons, that they would appreciate warriors and maybe a place could be found for them on one of their Birds of Prey.

“Running to the Klingons…freedom with Brother Ookem’umur. Happiness. Hope.”

The word Domed’edon used for ‘hope’ was really only ever used for hope in victory in battle, hope for a glorious death. It wasn’t quite clear from his usage whether he hoped to actually start that new life in the Klingon Empire or simply that a death struggling for that would be worthwhile, but Nilig’xal didn’t question him about it.

Domed’edon kept telling his story. About how on that final day he had followed Nilig’xal to the shipyard where Nil had stolen the runabout which would soon carry him and Borath 10 off Cardassia Prime and then to the hanger where he had hidden it. It was there Domed had seen Luaran and quickly guessed her role in all of this. He had cornered her, begged and threatened and then begged again for her to get him and Ookem’umur on one of her runs.

“Vorta Luaran saying no. Saying the People are too powerful/dangerous to run with. Saying without the Holy White we are powerful/dangerous. Brother Ookem’umur asking as well. Asking many times. Vorta Luaran denying but then seeing us. Seeing us truly. Vorta Luaran agreeing to the run.”

“Seeing us truly...” Nilig’xal repeated back, not sure about Domed’s meaning behind the phrase. (It had been so long since he had heard the Old Tongue spoken aloud, he was falling out of practice...)

“Seeing us…as she saw Brother First and Vorta Borath.”

Ah. That...explained a lot.

It wasn’t unheard of…not even unusual really for there to be the odd relationship between members of a squadron. Just as they had tried to completely remove the urge to eat and drink from their soldiers, the Founders had made many attempts to excise sexual desire from the Jem’Hadar, always failing to get rid of it completely. Officially it was forbidden of course, and some Firsts didn’t abide it, saying it only lead to weakening of bonds within the squad at large but Nilig’xal had never felt a particular urge to police that among his brothers. As long as it didn’t impact on their roles on the ship and their ability to fight he had never seen how it was any of his business. Nil was more surprised that he had never even suspected his Second and Third of being in a relationship in all the time they had been together…

Though…he had been rather distracted the last few hundred years, especially when it came to romantic matters...

“Brother First is angry…” Domed’edon said, bowing his head.

“No…no anger. Surprise,” Nil said quickly, “Happiness…for my brothers.”

“A true thing?” Domed asked, his hands clenching into fists on his thighs.

“A true thing,” Nil answered, placing his hand on Domed’edon’s shoulder and squeezing.

The rest of Domed’edon’s story Nil had already largely guessed. Luaran had gotten Domed and Ookem off-world to meet with one of her other run groups. The group of six Vorta and two Jem’Hadar were ambushed by the Orion Syndicate on one of the planets at the edges of Cardassian and Federation space. Two of the Vorta died, one – a Gelnon – during the initial fight, and another not long after their capture from injuries. All of the survivors had ended up on one of the Orinion Syndicate’s asteroid casinos and Domed’edon and Ookem’umur had found themselves in the fighting pits, Ookem’umur in particular a popular fighter, always odds-on as the winner of any bout.

Domed’edon paused, he picked up a piece of gauze from a tray left beside the examination table and started to worry it between his hands. Nilig’xal waited quietly, giving Domed the space he needed to speak again.

When he did speak again, Domed switched back to Dominionese, either feeling comfortable enough to do so or that he needed a more nuanced language to express himself. His voice was soft.

“With the Orinions we had to fight. Third Ookem’umur was strong, he won every match, but the Orinions wanted more, they wanted him angrier…crueller to those who lost. So they gave us less and less white. When he got less white he…” Domed’edon’s hands clenched, “He wanted…other things. Things we had not dared before. I…I wanted him as well so we did those things, but after a while it wasn’t enough. He went to the others in the pits to be…satisfied. There was a pair of Nausicaans, a Chalnoth warrior, even the Aurelian. I always knew when he had been with her, he always came back covered in feathers. But the one he went to most when not with me was the Gorn Kre’ut. He often shared our cell. He was…good to us both.”

Nilig’xal took a long breath out of his nose. How terrible. That the first time his brothers had sex was in some dirty cell, held in bondage. He paused at that thought, catching himself. Was his and Borath’s first time together really any different? Just a different cell and a different set of masters really. No Gorn watching them though…that was something, he supposed.

“You said…the Federation is looking for the other Vorta, so they can be free too,” Domed shifted in his place, “Do you think…could you ask for them to free Kre’ut as well? I can still fight. I will fight for the Federation if they will free him as well.”

“Oh…brother,” Nil said, he gave a small shake of his head, “You do not have to fight, but I will speak to the officers here about Kre’ut. I’m sure they will free him too.

“Thank you brother,” Domed’edon was silent for some time, he looked down at his hands and the now shredded gauze. “What will happen with Third Ookem’umur’s eggs? You said they would not be destroyed. Will they be placed into stasis until a new Third is required?”

The other Jem’Hadar gave a deep sigh. There were so many things he had to explain he almost didn’t know where to start.

“Come,” Nil stood, Domed mirroring him, “Let us go and see the eggs. We have many things to discuss.”

~*~*~

Vorta minds were not so much unreadable, as they were slippery. They weren’t like the blank high walls that Deanna Troi saw surrounding Ferengi minds, nor were they like the strange static that often bled into her own mind when she tried to read a Breen. No, Vorta minds were something else entirely, like a bar of soft soap always sliding out of her fingers the moment she thought she had a grip on it.

If she had the time or the inclination, Deanna may have been interested in a session of deep meditation with the Vorta Yelgrun (who she had been speaking to that afternoon). She kept finding that it was in the moments she was distracted, when she was speaking to another person, or making a note on her PADD, that the wispy edges of one of Yelgrun’s emotions would brush against her own mind, so quickly sometimes she barely even recognised it until after it was gone.

As she continued to speak to Yelgun however, Deanna found her interest in the strange ‘mind-feel’ of the Vorta brain waning. He was by far one of the most frustrating people she had ever tried to counsel; unwilling to engage, mistrustful, sarcastic and disdainful of her presence in general, his every word delivered with a frustrating smirk. Well, except when he was discussing his favourite topic…

“When will we be allowed to see Borath and the baby?” Yelgrun asked, for perhaps the twentieth time.

Deanna took a calming breath and painted her usual calming smile onto her face, regrouping as she continued her (attempted) debriefing.

“We’ve discussed this, Mr Yelgrun,” she said, “Borath and Motivation are currently on Cardassia Prime on an important matter. Nilig’xal has a great deal of photos and videos of both of them though, perhaps we could ask to see them…after we’re done here. Now, weren’t we discussing what happened when you were captured? You said your friend Gelnon died?”

“Gelnon wasn’t my friend…” Yelgrun said back, quickly and almost snapping, “He was a hatchery worker, I’m an administrator. Our paths didn’t really cross before…” he faded off.

“Before you ran?”

“Yes,” Yelgrun’s eyes flicked down, “He…he was stupid. When the Syndicate caught us he said he wouldn’t be owned ever again. He slipped out of the restraints they had on us and tried to make a run for the forest. They shot him in the back. As I said…stupid.”

Deanna shrugged, “You were all in an impossible situation. I don’t think we should judge someone who chooses to try and run…or someone who chooses not to.”

Yelgrun’s eyes flashed. He shifted in his seat. “Well, it’s all a moot point anyway. Gelnon is dead. There are hundreds, probably close to a thousand other Gelnons currently operating inside the Dominion. For all his words and radical ideas, all the work he did trying to escape…it’s all meaningless now.”

Counsellor Troi tilted her head to one side, considering this for a moment, “It probably wasn’t meaningless to him.”

Yelgrun made a frustrated noise and stood from his seat, pacing across the room, “Are we finished here? I want to go and check on Eris.”

Deanna checked her PADD, “She’s with Dr Bashir right now. He’s having a meeting with her and a neurosurgeon he’s consulting with for her surgery.”

The Vorta stopped by the small window in Troi’s consulting room, looking out at the stars, “Will they be able to fix her?”

“If there’s anyone who can, it’s Doctor Bashir and his colleague. I’ve heard she’s brilliant, and he’s one of the brightest young doctors in Starfleet.”

“He’s the one who can cure white addiction, isn’t he?” Yelgrun looked towards Deanna, who gave him a nod in response, “There were whispers about him, inside the Dominion. That’s who Borath and his First were running to.”

“He prefers to go by Nilig’xal these days.”

“I’m sure he does…” Yelgrun traced one of his long fingers against the window, mapping out the stars, “You know…I was a field commander for a short period, only a few lifetimes really,” he tapped against the glass, voice far away, “Yelgrun 7, my predecessor, crash landed on a planetoid with his Jem’Hadar squadron. The ship was destroyed, the emergency communicator and the white all burned inside it. It was three days before Seven’s First decided that if he was going to die on that rock, he’d like to see what Vorta tasted like before he did. I don’t know what that squadron did to Yelgrun 7, it’s one of the few deaths I have no memories of, but I have to assume it was fairly horrific if it was decided to remove all traces of it from my memory base.”

Deanna crossed one of her legs over the other, resting her PADD against her thigh, “You don’t trust Jem’Hadar…”

Yelgrun chuckled darkly, “I don’t trust anyone.”

“You trusted Luaran to get you out of the Dominion…”

“And look what that got me: a case of Klingon warts and a tapeworm almost as long as I am.”

Deanna tilted her head to one side, “You trusted Domed’edon and Ookem’umur to help you escape the Syndicate…”

That made Yelgrun pause, his shoulders slumping slightly. For a moment, just a moment, Deanna saw Yelgrun’s carefully constructed façade of cynicism, his breastplate of unpleasantness, crack at the edges. And in that second, Deanna felt the briefest flash of emotion: a bone deep exhaustion struck through with a dark streak of apprehension, a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop, that even if he was relatively safe for the moment it couldn’t possibly last…nothing good ever did.

Counsellor Troi blinked, momentarily disoriented by the glimpse into Yelgrun’s mind, gone as quickly as it arrived. She cleared her throat, shifting in her seat and looking down at her PADD. A message had arrived from Dr Crusher, telling her Ookem’umur was awake.

“How about we stop here for today,” she said gently.

“Heavens be praised,” Yelgrun’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “What am I supposed to do now then?”

“Whatever you like, Mr Yelgrun. You can stay in your room, explore the public areas of the ship, perhaps you’d like to go to 10-Forward and have something to eat or drink…”

Yelgrun didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence, walking out of Deanna’s consulting room without even a backwards glance.

As soon as the doors closed, Deanna gave a low groan and put her head in her hands. Dealing with trauma wasn’t anything new to her, neither was non-compliant, or even outright hostile, patients but there was something about dealing with this Vorta, these Jem’Hadar, that felt particularly draining.

She sat up straight, rolled her shoulders a few times, took some counted breaths, focusing on the meditative techniques she’d been taught as a small child, when other people’s feelings could be so overwhelming. She didn’t have the time she wanted to take to really decompress, she needed to go and have her first consultation with Ookem’umur.

Security stepped to the side as Deanna neared the secure medbay Ookem’umur was being held in. The force field was down and one of the junior doctors smiled at her as she came in, checking on some of Ookem’s vitals and adjusting the drip attached to his wrist. There was a conscious effort to remind Ookem’umur, and the other survivors, that he wasn’t a prisoner and when he was well enough he’d be allowed to go wherever he wanted.

The Jem’Hadar in question was lying on his side, almost comically large on the adult sized medical bed, his eyes open. As Deanna drew she was almost overwhelmed by the wave of emotion that hit her from him. Shame. Waves and waves of shame, mixed through with confusion and pain and fear.

She blinked, tears coming to her eyes. The Jem’Hadar were almost the opposite of Vorta, their minds open and expressive, surprisingly complex for a species that was so taciturn and had been specifically engineered for a single purpose. Deanna mentally shook herself and sat down in the seat across from Ookem’s bed.

“Hello Ookem’umur,” she said softly, “My name’s Deanna. How are you feeling today?”

Ookem remained silent, the shame and pain rolling and twisting in his mind like an upset stomach.

“He’s doing better today,” the young doctor said, voice bright, “He’s responding very well to the antibiotic regimen. I expect he’ll be up and about in a few days…”

Deanna barely heard the doctor’s words, she was overwhelmed by a sudden burst of pain from Ookem’umur, repeated each time the doctor said ‘he.’ She blinked, pressing her fingertips to her left temple.

“T-hank you doctor,” she said, giving a small smile, “Can I have a few moments with my patient alone?”

“Oh yes, of course. So sorry. I’ll be right out of your hair,” the doctor said, perhaps realising they had overstayed their welcome and making a quick exit.

Deanna waited until they were well clear of the door then looked back at Ookem’umur, smiling properly this time, “Now, let’s try again. How are you feeling today?”

For a few moments Ookem’umur was silent, their eyes flicking to Deanna’s face before they spoke, “I am…healing.”

“You are, yes,” Deanna nodded, “You were very sick down on Bellatrix. Do you remember much about that, about what happened there?”

Ookem’s face twisted, “I…we ran. I needed to be safe. Eris fifth of her line understood. She knew…” their voice broke and they took in a deep breath, “She knew I needed a safe place. Somewhere dark, deep and dark, with soft earth.”

“For the eggs?” Deanna asked gently.

The final remnants of Ookem’s self-control cracked away and a great sob heaved out of their chest, words impossible as they started to weep. Deanna shifted closer, reaching out and placing her hand over Ookem’umur’s.

“I d-don’t know what I am…” the Jem’Hadar cried out, voice desperate, “I don’t k-know what’s happened to me. Nothing…nothing is as it was.”

“I know,” Deanna said softly, “I know, it’s so hard…”

She sat there for some time, just holding Ookem’umur’s hand and listening to them cry, letting the catharsis they felt wash into her own mind. The war, that horrible war, the millennia long crimes of the Founders, it all seemed to coalesce into this one moment, this one being desperate and unable to put the pieces of their life back together. Deanna felt hot tracks on her face and realised she was crying too. It was…it was all so much…

They stayed like that, Deanna’s hand over Ookem’s scaled one, both of them adrift in the Jem’Hadar’s pain and confusion, until eventually she realised the room was silent. Ookem’umur had stopped crying, exhausted from the effort of it all. They keep a hold on Deanna’s hand though, seemingly finding some comfort in that.

One of the nurses came to check on them, saying that the other Jem’Hadar were in the nursery with the eggs and had asked if they could see Ookem’umur. Deanna took a steadying breath, taking a tissue from the side table and wiping her face, then handing one to Ookem.

“What do you think?” she said, “Would you like to see Domed’edon and Nilig’xal? For a short visit?”

Ookem’umur’s breath shuddered out, they shifted on the bed, pulling the blankets up a little, “Y-yes. I would. I would but…I cannot see the eggs yet.”

She nodded, “That’s fine. Only when you’re ready.”

“Are they…” they took another breath, seemed to be calming a little, “Are they well…the eggs?”

Deanna looked to the nurse.

“They’re doing so well,” the nurse said, he smiled broadly, “We’re scanning every hour or so and they’re doing perfectly.”

“That is good…” Ookem’umur nodded, giving one more sniff, “Perhaps I will see them…tomorrow?” They looked to Deanna, as if for approval.

“If you want to. We’ll talk about it more then, when you’ve had some more rest,” she said. She turned to the nurse, “Can you bring in Mr Nilig’xal and Domed’edon, please?”

The nurse left. Deanna made to stand herself, but stopped when she felt Ookem’s hand still holding on to hers.

“Would you stay? I…” they paused, “I have not seen Domed’edon or First Nilig’xal since…since the planet. I don’t…I am not sure…”

Deanna sat back down, patting their hand on her wrist.

“Of course. As long as you need…”

Chapter Text

So far, Cardassia had been torture.

Weyoun had forgotten how oppressively hot Cardassia was. Or maybe he’d never really experienced it. Academically he knew the older and hotter sun at the centre of the Cardassian solar system, and the ongoing after effects of environmental collapse, made the average daily temperature on this part of the northern continent sit somewhere is the high 30’s to low 40’s even in winter. However, the vast amount of time he’d spent on Prime itself during the war he’d been in the command centre or his quarters within Central Command, areas carefully kept to Vorta (and Founder) preferred temperatures.

