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Chapter Text

…

It absolutely did not help that the only other time Julian had convinced (read: forced) Garak to visit Earth, it had been at the tail end of a warm, humid summer. London hadn’t seen 30 degrees for decades before the August after their enjoinment, and Garak had grudgingly allowed that the city wasn’t as hellish as he had feared. And Julian’s reunion with his parents hadn’t been as hellish as HE had feared, what with his father completely unnerved by Garak’s unrelenting prying into any and every detail, embellished or outright fabricated, that Richard thoughtlessly spouted in his presence. All to learn more of his husband’s culture, Garak had simpered. Amsha had had to pour bourbon into their tea to end the interrogation.

(It hadn’t worked on Garak. Richard, on the other hand, was getting along in years — and isn’t that fascinating, to see his father as an old man? Julian still doesn’t know how to feel about it — and had almost passed out after the third cup. Amsha had tutted and sent them on their way.)

Anyway. Julian is digressing. He is digressing because Garak is vibrating with rage. Garak is vibrating with rage because it is January in Dublin, and it is snowing.

“It’s actually quite rare for it to be this cold in Ireland,” Julian says weakly.

“Quite rare,” Garak says through gritted teeth. His tail, so very stiff beneath his long overcoat, is likewise vibrating and making soft little tapping sounds on the cold stone floor of the transport hub. “This would be the optimal time, of course, for O’Brien to request your presence, my dear.”

My dear. Julian doesn’t outwardly wince, because Garak isn’t exactly blaming him, but still. He’s become very accustomed to being Garak’s darling, his love, his dearest. The demotion Has Been Noted.

Speaking of O’Brien, though… “We’re a little early. Miles and Keiko said fourteen hundred hours, so maybe we can find a cafe, get some tea?” Julian gives a winning smile. Garak’s answering smile is actually just a grimace that promises violence.

They’re here to celebrate Keiko’s new professorship. Now both of the O’Briens are firmly ensconced in academia, puttering around Earth and her very near neighbors, far from the still-recovering, former war zone that is Bajoran and Cardassian space. And while Julian had received the invitation over comms, on a visit to Deep Space 9 to access some old research, Garak had received the written invitation from Keiko herself, “to the Castellan and First Husband.”

(Julian had had to explain the etymology of “first gentleman” before Garak had lost his mind over the idea of Julian being merely the first of many, either by divorce or bigamy. It had actually been very funny, because Keiko had been so sweet and gracious in her regret, and Julian could SEE Miles drinking it all in, the very picture of a man taking the piss.)

((He’d had to explain that one, too.))

So they get tea, without bourbon. Though Julian privately thinks Garak could use it. There are heating elements sewn into Garak’s rather beautiful first layer that he is absolutely utilizing right now, so there’s no reason for him to be so snippy, except that they are in Ireland and it’s Miles’ fault. And Julian does feel for Garak’s security detail, because the three Cardassians on it don’t have heating elements in their clothing and the one Cardassian-Bajoran Hybrid on the team is Not Impressed with their sad, mesotherm moping.

“Professor O'Brien,” announces Arke, because she’s the only one actually keeping an eye out. Kotik, Vukoll, and Yaall straighten up from their miserable huddle a little late for appearances’ sake.

“Julian! Garak!” Keiko calls out, and she hurries into the cafe, catching Julian in a hug before he can fully stand. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. How was your trip?”

“Warm,” Garak grouches, but he stands and holds out his palm in formal Cardassian greeting. Keiko beams at him and some of his anger dissipates.

“Ireland isn’t usually this cold,” she begins, but Garak is already waving his hand.

“Please don’t allow me to put a damper on the occasion, Professor O’Brien,” he says, and bows. “I put all the blame at your husband’s feet.”

“Speaking of,” Julian cuts in, “where is Miles?”

“Ah, well.” Keiko looks a bit sheepish. “There was an issue with the hotel.”

…

The issue being, the hotel is full. So the celebration for Keiko is being held at an historical manse.

Arke is furiously going over the estate’s map and blueprints while the Trio huddle behind her and take turns peering over her shoulder. Julian tries not to think of them as the Boys. They might be the equivalent of eighteen and nineteen year olds fresh out of school, but they are Garak’s security team on this trip. He tries to respect that, at least.

(He has no issues respecting Arke. Nerys introduced her to Garak a year ago when Arke’s desire to learn more about her Cardassian heritage was left unsatisfied by her service on Deep Space 9, and her competence and professionalism were greatly informed by three years under Nerys’ tutelage. Maybe a little too much so; Nerys had actually admitted that she hopes being around Garak and Julian’s nonsense helps Arke to stop taking everything so seriously, which Garak accepted with equanimity and Julian is still smarting over.)

They’re able to take a trolley most of the way, but it is a bit of walk from the stop to the manse itself. Julian had tucked his scarf around the lower portion of Garak’s face, and it says something that Garak hadn’t stopped him.

“I will make it up to you,” he promises, drawing his thumb along Garak’s orbital ridge.

“You will let me make you scream,” Garak hisses back. “Chief’s prudery be damned.”

The manse is a grand old building with seven bedrooms, just enough for the guests and their security details — Rom and Leeta are en route, and the Grand Nagus does not travel alone any more than the Castellan does. Nerys, who is and has been her very own security detail, should be arriving at any moment, bringing along some of Keiko’s friends from Bajor.

