This was the fourth time in fifteen minutes that Quark had ascended the stairs to the upper level of his Establishment, with the express purpose of complaining about the continued presence of Commander Michael Eddington. He'd already shouted, cajoled, bemoaned his lost profits, and cited more Rules of Acquisition than Eddington had known to exist in the entire compendium of Ferengi philosophy. If he offers me a bribe, the Security officer thought. I'll take it. Just to shut him up. The constantly high pitched whine was already causing his head to throb.

And now Quark seemed to be going for the direct approach.

"May I ask which one of you will be paying for the time you spend poking those… things into my holosuite? I charge by the minute, in case you're not aware. And what am I supposed to tell the pair of Yridians downstairs? They're still waiting for their reservation, and if there's one thing you don't want on your hands it's an impatient Yridian…"

Or a Ferengi with financial issues.

"Offer them a free drink or something," Eddington said dismissively, feeling the constriction of his early morning headache grow steadily more painful.

"Oh? I'll put it on your tab then, shall I?"

"Frankly, Quark. I don't care where you put it."

"Two complimentary Yridian Ales, courtesy of Mister Eddington. Coming right up." Sarcasm practically dripped from the bartender's sharpened, yellowing fangs. But at least he finally disappeared.

Barely even the start of Commander Eddington's shift, and it was already looking like a long, slow, and unbearably trying day. He was supposed to be in bed. He was supposed to be still recovering from that nasty strain of Tolosian flu that had been spreading around the station. And he was beginning to suspect that he would have had an easier time recovering on the Defiant instead of having to stay behind.

Which I suppose is what you get for volunteering to return to work a full day early.

He'd thought it would be easier once he found himself something to do. There was always so little to occupy his mind when simply lying around in bed all day. And worse, it had been four days now since Doctor Bashir had taken the rather drastic measure reserved for his most stubborn and difficult patients - hiding everything save for Michael Eddington's pyjamas, and removing the patterns from his replicator database to prevent him from fashioning another uniform.

Eddington had had to call at the quarters next door and politely beg the rather flustered man who answered if he could - Please. Possibly - just quickly use his replicator, and no this was certainly not how it appeared. Although exactly how it must have appeared to his slack-jawed neighbour was not something he wished to contemplate ever again.

It's just one thing after another, isn't it? he found himself thinking, and barely restrained a frustrated sigh. Somebody get me away from this godforsaken place.

But there was still a job to be done - no time to allow his mind to wander. Rubbing his eyes with the fingers of one hand, he used the other to unhook a hard-edged tricorder from over his belt. Flipping it open, Eddington scanned the walls around him, and frowned.

"That's strange."

"What is?" asked the slightly rotund Bajoran deputy working at his side.

"These readings…"

The deputy stepped closer, peering over Eddington's right hand shoulder. He stared for a moment at his own tricorder display, and flicked his gaze back and forth as if to make a comparison. "I don't see anything," he said eventually.

"Look there." The commander pointed to his own tricorder. The difference was so subtle, even he had missed it the first few times around. Tucked beneath the usual readings was a barely discernable unfamiliar pattern. Had it been a sound, he reflected, it would have been a whisper in a crowded room. But the discrepancies were so obvious - now that he'd seen them - that he found himself wondering how they could have been missed. After all, being distracted by Quark was hardly an excuse.

He was still a little groggy, head throbbing uncomfortably with every step. But he ignored the nagging pressure on his nose and eyes. Telling the other man to keep up with his search for clues, he hurried away through the doors. Now that he finally had something verifiable, the very next step would be to make sure that it reached the captain.

There was fresh wine on the table, sweet and tangy, and the colour of watermelons. And next to that was an assortment of crisp, watery leaves which were not unlike a darker shade of lettuce. At the other side was a plate of something that looked very much like cheese, but smelt and tasted more like thick-skinned berries.

Given their earlier reception, Julian Bashir had to confess, he'd expected that night's dinner to be something equally formal. But the apartment was empty save for himself, Miles, U-an, and her wary younger brother - apparently one of the engineers who had been assigned to help Miles with his repairs.

Nor-an was slender, raven-haired, pale and youthful, and spent much of the evening scowling openly at their guests as if he thought that neither one could possibly ever notice. It was not an unreasonable assumption. Many of his darkest glares were more than half hidden behind a fringe of black hair almost as thick and tangled as his sister's.

"Family is very important to us here," U-an was telling them. "And especially to our clan. There was never any question of us caring for each other once our parents had passed to the next place. Besides, I am proud of Nor-an. He is a good engineer, and with a little more experience of the world, he should do very well."

The Chief did not appear to disagree. Which is saying something, thought Julian. But Nor-an continued to scowl.

U-an was either not noticing - or most likely ignoring - the expression on her brother's face. "So what is it you do, Mister… uh…?"

"Bashir," he told her. "I'm a doctor actually."

"Doctor Bashir, then." She sounded impressed. Noting the slightly exasperated frown that now marked Chief O'Brien's features, Julian struggled to keep his own entirely straight. But he could not prevent a barely audible cough from forming at the base of his throat. Some of the muscles around his mouth had already started to twitch, and Miles' irritated expression was momentarily transformed into an open glare.

Thinking quickly, Julian made a show of wiping his mouth with an available napkin, but he knew that his own look of amusement was no better concealed.

"It must be amazing," U-an exclaimed. "It really is so rare for us to get off-world visitors in this system. And as I am sure you will have guessed by now, we ourselves have never been great explorers. But to travel the galaxy…" For a moment, her distinctly wide eyes sparkled with excitement.

"It certainly can get interesting," Bashir commented.

At his sister's other side, Nor-an was chewing on his bottom lip. "An engineer. And a doctor," he muttered. "Getting lost on a supply run? Why would you…?"

"Medical supplies." Bashir cut him off, and felt vaguely proud of this particularly quick witted piece of improvisation.

But the gloomy youth was not so easy to convince. "I never saw any medical supplies on your ship when we…"

"Nor-an," the tall young woman scolded him. "This is an evening meal, not an interrogation. Don't pester our guests."

The pair exchanged heated words in a language which was beyond the ability of Julian's translator to fathom. It ended with a harsh command from U-an and a moody silence from the adolescent at her side. His scowl was enough to match even the darkest of Chief O'Brien's.

"You'll have to excuse my brother," U-an said. She reached across to pour four more glasses of the sweet, pink wine. "He does occasionally get rather carried away."

The last words were accompanied by a pointed stare at her pale faced younger sibling, who glowered.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry," he grumbled.