Not now though. Now things were much less pleasant.

They had beamed down from the Ganymede to a private transport hub used by military command that morning, Ocett and a young man that Damar seemed to recognise greeting them. Garak wasn’t with them, he wanted to get the lay of the land without any of the authorities being aware he was back on-world, and had beamed down while it was still dark.

Ocett had asked Damar to come with her and her young friend to have some initial discussions about his planned media offensive and to discuss the current political landscape. She had a transport ready to take Borath and Weyoun, all their bags, and the children straight to the hotel. The sun was already climbing high into the sky and Weyoun wanted to get Imzadi and her pale Vorta skin out of the worst of it, not to mention Moe was already fussy and trying to take his clothes off, so they both readily agreed.

Damar had leaned in and pressed his forehead to Weyoun’s before they got into the sleek black transport, “I won’t be long. I’ll pick up some more formula while I’m out.”

The ride had started fairly normally, Borath pointing out the window and showing Moe all the buildings as they drove past and Weyoun keeping the sun off Imzadi’s face with the edge of her swaddling.

Then the traffic had stopped around them…

“Sorry,” the driver spoke over his shoulder, “There’s been a crash up ahead and a lot of the other roads into the city are closed down for repairs still.”

Then, as the transport idled in the middle of the expressway, Weyoun couldn’t help but notice the temperature inside rising.

“Excuse me,” he shifted closer to the driver in the back of the car, “It’s getting a little warm, could you turn up the air conditioning?”

Again the driver was sorry, the aircon tended to cut out in this model when the car idled for a while.

“I can open the windows for you though if you like?” he offered, helpfully.

Weyoun peered out the window to the smog filled Lakatian skyline, the air quality still terrible from all the smoke in the upper atmosphere.

“No…no we’ll leave it for a while. Thank you though,” he said.

They ended up sitting in the mess of traffic for the better part of an hour. One of the longest hours of Weyoun and Borath’s many lives, as the heat and boredom soon had Moe and Imzadi both crying, Moe trying to pull off all his clothes and wailing with frustration when he couldn’t.

By the time they pulled up at the hotel all four of them were drenched in sweat, both babies needed to be changed urgently and Weyoun was certain once they got to T’Kerras he’d never travel again, at least not until Imzadi and Moe were both toilet trained and able to understand what was going on around them a little better.

Once safely in their room with all their luggage, Borath quickly moved to the temperature controls, turning down the ambient temperature and then standing in front of the vent. 

“Ok, I’m going to clean him up,” Borath wiped over his forehead and gestured to Moe who, now able to free himself from the restrictions of clothing, was lying face down on the cool tiles in only his nappy (still crying though). “Do you mind if I take a shower with him first? I think he’ll go down for a nap pretty quickly once he’s cleaned up and fed.”

“Oh yes, go…go,” Weyoun waved his hand, flopped down on one of the couches in their room, “Imzadi needs the baby bath and I have no idea where it’s been packed. I’ll just change her and give her a wipe down, then hopefully she’ll want a feed.”

The hotel suite they had been put in was certainly opulent enough for a former (if slightly disgraced) legate, with two bedrooms facing each other from across a large main living and reception room (typical of Cardassian room design), every fitting and feature stylish and tastefully chosen. It had clearly not been made with the idea that the occupants would have a few small children running around however. There were ensuites to both bedrooms (but only one with a shower and bath big enough for an adult and child), as well as a kitchenette and from the looks of things a very limited replicator. But even Weyoun’s poor eyes could see the sharp edges on every table, the slippery tile floors, and (most urgently perhaps) the lack of a comfortable and clear space where a baby could be changed.

He eventually made do by taking a few of the extra towels from the cupboard and laying them down on the coffee table, cleaning Imzadi and then running a tepid damp washer over her whole body to cool her down. Once she had a fresh nappy and a clean cotton singlet on she was much happier, the purple flush in her cheeks fading away as her body temperature came back to normal.

By the time Borath came out of the shower with a similarly improved Moe, Weyoun had found the donut shaped feeding cushion from one of the bags and was giving Imzadi a bottle.

“There’s no high chair, if you’re looking for one,” Weyoun said as Borath started opening cupboards, looking for that very item, “We can call down to reception if you like, they’ll have one somewhere…”

Borath gave a groan, “No, it’s alright. I’ll just give him some formula for now. It’s a bit early for him to be having lunch anyway.”

“The tins and bottles are just there,” Weyoun gestured with his chin towards the open duffle bag that had luckily been at the top of the pile of luggage.

“Thank you!”

Borath mixed up some formula in Moe’s sippy cup and took it and Moe into one of the bedrooms, drawing the curtains and reading him a story until he drifted off into a much needed nap.

When Borath came out he had changed as well into a pair of light shorts and shirt, the fabrics looking impossibly cool and crisp.

“Here,” he held out his arms, “Let me take her for a while. You go have a shower and cool off, you look like a mess.”

Weyoun didn’t need to be told twice, “You’re a lifesaver. She’s pretty much finished so she’ll drift off soon.”

He gently slipped Imzadi into Borath’s arms and then went straight to the shower off the master bedroom. The cold water was like heaven, Weyoun almost felt like he could stand under there for hours. After a thorough scrubbing, and feeling much improved, Weyoun got out and dried off, draping his towel loosely around his shoulders as he walked out into the master bedroom in search of his suitcase and some fresh clothes.

“I was thinking it might be nice to order room service up for lunch,” Weyoun said, wiping an edge of his towel over his hair, “I don’t think I can handle going outside after this mor-…oh!”

Weyoun stopped in his tracks. Borath was at the door to the hotel room, a tall and slender Cardassian man in full Legate’s uniform standing on the other side, an expensive looking murak of kanar with a large silk rosette around its neck in his hands.

“Oh…I didn’t hear the door,” Weyoun put his hands on his hips.

Borath tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing at their guest, “Ah, you’re out of the shower. This is Legate Lemec, he has a gift for Damar.”

“I do…ah, I do indeed!” For his part Lemec looked a little caught off kilter, not sure where to look. (It was bad enough when the first Vorta had answered the door in almost nothing at all, now there was another one wandering around fully naked!) “Just a little something from my personal collection for the Legate to welcome him back. I’ve heard he’s a fan of the 2327 vintage.” He held out the bottle expectantly.

Weyoun smiled, the diplomat’s mask falling easily onto his face, “That’s very kind of you, Legate.” He walked over to the door, casually looking behind Lemec and noting he’d come alone. An interesting choice. Perhaps an attempt to meet Damar on equal footing, show he wasn’t a threat, or lull him into thinking he wasn’t one at least. “We’ll make sure he gets it.”

“He’s not in?”

Borath took over, “Legate Damar had some business to take care of.”

A wide toothy grin spread across Lemec’s face, “Oh, well I’ll be happy to wait. I find myself at a loose end today and would love to catch up with him. We were at the officer’s college together, you know.”

Weyoun quickly ran the numbers in his mind, drawing on Five’s near encyclopaedic knowledge of Cardassia’s senior military leadership, “Really, Legate? If my memory serves me correctly you would have been basically graduated by the time Damar was admitted. He wasn’t a first semester entrant…but perhaps I’m remembering incorrectly…” He smiled, taking no small amount of joy at seeing the tiniest flicker of panic pass through Lemec’s eyes.

The moment was short lived. Lemec wasn’t a fool, no-one who survived this long on the rough seas of Cardassian politics was. He recovered quickly, his toothy grin never faltering.

“I was very involved in freshmen orientation in my final years at the college. It was such rewarding work, to usher in that next generation of leaders.” He bowed his head slightly, now quite deeply enough to be polite, “You must be Weyoun 6. It’s an honour we finally get to meet, I was stationed at the front for most of the war. No matter how the alliance between the Dominion and Cardassia turned out…”

And it turned out very poorly for you, didn’t it Lemec? Five whispered in Weyoun’s mind, Losing your Nor, and to a people known for the devotion to pacifism no less!

“…I do consider it a great shame we never had a chance to work together.”

Weyoun didn’t have a chance to answer, Imzadi giving a small cry from the couch where Borath had put her down to rest, propped safely in place by her feeding cushion on the chaise longue. Weyoun shared a quick look with Borath who gave him a small nod, he could handle this.

Weyoun bowed back to Lemec, giving the correct barely polite responses back to him, and went straight to Imzadi on the couch, picking her up in his arms.

“What’s wrong, hmm? Are you already too cool? Ready to get wrapped up, nice and cosy?” he whispered to her, placing her against his shoulder and draping a muslin over her back. Imzadi made a soft noise, rubbing her face against Weyoun’s shoulder and gently putting a hand on his chin, smiling now that Weyoun was close.

“Is this the baby everyone has been talking about?” Lemec tried to walk into the room, stopped momentarily by Borath’s arm against the door jam. He slipped under, moving quickly and very fluidly to the chaise for such a tall man, “Such a fuss being made. Really, I never read the gossip columns myself but my wife gets those magazines to her PADD and I do find it odd. As if Damar is the first Legate to find himself with a half-alien by-blow!”

He loomed over Weyoun and Imzadi, Weyoun all of a sudden feeling a strong urge to hold her even closer, melt back into a metaphorical wall of foliage, where his stillness and Imzadi’s dappling would do the job of protecting them both. Lemec leaned in closer, pulling back the muslin to look at the baby more closely.

“I really don’t understand it myself,” he said, voice low, that rictus smile still on his grey lips. Weyoun could smell his breath: tasper eggs, that flatbread Cardassians were fond of for breakfast, and just a hint of kanar, “…children are such a blessing after all.”

“What is going on here!?”

Weyoun looked up, never more relieved than at that moment to see Garak’s face, standing at the door next to Borath.

Lemec stood up straight, looking down his nose at Garak, “I am paying a visit to an old friend and his new family. Not that I make it habit of explaining myself to strangers...”

It was in these moments that Weyoun saw what had made Garak one of the best operatives that the Obsidian Order had ever produced. In a split second Weyoun saw Garak read Lemec, his face, his uniform, his bearing, everything; read him and then transform in an instant into exactly what Lemec wanted him to be, what he needed to be to get Lemec out of that room.

“Apologies, Legate,” Garak bowed deeply, “I had no idea it was you. There must have been a misunderstanding, Legate Damar didn’t tell me to expect anyone.”

Lemec bowed back, slightly less deeply, “No need to apologise, it was a spontaneous visit on my part. A surprise welcome home.” He held the murak of kanar aloft.

“How generous of you,” Garak swept in, the door pointedly staying open, “Is that a 2327 vintage as well? His favourite.” He held out a hand for the murak while he moved to a small side table, putting a cake box he had been carrying onto it. Lemec moved towards him, handing over the bottle with a smile.

Garak gave the bottle an appraising look, “Oh yes…he’ll enjoy this. I’ll call down to reception to have some ice sent up. You know Damar, loves to take his kanar on ice in the summer.”

Lemec gave a small laugh, “Who doesn’t in this weather, Mr…? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced…”

Garak stayed in a permanent half bow, making himself look smaller and more servile, head tilted to one side, “Oh pardon me. Silik Hadar, at your service. An old family friend of the Legate’s. He asked that I come up from Lakar, help out with his little…situation.” Garak pointedly nodded towards Weyoun and Imzadi, Borath joining them on the chaise.

“In fact, Legate…” Garak’s hand hovered over Lemec’s shoulder, pulling him in closer and speaking in a low whisper (Weyoun’s ears still able to pick up every word), “I am so sorry to do this, but knowing Damar as well as you do, I’m sure you’ll understand. You know how…particular he is, quite a traditionalist really. He has very strong opinions about his lovers and he was very firm with me that Weyoun and the child weren’t to be left alone with anyone while he or I weren’t there. Especially when…well,” he gave Lemec a pointed look, “When they weren’t really in a state to receive visitors.”

”Ahem…yes. I had noticed they were a little underdressed,” Lemec cleared his throat, “And of course, anyone who knows Damar knows he’s always been a traditionalist. It’s one of the things I always admired about him,”

“It’s really all my fault,” Garak shook his head, “I promised I’d get them fresh buns for a snack this morning and turned my back for just a minute and they’re all naked, or basically so.”

Lemec made a low clucking noise in his throat, “You shouldn’t blame yourself. Who’s to know what’s acceptable in the Gamma Quadrant for sitting around.”

“It’s good of you to be so understanding,” Garak leaned in even closer, “And if you could keep that I slipped out to yourself, I’d be very grateful. I wouldn’t even mention that you’d been here with them at all!”

Lemec narrowed his eyes, nodding, “It would probably be best…if we pretended I hadn’t been here at all!”

Garak gave a small nod back, conspiratorial, already in on their little scheme, “Perhaps…I could say one of your staff dropped around the kanar, left it with your card…” he held out his hand.

Lemec immediately dug into one of his pockets, pulling out a calling card and handing it over, “Good man. Tell him my house keeper Kamak dropped it over. And for your trouble…” he handed Garak a lek note as well.

“Oh you’re too generous, Legate!” Garak simpered.

“Think nothing of it,” Lemec bowed his head as he sauntered towards the door, “If there’s anything my literature minor taught me, it’s that it’s always prudent to keep the cuf’ajev on side. Pass on my regards to Legate Damar and have him call me tomorrow.”

The door closed after Lemec and for the first time since he hopped out of the shower Weyoun felt like he could breathe out, his arms loosening slightly around Imzadi.

Garak sighed as well, leaning against the side table and wiping a hand over his forehead.

“Well…that was interesting Silik, or should I say Mr Coof-ajef,” Borath said, getting up from the chaise and looking into the second bedroom where Moe had napped through the whole visit.

“Cuf’ajev,” Garak chuckled, “An interesting choice on Lemec’s part. Less traditional, more like historic.”

“Is there a point where you explain what a cuf’ajev is?” Weyoun put Imzadi against his shoulder, patting her back as she made her little grunts and burbles.

“Oh, is it not translating? I shouldn’t be surprised,” Garak gave a sigh, “Roughly speaking it means keeper…guardian maybe, of the interior. Euphemistically named, of course. The cuf’ajev was the keeper of the harem, often a eunuch. A common figure in romances of the early Hebitian period, either as foil or assistant to a pair of star crossed lovers.”

Borath chuckled cynically, “So, Lemec thinks you’re Damar’s harem keeper...and I suppose by extension that both Weyoun and I are in his harem,” he gave a snort, “I could do better.”

Weyoun shook his head, “That’s not important. We’ve only been in the room for about an hour, only on-world for about two, how did he find out where we were staying so quickly?”

“Probably very easily, considering how little this is worth,” Garak held up the lek note Lemec had handed him (inflation was very high at the moment), “The only real currency on Prime these days is bread and information, and Lemec’s wife’s family own a very popular chain of bakeries. Still, this was…useful. It confirms what my sources have been telling me.”

“And what’s that?” Weyoun asked from the chaise, wrapping Imzadi up properly in her muslin and then jogging her in his arms.

“That Lemec’s overtures are genuine, even if his claims to being Damar’s old college friend are not,” Garak walked over to the hotel room communicator, pressing the ‘call reception’ button, “Hello, yes, I’m calling from Legate Damar’s suite. I’d like to see the manager here within the next five minutes, the Legate is very concerned about certain aspects of the lodgings you’ve provided…thank you.” He hung up and went to the pile of luggage, pulling out Weyoun’s case, “Now, let’s find you something to wear, unless you want to walk to the new room in your current outfit. No judgement from me, it is hot out today.”

Weyoun groaned, “Do we really have to move? We just got here. Didn’t you just say Lemec is genuine about wanting Damar on side?”

“He is, but you can’t be too careful,” he bought over a pair of Weyoun’s soft stretchy pants and a matching tunic, taking Imzadi as Weyoun quickly dressed, “Not to mention this room is fine, but it could be better. Did they really think that view of a car park was acceptable for the leader of the CLF? Tch!”

“Make sure the next one has the stuff we actually asked for too,” Borath folded his arms and leant against the couch, “We need at least one porta-cot, two high chairs and a better replicator wouldn’t go astray either.”

“And a change table,” Weyoun said, starting to pick up some of the stuff which had already started spreading despite them being in the room barely any time at all, “So what does Lemec want from Damar, known traditionalist and drinker of kanar with ice?”