Julian’s trying to wrestle the rest of their luggage up the side staircase (Garak is already firmly ensconced in their room, outer coat OFF and house robe ON) when Keiko interrupts him. “I hate to ask this, because I know you’re off duty,” she begins, already batting her eyelashes, and since Julian hasn’t seen Miles yet, he knows what’s up.

“What did he do?” Julian asks resignedly.

“He’s insisting it’s allergies,” Keiko tells him, spiriting him away to the other side of the manse where she and Miles are staying.

“It’s ALLERGIES,” Miles bawls as soon as Julian steps into the suite, elbow deep in tissues and mugs of tea. It’s not allergies. Julian can see his swollen lymph nodes from the doorway.

“Do allergies typically give you a fever?” he asks pleasantly, evading Miles’ flailing arms and pressing a hand to his forehead. “And chills? Do you even realize you’re shaking?”

“Show no weakness,” Miles hisses at him. Julian pinches at his cheeks to hold his jaw open and get a look at his very red, very abused-looking throat. “GLAUGHH!”

“We can start with a fever reducer and some analgesics—“ Julian starts to say, but Keiko is already grimacing and shaking her head.

“It’s a historical hotel; the replicators don’t have pharmaceutical access,” she says with a sigh. “There’s a pharmacy in town, but—“

“ALLERGIES,” Miles says again, and knocks over three mugs in a fit of coughing.

“I can’t get him to see anyone,” Keiko finishes, going for a stack of towels that she’s already had at ready. “That said, if YOU were to go to the pharmacy, you could simply put in the prescription.”

“Yes, all right,” Julian says, standing back and watching Miles refuse to make eye contact while gathering up his mugs. “Where’s the pharmacy?”

“It’s maybe a two, three mile walk, but the city’s a bit confusing. It would really be easier to go there with you than to try to explain it.” Keiko looks at him pleadingly. “That is, if Garak…?”

It isn’t as if Garak tells Julian what he can and cannot do — their relationship would never have survived such a thing. But to bring the man to Ireland, in January, when it’s inexplicably snowing (even if it’s barely sticking, and there’s plenty of green still to be seen out the windows), and then to abandon him to the company of his security detail for even the hour or so it will take to get Miles some medicine?

“I can make it work,” Julian says. “I’ll meet you at the door in thirty minutes. Forty-five, tops.”

…

It’s ridiculously warm in their suite when Julian finally gets the last suitcase inside. “The kids all set up next door?” he asks, then adds, “I mean, the team.”

Garak, still bundled up and, from the tightness of his jaw, still sulking, is almost through unpacking his own clothing. “I was a full Obsidian Order agent at their age, you realize. I’d killed people.”

“That’s not what you said two days ago,” Julian sing-songs, while swinging the suitcase up on the ottoman at foot of their bed. “You said you were merely an accountant, and—“

“I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t throw my words back in my teeth if they were older than twenty-four hours,” Garak interrupts, glaring over his shoulder.

“I’m not throwing anything, darling husband,” Julian says, and goes to put his arms around said darling. Garak remains stiff, but his tail, cheat that it is, wraps around Julian’s knee. “I’m merely reminding you that I listen to you, and I adore all your stories, and the boys on your security team couldn’t kill a gleeworm if one reared up at them. So even if you were killing hundreds and hundreds of people at the tender age of eighteen—“

“I didn’t say hundreds—“

“—Kotik, Yaall, and Vukoll are not.” Julian presses a kiss and a tiny bite to Garak’s aural ridge. “Is Arke satisfied with the security of our suite?”

The cold really has affected Garak more than he’ll admit, because he’s already melting into Julian’s embrace, unable to put up much of a fight. His tail is creeping higher, too. “Yes, she’s been through it all.”

“And are you satisfied?” Julian purrs, toying with the fasteners on Garak’s house robe.

“Not yet,” Garak growls, and reaches back to grab Julian by the ass cheek.

Four degrees Celsius is, to be fair, incredibly cold for a Cardassian. Even the brief exposure they had on their way to the manse would have been enough to start the deceptively swift fall into torpor, and Garak, due to years of cold exposure on Deep Space 9, is extremely susceptible to it.

Symptoms range from simple lethargy to near drunken stupor, from irritability to full-on paranoia. And during the fall into torpor, many mature Cardassians can become rather, well. Randy. Until the full on-set or prevention thereof.

Garak won’t let Julian fully undress him, but that’s fine, because sometimes it’s fun to mess up Garak’s fancy first layer and leave HIM smelling noticeably of sex. “Come on out for me, Elim,” Julian whispers into his aural ridge, dancing his fingers along the swelling flesh of his pelvic ridge, just above and below warm silk and sleek satin.

“I’m not — going to make this, ah, easy for you,” Garak gasps, squirming amid their hastily strewn out personal sheets, stroking Julian’s back and tugging on his hair.

“You don’t think so?” Julian teases, and catches the tip of the tail Garak’s trying to sneak up his thigh. “Uh uh, not until you evert, love, not until you get us all nice and wet—“

And Garak’s everting in a flood of pre-come, a rush of sexual fluid that requires they bring their own sheets anywhere they stay for any length of time, because there’s only so much the two of them can get up to in a refresher.

But here, now, on this very cushioned and very warm bed, Julian sinks into Garak slowly, nudging him open, hissing a little at how very wet and welcoming he is. Garak, growling deep in his throat, bites Julian’s shoulder and grips tight, holding Julian’s ass cheeks apart with both hands as his tail, swiping perfunctorily through his own pre-come, begins working at taking Julian just as deep.