Garak made himself comfortable on the couch, putting Imzadi over his shoulder, “He wants his vote, or maybe his lack of a vote is the better explanation. In order to get the Detapa Council up and running again Ocett and her young man need the signatures of a majority of the military leadership on the official Writ of Reformation, it’s a kind of temporary constitution, allows for a proper civilian government again. Ocett and her faction almost have the numbers, with Damar, they could push it over the line.”

“But didn’t Damar resign from his position?” Borath picked up Lemec’s kanar bottle, unscrewing the lid and giving the liquid inside a quick sniff before taking a swig of it, “No poison.”

“Thanks to a little bureaucratic manoeuvring on myself and Ocett’s part: no. Damar only resigned from the Triumvirate. He’s still a Legate and still has voting rights as a military leader.”

“Wouldn’t Lemec know Damar is just going to back Ocett? They formed the Triumvirate together, he has to know they’re allies, if not friends,” Weyoun asked, shoving baby wipes and half empty formula cans into one of the closest bags.

“Hmm, you’d think. I suspect he’s just trying to muddy the waters, make everyone think Damar isn’t going to back Ocett so some of the other Legates break rank. Not all of them are completely sold on this democracy idea Ocett and young Gul Partan keep going on about,” Garak shifted Imzadi so she was over the other shoulder, “Now Borath, could you be so good as to bring over my cake box.”

Borath did as requested, placing the cake box on the coffee table in front of Garak.

“Help yourself to a bun or two, they’re quite good,” Garak opened the box, pulling out four cream buns on the white tray they were sitting on, “Do you have much weapons training Borath?”

Borath cocked an eyebrow, “Vorta aren’t supposed to handle weapons, it’s forbidden in the Dominion. But Nil taught me enough to get by.”

“I suspected he would have,” Garak reached back into the cake box and pulled out a small phase pistol, “This is for you. It’s only able to stun but that should be enough to keep you out of trouble. It was all I could get on short notice.”

“Is that a gun!?” Weyoun stood, watching as Borath tucked the pistol into the back waistband of his pants, “We can’t have a gun! What if Moe gets a hold of it?”

“He won’t. Borath is going to be very careful, aren’t you?”

“I will,” Borath came over, rubbing Weyoun’s upper arm, “I’ll make sure it’s safe. You won’t even know I have it. Think of it just as…an insurance policy.”

Weyoun made an uncomfortable noise. The pistol, the easy way Borath had hidden it, the suspicion Weyoun now had that Garak was carrying a weapon somewhere on his person too, how quickly Lemec had found them and made himself known, all of these things together, it was unsettling. He had expected opposition, unpleasantness, difficult questions from the media and Damar’s family, even protest and maybe the odd piece of thrown produce…not this degree of political intrigue.

He could feel Five and Four stirring in his mind. Excited at the prospect of being back in the game, Five in particular almost salivating at the thought, running possibilities, making lists of who he suspected were Ocett and Lemec’s loyalists respectively. It didn’t make the current Weyoun feel any better. He didn’t want that life, he’d run from it! He wanted Imzadi safe and happy, a cottage by the sea, Damar’s arms around him on cold nights. It was so close…

And, he felt the need to add, as excited as Four and Five were by these developments, none of his previous selves had faced a political quandary like this without a full squadron of Jem’Hadar, the backing of the Dominion, and a warehouse full of clones ready to be deployed if he met an unfortunate end! He looked down at Imzadi, the urge to protect her almost overwhelming. Why had he agreed to this? Why did he ever think this was a good idea?

Weyoun gave a slightly shaky breath out, addressing Borath, “Please just make sure the safety is on. And it gets kept on the highest shelf of your closet!”

“Always,” Borath said softly, leaning in to kiss Weyoun on the cheek, “It’s going to be alright.”

Things moved quickly after that. The hotel manager appeared and got a thorough dressing down from Garak about the state of the lodgings and degree of privacy provided ‘for one of Cardassia’s greatest patriots’ and Weyoun, Borath and the children soon found themselves being escorted to the top floor of the hotel and its much nicer views.

Weyoun gave a small sigh as he sat down on the master bed, the windows of this room looking out over the skyline of Lakat (or what remained of it at least). He could hear the sounds of Borath and Garak in the living area, directing the bags and the setting up of the porta-cot, high chairs, and change table. Imzadi gave a little gurgle in his arms, blinking her large violet eyes and reaching up to his face with her plump little fingers.

“Oh darling,” he whispered, “It’s going to be alright…isn’t it?”

He heard the door to the room opening, Damar’s familiar heavy footsteps. Weyoun took a deep breath, straightened his back, smiled (tried to smile) as Damar walked into the bedroom. Weyoun blinked, caught off guard to see Damar back in his military uniform, Legate’s pin and all, a vision from their former lives…

“Hey…” Damar said, holding up a plastic shopping bag, “I bought the formula.”

“Thank you,” Weyoun said softly. Imzadi heard her father’s voice and twisted towards the sound, reaching out to her daddy. Damar sat down on the bed next to Weyoun, putting the pharmacy bag down on the floor between his legs and his arm around Weyoun’s shoulder. The plates of his armour were cool against Weyoun’s side.

“Are you alright? You look a little pale…”

Weyoun gave a deep sigh, “Oh yes…I’m fine.”

“Did anything happen while I was gone? Garak’s in a bit of a froth out there…”

Weyoun blew air through his lips, “Well, your apparent old college friend Lemec paid us a little visit so we had to change rooms. Oh, and Borath has a gun now.”

Damar made an uncomfortable noise, “Neither of those are good…”

“That’s an understatement,” Weyoun said, handing Imzadi over to her father before flopping back onto the bed. He started up at the ceiling, the light fixture above the bed was an ornate gold oodemara (one of the larger species of dessert dwelling predatory birds), its clawed feet clutching the lightglobes tightly, as if they were the gettle eggs that were its favourite food. Weyoun almost felt sorry for it, always holding on but never getting to eat…

He felt a hand slide inside his own and looked over at Damar.

“It’s going to be alright,” Damar said, firm enough to almost convince them both, “I won’t let anything happen to you and Imzadi. Moe and Borath either.”

Weyoun didn’t say anything. Just kept staring up at the ceiling, his heart heavy.

The oodemara stayed in its place, staring down at Weyoun from its perch, the eggs in its grasp but never able to eat from them.

~*~*~

It had been two days of hell for Damar. Two days of meetings with his press liaison, meetings with Ocett and Partan and her loyalists, meetings and rehearsals with Garak, and after all that returning to the hotel room to an anxious Weyoun and an often grizzly Imzadi, Borath giving him updates about the security situation (no more visits from Lemec, but he had strong suspicions the hotel was being closely watched).

And in between all of that, Damar somehow found time to arrange to see Niala. Just an initial meeting, testing the waters for if and when he could see Sakal while he was here, maybe arrange for him to meet Weyoun and Imzadi, talk about the process of the divorce as it moved at its glacial pace through the family courts.

Damar took a deep breath and pressed the top floor button on the lift. This was it. The moment of truth. He watched with a mixture of hope and dread as the floor number displayed got higher and higher. His eyes flicked over to Weyoun and Imzadi in her baby carriage, Weyoun leaning over to adjust her clothes, then giving Damar a reassuring smile, reaching out for his hand to give it a gentle squeeze.

“I won’t say this is going to be easy…” Weyoun said softly, “But we’ll get through it, no matter what happens.”

Damar took another breath, “I know…” He squeezed the hand back, “Thanks for coming, you didn’t have to.”

Weyoun gave a small shrug, “You fought a lot of battles on your own over the years. I didn’t think this should be one of them.”

Damar didn’t have a chance to respond before the chime of the lift sounded, opening right into the entrance of the penthouse.

It was so strange to come back to this place. It had never really been a home for him, so to speak. There had been weeks, even months at a time, where he’d really only used it as a place to sleep and down a cup or two of tea on his way out the door. But still, there had been an effort then on Niala’s part (admittedly one that was entirely based on artifice) to show he lived there, that he was the beloved patriarch of their perfect little Cardassian family unit. Little things, like a painting of a Lakarian silk dairy which had sat close to the entrance (a reference to Damar’s much more humble beginnings), or an antique Legate’s travel case which had been used as a side table in the formal living room, were all gone now, in some cases not even replaced yet.

Niala walked into the entrance at the sound of the chimes. Despite everything she looked…beautiful. Elegantly dressed in soft red pants and a cream silk blouse, her hair freshly styled and oiled and makeup artfully applied (she never wore makeup, she didn’t even blue her chufa normally, unless it was a special occasion!). Divorce apparently agreed with her.

“You’re a little early, Corat,” she said by way of greeting (at least her manners hadn’t changed), “Good to see you Weyoun. It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Weyoun said, voice the slightly cloying tone that Five had often used in difficult situations, “I hope you’ve been well.”

“As well as can be expected, considering the circumstances,” she said, a wry smile almost appearing on her mouth, “Come through to the front room. I have tea waiting, and another guest since we didn’t think you’d be here for a while.”

“Sorry,” Damar tapped his fist against his thigh, “Traffic wasn’t as bad as we thought it was going to be coming from Central Command.”

“Yes, they finished repairs on the North Ward bypass tunnel about a month ago, it’s really freed up traffic this side of the city,” she said, leading them through the penthouse.

“Ruined traffic on the South Side though,” came a voice from the front room; feminine, with a refined Rogarin Province accent, one Damar almost thought he recognised…

She stood as they entered the room, and even though it had been years since he’d seen her, Damar recognised her instantly, tall and with the kind of glacial, patrician beauty which only seemed to grow as she aged: Athra Dukat.

She walked straight up to Damar, examining him with her piercing pale green eyes. Her head tilted to one side, assessing him as if he was one of the prize racing hounds her family was known to breed. Perhaps one that had been lamed, deciding whether it was worth putting him out of his misery.

“You look tired Legate…but I suppose that’s to be expected with a newborn.” Her attention snapped away from him as quickly as if he had never existed, focusing instead on Weyoun and Imzadi.

“Apologies, I know you well Mr Weyoun but I don’t believe we were ever introduced,” she said, bowing slightly to Weyoun as she walked over to the pram.

“No need to apologise,” Weyoun bowed his head in return, just at the right angle to come off as respectful without seeming obsequious to someone of Athra’s background, “I face the same problem of knowing you without ever having been introduced.”

“Then, in that at least, we find common ground,” she smiled, her blue gums showing around her perfect straight teeth, “Well, let’s have a look at the cause of all this trouble then, hmm?” She nodded to the pram.

Weyoun pushed back the pram’s hood, showing a content Imzadi, sucking on her pacifier with one arm hooked around Softy Bunny’s neck.

Athra made an appraising noise (Damar was reminded once again of someone looking over expensive hounds), “What a charming little face…and such exotic colouring…” Damar felt every scale in his body contract as he saw Athra trace a long nailed index finger down Imzadi’s plump arm, “...yes, she’s lovely. You’re both very lucky. Come, let’s sit down and have some tea.”

Athra turned and headed towards the formal living room, taking a seat in the corner of the largest sofa and indicating next to her, “Come sit with me Mr Weyoun, I have so many questions I wish to ask you. Niala dear, if you wouldn’t mind refreshing the tea. You know how picky I am, I can’t have a bar of stale tea.”

Niala’s lips tightened only momentarily, “Of course. I was meaning to make a fresh pot.”

“I’ll help you!” The words came out of Damar’s mouth before he even thought them. Weyoun gave him a look as he helped get Imzadi out of the pram and then manoeuvred it around the heavy living room furniture and into a corner, a look that said very plainly ‘you better not leave me alone here for long, Corat.’

Niala gave Damar a look too (State above, why had he thought this was a good idea?), “Lovely. I’d so missed having you around the kitchen.”

Damar winced, feeling the sarcasm drip off her tongue, but followed Niala into the kitchen. He stood there awkwardly, watching her move around, pouring out the old tea, setting the kettle to boil, going through the cupboards to get more tea, extra cups and saucers. He couldn’t actually help, he had no idea where anything was kept.

“You look…you look really good,” he said eventually, “Are the pants new? I haven’t seen you wear them before.”

“Athra lent them to me. This is all from her closet. I had a photoshoot this morning.” Her words were clipped.

“A photoshoot? For who?”

“Woman of the State magazine,” she gave a snort, not quite a chuckle, “You’re not the only one doing a press offensive Corat.”

Damar didn’t know how to respond to that, he started tapping his fist against his thigh again, “How’s Sakal going?”

Niala gave a long exhale, looking at the bubbling kettle rather than at him, “He’s…he’s as well as can be expected. His grades have suffered a bit but there haven’t been any more fights at school, so that’s good. I didn’t talk to you about this but I’ve started taking him to a therapist. Mala knew someone who came very highly recommended and could get him in quickly…”

Damar made a grumbling noise, he crossed his arms over his chest, “Well…that’s fine I suppose. But in future I’d like you to at least tell me before you make that sort of decision about him.”

Niala rolled her eyes, putting the fresh teapot onto a tray, “Yes, Union forbid anyone make any unilateral decisions about our family without talking about it around here.”

Damar gave a scoffing laugh, “Isn’t that the vole accusing the hawk of stealing eggs! Or maybe I’m just forgetting that nice long chat you and I had about Mala moving in.”

“Oh, you must have forgotten, it was right after I found all those spicy little letters between you and Rusot when I was pregnant with Sakal,” she poked Damar in the chest with a packet of biscuits as she walked past him from the pantry. She took a plate from one of the high cupboards, one of the nice ones that was reserved for guests, and smoothly poured a sleeve of the biscuits onto it. Damar’s stomach dropped into his groin. How had she found those (the letters, not the biscuits)?! Why had she never told him?

She must have smelled his sudden panic, because Niala breathed out through her nose, closing her eyes for a moment as she looked down at the small pile of mim-mim jam fancies on the plate, “Did you really not know? About me? Because I always knew about you, Corat.”

Damar stared down at his boots, “I…I don’t know. I think I always knew that you weren’t that…interested in me, physically I mean. And that was good, because the physical side of things…that wasn’t easy for me,” he chuckled, “I don’t think it was easy for you either.”

Niala gave a cynical laugh of her own, “At least you were always mercifully quick about the whole thing. Come on,” she finished pouring the boiled water into the teapot, “We can talk more after I get rid of Athra. She’ll get bored soon and hopefully leave.”

“…we can only hope,” Damar muttered, taking the plate of biscuits from Niala and following her back into the living room.

“I have to admit to being curious about internal gestation, Mr Weyoun. The whole thing fascinates me,” Athra was saying as they walked in, “Is it true you can feel the baby moving around in there?”

“Oh yes, Imzadi wasn’t very active but I always knew when she was awake in there,” Weyoun gently stroked a hand down the back of Imzadi’s head, “She used to love stretching out with her feet pressing right down into my bladder. That’s how I knew she was waking up.”

“But how does that work with the actual birth process? Do you feel them moving around as they come out?”

“I don’t think they move much during the actual birth. They don’t have a lot of room by then. But then again, I had a surgical birth so maybe that was something I missed out on.”

Weyoun was taking all of these questions with polite good humour but Damar saw the warning flash in those violet eyes as he put the biscuits down on the coffee table and sat down on the chaise.

A small chirp came from Weyoun’s PADD, Imzadi’s feeding alarm, and he turned towards Damar, “Can you hold her for a second, I’ll get her formula out.”

Damar took Imzadi and leaned her against his shoulder, patting her back. According to the CMO of the Ganymede she could really only see about a foot in front of her at this point in her development and her awareness of the world around her was limited to her hearing and sense of touch. Damar couldn’t help but feel jealous.

“Do you need anything for that?” Niala asked, coming around to look a little closer at Imzadi, the first time she’d shown an interest, “I could heat some water up for you if you like…”

“Oh no, it’s perfectly fine. This formula works best with room temperature water anyway,” Weyoun took some of the tablet style Cardassian formula Damar had bought a few days ago and a bottle already filled with water out of the baby bag.

“So, Legate Damar…” Damar’s stomach clenched as he heard Athra address him, “I’ve heard rumours that you were one of the last people to see my husband alive.”

Despite the warm afternoon sun spilling through the wide glass windows of the penthouse the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees the moment the words left Athra’s mouth. Damar swallowed; he, Weyoun and Niala all sharing tense looks, Damar’s then looking back to Athra.

She wasn’t looking back at any of them though, her eyes fixed on Imzadi, laying against her father’s chest, “He came to see me as well, you know, in those final months of the war. He was…unbalanced, talking constantly about Bajoran superstitious nonsense and asking me if I knew any plastic surgeons. I asked him if he’d come and see the children, the girls were home from school and he was always so good with them…” she looked down, blinking suddenly, “I thought seeing them might bring him back to reality…all it did was start him ranting about…that girl.”

Damar’s throat closed. No. Not that. Anything but that…

Athra seemed to not notice the effect of her words on him, lost in her own thoughts, “It’s terrible. You know, I spent so much time hating her, focused on her as the cause for all of my troubles. But it wasn’t her was it? She was just a child, another of Skrain’s pieces on the board.”

“Her n-ame was Ziyal,” Damar felt like he could barely breathe, but he managed to croak that out.

Ziyal. In his darkest moments, in the cold hours of the night, he still saw her face frozen in a death gasp on the steel floor of Terok Nor, still heard Dukat’s weeping and screaming. The worst thing he’d ever done. The one thing he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ever forgive himself for…

Weyoun moved closer to Damar, his smaller hand resting on the crook of Damar’s elbow. A small gesture but enough to ground Damar, a lifeline thrown to him as he thrashed in deep waters.

“Here,” Weyoun said softly, “Do you want to give her the bottle?”

Damar shook his head, he didn’t trust himself right now, and gently shifted Imzadi over to Weyoun, gently running a hand over her soft curly hair. As she moved over to Weyoun, and as if knowing her father’s distress, she reached out, gripping his index finger with her pale little hand and squeezing. Damar smiled. He could get through this. He had to.

“I did…” he said suddenly, interrupting Athra as she continued to muse about the past, “I saw Dukat in those last days. He wanted a plastic surgeon like you said, I connected him to a doctor who used to work for the Obsidian Order, she gave him a Bajoran facial reconstruction. He left soon after for Bajor, it was something to do with his new religious beliefs. I don’t know what happened to him after that.”

Athra blinked, a little surprised at his sudden words, “Ah…well. That does confirm what I’d already heard. I suppose I’ll make another request for information with the Bajoran consulate then. See if they have any information…”

“Anything we can do to help,” Niala said, leaning in and offering Athra a jam fancy, “You’ve been such a support…”

“Oh my dear, I’ve done so little. Just connected you to the right people, you’ve done all the rest,” Athra took an offered biscuit.

Damar heard it before he saw anything. Imzadi, making a little coughing noise, a retch and then, most horribly a gasping, hacking noise. His head snapped over before the words Weyoun was saying even got out of his mouth.

“She’s not breathing! Damar! She can’t breathe!!”

Damar and Niala both leapt to their feet. The bottle fell out of Weyoun’s hands and to the floor, a little formula spilling on the rug. Imzadi’s skin was turning grey, she flopped backwards in Weyoun’s arms as if made of rubber, as if her whole body were giving up.

“Damar!” Weyoun’s voice was panicked, he moved Imzadi in his arms, trying to keep her head up, “Damar, what’s happening? What do we do?”

Damar scrabbled inside his plates, reaching for the emergency communicator he had hidden just inside his collar, a gift from the Ganymede. He could get Imzadi up to the medbay there in seconds.

“What are you doing? Call the ambulance!” Niala said,  kneeling in front of Imzadi, trying to open her mouth to see if there was something caught in her throat.

“No! We’ll beam her up to the Ganymede, the sick bay is state of the art,” he tapped it on

“What? So you can have some milk-sop Federation doctor ask how your daughter is feeling?” Niala snapped, incredulous.

“They’ve been looking after her pretty well so far!” Damar snarled back.

“She’s Cardassian! Half Cardassian at least!” Athra said from where she was standing by the couch now, “She needs a Cardassian doctor!”

“Have them beam us to the University hospital! Mala has admitting privileges there! They’ll see her straight away!”

Imzadi made another gut wrenching gasp, desperately trying to get air into her lungs.

“Damar! Please, we have to do something!” There were tears on Weyoun’s face. Damar could hear the edges of panic and despair in his voice.

He tapped the communicator, “Ganymede, we need an emergency beam to Lakat University Hospital. Right now!”

~*~*~

Sakal used to like school, but these days he didn’t. He found it hard to concentrate even in his favourite subjects, never wanted to play glinn-in-the-corner during lunch, and even found it a chore to talk when called on in class, preferring to stare out the window at one of the kana trees which was planted in the playground, watching the leaves occasionally be blown away in the wind. He often found himself wishing he was one of those leaves, that he could be blown away from all of this mess and find a new place where no-one knew who he was or who his father was.

After the fight with Elok the other children in his grade by and large left him alone (apart from his best friend, Silim) but that didn’t change the fact that they knew, they all knew, his father was…was like that, had abandoned him and Mother for a Vorta and their baby.

In his more reflective moments, Sakal often found himself wondering which was worse of the two of his father’s betrayals: that he father loved men, or that he was in love with a non-Cardassian. Sometimes the news and the papers (Mala was very strict about not watching the news on TV these days but Sakal still had his PADD which he’d morbidly use to find stories about his father after he went to bed) made it seem like the degeneracy was worse, other times it was father ‘polluting his bloodline’ which was the greater crime. He would often lie in bed thinking about it, wondering if this whole thing would be better if father had run away with another Cardassian man, or perhaps if it was an alien woman he’d had a baby with it might be less of a scandal…

He’d even started talking about these things with nice Mr Hadal, the man who mother took him to see once a week these days. Most of the time they played games, either kotra or another board game, sometimes it was vidgames (Mr Hadal had a really big library of them, and he was very good at YipYap Skimmer Racing IV), and sometimes Mr Hadal even helped him with his homework if he had a difficult question. But sometimes (more and more often as time went on) they talked about things, about his family…about father and the Vorta and all that mess.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Mr Hadal had said when Sakal had told him about his ‘which is worse’ conundrum, “Society…all the people who live here in Cardassia, it has all these rules about how people are supposed to behave. And some of those are useful, like having good manners…but others are less useful, and a lot of them don’t even make sense!”

They had talked for most of that session, even though they had already gotten out the kotra board, talking about why these rules existed, who they helped, who they hurt, what happened to people who didn’t follow those rules, and if any of that was fair. Sakal didn’t feel any less confused after the hour was done, but it felt good to talk about things with someone.

That afternoon, after a long day at school, as he often did Sakal met Silim at the school gate where usually they would start walking home together. Today though, Silim started walking in a different direction.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Silim said, in his usual breezy way (he was always very breezy Silim, nothing ever seemed to bother him), then continued without waiting for Sakal’s answer, “Text your Mum and tell her we’re doing homework at my place this afternoon.”

“But your house isn’t this way at all!” Sakal said rushing to keep up with his friend.

“That’s because we’re not going to my place, we’re going somewhere else. Don’t worry, it’s not far, and we can play games when we get there.”

Curiosity piqued, Sakal quickly shot off a text to his mother and, not waiting for an answer, followed Silim as he took them into one of the residential areas of the city.

Silim was right, it wasn’t far to where they were going. Soon they were walking down a nice street lined with old, fully grown trees and small apartment buildings, not big glass ones like the one Sakal lived in, these were a little older, but still nice looking and very pretty with the shade falling over them. With the ease of someone who had been there many times before, Silim walked up the steps of one of the apartment buildings and pressed the intercom.

A woman’s voice answered, “Hello?”

“Hi Nasesk, it’s Silim. Mum’s not home and Dad’s busy at work, can I stay here for a while? I’ve got a friend with me.”

The woman on the other end seemed to take this all very well in stride, “Of course honey, you know you and your friends are always welcome here. I’ll buzz you both in.”

Sakal bit down his questions, and there were many, as he followed Silim into the apartment building up to a spacious and airy apartment on the second floor, where they were greeted by perhaps the most beautiful woman Sakal had ever seen!

“Hi Nasesk,” Silim said, breezing past her like it was nothing at all, “This is my friend Sakal. We’re just going to hang for a while till my Mum gets home if that’s ok?”

“You know it is,” she said, words almost floating out of her perfectly formed mouth, “Is you Mother’s teaching schedule really busy again?”

“Mm hmm,” Silim nodded, “She’s got three courses she’s teaching this semester, it’s crazy!” He headed straight for the fridge and pulled out two cans of Sluga-cola, handing one to Sakal (he usually wasn’t allowed cola until after dinner, and even then never a whole can to himself!), “Is Jori awake? Can we see him?”

Nasesk gave an indulgent smile, “He’s just gone down for his nap but you can go in and have a look at him if you promise to be very quiet. Are you boys hungry? I’ll get you some snacks and you can play games in the sun room for a while after you’re done.”

Sakal couldn’t stop himself from looking at Nasesk as he was dragged down the hall to (presumably) Jori’s room. She was just so beautiful! Like a popstar or an actress. With hair that shone like the sea at night and tawny yellow eyes like the desert, tall and just a little plump, she somehow made the simple housedress she was wearing look like something straight from a fashion magazine.

“Who is she?” Sakal hissed to his friend, “Is she a singer?”

Silim gave a snort, “No, she’s an entomologist. She’s my dad’s mistress.”

Sakal’s eyes went round, “Your dad’s what?”

Silim hushed him, “Shh, you’ll wake Jori. Come on…”

Silim beckoned Sakal into the room. The curtains were pulled, making it dim and peaceful, but not so dark that Sakal couldn’t see the colourful frieze of regnars and taspurs chasing each other across the walls. Silim lead Sakal over to a white and green crib, one that matched the change table, the small wardrobe, the wall shelves which held up a mass of bright new toys and Jori’s bronze-cast eggshell. He looked down into the crib, down at Jori, who was (perhaps disappointingly considering how mysterious Silim had been) a very ordinary looking baby, small and plump, his ridges just starting to come in. He was asleep, arms thrown up above his head, and a pacifier abandoned at his side as he breathed in and out slowly.

“Isn’t he cute?” Silim whispered, “He’s my brother. He knows who I am too. When I come over he always wants to hold my finger and sit with me. He can’t do much else though at the moment.”

Sakal didn’t answer, still looking down into Jori’s crib. It was all very well for Silim, with his normal brother and normal father and his father’s normal (though very beautiful) mistress. Jori wasn’t a cross-breed (‘A hybrid’ as Mala told him to say. “It’s not polite to say cross-breed dear.”) And Nasesk wasn’t a Vorta, one of the Dominion’s servants, one of their tricksters and torturers, masters of the terrifying Jem’Hadar…

“You know one time, he did a poo so big it got out of his nappy and was all over his back when my Dad came in to check on him,” Silim said, a mischievous smile on his face, “He’d be rolling around in it and everything…”

Sakal couldn’t stop the giggle that came out of his mouth, “That’s so gross…and cool.”

“I reckon when he gets a bit bigger we can just aim him at people we don’t like,” Silim nudged Sakal with his elbow, “Like Elok…and Mr Dania.”

Mr Dania was their history and ideology teacher. A famously unpleasant man at the school, known for his long dull classes and sharp temper. Sakal and Silim both hated him almost as much as they hated stupid Elok.

“And what? Have him poo on them?” Sakal snorted, stopping a giggle from coming out.

“Yeah, I reckon we just point his ass in the right direction and…” Silim mimed squeezing a large object between his hands.

Both boys covered their mouths, stopping their sudden laughter from coming out and waking the baby, Silim almost doubling over from the effort. Silim jerked his head towards the door, both of them stifling their laughter until they were back out in the hall and the door safely closed.

“Come on,” Silim took deep breaths, calming down his laughter, “Let’s go to the sun room. That’s where Nasesk keeps her vidgames.”

Sakal blinked as he came into the sun room. Nasesk had said she’d get them some snacks, Sakal had been expecting some cut fruit, maybe some biscuits and a glass of mim-mim juice, not the heaping bowl of chocolate crickets, another full of chips with a big jar of dip, gummy candy, plus more cans of Sluga-cola.

“I know you boys must be hungry so just call if you want anything else,” Nasesk said from the doorway, “Silim, you know where the extra controllers are, don’t you?”

“Yep, we’re good,” Silim was already sifting through the console under the vidscreen, “thanks Nasesk.”

Soon they were settled in front of the vidscreen, engrossed in a game of YipYap Skimmer Racing, eating from the feast in front of them. For the first time in weeks, everything that was wrong in Sakal’s life seemed far away; his father, the Vorta, his sister, everyone at school; and he was happy with his best friend, playing a game and eating junk.

They had played through several race courses and half the chocolate crickets were gone before Silim spoke again, simply, as if he was just commenting on the weather or on the homework they were putting off doing.

“It’s ok you know…if you family is different,” Silim paused, his onscreen skimmer hitting a bomb and being thrown off the golden race course, “…If you dad is different.”

Sakal’s hands clenched around the controller, he focused harder on the racetrack, his skimmer rounding a corner tightly, “Is it?”

Silim’s skimmer continued to idle by the side of the course (what was the point if Silim wasn’t even going to play?), “My dad always says your dad is one of the greatest men he’s ever known. He ran the whole resistance from a base in the mountains! Killed a squadron of Jem’Hadar with a hand tied behind his back!”

Sakal had heard that rumour too but had his doubts about it. Father had hurt his back one weekend after swapping the mattresses in his and Mother’s room and had had to lie down for the rest of the weekend. Maybe he just had a lot of time to lie down after taking out the squadron of Jem’Hadar…

“What I’m saying is…I was upset too when I first found out about Jori and Nasesk. But Nasesk’s cool, and Jori’s my brother, I love him. I just wish my parents were sensible like yours and would get a divorce!”

Sakal gave a disbelieving snort. His skimmer crossed the finish line first, his purple YipYap doing a little victory flip.

“I’m serious!” Silim said, grabbing more chips, “My mum and dad barely talk to each other these days! I only ever see Dad smile when he’s here with Nasesk. Mum’s only happy when she’s at work. It’s why I like coming here!”

Sakal gave an exasperated sigh, “But that’s different! Nasesk is a lady…” (a very beautiful one, he might add), “And she’s Cardassian! She’s not…not a…”

“A Vorta?” Silim offered, he gave a small sigh, “Yeah…it is a bit different. But…your dad isn’t a bad person, at least my dad says he isn’t. And he wouldn’t fall in love and have a baby with someone who’s bad, at least I don’t think so…”

“Maybe the Vorta tricked him…” Sakal said, a touch petulant. Silim was making far too much sense and it was very annoying.

“What? Like he’s a witch? Witches aren’t real,” Silim said with a snort. He was silent for a while, “I know it’s rotten, especially with what people are saying at school but…they’ll forget about it soon. Remember in second grade when Makbar had food poisoning and she vomited on her desk and she vomited so hard she peed herself? That was all everyone could talk about for months and now no one talks about it at all!”

“I guess…” Sakal took the last chocolate cricket, chewing it slowly.

Silim gave him a playful shove to the shoulder, “You guess?! You know I’m always right! Now come on, let’s do one more race and then we should probably start our homework.”

“You mean I’ll start the homework and you’ll copy my answers,” Sakal said, shoving Silim back.

“That’s the plan! Hey,” Silim pointed to Sakal’s PADD which was lay abandoned on the coffee table, “I think you’re getting a call.”

Sakal picked up his PADD, his stomach dropping as he saw that not only was Mala calling him, but he had four missed calls from her. Ugh, he was going to be in so much trouble. She’d probably gone to Silim’s house and found him not there.

With no small amount of trepidation Sakal answered Mala’s call, wondering how long it was going to be before he was ever allowed to see Silim outside of school again (probably 100 years!), “Hi Mala.”

“Honey,” her soft voice came through the speaker, no trace of anger in it, “Honey, where are you?”

“Uhh…” Sakal looked towards Silim, his friend giving a shrug, “I’m…I’m at Nasesk’s house. With Silim. We’re…doing our homework.” A plea for clemency.

Sakal was surprised when the expected questions didn’t arrive (Who’s Nasesk? Have we met her before? Is she a school friend? Is there an adult there? Why didn’t you tell us where you were going?), Mala just asking what Nasesk’s address was and saying she’d be there in 10 minutes to pick him up.