“Show me how you want it,” Julian pants into Garak’s hair, trembling as he holds himself still.

How he wants it is hard and fast. Julian almost chokes when Garak’s tail pushes into him so fast it all but trips over itself, the tip curling over and hitting his prostate so hard it almost doesn’t register. But with subsequent thrusts it does, and Julian groans, matching Garak’s frantic pace and getting his own toothy grip on Garak’s shoulder ridge.

A very nice part of fucking his colder-blooded husband is feeling the warmth of his own body sinking into him, feeling like he’s literally fucking his love and joy and desire right into the core of him. Julian grins fiercely as his orgasm approaches, because Garak is shaking and losing his rhythm now, so warm and so close and so lost to it, and there are no lies in this, not in this. This is the most honest he’ll ever have Elim Garak but the wonder of it is he gets to have it again and again, three times in a night sometimes, and this is a privilege that belongs to no one else.

“Elim,” he says, right into Garak’s aural ridge, and cries out unintelligibly when Garak comes, biting down harder, fucking into him harder with his tail, squeezing so tight around Julian’s cock that for a breathless, terribly thrilling moment it feels like he might never let go. And then his whole body slumps.

“Elim,” Julian says again, but he’s pleading now, because he would really, really love to finish too, “please, please let me—“

“Darling,” Garak breathes out, and with tail and both hands, still on Julian’s ass, pulls him into thrusting the last three, four, make it five times so that he, too, comes. Not nearly as much, and not anywhere near as messy, but just as satisfying and lovely.

Fifteen minutes, give or take. Julian hoists himself up, presses a firm kiss to Garak’s suspicious face, and announces, “I’ll clean up. I have to go to the pharmacy with Keiko.”

“Are you joking?” Garak asks flatly. Julian sits up on his heels, looking down at the most beautiful person in all the universe, hair wild and tangled over the pillow case and underclothes covered in his own come.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” Julian promises, and kisses him again. Garak accepts it with a certain grim petulance. “I’ll bring you back chocolates or something. Something Irish.”

“Don’t you dare.”

…

Chapter Text

...

Garak doesn’t often “take naps” in the middle of the day. Not that he isn’t aware of the practice; Julian, in the heat that is the heart of Cardassia City, sleeps through the worst three or four hours of it in the summer. He’s been convinced once or twice to bask while Julian sleeps, it’s true, but basking is a fully conscious activity with no resulting drop in guard.

Today, though, the lure of a warm bed after a heated liaison has seduced him, and while he would like to blame the cold exposure earlier that afternoon, it is his own weakness and rank stupidity that have led to this viciously dangerous situation he now finds himself in.

“Castellan, sir!”

Garak sits bolt upright and hisses, the cold striking his scales like knives. Arke is ushering the children in — oh, he knows he shouldn’t think of them as children, Julian has lectured him, but all of them are in their first maturity and still struggling through a proper shed, hormones and pheromones all over the place, and Garak had brought them on this visit because Earth was supposed to be so safe —

“The power just went out,” Arke continues, going to the closet without so much as blinking. The children are huddled together in the increasingly cold room. “And temperatures are already dropping rapidly.”

“It’s a stone building,” Garak thinks aloud, accepting with quiet dignity the outfit Arke hands to him. “It should be retaining some heat. An underlayer, if you would be so kind. The top drawer.”

Yaall’s eyes go very wide, but he wisely does not comment.

Garak had only brought the one underlayer with heating elements, as he expected — again, foolishly — that Earth wouldn’t be so inhospitable. And that underlayer is now in the refresher, dripping dry from Julian’s attempts at scrubbing it clean. So he dresses now under the blankets, in the last vestiges of warmth left behind by his husband’s body, the cold air assaulting his nose and lungs, and knows it’s only going to get worse.

“The drop is rather more accelerated than I would expect, but your husband and the Professor have been gone half an hour,” Arke says, expression not flickering once. “Perhaps they neglected to secure the door before leaving, and heat has been leeching since then.”

“Julian would not have done that,” Garak says severely, barely able to force his fingers into working the intricate fastenings of his tunic. “If not for my sake, then for—“

He cuts himself off before saying it, but does jerk his chin sharply at the children.

“I would ask permission to check the door nevertheless.” Arke asking permission is more accurately Arke explaining her plan of action, Garak has noticed, and he narrows his eyes at her. “Also, the power system is accessible through the kitchen. Kotik can take a look if Chief O’Brien isn’t already.”

Chief O’Brien. The scales on Garak’s neck and scalp rustle. “Yes, of course,” he murmurs, and braces himself to slide out from under the blankets. “We ought to check on him, as well.”

…

In the hall, the temperature has dropped even more sharply, and there’s a strange sound, almost as of wind blowing. The room he and Julian have been assigned is at the back of the manse, across a long hallway from that which the O’Brien’s took, and Garak’s security team has the room in between.

The stairs are at the front, and it’s from there that the noise emits. Arke takes the lead, and as she approaches the top of steps, curses in Bajoran.

The front door to the manse is wide open.

Snowflakes whirl into the foyer, wisping about in the late afternoon sun. Yaall lets out a bleak little groan at the sight, and grabs onto Vukoll for comfort. Vukoll shrugs him off and Yaall, with no shame whatsoever, latches onto Kotik.

Arke marches down the steps and slams the door shut, giving it a testing tug and another push. “If it didn’t latch right, it could have come open,” she says reluctantly, tugging again. The Cardassians hurry down the steps, the youths moving with ease while Garak thinks his knees might actually have frozen stiff. “But it feels secure now.”