Sakal groaned as he hung up the phone. He was in so much trouble.

Just as she had said, Mala pulled up outside Nasesk’s apartment building, Sakal saying a quick goodbye to Silim as he loaded into the car and waving goodbye to Nasesk and Jori as they waved from the entrance. As he closed the door to the transport he expected a thorough dressing down from Mala. Maybe he’d forgotten something important about today. Had missed an appointment or forgotten a birthday…

“Honey…”

Sakal looked up at Mala, her face was a mask of worry. He hadn’t seen her looking like that since the day Mister Rusot came to the house and told them they had to move off-world, the day he, Mother and Mala had hidden under a blanket in the back of a van as Mister Rusot had driven them to a small shipyards and put them onto a runabout, taking them to a small house on one of the moons off Amleth Prime.

“Honey, do you know your little sister, Imzadi?”

Sakal nodded, bemused by the track this was taking.

Mala looked like she’d been crying, “Well…she’s in the hospital. She’s very sick.”

“Sick?!” Sakal blinked, “How is she sick?”

“She had a bad allergic reaction to some formula and she stopped breathing.”

Mala explained that Imzadi was still having breathing problems and was being kept in the hospital where Mala worked for a few days. They were going there now to see her.

The ride to the hospital was a blur, Sakal feeling oddly numb. His little sister…until that moment she’d seemed such a distant concept to him, a tiny squishy face with ridiculous ears and a round ‘O’ of a mouth, yawning up at him from a short video his father had sent him. He had been so excited when he’d heard he had a sibling (big families were common on Cardassia, and of his school mates he was one of the few only children) but his interest in Imzadi had quickly faded as the reality of her parentage sunk in. It’s not that he didn’t care, not at all…but it was hard to love something so far away and that was the cause of so much pain in his own life.

Mala held his hand as they walked into the hospital, many of the nurses and other doctors making small polite bows to them as they passed. Mala was the most senior neurologist on staff at this hospital after all. In the paediatrics wing they found Mother, who looked like she had been crying too. She hugged him tight, the kind of hug you got when your parents were scared.

Mala squatted down next to him, telling him that when he went into Imzadi’s room it might be a little scary, but all the wires and machines and tubes were there to help Imzadi get better. She was going to be alright. He nodded and steeled himself as mother took his hand and led him into the room.

The first thing that hit Sakal was how small Imzadi looked in her medical crib. Like a little girl’s doll, placed precisely in the centre of the crib, a large tube down her throat and a drip patch almost overwhelming her tiny thigh.

Next to the crib, sitting in a chair pushed right next to it was the Vorta. Sakal recognised him instantly. He…not him, his clones, had been a regular presence on the vidscreen during the war, at first with Father and then alone. He was smaller, more delicate looking, in person, though the shaking of his hands and the tears which ran down his face perhaps enhanced this.

Tears…he was crying. Sakal had never thought that Vorta could cry. It had simply never occurred to him that they would have that ability.

Father was there too and before Sakal could even say hello he was enveloped in a huge hug, Father pressing his forehead against his, his voice husky as he apologised for being gone for so long, that he’d missed him so much. He pulled up another chair next to the crib and pulled Sakal up onto his lap, letting him look more closely at the baby.

“This is your little sister, son,” he said softly, “I wish you could have met her under better circumstances.”

“Do you want to touch her hand,” the Vorta…Weyoun said, voice cracking, “She likes having her hand held…”

Sakal reached out, hand hesitating momentarily, and ran his finger over the baby’s tiny palm, her skin so pale it was almost translucent, softer than anything he’d ever touched before. The room was so quiet, the only sounds the low beep of Imzadi’s’ monitors and Weyoun’s crying.

“Hello Imzadi,” Sakal whispered, leaning in closer, “I’m your big brother, Sakal.”

Imzadi’s hand closed around Sakal’s fingertip. She squeezed back a greeting of her own.

In many years, when Sakal was much older, had children of his own, and knew about things like the instinctive response babies had to clench their fists when something pressed in their palms, he would look back on this moment and smile. But he was only a child then, barely more than a baby himself in the great scheme of things, and that moment was like a bolt of lightning.

This was his little sister. And he loved her.

Chapter Text

Captain Jean-Luc Picard stared into the blackness of space, his eyes drawn to the tiny pinpricks of starlight showing through the viewscreen, as if he could stare long and hard enough and his ship’s quarry would appear before his eyes.

This was, he knew, impossible. The scanning the bridge crew was currently performing in this sector of space was meant to detect traces of duotronic phase particles, a kind of waste product produced by the cloaking technology primarily used by the Orion Syndicate.

“Think of it as a kind of very small breadcrumb,” Geordie had said, pinching his index finger and thumb together as they sat at the briefing table, “We’ll follow them right to the wicked witch’s house and break out Hansel and Gretel.”

“Was that a green skin comment?” Number One had said back, ever present smirk on his face, “Do I need to order you for some sensitivity training, Lieutenant Commander?”

“The wicked witch in Hansel and Gretel wasn’t green skinned. You’re thinking of the Wizard of Oz!”

Whichever witch it was, she certainly knew how to keep herself hidden. The Enterprise had followed the flight logs of the escaped Vorta and Jem’Hadar’s shuttle back to an asteroid cluster held together around a pair of small planetoids. The Syndicate’s casino had to be somewhere around here, but the cloaking technology they were using had so far frustrated their broader scans, forcing them to tighten and focus their searching to tight semi-quadrants of space.

Picard leaned back in his seat, the words from Lt Cmdr Ek playing in his ears. There was a little more to this mission than a simple rescue of some crash-landed refugees. Starfleet intelligence had been working on the theory for some time that the Romulan Star Empire had been tacitly, and perhaps not so tacitly, funding the Orion Syndicate, taking the retreat of the Dominion as an opportunity to expand their influence with the largest organised crime syndicate in the Quadrant, and not to mention increase their access to the largest slave market outside of Breen Space.

The capture of one of the Syndicate’s casino-cum-fighting rings, and the suspected Romulan built technology it would contain – including a duotronic particle spilling Romulan-made shielding system - would go a long way to proving this theory. A theory that could be then used by the Federation President to score points against the Praetor. Surprising no-one, the tenuous alliance between the Star Empire and the Federation was already close to broken as the war crimes trials came to a close, thinly veiled barbs already being traded through public statements.

Jean Luc sighed internally, careful not to let his thoughts, his frustration, show on the Bridge. If only this war had meant something. If only all the dead, the destroyed worlds, the ruined lives, had made the political players step back, see how meaningless all of it was if they didn’t learn from it, if the moment the theatre of war was done, they didn’t simply pick up all their old squabbles where they had left them abandoned on the floor.

If only the Federation actually was serious about ending the scourge of slavery. Certainly, the leaders of the Federation made all the right noises when it was convenient to do so, but when it came to pressuring the Klingons on the process of their own promises about abolition within their territory (one of the terms of the Khitomer Accords which they had been dragging their feet on for over 75 years now), or the Ferengi Alliance’s practice of debt slavery and continued association with the Breen, they tended to be conspicuously silent.

“Captain! I think we have something…” Geordi’s voice broke into the Captain’s thoughts, bringing him back to the present.

“What is it Mr La Forge? Some of those breadcrumbs…”

“Not quite, Captain. In fact…” Geordi bought up a small section of the asteroid field they were scouring, “I think it’s a bit bigger than a breadcrumb. Look at that…”

The screen enhanced a few times…and then he saw it! A one-person skimmer-shuttle, leaping from one asteroid to the next. Jean Luc frowned. The Enterprise’s presence wasn’t a secret. The skimmer’s pilot was certainly taking a risk trying to find an illegal Syndicate casino with a Federation starship less than a million kilometres away…

Then…just on the corner of the screen, another shuttle! This one a little bigger and trying to orbit around one of the planetoids. Poorly it seemed, even from this distance Picard could see the damage to its sides.

“Look, there goes another one!” Geordi pointed to another part of the screen, this time to Klingon merchant ship that was practically limping through space, “And another!” This time a small Ferengi space bus. It was like an exodus…

Then it hit him! They weren’t trying to find the casino…

“They’re running,” Picard said aloud. He strode back to his command chair, “Mr Data, activate tractor beams, grab one of those ships. I don’t care which one. We need to find out why these rats are leaving the ship…”

“Usually, rats leave ships because they’re sinking…” Riker stood, coming to stand beside the Captain.

“Sir, we’re being hailed,” Geordi said, moving to the communication’s station.

“By one of the ships?” Riker asked, turning towards him.

“No sir. I think…I think it’s coming from the casino.”

“On screen, Mr La Forge.”

An Orinion command deck, looking considerably the worse for wear, flickered onscreen, sparks flying from one of the panels just out of view. A powerful looking Aurelian, one of her wings broken and blood matting the black and white feathers down her left side, stood in the middle of the screen, a bloodied mace in one of her hands.

“Federation starship, I am Patuk-Un, one of the fighters of the Sapphire Blossom casino. We have captured the command deck from our masters and request assistance. I repeat, we have the command deck, but I don’t know how long we can hold it,” she groaned, holding onto her side. The low boom of an explosion shook the camera, more sparks flew, “Can you hear us? Do you copy?”

“We copy, Patuk-Un,” Riker stepped closer to the screen, “Send us your coordinates, we’re on our way.”

It was a simple business after that. One of the Enterprise’s security teams quickly had the casino secured and soon the brig was full to overflowing with both managers and patrons of the Sapphire Blossom and the sick bay similarly full with their victims. They put a call out for assistance, asking for another ship to come and assist in transporting all the prisoners and triaging the freed casino workers.

Captain Picard was soon in sickbay, standing in front of a bio-perch (the standard biobed’s being decidedly uncomfortable for winged patients), Patuk-Un having her wing reset and damage to her secondary stomach repaired by Dr Selar.

“The great, if sightly disgraced, Jean Luc Picard,” the Aurelian said as the Captain drew closer, “I wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

The Captain gave a dry chuckle, “And there I thinking the Briar Patch incident was well behind me and my crew.”

Patuk-Un ran her beak through some of her shoulder feathers, receiving a sharp rebuke from Selar to stay still in the process, “Ak…perhaps I’m a little out of date. It’s been a while since I had regular access to the news services.”

“Understandable,” Picard said, “We’ll have a formal debriefing arranged for you in due course, but if you don’t mind telling me how you ended up overthrowing an Orion Syndicate casino…”

The Aurelian chuckled herself this time, “Me? I could just swing a mace and knew how a basic comms panel worked. It was the Gorn and some of the brothel workers who planned everything. I think you should speak to them about it.” She jerked her beak towards the other end of the sickbay where the imposing figure of a Gorn fighter lay back on a biobed, having a large phaser wound on his thigh repaired.

“Ah yes, we’ve heard about the remarkable Mr Kre’ut,” Picard followed her gaze, “we’ll speak to him soon enough. But tell me, you don’t seem like the typical person who ends up in an Orinion fighting ring. How did you end up at the Sapphire Blossom to begin with? I assume you have fighting experience.”

Patuk-Un’s neck feathers puffed up (the Aurelian smile), “Me? Oh no. Well, I suppose I do now, but I was taught entirely ‘on the job’ if you could call it that. I’m an accountant by trade.”

“An accountant?” Picard blinked.

“Well, I was one before one of the partners at my firm started laundering money for the Syndicate. Things went south for him and the whole firm was ‘acquired’ by them. I thought I’d just get to keep doing my old job, admittedly for no pay, but my gym junkie habits from before the takeover plus a few stereotypes about Aurelians had me transferred into the…I suppose you’d call it the entertainment side of the business.”

Picard thanked Patuk-Un for her help, hoping she continued to take her captivity and subsequent freedom with the easy good humour she had displayed so far. Aurelian culture placed a strong emphasis on fatalism, what happened was simply meant to happen, no doubt that would help her going forward.

Raised voices drew Picard’s attention to the other side of the room, where the Gorn, Kre’ut, was snarling, two orderlies trying to hold him down while one of the nurses stood back, a wound-knitter in her hand.

“Sir…Mr…ugh…Mr Gorn Sir, I have to finish closing your wound! You have to lay down!”

“The Gorn has a name, Federation cur!” came a deep rolling voice, emanating (somewhat disconcertingly) from halfway down Kre’ut’s throat, “You will tell me where you are keeping the Vorta! Tell me now, and then you can continue to wet-nurse me!”

The nurse made a scoffing noise and looked like she was about to say something particularly biting back when Picard reached the bedside.

“I’ll take over from here, Lieutenant,” he said, nodding to the orderlies to let Kre’ut go.

The nurse put her hands on her hips, “My pleasure, Captain.” She walked off, taking the orderlies with her and leaving the wound-knitter on a tray next to the bed.

Kre’ut made a growl as she left, snatching up the instrument and starting to heal his wound himself. His silver eyes flashed up at Picard.

“You will forgive me,” his voice was low, rolling and hissing at the same time, “But my translator is still catching up with Federation Standard, did the nurse say you were the Colonel of this vessel.”

“The Captain. And I am yes.”

“Very good,” the Gorn hissed as he passed the small tool over a particularly raw-looking part of his burn, “I require your assistance. I wish to commandeer a vessel, anything space-worthy from the Blossom’s hold will suit. You can consider it my fee for delivering the Federation a whole casino. There were two Vorta working in the casino as well. We will leave together on the ship you give me.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be flying anywhere, Mr Kre’ut,” Picard looked more closely at the chart displayed by the biobed, “According to this you have seventh degree burns, widespread lyrra-parasites, and significant need for UV therapy to replace your depleted vitamin levels.”

Kre’ut’s head snapped up, his silver faceted eyes narrowing, “How did you learn my name?”

“Your reputation rather precedes you, Mr Kre’ut…” Picard gave a tight-lipped smile.

There was a brief commotion at the door. Only brief. There wasn’t much that could stop a Jem’Hadar from getting into a room when they wanted to…

Domed’edon pushed his way into the sick bay, Nilig’xal on his heels.

“Kre’ut…” he said, voice strained, almost like he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

There was a pause, a moment of inhale where Domen’edon and Kre’ut stared at each other across the room.

“Domed…” Kre’ut whispered, his voice softer, almost gentle to Picard’s ears. He tried to stand, wincing as his burned leg gave out under him. Domed’edon rushed over, supporting him and helping him ease back onto the biobed, “Domed…where is Ookem’umur? Is he…are you both...?”

“Ookem is well,” Domed’edon replied. He smiled, his lip trembling, “You are here. We found each other.”

“I promised we would,” Kre’ut whispered, “I said I would find you both again.”

Domed wrapped his arms around the Gorn’s shoulders, his head going to the crook of Kre’ut’s neck, Kre’ut making the same gesture on the other side of Domed’s, his longer neck and jaw almost allowing him to wrap around to the middle of Domed’s back.

A Gornish kiss. A rare thing to see in this part quadrant…

~*~*~

“So…how have you been?”

Ookem’umur gave a sigh from where they lay on a specially replicated large couch (really a converted bed) in Deanna’s consulting room.

“My body is healing. Quickly, the doctors here say,” they said, hands clasped on their chest.

“I’m glad. Is your pain under control? Dr Selar mentioned that you don’t ask for pain medication very often…”

Something almost close to a smile quirked at Ookem’s lips, “My line has diminished pain receptors. It makes us better in combat. I will not require any pain relief in 24 hours.”

“I’ll send Dr Selar a note to let her know,” Deanna tapped her PADD, “How are things…other than physically?”

Ookem blinked, looking over at Deanna, almost confused.

Deanna tried another tack, “Domed’edon and Nilig’xal have been visiting you a lot in the sick bay. How are things going with them?”

“I…I am not sure,” Ookem picked at one of the scales on their hand, “Sec…Domed’edon is struggling with the new words. The ones you gave me for…for me.”

“How does that feel? A little frustrating?”

“No…no, I know he is trying. He wants to remember. But I have been ‘he’ for many lifetimes. It’s a sudden change.”

“An important one though. One that feels better for you.”

Ookem gave a sigh, “I know…” they paused, looking down at the loose scale on their hand, “Part of me…part of me wants to go back. To how I was before. That if I tried harder, I could be happy being…being how I was.”

“Being Third Ookem’umur?” Deanna tilted her head to one side, “From what you’ve told me, you worked very hard, risked everything, to escape being Third Ookem’umur.”

Ookem was silent. They moved from worrying at the scale to running one finger over one of the horns on their chin.

“Being in the Dominion…it must have been awful to make you risk so much to leave…It must-”

“It was,” Ookem said quickly, interrupting her, “It…it was awful. Every day was…worse than unbirth. But here…here is hard in a different way.”

“I know. It’s not easy. Especially after everything that happened on Bellatrix. But with work and the right support, things will get easier.”

“I…I am not sure I believe that.”

Troi smiled gently, “I know. But let’s work on it anyway, see what happens. Nurse Ogawa told me that you went in to see the eggs yesterday. I’m really happy you took that step. How did it feel?”

“I felt…” Ookem’s hands clenched, pain racked their face, “There was nothing. I did not…I do not feel like they came from me. I am not…connected to them. The way I am connected t-to my brothers, to other Jem’Hadar. I am not…I do not think I can be a-a…what is it again?”

“A parent?”

“Yes…I…” they took a deep breath, “I do not think I am a parent.”

“I don’t think that’s something you can make a judgement on after only a few days,” Deanna said gently, pushing back, “There are so many different ways of being a parent, almost as many as there are parents in the Galaxy. According to the doctors it may be almost a year before the eggs hatch, you and Domed’edon have plenty of time to work together to figure out the kind of parents you both want to be…”

Ookem let the breath they’d taken out slowly, “Perhaps…”

A notification on Deanna’s PADD popped up. She flicked it off the screen, wanting to concentrate on this session.

“And if, after that time you still feel the same, there are options open to you. Domed’edon could take primary child caring responsibilities. As refugees with a multiple birth you’d automatically qualify for in-home caring assistance as well. There are even open adoption and fostering arrangements which you can explore if that’s something you’re interested in, but I’d recommend you speak to Domed’edon about that...”

“I…I would not want them raised without another Jem’Hadar…” Ookem said, almost to themself more than to Deanna, “I want them to know about the Hatcheries, to hear the Old Tongue…to know why we ran…”

Deanna smiled, “You know what that was?”

“What?”

“Your first parenting decision,” she sat back in her seat, “I think that’s a good place to leave things today. Shall we meet again the day after tomorrow?” Deanna tried to flick to her scheduler only to have another notification pop up, the Captain asking if she was with Ookem’umur and if she could bring them to the nursery at her earliest convenience.

“It looks like we’re needed down in the nursery…” she said, standing.

“Are the eggs alright?” Ookem stood as well.

“I think so, let’s head over.”

Down in the small nursery off the secondary sickbay it seemed like half the senior staff had gathered outside with Domed’edon.

“Ookem…sibling…” he took Ookem’umur’s hand in his own, “Come in. There is someone who wants to see you.”

Deanna watched through the nursery window as Ookem walked in, pausing only a moment to take in the powerful Gorn form standing beside one of the incubators, before rushing into Kre’ut’s arms, Domed’edon joining him soon after, and the three of them embracing.

Kre’ut took Ookem’s head in his hands, stroking down the sides of their face, “Are you well? You look so thin…”

“I-I have been ill,” Ookem said back, voice soft. They looked meaningfully towards the eggs in the incubators, “There have been some changes as well for…for me, for all of us.”

The sounds that came out of Kre’ut’s mouth weren’t able to be translated, a long string of words that there were no equivalents for in Federation Standard. One phrase did come through though:

“You, my darling, are a miracle.”

~*~*~

“Dr Saavei, wonderful to see you again,” Julian gave a brief Vulcan salute as Dr Saavei stepped off the transporter pad.

“You as well, Dr Bashir,” Saavei’s voice was soft and she held her hands close to her chest. She was apparently quite protective of them, being one of the few surgeons in the Federation who still practiced surgery directly with her hands, rather than using a bio-surgical interface. “We have many things to discuss. Shall we see the patient?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

Julian took her directly to a small examination room, a little further from the sick bay which was still busy triaging and treating all the beings rescued from the Sapphire Blossom. Eris was waiting with Yelgrun and (Julian noted with no small amount of chagrin) the two other Vorta who had been in the Blossom, a Luaran and a Deyos.

“This is the Doctor,” Yelgrun stood from where he was sitting next to Eris on a biobed, “This is the one who can fix her.”

The Deyos stayed where he was, sitting in the corner, his eyes flicking up from where he sat with his knees tucked up against his chest. Julian almost had to shake himself. It was hard to reconcile the cruel prison warden he had known in Internment Camp 371 with the thin and exhausted looking creature he saw now. He looked a lot younger than the Deyos Julian had met as well, he was probably a few iterations further down his line. The Luaran looked a similarly ragged, though a little more engaged, gently stroking Eris’ hand where she sat beside the bed.

“Yelgrun,” Julian said, a tone of warning in his voice, “I very much doubt Luaran and Deyos have been seen by the doctors yet. They’re supposed to stay in the general triage unit until then.”

“Oh, that was going to take forever,” Yelgrun waved his hand. “I released them. I thought it might help Eris to see them again, especially Deyos. They worked in the same facility, you know.”

Julian sighed, “Apologies Dr Saavei. If you want to begin all of Eris’ files and previous scans are available in the wall terminal there. I’m just going to quickly look over these patients.”

Saavei nodded, “Of course Doctor, I understand.”

Julian began a standard triage scan of Deyos, finding nothing he hadn’t expected: malnutrition, vitamin and mineral deficiencies, a few poorly healed broken bones, deep tissue damage in the hips, and, from the scans, a high degree of scar tissue on Deyos’ back. Injuries that would need long term treatment but nothing that a triage unit would deal with. Julian replicated a high vitamin, high calorie nutrition jelly (mango flavoured) from the terminal in the wall and told Dayos to suck it out of its pack slowly. The same scan on Luaran gleaned similar results, though it looked like her right ankle had been broken recently and was in need of resetting. He quickly attended to that, giving her a mango nutrition gel (this one with some added pain relief) as well.

“I want you both to pop into the main sickbay tomorrow to get an ongoing treatment plan,” Julian gave Luaran a smile, “But for now I think the first order of business is rest and recuperation.”

Luaran gave a distracted nod. She seemed more interested in Dr Saavei and her examination of Eris’ latest brain scans, the ominous grey squares of the chips haphazardly placed on the white matter of her brain.

“I told her to keep her head down…” she said, more to herself than anyone in the room, “But she wouldn’t listen. She kept lashing out…when she blasted the pit mother who ran the brothel across the room one night, that’s when they put the chips in.”

“It must have been awful,” Julian stood, walking over to Dr Saavei.

“That’s when they moved her,” Deyos spoke up for the first time. “You’re not much of a draw if you don’t react at all for the customers. They sent her down to work in the fighting pits, bringing food, cleaning, odd jobs around the place.”

Another piece of the puzzle of Eris’ part in the escape fell into place for Julian. Someone assumed to be little better than a cleaning drone would never attract much attention as they moved through the casino. After enough time the captors wouldn’t even notice her in the room, would mention things they shouldn’t, maybe leave an access card out for a clever hand to grab when no-one was looking…He hoped he’d have a chance to ask her about it one day.

“What do you think, Doctor?” he asked, Saavei taking some notes on her PADD.

“I believe we can perform an initial surgery within the next few days, if the Enterprise’s medical facilities are not too taxed,” she indicated with a stylus on the brain scan, “These chips on the mid brain, here, here and this small cluster here should be relatively low risk to remove and will provide us with a good opportunity to monitor how the patient reacts to a procedure of this kind.”

“What about the rest?” Yelgrun crossed his arms, “When are you going to do those?”

“That will depend on Ms Eris and how she recovers,” Saavei said calmly, “But rest assured, I have every intention of returning your friend to as close to her previous state as I am capable of.”

That seemed to mollify Yelgrun. He went to the bed and took Eris’ hand, gently asking her to stand, “Send us a message when you want to do the surgery. I’ll make sure she’s ready.”

“Thank you Yelgrun.” Julian had to concede that as much as Yelgrun was unpleasant to deal with, he was taking very good care of Eris. “And what about you two?” He addressed Deyos and Luaran, “Have you had quarters assigned to you?”

“They’ll stay in the quarters with Eris and I,” Yelgrun said quickly, “I’ve already requested extra beds.”

“Is that alright with you, Deyos? Luaran?” Julian asked, making sure to catch both Vortas’ eyes.

Both nodded. “It’s nice to get to be together,” Deyos said, almost wistfully.

“Alright, but I’ll check in on all of you tomorrow morning. And Yelgrun, I want you to make sure Deyos and Luaran both see the doctors tomorrow too.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Yelgrun gave a dismissive wave, more shooing Julian away. Julian made a mental note to check in on the four of them this evening after dinner as well.

He walked with Dr Saavei down the corridors, leading her to the quarters that they had assigned to her.

“So…what are your thoughts?” he asked after a few moments of silence.

“Hmm? Apologies Dr Bashir, on what matter?” Saavei seemed distracted, a rare thing to see in a Vulcan.

“On the patient,” Julian stood back, letting Saavei enter her quarters, “I was wondering what you thought her prognosis was?”

“Of course…yes,” she seemed to shake herself, gestured to Julian to take a seat as she sat down herself, “I have done several similar procedures on recently freed captives of both the Orion Syndicate and the Breen Confederacy. It is sadly not an uncommon method of controlling difficult captives, particularly those with enhanced mental capabilities. I consider Ms Eris’ prognosis good, but she will require extensive rehabilitation. The medical facility I am associated with on Vulcan provides exactly those services. I was considering proposing that she be moved to that facility for her continued treatment after she has recovered from this first surgery.”

Julian made a thoughtful noise, “That kind of intensive rehabilitative therapy would certainly make her recovery smoother. I don’t think it would be wise to separate her from the other Vorta though. They seem very intent on staying together for now.”

Saavei gave a nod, “Understandable. Our rehabilitation villas can accommodate family groups with ease. Not to mention many of our therapeutic services would be open to them as well.” She picked up her PADD and tapped at the screen, “I have emailed you through an information pack. Perhaps we can discuss it with the group tomorrow…”

“Yes, we’ll discuss it with them together,” Julian shifted forward in his seat, making moves to leave, “Is there anything else you need for now? I’m probably needed in triage…”

“Actually…Doctor Bashir if you have a moment…” Saavei held up her hand, “I was hoping you and I could…talk.”

“Oh…” Julian settled back, trying to keep confusion out of his voice. He and Saavei had been at Starfleet’s medical academy together but they hadn’t exactly been friends, having run in pretty different crowds. He wasn’t sure what they had to talk about apart from their patients, “What about?”

Saavei took a deep breath in, clenching her pale hands in front of her. If it wouldn’t get him in the kind of trouble that would have him sent to mandatory species sensitivity training, Julian would have described Saavei as ‘elfin.’ She was short, for a Vulcan, and delicate looking, with an upturned nose dotted with green freckles and large wide-set grey eyes, her palpable nervousness only adding to this affect.

She worried at her hands for a few moments longer, “I will be blunt. I have heard from…various parties that you have been in cross-species relationships. Quiet a few of them, in fact.”

Oh wonderful. Good to know that Julian’s reputation as a cross-species slut had made its way through his entire graduating class.

“I mean no offence,” she said quickly, sitting forward in her seat, “I…I mean only to ask for your advice. My 35^th birthday draws closer and…” she took a deep breath, “I have met someone. Someone incredible.”

Julian opened his mouth to congratulate her but she continued on.

“I have already put off my Vulcan betrothal once, his and my families were understanding about my desire to study the art of physical surgery further. But he and I are both nearing our next pon farr and I find…I find I cannot abide the idea of completing the ceremony with my betrothed.”

Julian really didn’t want to be a part of this conversation, “Oh…have you spoken to your family, and your betrothed as well I suppose, about how you feel?”

“I cannot…not until I am sure of my path forward,” Saavei stood suddenly, starting to pace back and forth across the quarters, “It’s why I wanted to speak to you. As you may have guessed, my…my lover is not Vulcan. He is…”

Julian ran through the possibilities in his mind: Human, Klingon, Tellarite, Andorian, Ferengi, Breen, Xindi, Deltan, Son’aran, Charon, Horta, Denobulan, Trill, Chalnoth, Dikironium Cloud Creature…

“…a Pandronian!”

Julian blinked. That wasn’t on the list.

“You have to understand,” Saavei stood, starting to pace around the room, “Yuri Yn Shah has changed me deeply. Before, my life was a series of motions. I studied, I worked, I fulfilled all the obligations of a good Vulcan citizen…a good Vulcan daughter. I saw no reason to step outside of this. It was…logical. But then I met Yuri and everything changed. I questioned everything…”

Julian started to tune out as an increasingly animated Saavei started to list all the ways this Yuri Yn Shah had opened her eyes to a world outside of mainstream Vulcan’s rather restrictive views of romantic relationships. God, he wished Garak was here. Garak would get him out of this conversation…

Garak would probably love this actually, Julian found himself musing. One of his great joys when he’d had the tailor shop had been the little tidbits of others people’s lives he’d gather through his day. The new dress after a breakup, the scarf to catch someone’s eye, the new silk shirt for a celebration or important milestone, he’d absorb them all, adding them to existing mental files he had on every regular customer…

“So what I need to know, Doctor,” Saavei came closer all of a sudden, dropping to her knees beside Julian’s chair and drawing him from his thoughts, "Is…can it work? Can a love across worlds survive?”

Julian sighed internally, looking into Saavei’s grey eyes, seeing the hint of desperation to them. He didn’t want to lie to her, he didn’t want to tell her the truth either. That being that even when two people loved each other, life was complicated, and a love between species, with all the added complications that could bring (cultural, familial, even physical), it could sometimes be too much for two people to overcome. His romantic life had certainly been testament to that so far.

He looked down at his PADD, trying to buy himself more time. The red notification of an unread message stared back from him. Probably from Garak. They’d been texting regularly since Julian had left for the Enterprise. Lots of kind words, I-miss-yous, updates and daily frustrations. Nothing about the future however, nothing really about where they stood or what they would do after these missions were done. Neither of them seemed willing to start that conversation, to break the delicate truce they’d built between them.

None of that helped Saavai though, or her lover, the magnificent Yuri Yn Shah, for that matter.

He looked into her eyes once more, “Do you love each other?”

“Beyond all logic,” she said, her voice a whisper.

Julian gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “Then that’s what matters. You’ll work it out.”

Garak had always told him lies were often easier than the truth.

The corners of Saavei’s mouth twitched. On a more emotive species it would have been the equivalent of a large smile breaking out on her face. She stood, brushing off the front of her tunic.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, retreating into Vulcan reserve, “Your candour is appreciated.”

Julian gave a tight smile in return, “Always happy to help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to check in on the triage unit.”

“Of course. I will confer with you tomorrow about meeting with the Vorta to discuss Eris’ continued treatment.”

“Excellent. We’ll talk more then.”

Julian’s shoulders slumped as the doors to Saavei’s quarters closed. Why did this sort of thing always happen to him?

His com-badge beeped. (What now?)

“Bashir here.”

Commander Riker’s voice came through to him, “Doctor Bashir, please report to the Captain’s ready room. We have something to discuss.”

Something tightened in Julian’s gut.

“I’m on my way.”

~*~*~

There was an unsaid decision to allow Ookem, Domed and Kre’ut some time alone before Kre’ut’s formal debriefing. Ookem was still recovering from their injuries however, and after all the excitement of the morning they soon needed to rest, Domed going with them.

An interesting development though, was that once he was aware of the eggs, Mr Kre’ut refused to leave them.

“I am one of the clutch-fathers,” he said simply to Picard, as if that explained everything. “As Domed’edon is caring for Ookem’umur I will sit kha’ssusot.

“I’m sorry, that didn’t quite…translate,” Picard watched as Kre’ut lifted a full bio-diagnostic chair from the next room (weighting close to 150 kilos) like it was nothing and bring it into the nursery.

“Kha’ssusot.” It almost sounded like a cough. “I will sit with the eggs.” He made himself comfortable in the chair. “My meals will be bought in here. Many thanks, Colonel.”