“What if it comes open again?” Kotik demands, giving the handle a tug. The door doesn’t budge, but Garak doesn’t think the problem was with the latch anyway.

Arke shakes her head. “I think the only sure way to keep it shut is to lock it, but if neither the Castellan’s husband nor the Professor have a key—“

“There’s a bell,” Vukoll points out.

“But there’s no power,” Yaall whines. “Will the bell work without power?”

“They can knock, then! Someone can wait for them to get back.”

“You volunteering?” Kotik asks bluntly.

“The computer is in the kitchen?” Garak asks Arke, trying to remember what she had said and not be drawn into the bickering.

“Yes, that’s the access station,” Arke confirms. She’s looking at the children with furrowed brow, noticing tails curled up high and tight, a sure sign of prolonged cold exposure. “There’s also a fireplace in the drawing room; we could convene there first.”

Garak’s hearing is not especially acute, but he has an ear for furtive noises. Someone is moving away from them, from the foyer, further into the manse. Someone who doesn’t want to be noticed. He tries to glance around casually, but there’s nothing to be seen when he rolls his neck.

“The drawing room, then,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “We certainly can’t stick around here. Do you know how to build a fire?”

Arke doesn’t roll her eyes, but the impression that she has done so lingers.

…

The drawing room is almost inconceivably ugly.

Garak has no hatred of green, in all its various shades and hues — indeed he quite likes it, and wears it proudly when he can, but by the State, perhaps a green that complements the strong stonework and delicate woven fabrics of the furniture could have been chosen for the walls, entirely too tall as they are? Instead, they have chosen a vomitous sort of olive, nay, pea green, some starved and vengeful bean, to slather about the place. It’s the sort of green you would clothe your enemies in, and Garak knows a thing or two about that.

Arke starts a fire and the children crowd around, drawn like Terran moths to the warmth and light, tiny as it is to start. The room is much too large to heat quickly in this manner, and Garak very much dislikes how the dull shadows in its far reaches grow deeper and taller as the flames grow — as he dislikes that the drawing room has three entrances from inside the manse, and several windows and one door outside. It’s impossible to keep an eye on all of them at once.

“Castellan,” Arke says, and Garak does not jump. His face must be a little intense when he looks at her, though, because she stares back hard. “Are you going to warm up?”

“I think it would be more likely to stick if we got the computer running again.” Garak pauses delicately, straining his hearing as much as he can. “And we really ought to find out how Chief is doing. He should have met up with us by now.”

“Unless he went with Doctor Bashir and the Professor,” Yaall pipes up. He, at least, looks a little livelier in the flame’s light. His tail has uncurled enough to tap on his thigh, a self-soothing gesture that young adults were once trained out of before leaving their parents’ homes.

“I thought they were going for medicine for the Chief,” Kotik says.

Vukoll grimaces at him. “He’s ill? Is it something we can catch?”

“Do you think before you talk?” Arke asks him, and Vukoll scoffs. “No, really. Are we adults here, or are we scared children?”

“Arke,” Garak sighs, and the team subsides. He has to think this through. The Cardassians have to warm up, himself included, but he must also check the computer and satisfy his curiosity as to Chief’s state. He can’t go alone — not only will Arke not accept that, but he must have someone watching his back if he’s to focus on fixing the power — and he also cannot leave the fire unattended.

And the children have to be protected. It’s simple.

“Kotik,” he says, and the oldest of the children straightens. “We will go to the kitchen, fix the computer, and then report back. Then we’ll see how Chief is getting on.”

Arke looks a bit alarmed. “Castellan—“

“Keep the fire going,” he tells her, simple and direct. “You’re not susceptible to torpor, so you are in charge here. If Chief… appears, shout out and let us know.”

Please keep an eye out, he does not say. But he hopes he has impressed it upon her anyway.

…

The kitchen isn’t far from the drawing room, but Kotik’s unskilled clatter through the halls makes Garak’s teeth grind. He has to protect him. He knows the door was no coincidence. No, not that or the power outage. And if his suspicions are correct —

The same weak sunlight filters in through the kitchen windows, and Garak can see the desolate gray sky, the scattered green of the landscape. It looks so grim and forbidding he almost slumps, but there’s no time for that. Kotik goes to the far wall, the long cabinet that’s carved with the Federation symbol for “computer,” a circle with a half-line, and more light spills into the space: the computer is on.

And locked.

“Castellan,” Kotik says weakly, looking at the prompt for an administrator passcode, “what do you think?”

Locked. Garak is moving without thought, gently nudging Kotik aside. Someone has tried to access the systems, and input an incorrect passcode too many times, despite the guest passcode being literally written out and stuck to the side of the cabinet, where only a child might not think to look. An administrator passcode would be required to reset access in the event that someone not competent to access the computer’s systems made repeated attempts to do so — or if someone QUITE competent wanted to make it seem as if they had “accidentally” locked the rest of them out of the system.

And before doing that, Garak thinks darkly, they were likewise competent enough to turn off the heating, the lights, the replicators.

HE was competent enough.

And of course he would have turned off the heating, and opened the door; he knows what cold can do to Cardassians. And he would have known exactly when his wife and Julian left, and he would have had time, oh yes, time enough to put his plan in motion. And what if the hotel wasn’t full; what if that was just a lie he fed to his wife in order to strand them all here, in this inhospitable nightmare house that he could control, that he had time to map and memorize?