Riker, who was standing a little behind his Captain (or maybe his Colonel), crossed his arms over his chest, “If you’re concerned about the medical care or security here, I can assure you-“

Kre’ut hissed, “Do you think the creche-worlds of Gorn space lack facilities such as these?” He waved a clawed hand in the general direction of the medical terminals, “Many years ago - before the Age of Unification - yes, kha’ssusot existed to protect a clutch, both from attacks and disease, but it is more than that. To sit kha’ssusot is to begin your life as a parent, to grow closer to your fellow clutch-fathers, to know your children from shell to quickening to first moult. It is…” he paused, as if trying to think of the word, “…honour and sacrifice and joy all at once.”

So they would have to improvise a little for the debriefing. Picard had a small table bought into the nursery and two more chairs for him and Riker.

“Perhaps you’d like to start from the beginning, Mr Kre’ut,” Picard said, pouring the Gorn a glass of water and sliding it across the table.

“I’m afraid it’s a long story, Colonel,” Kre’ut’s tongue darted out and lapped at the glass, “Most stories of my people are.”

Picard gave a tight smile, “We have plenty of time.”

“Very well then.” Kre’ut took another sip (lap?) from his glass before he started.

“Among my people, it is important to find and know your destiny. For some Gorn, that destiny is a career, for others a person. Sometimes it is a great project that they will work on their whole lives. For others it’s finding the perfect grackle-nut pie recipe or having a very impressive stamp collection. All destinies are worth pursuing. For many, finding your destiny is a quest you go on in your youth though there are some who never find it. It is said for them the quest itself is their destiny. For many years, I thought this was my fate, to be a roamer, a Ssessekh’ha-nur, a man without destiny, one with no home.”

“You were searching for your destiny?” Riker leant forward on the small table, “Our intelligence about the Gorn Hegemony is that it operates within a strict caste system. Surely that would have some role in your destiny…”

“I am a proud son of Ssessekh and Russth laws and culture do not apply to me,” Kre’ut snapped, looking down his snout at Riker, “How typical of a Star Fleet officer and Federation-centric views of the Galaxy to think every Gorn is Russth. It’s disappointing…yet not unexpected.”

Riker’s mouth fell open in an almost perfect ‘o’ and he sat back in his seat.

Picard cleared his throat, “Please, continue with your story, Mr Kre’ut.”

Kre’ut’s tongue slipped out, wetting his teeth before continuing.

“As I said, I was on my fesshattuk, my journey to find my destiny. I had been travelling for many years, meeting many people, learning, writing about my travels. I did not know it then but I had entered a period of malaise, where the searching itself had become dull. I sought out the darker spaces of the Galaxy, thinking perhaps danger and risk would lead to a revelation. This came to a sudden end when one night I was drugged in a tavern on the edge of Tholian space. When I awoke I found I had been captured by Breen slavers who quickly sold me to the Orinions, who place a premium on Gorns for their fighting abilities and strength. The Breen have little use for species who cannot handle the cold on their home world long enough to survive the flesh markets. For a long time I considered this a pity. Of my slave owners, the Breen were the less cruel of the two.”

Picard was beginning to understand what Kre’ut had meant when he’d said most of the stories of his people were long ones. He settled back into his seat, making himself more comfortable, having a feeling he was going to be here a while.

“I moved between masters within the Syndicate, mostly as a fighter, other times doing labour, a stint in the dilithium mines, before ending up at the Sapphire Blossom. I was there for a year in the fighting pits before they arrived. And as Skrek-grah saw Tasssirat on his first day at the hatchery of Klon’imar, I laid eyes on the one known as Ookem’umur and knew then my destiny. I had never seen any creature more beautiful; the strength in their arms, the power of their legs, the perfect curve and dip of the horns on their jaw. The one known as Domed’edon a beauty in his own right as well. They came together to the pits and soon Ookem’umur was the best fighter in rotation. I was lucky enough to be housed in their cell from time to time and we grew to know each other well. Our love grew in a dark and violent place, as a flower pushes up through cracks in the rock to find the sun.”

“For months the monotony and pain of the pits was a little less. We had each other and for the first time since I had been captured, I found myself thinking of escape. Suddenly, there was a life I could imagine for myself out of the pits. Myself and the two of them, travelling the stars, perhaps returning to Gorn space and my creche world.”

“But then Ookem’umur grew ill. The white the Orinions gave them made them itch, made their bones ache, light itself seemed to cause them pain. They grew more savage in the ring, ending their fights quickly so they could return to the dark of our cells.”

“There was a Vorta who bought food and water to us in the pits. She spoke little but would often come to sit with Ookem’umur when she had spare time. No one cared much what the cleaners and servers did when they weren’t needed. One day she came holding a scrap of paper, on it was a master access code for the whole casino. With it we could take the whole asteroid. But it would need planning, coordination with the other captives…the brothel, the casino and the pits all working together. And my darling Ookem’umur did not have that time.”

“Eris and I made a plan. She with one of the other Vorta, one better at medical care, would run with Ookem and Domed. We would damage the cell so it looked like they had escaped through brute force and the Syndicate wouldn’t change the master code.”

“When did they leave?” Riker asked.

“A few days after she came to me with the code. We had to wait for a shuttle that was fast enough or had a cloaking device so they could get away. It was good one came when it did. Ookem was getting worse, they needed to be far away from that wretched place.”

“Why not just leave with them?” Riker again.

Kre’ut gave a growl, “And miss the chance we had been given to free all of us from the yoke of the Orinions? To see our masters and their customers cower? Perhaps you are prone to run but I am not!”

Riker rolled his eyes. Picard remembered a time not too long ago he would have already have been biting back.

“Captain…” Data’s voice came over though the communicator, “You have a high priority call incoming from Starfleet Command.”

Picard tapped his combadge, “Understood Mr Data. I’ll take it in my ready room.” He stood, giving a quick tug to his shirt, “Apologies, Mr Kre’ut, we’ll have to continue this at a later time.”

Kre’ut gave a simple nod, leaning back in his chair, “Very well. I will be here.” As Riker and Picard left they saw Kre’ut turn towards the eggs and lower his head, hands held out in front of him, perhaps in prayer or meditation.

Up in the ready room, the call from Command was waiting for him, the recently promoted Admiral Kinton appearing onscreen.

“Captain Picard, good to see you,” she said, giving a tight smile, “I’m afraid we have to cut the pleasantries short today. I’m sending you some coordinates. You are to head there at maximum warp to rendezvous with the USS Kyushu.”

“The Kyushu…that’s a medical vessel, isn’t it?”

“Correct,” she nodded, “She and her crew will take carriage of the civilians that were recently freed from the Orion Syndicate. Then you’re to head straight to the Cardassian system.”

“The Cardassian System?” Jean Luc’s forehead knitted, “Surely there’s a significant Starfleet presence there already…”

Kinton gave a shrug, suddenly looking tired, “Not as significant as we’d like. The fleet’s stretched thin these days. Yours is the only fully functional Galaxy-class we have in the sector at the moment and we need some heavy firepower to back up what we and the Klingons have stationed there right now, especially since the Romulans seem to be very hard to reach at the moment.” She rolled her eyes.

“Can I ask why?”

“You’re probably aware the political situation of the Union is in a tenuous state,” Kinton straightened her shoulders, her dark eyes hardening, “We strongly suspect that will collapse in the coming days.”

“Why so?”

“There’s been a bombing…a series of bombings to be precise.”

Kinton’s image shifted to the side, a series of images of Lakat, the Cardassian capital, appearing on Picard’s screen to her right. Images of burning Cardassian architecture and screaming civilians a sight Jean Luc had become far too familiar with in recent times.

“Emergency and humanitarian crews are already responding but we want a stronger security presence in the region…”

The picture shifted, showing an image of Cardassian Central Command, the squat building looking like someone had taken a bite out of one side, a gaping wound now existing where almost a third of the building had previously been.

“We suspect most of the Cardassian military leadership are dead.”

Chapter Text

Plasma bombs leave a very particular smell. A little like ozone, a little like burning, but with an odd note of nectarines right at the end of it.

That was what Damar noticed, when he first regained something close to consciousness. The smell of nectarines and burning.

He coughed, dust coating his mouth right down the back of his throat. His eyes were adjusting to the dimness, and as they did he started being able to make out the shapes around him. The ones moving, and the ones that were eerily still.

One of those moving shapes groaned, a familiar sound, and rolled over. A heavy piece of wood, part of the table they had all been sitting around Damar guessed, shifted off the body and fell to the floor.

“Ga-” Damar’s first attempt at speech dissolved into coughs. He tried to shift closer, every muscle in his body screaming. (That was good! Pain was good. He hadn’t been paralysed in the attack…bombing, whatever it was.) “G-arak…are you alright?”

Garak had rolled onto his back, blood matted his hair and was smeared over the left side of his face. He looked like hell. “I have…I have certainly had better days, Damar.”

They way he said it, like he’d just been served a bad lunch, or lost a favourite trinket, or ripped his favourite shirt…Damar felt the laughter well up inside him, bursting out in a series of loud barks, ones that dissolved quickly into more coughs.

He collapsed down onto his back next to Garak, staring up at the hole where the ceiling used to be, the sparks of the electrical wiring casting jagged shadows.

“Yeah…me too, Garak. Me too.”

~*~*~

Four hours earlier…

There were not enough tears in the world, in the Quadrant, in the known and unknown corners of the Galaxy for the pain Weyoun felt.

It came in waves, rising and falling like a plasma readout, sometimes dipping down to a level where he could believe Imzadi was getting better, buoyed by news like the doctors telling him her heartbeat was stronger today, or that they were considering taking out her intubation tube soon. Other times the pain was so strong he wasn’t sure he could survive it, a pain, a sorrow, he’d never known in all of his previous lives. A sorrow that ached through his whole body, made him feel like his very limbs were held together by thin twine, ready to fall apart at a moment’s notice.

Time had passed. He knew that. A day. Several days, perhaps. Definitely less than a week. People came and went from the room, there was a rotation of doctors and nurses, some sympathetic and soft voiced, others distant and professional, one doctor who was curt and wouldn’t touch Imzadi with her hands.

Weyoun couldn’t bring himself to care. Some bigot’s prejudices seemed so small, so petty and meaningless, right now. It didn’t matter, not when any of these doctors, whether kind or cold, could explain why Imzadi wasn’t getting better. Even after all the standard treatments for a severe allergic reaction her breathing remained weak, her heartbeat dangerously irregular. Words were whispered, almost outside Weyoun’s hearing, ones like ‘failure to thrive’ and ‘genetic instability,’ the kind that was apparently typical of ‘hybrid offspring.’ Words that made Weyoun want to start screaming and never stop.

Damar was there. His hand strong and firm when it held Weyoun’s, his voice soft when he begged Weyoun to eat something or have a sip of water, to lay down on the cot the hospital had set up for him, ‘just for an hour or two, you’ll feel better if you do.’

Borath was there too, his words and gestures similar. And Moe, though sometimes Niala and Mala would take him for a few hours, give him a break from the hospital and its strange smells and harsh noises.

A steady stream of flowers arrived, lush tropical flowers with tasteful crème and gold calling cards from other Legates and Guls. Damar’s allies (or hopeful allies). Smaller bunches, these filled out with desert grass and other hardy (and cheaper) native plants, came from Damar’s old staff, one from one of Sakal’s teachers. Then came the glass ornaments and silk dolls; little baubles, windchimes and curios; all from Lakar. Damar’s people, from the marsh lands and silk dairies, still deeply loyal to the Legate born as the son of a tenant silk famer.

“Damar…please…I know this is difficult but this is the reason we’re here. What we’ve prepared for!”

Oh, and Garak. Garak was there too.

A lot of the interviews, the press tour in general, had been postponed, Damar couldn’t be expected to be pulled away from the bedside of his sick child. Even if its civil society was teetering on the edge of complete political collapse, Cardassia still loved its children.

“It’s only a signature. An hour at the most. There’s a car waiting outside that can take you right there and back!”

Weyoun looked up from his near obsessive staring the rise and fall of Imzadi’s chest, watching Garak follow Damar across the room, begging, pleading.

“How many times, Garak,” Damar hissed back, turning suddenly and grabbing a handful of the front of Garak’s shirt, “The answer is no. I’m not leaving them.”

He shoved Garak back, the other Cardassian thudding against the table holding the flowers and gifts. Garak’s eyes narrowed, undeterred.

He crossed the room, dropping to his knees at Weyoun’s side, “Weyoun, please…speak to him. I’m begging you!” He took Weyoun’s hand in his own, “He needs to sign the Writ. Cardassia’s very future rests on it!”

Weyoun’s very future rested on the bed next to them, her breathing maintained by the tube down her throat.

“Weyoun…please…” Garak squeezed his hand, “After this, it’s done. It’s over. You can leave as soon as Imzadi is able to.”

That got Weyoun’s attention. He looked away from Imzadi’s bed.

“We can leave? Go to T’Kerras?”

“You can go anywhere you want,” desperation pervaded Garaks’ voice, “I’ll pack your bags myself. Just please…speak to him!”

Through the haze of exhaustion and fear Weyoun’s mind focused on Garak’s promise - that they could leave this awful place. That they could leave for T’Kerras and then everything would be alright. Imzadi would get better, Julian would no doubt come and care for her, he would know how to make her healthy again, they would have their little cottage by the sea on a Federation planet, safe and warm and healthy…a place he could rest and watch her grow. Everything would be fixed, if they could only leave.

“Damar…” Weyoun said softly, voice hoarse. He pulled his hand out of Garak’s grip as he stood, walking on unsteady feet to where Damar was standing by the window.

“Please Damar…go with Garak,” he reached up, placing a hand on Damar’s cheek, Damar covering it with his own hand. “I want to leave. I want to go to T’Kerras. Just go and sign the Writ. Please…for me, and Imzadi.”

Damar was gone not long after that, down to the waiting car, taking Garak with him. Borath replaced him as a presence in the room with a fussy and tired Moe. He was acting out, confused and frightened by the hospital, somehow knowing instinctively that something was deeply wrong but not having the capacity to express his fears in any way other than growling at the nurses and trying to throw anything he could get his hands on across the room.

After Moe got dangerously close to pulling a huge floral bouquet and its glass vase down on his head, Borath picked him up, Moe thrashing and wailing at the interruption.

“Weyoun…” Borath had to shout over Moe’s cries, “I’m going to take him down to the sand gardens, let him run around for a while. I won’t be long.”

Weyoun nodded absently. Damar hadn’t wanted him left alone in the hospital, had called Borath back from Niala’s penthouse to prevent that very thing, but neither he nor Imzadi would be alone in the hospital room for long. The nurse would be around soon to check Imzadi’s vitals and refill her medication hypos. He had all the routines of the hospital memorised at this point.

Borath left, Moe wailing and thumping at his mother’s shoulder as they went. For a while the only sound was the quiet beeps of machines in the room, the more muffled sounds of the rest of the paediatric intensive care ward, and at the edge of his awareness the distant sounds of the city: construction, traffic sounds, yelling and conversations of ordinary people going about their lives.

Then there was a sound at the door, a gentle tap on the edge of the frame…

Weyoun looked up, half expecting it to be the duty nurse. Instead it was Athra Dukat entering the room, not waiting for him to invite her in. She had been an occasional presence at the hospital, she’d had her driver take her and Niala straight to the hospital after Damar and Weyoun had the Ganymede beam them there and had come back several times, saying she would support in any way she could. One of the largest bouquets in the room came from her, the tropical flowers heavy and dripping with a treacle-like honey.

“Oh…Mrs Dukat,” Weyoun blinked as he looked up, “I wasn’t expecting…”

“No need for pleasantries, my dear,” she lifted a hand, “Don’t get up. How is she doing?”

“The Doctor this morning said there’s some improvement,” Weyoun gently moved one of Imzadi’s little hands, her perfect fingers clenching around his momentarily before relaxing, “They might remove her breathing tube tomorrow.”

“Oh…” Athra approached the medi-crib, “Isn’t that good news.” Her hands curled around the crib’s railing. “Children are such a blessing, aren’t they, Mr Weyoun?”

Imzadi’s eyes fluttered in her unconscious state. That had been happening more and more over the last day or so. The Doctors had said that was a good sign.

“Yes. Yes, she’s…everything to me.”