The time has come. On his own turf, and his own terms, O’Brien has finally decided to have his revenge.

“Back to the drawing room,” he hisses, and grabs Kotik’s arm. “Quickly, and quietly.”

…

Chapter Text

…

According to Doctor Bashir, who had been bundling himself into a coat and scarf as he cheerfully told Arke and the boys what he was planning, he and Professor O’Brien shouldn’t be gone more than an hour and a half, two hours tops. And that, Arke thinks, was almost an hour ago.

Maybe. Her sense of time has gone off a bit in the current circumstances.

It’s clear the Castellan isn’t doing well. The boys are doing better, but the cold is getting to them, too. She hasn’t heard them this whiny and childish since, well. Ever.

Yaall is almost asleep, leaning on Vukoll with the tip of his tail waving lazily in the firelight. Vukoll, for his part, is sitting up straight and keeping his eyes open, but he’s focused on the fire, looking half-hypnotized. Arke has had basic field medicine training; she doesn’t know a damn thing about torpor.

It isn’t even that blasted cold! If she had to guess, she’d put the ambient temperature somewhere around 10 to 12 degrees. And the Cardassians had built an empire? In space? Arke has seen — ha, has BEEN — the fallout of it, and yet, as she snatches a mostly worthless lace doily of a blanket to drape over them (Yaall unresponsive, Vukoll blinking at her in mild affront), she can’t quite believe it.

“Major!”

It’s a hiss, but not a Cardassian one. Arke whirls around, bringing up her fists, because of course they have no weapons here on Earth. On Cardassia, where they’re a little less irritating, she could at least have a shock blade!

Oh, but it’s — “Chief O’Brien,” Arke starts to say, but Chief slashes his hand, red-rimmed eyes intense, and she goes silent immediately. He’s clutching at his side, wheezing slightly, and breathing through his mouth. Arke notes the redness in his face, the dryness of the skin; he appears to be quite ill.

“Keep it down,” Chief whispers, drawing closer. He doesn’t quite come into the circle of the fire’s light, and likewise avoids the lackluster winter sunlight streaming in from the tall windows. “Don’t scare the kids.”

“They’re… not scared,” Arke points out, but in a softer voice. She draws closer, realizing that Chief O’Brien is holding something to his side.

“They should be,” Chief snorts, and then has to cough. He muffles it in his arm, but Vukoll starts and look over at Arke. She waves at him, and he tries to straighten up, but Yaall whines and he subsides, giving Arke a frantic and angry look.

“He’s gone crazy,” Chief continues, and backs up a few steps. Arke starts to walk toward him, but he throws what he’s been holding — Arke grabs them out of the air — three leather bags? Bladders? And they’re warm and heavy!

“Give those to the kids, it’ll help,” Chief instructs, melting back into the meager darkness offered by the far reaches of the drawing room. “Don’t let them get hurt. This isn’t their battle.”

“Are you all right?” Arke asks, her voice high and shrill.

Something falls out of Chief O’Brien’s pocket as he backs out the farthest door. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

Arke, holding the bags, can only watch him go.

“Are we going to die?” Vukoll asks loudly.

“Would you shut up?” Arke snaps back.

…

The Castellan is back in moments, shoving Kotik in front of him and scenting the air, tongue flickering out. “The computer is out of order,” he says curtly, pushing Kotik to the fire. “We’ll have to wait for rescue.”

Rescue. Rescue? Arke wordlessly holds out the last bladder to Kotik, who takes it cautiously and then, when the heat registers, hugs it to his neck. “Castellan, sir—“

“What is that?” the Castellan snarls, and rips the bladder from Kotik. His eyes glitter in the firelight. “O’Brien was here.”

“They’re like hot water bottles, only more malleable,” Arke says evenly, and holds out her hand. “He brought them for the — the team.”

Vukoll catches Kotik by the leg, and tugs him over to sit with him and Yaall. Surreptitiously, where the Castellan can’t see, he shares the bladder he’s been cuddling.

“Just for the team,” the Castellan clarifies. By the Prophets, Arke can understand now why some have declared him “scary beyond all reason.” The weak light casts deep shadows on his face, leaving his unnervingly bright eyes glowing.

“For the kids, he said,” Arke confirms. That seems to stump him, and the Castellan, holding the bladder still like one might a comatose vole, looks over the boys with a strange glint in his eyes.

“He’s always had a soft spot for children,” he whispers finally. Then he tosses the bladder to Arke, who again has to snatch the damn thing out of the air — what is with the throwing?

It’s a diversion, is what it is. The Castellan, shrouded in shadow, has retreated the door he and Kotik entered, and Arke has a horrible sinking feeling of time repeating. “I shouldn’t worry,” she snarks, “you’ve got this.”

“Chief O’Brien has sabotaged the computer and put us in danger of torpor to enact his revenge upon me,” the Castellan says, sounding perfectly sane and not at all crazed, as Chief has declared him. “Keep them safe. Julian will return soon. We just have to, to outlast him.”

“We could do that here, by the fire,” Arke points out. She waves her arms for emphasis. “Strength in numbers, yes?”

“He’s a dangerous man, Arke,” the Castellan says, his voice fading as he disappears into the hall. “I’ll keep him occupied. Keep the children safe.”

And he’s gone. Arke stares at the empty doorframe, and then at the three gangly, skinny, spoiled Cardassian teens curled up in front of the fire. “What’s so special about all of you, then?”