“It’s like that…with your first especially,” Athra smiled indulgently. Her hand reached out, hovering over Imzadi’s hair but not touching, “All the parenting books say that you’ll love all your children equally, but any mother who’s honest with herself will admit that’s not true.” She paused a moment before speaking again, her voice almost quavering, “There’s no love like the love you have for your first child…the first heart that beat beneath your own. That’s what it was like for me at least…with my first boy.”

A memory floated to the front of the Weyoun’s mind, perhaps provided by his fifth iteration, a line recited from a diplomatic briefing he’d been provided at some point:

Gul Skrain Dukat and Athra Dukat (previously Athra Madro) – married 2343, seven children within the marriage, four girls, three boys, ranging in age from 32 to eight…

“You know, I was enrolled at Rogar Conservatory when I met Skrain?” Athra kept staring down at Imzadi, “I’m sure you do know. It’s your kind’s job to know…well, everything I suppose,” she laughed suddenly, a slightly manic tone coming into her voice. Weyoun blinked, some instinct inside him latching onto the threat in the sound. “Rogar Conservatory…it sounds impressive, doesn’t it? It wasn’t. It was little more than a finishing school. Just a few science courses to keep us girls busy until we found the right kind of man…”

The Madro family, known particularly for its extensive land holdings in the Rogarin Province, some of the only arable land on Egrax, the northern-most continent of Cardassia Prime, draws direct decent from the hereditary land owners of the late Hebitian period…

“Skrain was exactly the right kind of man. His family had money, ours had the name and the connections he needed to be able move up in the military. It was a perfect match…and when our little boy came…oh I was so happy…”

A steely calm descended in Weyoun’s mind. His vision narrowed, from Athra, to Imzadi, to the nurse call button on its long cord tucked between the mattress and the edge of the medi-crib. His hand inched towards it, eyes fixed on Athra the whole time. He had to distract her, just until the nurse got here.

“Where is your son now?”

Athra looked up at Weyoun. She was silent a moment, then blinked, seeming almost confused. And then that strange manic laugh came bubbling out of her chest again.

“You don’t know?” Her laughter tapered off to a fond sigh, as if they had just shared a particularly good joke, “You really don’t know do you?”

Weyoun pressed the button, once, firmly, as Athra closed her eyes to laugh. He shrugged and gave a disarming smile, “You’ll have to forgive me my memory. Things do tend to drop out between lives, despite the efforts of our best cloud technicians.”

Athra stood up straight again, her head tilting to the side. (The left side, the side she favoured, he noticed that too.)

“Surely you remember the Battle of Benzar? One of Damar’s first decisive victories after he took the Legate’s Pin.”

“Of course I do.”

Athra’s hands tightened on the rail of the crib, her knuckles white now, “Then you do know. You know what that battle cost…what was lost!”

Weyoun’s mouth was dry. He tired to possibly think what she was talking about. Benzar was taken without a particularly hard campaign. The planet was on the edge of the Federation’s territory, poorly defended and strategically hard to justify assigning more resources too. If Weyoun recalled correctly, there were minimal losses. The Cardassians had only lost three ships: the Vandir, the Tainia and…

Procal Dukat, age 32. Eldest son of Skrain and Athra Dukat. Current rank: Dal First Order. Current command: Galor-class warship – the Tainia.

In a moment it was all clear. Clarity like water in a fountain, like an unmarked sky, like poison wiped onto the tip of a finger…

“You did this…” Weyoun’s voice was low, white-hot rage flooding him, “What was it? What was the poison you used?”

Athra smiled, a blue gummed shark, “Chlorix Bhyryn is the technical name. The people of Rogar call it something else though…”

“Hag’s Breath,” Weyoun interrupted her. He knew it. Of course he did. A poisons briefing was standard for each new diplomatic assignment.

That horrible smile stayed plastered to Athra’s narrow face, “Very clever Mr Weyoun. Your masters prepared you well for our world. Then you should already know that two millilitres is usually enough to cause complete pulmonary collapse in adult males, Cardassian ones at least. I used one on your bastard. She should have been dead within a minute. It seems I underestimated her. Oh, and you can stop pressing your little button there, my dear, the nurse isn’t coming.”

For the first time Weyoun genuinely smiled back, “I’m glad.” The voice he heard wasn’t his own; similar to the untrained ear, but not his.

“She won’t have to see what I’m going to do to you.”

~*~*~

The transport Garak had waiting for Damar outside the hospital stunk. A close and wet smell, just a little acidic, the telltale notes of someone having recently vomited in an enclosed space. Damar wound down the window and stared out of it as the transport pulled into transport. The only rebellion available to him.

Garak was talking as the transport pulled into traffic, as he had been since Damar had walked out of Imzadi’s hospital room. Damar had probably taken in three words in total. He just couldn’t bring himself to care. About this writ, about who he should speak to and sit next to when they got to Central Command. Which hold-outs would be swayed by his presence, which ones were already on his side. It didn’t matter! None of it fucking mattered! He wanted to scream with how much none of it fucking mattered!!

The transport pulled up at a stop light, bringing them to a stop right under one of Damar’s old Ministry of Propaganda posters. He remembered the photoshoot he’d done for that one. The photographers had placed him on the edge of a fake cliff, holding a plaz-rifle in one hand, the other raised in a fist urging the people of the capital to “Fight! Fight for the Union! For your children’s future!”

Or at least that’s what the poster had used to say. It was rather obscured now, since the word RARGAT had be scrawled over it in thick blue painted letters.

Garak made a disappointed noise over Damar’s shoulder, “Tch. If they’re going to insult you, they could at least go to the effort of spelling the word correctly.”

A small figure wrapped in rags, probably a child, rooted through some trash which had collected beneath the poster. Damar rubbed at his eyes. He felt a headache coming on.

“I mean honestly, how hard is it to spell ragrat?”

“Too hard apparently.” The first words Damar had spoken since they’d left the hospital. His head throbbed and he leant over, rubbing at his chufa ridges to try and dispel some of the pain. Garak kept speaking.

“Now, our friend Lemec has been doing the rounds, but you’ll be pleased to know that Rax, the new head of the Third Order…”

(The largest calvary order, Damar knew it well.)

“…was sponsored by your old friend Rusot through most of the Officer’s college. I think we can count on him for support, and he’s proving himself to be popular with a lot of the other new Guls and Legates.”

Damar had heard the name but couldn’t place the face, “Rax…Rax…when did he enter the service?”

“Oh, not long before the start of the war,” Garak gave a snort, “He’s the same age as Ocett’s boy.”

Damar’s head snapped over, “You can’t be serious. He’s 26 and running the whole Third Order?!”

Garak gave a dry chuckle, “Welcome to the new Cardassia Damar. A land without old men. On the plus side though, he will be looking for a mentor…”

Damar sighed. He leaned his head against the window frame, looking out at the trash, the poster, the ragged little figure. He saw his life spreading out in front of him, Weyoun and Imzadi slipping further away.

He could see it all play out, a near certainty. Weyoun and Imzadi would leave for T’Kerras without him. Just for a little while, would be the promise, a few months at most, until things were more stable on Prime. Just until the elections. The elections that Garak was going to ensure he would win…

Damar knew, as much as he knew the twin moons, Blood and Bone, would rise over Prime that night, that there was always going to be just one more thing. One more election to win. One more term he needed to serve. One more piece of paper to sign. One more young man to mentor.

…one more child he barely knew. One more relationship left in the dust.

The traffics lights changed. The car started up again. Garak and Damar continued their way towards Central Command.

~*~*~

The vase hit the floor, glass sliding across the tile, flowers landing wetly in a puddle of the hydrogel that had been keeping them alive.

Weyoun groaned, pain throbbing up his whole spine from where he’d been thrown onto the ground.

The old hag was bleeding. He’d managed that at least. A line of blood was making it’s way down her face from a scratch under her eye. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Athra hissed on the floor, eyes like pinpricks as she rolled into a low crouch. She was fast. Not as fast as a lot of Cardassians, she was close to 60 after all. But still, fast enough. She lept off the floor, only stumbling a little, one hand out to stead herself, heading for Imzadi’s bed. That was her goal. Weyoun was merely an impediment to that. A child for a child. Her singular, insane focus.

Light from the window glinted off the glass on the floor. There was a piece, the heavy base of the vase with a long shard still attached, just by his feet.

It was lighter than he thought it would be, the glass less solid than it had appeared. It was easy. Easy easy. Even with his poor eyesight it was easy. She was an idiot, just like her husband had been, arrogant too. Turning her back to him, slouching towards Imzadi’s bed, trying to pull out the tubes of the intubator.

The glass slid into the ridge on the right side of her neck, a hot knife though butter. Easier than Weyoun thought it would be. He’d thought Cardassian flesh was harder, more armour-like than mammalian flesh.

She screamed, Weyoun was sure she screamed, as blood sprayed out, dark brown and burning hot as it splattered onto his face.

“You whore! You nasty prut-sucking whore!” Every word came through clenched teeth, Athra now on the ground, kneeling.

Weyoun stumbled towards the bed, making sure Imzadi was unharmed, that Athra hadn’t gotten to any of the medical devices. His hand hovered over his baby’s tiny face, still in the blissful realm of a medically induced sleep, her chest still rhythmically raising and falling, unaffected by everything going on around her.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and he was back on the floor, chin knocking painfully on the edge of the bed. Then Athra was on top of him, her weight almost crushing as her hand pressed down on his windpipe.

“There you are,” she hissed, “Not so fast now, are you?”

Weyoun’s finger’s scratched at her hand, trying to pry the fingers away, his legs kicking behind him. His previous selves screamed, begged him to fight harder. He was the last. There would be no coming back after this…

Darkness was creeping in to the edges of Weyoun’s vision. It was getting harder to get purchase on Athra’s fingers, his hands getting weaker. She seemed to sense this, taking one hand off Weyoun’s neck. She smiled that awful smile, wrapping one hand around the long shard of glass still imbedded in her neck ridge, and slowly, horribly slowly, pulling it out. More hot blood splashed onto Weyoun’s face. He could taste it. Smell it. Feel it run down the back of his throat.

“Were you one of his?” Athra said, her voice strangely soft. She looked at the glass, moving it in her hand, testing its weight. “You look like one of Skrain’s. He always did have a taste for the pink and fleshy. Soft skinned creatures…”

She leaned in close to Weyoun’s face, licked a long stripe up his cheek, tasting her own blood.

“I’m going to enjoy peeling yours off your bones.”

There was a soft sound. Almost a hiss, not quite an exhale, the sound of air leaving a tight space all in a rush. Weyoun blinked. The glass dagger fell out of Athra’s hand and clattered on the floor.

She blinked, looking almost confused for a split second. Then the life went out of her and she collapsed, right where she had been on top of Weyoun, forcing all the air out of his lungs and covering him in darkness.

The weight lifted, light finding him again. And there, Garak’s phaser in his hand, was Borath. Weyoun barely had a moment to register his relief.

“Are you alright? Did she hurt you?” Borath shoved Athra further off Weyoun’s body.

“I…I don’t think so,” Weyoun pulled himself up to a seat, “C-heck on Imzadi. Please. Is she alright?”

Borath did as he was asked, running over to the bed, “She’s fine…it all looks fine.”

Weyoun breathed out properly for the first time, it coming out as a groan of relief. He crawled over to a chair and started to pull himself up, “We need…we need to call security…the local authorities, and find out where the nurse is…” He was panting, all the air in the room suddenly feeling like it wasn’t enough for his lungs.

“The nurse is dead,” Borath said simply, he was pressing some of the buttons on the panels by Imzadi’s bed, “I’m going to assume it was Athra, but we’re not sticking around long enough to ask her.”

“What…what are you doing?” Weyoun bent over, still desperately trying to get enough air into his lungs. He felt light headed, nauseous, too hot, sweat dripping into his eyes. He wiped a hand over his forehead, looking at his hand and seeing it come away covered in brown Cardassian blood. “Where’s M-oe?”

“He’s in that storage room just down the hallway,” Borath moved to the wall med-panels by Imzadi’s bed, still working away. The computer interface flashed red (EMERGENCY MODE ACTIVATED) and with a click and a twist of one final knob, Borath pulled a large cube of machinery out of the wall, the one attached to Imzadi’s intubator, placing it carefully on the bed next to her. “We’ll get him on the way.”

“The way? W-where are we going?”

“We’re leaving,” Borath said it simply, “Can you walk? We need to get to the roof.”

Darkness was closing in around the edge of Weyoun’s vision. What was Borath talking about? Nothing was making sense!

“But Imzadi…she’s…she needs the doctors.”

Borath came over and squatted down on the ground in front of Weyoun, holding Weyoun’s face in his hands, “Weyoun…you need to listen to me. Something is happening. I can’t explain it but the streets are too quiet, this hospital is half empty, and no-one will speak to me. People are scared, and it’s something to do with this writ. We have to get off this planet.”

“But…Damar…Garak…”

Borath breathed out through his nose, “I know…we need to get them off too. But we have to get Imzadi and Moe onto the Ganymede first. They need to be safe. Now, can you walk? The atmospheric radiation is affecting transporter signals. We need to be on the roof for the Ganymede to be able to beam us and Imzadi’s crib up safely.”

Weyoun nodded, sheer force of will propelling him to his feet, even as he felt his head reel.

They moved into the hall, wheeling Imzadi’s crib between them, Weyoun thankful for its presence, something he could prop himself up with. Borath walked in the front, phaser held in front of them. They stopped only briefly, Borath ducking into the storage closet to get a crying Moe.

“I’m sorry baby,” Borath whispered, kissing Moe’s forehead as he held him on his hip, “I know, I know it was scary. But you’re going back to the ship now. It’s all going to be alright.”

It wasn’t a long walk to the lifts that would take them to the roof. As they stepped inside, Borath pressing the ‘door close’ button as soon as they were in, it hit Weyoun. No-one had stopped them. The nurse wasn’t behind her desk (probably because she was dead), there were no doctors making their rounds, no other patients even! He’d been vaguely aware that the rooms next to Imzadi’s had been cleared for security reasons, but it was like the whole floor of the hospital was empty! It couldn’t have just been Athra, she was wealthy and well-known but not powerful, certainly not powerful enough to empty a hospital to kill a political rival’s child.

Borath was right…something was happening.

On the roof, Borath pulled a commbadge out of his pocket and tapped it, “Ganymede, I have them all. Are you ready to beam?”

The voice that responded sounded distant, “Almost ready, Mr Borath. Just stay where you are while we get a good lock...”

Then it happened.

They saw it all from their vantage point at the top of the hospital. Saw the great low dome of Central Command shake and then collapse in on itself, a great cloud of smoke billowing out of it. The sound came a split second after, the scream of metal and cement and glass being ripped apart from each other, followed quickly by more explosions, other buildings, the Detapa Councillors Hall, State Records, the Ministry of Science, all of them being enveloped in smoke and dust, screams rising from the city below them.

The shock wave hit them all, Weyoun quickly leaning down to cover Imzadi’s crib to shield her. His breath came in gasps. Central Command, that’s where Damar had gone! Was he inside? Already dead?

“Do it! Do it now!” Borath shoved Moe into Weyoun’s arms, stepping back and yelling into the communicator badge.

“What are you doing?” Weyoun yelled out, Moe struggling in his arms and starting to wail.

“Making sure you’re safe,” Borath said, “I’m going to go find Damar and Garak.”

“No! Please…” Weyoun felt hot tears on his face. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real. It was a nightmare. One of the ones the Founders used to seed into the incubation pods, to impress on Vorta the horrors of rebellion and a life without the Founders.

He heard Borath’s voice over Moe’s cries, “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Please…please don’t leave me too.”

It was too late. When Weyoun opened his eyes again he was in the sick bay of the Ganymede, two nurses approaching and quickly lifting Imzadi out of the crib with her intubator. One of the doctors took Moe, wailing and thrashing.

His ears were ringing. In a haze one of the other medics led him to a bed and sat him down. Someone was speaking, their words fuzzy and far away. He caught sight of himself in the reflection of a metal instrument tray, a hollow-eyed creature, skin grey with dust and splattered with brown blood, stared back. Barely alive.

He felt the cold press of a hypo against his shoulder.

And then everything was black.