“I’m adorable,” Yaall says, and gets a bladder thrown at his head.

…

Arke paces. The boys have turned their backs to the fire and are watching her solemnly, tangled in a mess of knit blanket, hot water bladders, and tails.

“So the Castellan is probably torporic and he absolutely believes Chief is trying to kill him, and Chief is sick and thinks he recognizes me but I’m not who he thinks I am, and he just called this a battle,” she recounts, keeping within the small circle of furniture she’s amassed around them as a sort of barricade. “I don’t know that either of them can be trusted right now.”

“Someone did mess with the computer,” Kotik muses. “That had to be Chief.”

“Someone opened the door,” Yaall says insistently. “Doctor Bashir wouldn’t have left it unlatched!”

“We really can’t do anything about the computer?” Arke asks Kotik, ignoring Yaall.

“We would have to do a system reboot, and then, wait for the administrator to notice it had been reset,” Kotik sighs, and rubs at his forehead. “The administrator would reset the access, and we could use the passcode already logged.”

“Right.” Arke bites her lip. “What are the cons of doing a system reboot?”

Kotik blinks and stares at the floor, saying slowly, “Well, the power would be off. The computer would be inaccessible.”

There’s a beat, and then Vukoll yells something that has to be a Cardassian curse Arke hasn’t learned yet, because the Federation translator leaves her hearing only hissing. “Then let’s do it, Kotik! Why didn’t you do it before?”

“Some of us haven’t been sitting in front of the fire for an hour!” Kotik hisses back, and tries to hit him. Unfortunately, in the tangle that is the three of them, he only manages to shove Vukoll, who pushes into Yaall, who yelps and flails a hand into Kotik’s face, and it all goes to hell from there.

“I'm resetting the computer,” Arke announces loudly, heading for the door. “Don’t kill each other!”

…

The hallway is far darker than she remembers it being. Arke steps lightly, trying to listen for either Chief or the Castellan, as she makes her way to the kitchen. It’s so quiet that she can hear the soft sound of a drawer snicking shut before she can open the door.

Arke freezes. “Hello?” she calls out, hair standing up all along her arms and neck.

Silence follows, and then the door slowly opens inward. The Castellan is standing before her with glowing eyes and a long, gleaming bit of metal in his hand.

“Sir,” she says helplessly, “that’s a pie server.”

“Cardassians make do,” the Castellan answers very, very quietly. “Arke. Why are you here?”

“Kotik says we can reset the computer,” Arke says quickly. “It will turn the computer off until the administrator notices and resets it for us. So let’s—“

“Yes,” the Castellan says slowly, and draws back. “Yes. Reset it.”

Arke darts around him and heads to the computer, only to hear the door shut behind her. “Castellan?”

He’s already gone. Arke resets the computer with shaking hands, waiting until the screen goes dark and then lights up again, before shutting the cabinet and turning, only to spot a knife block atop a high shelf, quite out of reach. Thank the Prophets for that.

“All right,” Arke whispers to herself, and sets her shoulders back. The computer is reset, and the Castellan’s husband and Chief’s wife should be back soon, and she had better check in on the boys before they can get up to any trouble while the highest ranking politician in Cardassia stalks a Federation war hero with a pie server in the dying winter light.

She slips back into the hall, meaning to sidle around the corner to the nearest of the drawing room doors when she sees something on the floor, something vaguely white and somewhat round, nearer the hall that goes toward the dining room. With slow, careful steps, she goes that way, edging around the tissue, as it turns out to be, and peeks down the opposite hallway.

And there’s Chief. Tissues are falling out of his sweater pockets and he’s coughing, trying to muffle it with his arm, but he’s shaking so hard with it that he’s leaning on the wall next to a closet or refresher, Arke isn’t sure which. But he’s so obviously ill that she winces.

“Chief,” she calls out, and hurries over to him.

“Blasted allergies,” he croaks, sniffing loudly and wiping at his face with an already used tissue. It’s not snot, but sweat — heat is blazing from his skin, and Arke doesn’t remember Humans being this warm to the touch.

“You need to lie down,” she tells him. “You’re not well.”

“Gonna need to see your medical license,” he retorts, and wipes his face again.

There’s still some light from the front hall, from the foyer with its large windows, reaching down the hall. Something blocks it now, putting them both in shadow. Someone.

The pie server shines cold and bright.

“No no no,” Arke gasps out, and tries to pull Chief upright. “No no, please!”

“Step aside, Arke,” the Castellan tells her, looming so menacingly that Arke makes a tiny gulping yelp of terror. “I’ll take care of this.”

Chief makes a rude noise, and then starts coughing again.

“You should have stayed in bed, Chief,” the Castellan hisses. He’s closing in on them, pie server clenched in his fist, and Arke doesn’t know what the hell she’s supposed to do.

“You think I’m not prepared for you?” Chief finally chokes out, and pulls a bottle out of his pocket, scattering half a dozen tissues in its wake. It’s a small, brown, innocuous little thing, but when he unscrews the cap, the Castellan stops moving.

Arke, on the other hand, rears back. It’s awful, whatever it is; it smells cold. It smells burning cold, and somehow sweet, and now she’s the one coughing as her eyes water.

“Cover your nose, Major,” Chief warns belatedly.

“That’s not Kira Nerys, you fever-ridden idiot!” the Castellan cries out, brandishing the pie server. “That’s Arke Hazot and you’re hurting her!”

“Stop!” someone shrieks from behind him. “Stop it right now or the bear gets it!”

It’s the boys, Kotik and Vukoll flanking Yaall — who has the Castellan’s husband’s little stuffed bear in his claws, one hand poised to rip its head off.

…

They’re herded back into the drawing room, Vukoll taking possession of the pie server and Kotik of the little brown bottle (after Chief has screwed it back shut). It’s wrapped in a few layers of dirty tissues, too.

“Do not open that,” Arke croaks. Her nose and throat are still burning.

“I’ve had peppermint before,” Kotik tells her scornfully.

“He threw up,” Vukoll adds. Kotik thumps him.

“Focus, children,” the Castellan murmurs from Arke’s left. He’s on one side of the fireplace, and Chief is on the other. Arke stands between them, and the boys range in front of them, keeping an eye on the combatants. Yaall is shaking with nerves, holding his claws to the little bear’s neck. “Don’t let him take you by surprise.”

“I’m not going to do anything to them,” Chief snaps, and coughs into his arm. “Ugh. Bloody hellfire. Don’t look.”

And he pulls a few tissues from his pocket and gobs something into them. Arke just manages not to gag.

“Are we sure we can’t catch this?” Vukoll stage whispers as Chief balls up the soiled tissues and looks blearily around, then shrugs and tosses them into the fire.

As he does so, it occurs to Arke that, from the Castellan’s point of view, Chief is throwing something not necessarily into the fire, but definitely in Arke’s direction. But she can’t do anything about it as the man lets out a bellow of rage and pushes past her, throwing himself bodily onto Chief O’Brien, hands curling around his neck.

…

Chapter Text

…

Keiko waits patiently at the door, and has to laugh when Julian gingerly descends the stairs. “Limping a little, are we?”

“Hush, you,” Julian says, head held high. “Just need to work it out, is all.”

They head out, Julian tugging on the door behind them to make sure it’s securely closed.

“It’s not a bad walk at all,” Keiko tells him, setting a brisk pace. Julian, of course, keeps up easily, looking around at the rather dreary landscape with honest delight. “Tomorrow will be warmer, so maybe we can all head into town.”

“What happened with the hotel?”

Keiko laughs again. “Well, when we originally booked, no one told us you and Rom would have security details!”

“First of all, they’re not MY security detail,” Julian says, bumping his shoulder against hers. “They’re Garak’s. And second, do you really mean to tell me Dublin is so full up in the middle of January that they couldn’t spare two rooms?”

They reach the road proper very quickly and turn north. “Actually, there’s a conference.” She sneaks a peek at Julian, who is watching her skeptically. “A literary conference.”

“You’re joking.”

“There will be a full panel of Shakespearian scholars ready to take on any and all comers,” Keiko says, smiling fit to burst. This has not been an easy secret to keep! “Miles thought that might be enough to keep Garak from killing him in his sleep, for making you two visit in winter. And you were originally booked on a completely different floor from the rest of us, I might add. Miles did NOT want to hear you two arguing, or whatever else.”

Julian actually stops for a moment, and Keiko keeps walking, letting him process. Then he catches up to her and links their arms, beaming. “Did he really? There’s a panel? He thought of that for Garak?”

“You know he loves you, right?” Keiko says, and squeezes Julian’s arm. Julian is quiet again, but his smile can’t be dimmed.

“Anyway,” she continues, “the panel’s tomorrow afternoon. The kids are staying with my mother, but they’ll meet us for lunch at the hotel—“

“Oh, why?” Julian interrupts.

Keiko rolls her eyes. “They don’t want to miss seeing everyone, especially Auntie Nerys, you know how that goes—“ Julian nods sagely— “but they aren’t interested in the historical aspect of the manse, especially not the food.”

“What about the food?” Julian looks a little alarmed now.

“You know Miles; he has to have a little revenge. The replicators will only produce time- and locale-appropriate cuisine.” Keiko is cackling now; Julian’s face has gone almost green. “Hope you like potatoes, pork, and cabbage!”

…

It takes them a little more than half an hour to get to the pharmacy, and Keiko looks through various little gift items as Julian chats up the pharmacist and gets Miles’ medicine. “Here,” she says when Julian finally wraps up his conversation, “you could bring back some chocolates—“

“And get myself in trouble? No, thank you,” Julian huffs. “If it’s not Delavian, it’s not worth eating, you know.”

“Your husband is a snob.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

The sunlight is starting to wane as they hurry back, when they meet up with the rest of party, with Nerys and Chiru and Marit, with Rom and Leeta and their security, at the trolley stop near the manse. Keiko almost can’t believe they’re all here, here on Earth, Chiru marveling at the dense greenery and Nerys chuckling meanly over how Garak must have responded to the mere mention of snow.

“Are you still in practice at, say, hacking a replicator?” Julian is asking Rom when the manse comes into sight, and Keiko’s step falters.

“Keiko?” Marit says.

She can’t quite say what it is, but — “Something’s wrong.”

They all look at her, except for Julian, who is likewise squinting at the building, and then he quite abruptly starts running.

“Julian!” Nerys shouts, and takes after him.

“The lights are out!” Julian yells back, and that gets Keiko moving.

For all Julian has the longest legs of the party, Nerys is the fastest, and when he’s delayed by opening the big main door, Nerys gets in front of him and leads the way into the dark, cold hall, to the sound of shouting from the right — the drawing room. She throws open the door and Keiko is third in line to see the ridiculous scene by firelight:

Miles is sprawled on the floor, coughing. Garak is being held back from making good on the threats he’s spitting by Arke and one of the young Cardassian men, each of them holding one of Garak’s arms and Arke also fighting to hold back his tail. The other two Cardassians are huddled together — one of them holding onto a teddy bear, Julian’s teddy bear, even, as Julian eels his way around Nerys.

He throws off coat and scarf, each landing on either side of Miles, as he leaps over a small footrest and goes to take Garak in his arms, the security team releasing their Castellan to his husband gratefully. Garak, for his part, presses his face to Julian’s neck and goes limp in his embrace.

As dramatic as newlyweds, Keiko thinks, trying not to roll her eyes. She kneels next to Miles and taps his face. “Hi, Miles.”

“Hi, Keiko,” Miles croaks, and then coughs more. With no less love than the other couple in the room but with a great deal more practicality, she pushes the side of his face into the carpet and presses the hypospray to his neck. “Glaugh!”

“What the hell is going on in here?” Nerys yells. “Is that a knife?”

“It’s a pie server, Captain,” Arke reports, sounding tired.

“The Castellan thinks Chief was trying to kill him,” one of the young Cardassians, the one holding the teddy bear, adds, sounding near tears.

“He turned off the power, sabotaged the computer, and tried to subdue me with chemical weaponry!” Garak snarls, curling tighter into Julian’s hold.

The other young Cardassian holds up a small bottle of — “Peppermint extract?” Julian reads aloud, aghast. “Why do you have that? Give it here!”

Keiko helps Miles sit up, looking around at all the tissues scattered on the floor, as Julian confiscates the bottle. Nerys finally crosses the barrier of furniture and takes it from him, scowling.

“Pretty potent stuff?” she asks.

“Not as bad as it could be,” Julian acknowledges, “but it will still hurt. I don’t advise you or our other Bajoran guests try it, either.”

“Just allergies, was it?” Keiko says to Miles.

“Why did you have peppermint on your person?” Nerys asks Miles, sounding exasperated.

“To subdue Garak with chemical weaponry,” Miles answers snappily, and coughs again. Keiko frowns at him, Julian turns a desperately betrayed look of shock on him, and Chiru and Marit goggle in delighted horror. “What? It snowed. He was going to kill me if I didn’t get him first.”

In the resulting silence, the lights come on, and a rush of warmth begins to rise from the floor. Leeta, near the door, claps her hands together and says cheerfully, “Rom’s got it, then!”

The youngest Cardassian buries his face in Julian’s bear’s head, and the one next to him groans, hiding his face in his hands.

“Did you sabotage the computer and turn off the power?” Nerys demands of Miles.

“And I opened the door, to let the heat out.” Miles looks rather pleased with himself. He takes a moment to cough into his elbow as Keiko and Nerys stare at each other. “Couldn’t let him have the upper hand. Would have sabotaged the fire, too, but he’s got kids with him.”

“The heating pads were a nice touch,” Garak says quietly, the tip of his tail tapping at the floor in a contemplative rhythm. Julian looks down at him with the same shocked, betrayed expression. “Hm? It was a rather decent plan for a sick man.”

“Would have been good regardless,” Miles mutters, and grabs one of the scattered tissues to wipe at his nose. “I’d’ve had you.”

Keiko shakes her head, because this is her husband, the love of her life. “Why are you so stupid when you’re sick?”

Julian’s embrace has become less loving and more confining. “Why are you two like this? Can’t you just play chess?”

“I don’t play,” Garak says crossly.

“He doesn’t play,” Miles says tiredly.

Julian meets Keiko’s eyes, disgusted and disbelieving. “Kotra?”

“He doesn’t play,” Garak says, even more crossly.

“I don’t play,” Miles croaks, and coughs again.

“You know what?” Nerys interrupts. “We’re done here. Everyone, take an hour, go to your rooms, and we’ll meet back down here at eighteen hundred for dinner. How about that? Don’t answer, just do it.”

Julian hauls Garak to his feet, ignoring his complaints, and is already directing the young Cardassians. “You three, upstairs first. Yaall, why do you have Kukalaka?”

“He’s my hostage,” the youngest Cardassian explains, holding the bear even more tightly.

Julian just shakes his head. “All right. You can have him tonight. Upstairs, and I’m taking temperatures before anyone’s allowed down again.”

“Do you want to bunk with me?” Nerys asks Arke quietly, and she nods with desperate gratitude.

“Which room is ours?” Marit whispers to Keiko.

“I’ll show you,” Keiko promises, helping Miles to his feet. “And then I’ll be back to clean up these tissues. Really, Miles. You couldn’t just stay in bed?”

“You’re not cleaning up, this is your party,” Leeta tells her. “I’ll get it.”

And within minutes, there’s nothing left of the scene but rearranged furniture, a missed tissue or two, and a merrily roaring fire.

…

Miles is markedly less warm when Keiko forces him into bed, so the fever, at least, is abating.

“You’re staying in here, with soup for dinner,” she tells him, stroking his hair back from his forehead.

“I’m sorry, Keiko,” he sighs, and looks up at her mournfully. “I wouldn’t have killed him. I promise.”

“That’s good. Who knows what he would have done with that pie server if you tried?” Keiko pauses as she hears a door slam, and then Julian and Rom are discussing hacking the replicators in the hall. “Do you want any tea, or…?”

Miles is already asleep. Keiko blinks down at him, and has to laugh. Well, he has had a long day.

…