"… making a priority of Cardassian children!" finished the Third Minister, and Julian sat back in his seat, looking at the other man with his lips twisted.
"You see, Third Minister," said Julian as he got to his feet, "that's precisely why I'm making it my business. You think of them as Cardassian children – and that's why they're treated so poorly in the orphanages. As if they haven't the same ridges you do on your nose."
"Not quite the same, Doctor," the Third Minister replied evenly, and Julian released a sound of disgust, stepping out of the room and making his way out of the ministry's tertiary office and down into the city.
The streets were swarmed with people – it was a festival day tomorrow, and people were rushing to pick up the last of their groceries and supplies, to buy more candles, too. Julian picked his way through the crowds, grateful he was out of uniform.
He'd wore his uniform the first time he'd come down for this, when he was in Shalat, and people had kept stopping him, always so friendly, always so warm, asking him questions, making small talk, talking to him about the rebuilding process on Bajor, Starfleet's presence on Deep Space Nine and their presence in the sector, on the planet itself.
Their smiles had turned to frowns when they'd asked them what he was doing here, and he'd told them.
After Shalat, when he'd gone to Neeva, he'd worn civilian clothes. More than civilian clothes – he'd worn Terran trousers and the shirt he'd bought on Vulcan, recognisable to Cardassians as Cardassian, but seeming to anyone else simply Vulcan or just… foreign.
This was city number three: Vaneel.
He shifted the weight of the bag on his shoulder, his medkit in his other hand, and when he walked into the central atrium of the orphanage, he felt the distant chill on his skin. It was warm today, but the breeze was cold, and it made him shiver where it kissed the angry sweat still on his skin.
"Good morning," he said to the woman that came to meet him.
"Hello," she said, giving him a neat nod. Her clothes were worn but of a decent make, and this building was the best of the three he'd been to so far. Less rubble – only two broken windows. There were more blankets folded in here than had been in the other orphanages. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Doctor Bashir," he said warmly.
She stared at him, and the polite, friendly look on her face stuttered slightly. She didn't look at him with coldness and disgust, like Cora Rudel had done in Shalat, and nor did she look at him with scowling distrust, as Phrenel Ors had looked at him in Neeva. This woman – Turin Sorel – looked distantly unhappy and uncertain.
"I contacted you in advance," said Julian. "I have an appointment."
"Yes," said Sorel softly. "I just… I didn't realise you'd be Human."
"You thought I'd be Cardassian, or Bajoran?" he asked.
Sorel looked at him, her lips parted, glancing behind her. A few of the older children had dipped their heads around the door frame from the other room – he saw three Bajoran faces, and one of the faces he was here to see, Bajoran-Cardassian, a young woman of about fourteen.
"Yes," said Sorel. "One or the other. What… what exactly are you going to…?"
When he didn't say anything, just kept smiling at her. Garak had taught him to smile like this, when people asked questions like that, and it had its effect. Sorel nodded her head and led him through to the other room.
"Thank you, Miss Turin," said Julian. "You're welcome to observe, if you like."
"Uh, no," she said, just like they'd said in Shalat and Neeva. It was a shame – he'd thought a little better of her than that, when she seemed to be genuinely concerned, but it was obvious concern only went so far.
Julian thought about the list on the PADD in his room – this was three orphanages out of fourteen. It could be worse. There were a hundred or so orphanages across Bajor, and many more foster homes, halfway children's homes, and all the rest, but only fourteen orphanages he had to focus on for now.
There were eleven children in the room. There'd been twenty-two in Shalat, and nineteen in Neeva: eleven was good. Eleven was manageable. He'd spent four days in Shalat, and it still hadn't been enough – he still had some holo-calls with some of the girls there to work through, and some from Neeva, too. He wished he could work faster. He wished—
But he could deal with that later.
"My name is Doctor Julian Bashir," he said, leaning forward in his seat. "I'm stationed on Deep Space Nine, which was Terok Nor, before the Cardassians withdrew. I'm a Starfleet doctor, but I'm not here representing Starfleet or the interests of the Federation."
"Dare we ask whose interests you are representing?" asked the eldest girl in the room – the teenager who'd looked into the room earlier.
The youngest of the children was three years old, and was sitting in the lap of an eleven-year-old – they were siblings, judging by the similarity in the shapes of their chins and their eyes, the precise colour of them; there was a third boy beside them, leaning into his older brother too. Most of them were half-Bajoran and half-Cardassian, but two of them – a girl and a boy – didn't have the ridges on their noses, looked purely Cardassian.
"Yours," said Julian.
They all stared at him, and Julian looked between them, trying to glean what he could from their clothes. The trio of siblings had the nicest clothes, each in good repair, and made of decent fabric – they likely had a grandparent or perhaps an aunt or uncle that looked after their interests; the oldest girl had a fine enough dress on, and a cardigan of a conflicting style but decent make. The two Cardassian children had the most worn, cheapest clothes – that had been the case in Shalat and Neeva, too. Julian could see the boy, a child of six, had bruising on the lower part of his jaw.
It shouldn't have surprised him, not at this point.
It still did.
"I'm here to give you medical treatment if you need it, and to talk to you about any recurrent health difficulties you're having." He started unpacking things from the crate he'd sent in advance – shedding stones and cream, Kardasi hair combs, a pair of nail clippers – they didn't need one each, but the Bajoran ones undoubtedly didn't match their needs. "These are for you," he said when they hesitated, smiling softly. "One each of the stones and cannisters, I've eleven of each, eleven combs… Lora and Pinar?"
The eldest girl, Lora, and Pinar, who looked to be about twelve, took the PADDs he offered them.
"I know it's a bit embarrassing," he said quietly as they looked through the PADDs. "But puberty's hard for anybody. And I've more guides for everyone about hair care, how to look after your scales with those stones, how to use the moisturiser – obviously you've all worked out your own methods, I'm sure, but this is what Cardassians use in the Cardassian Empire. The guides also go into some common ailments, rashes, sensitivities – now, these guides are under construction, so I'm afraid they mostly talk about Cardassian physiology in contrast with Bajoran, but I've managed to pinpoint some specific curiosities of Bajoran-Cardassian physiology."
They were still staring at him.
They'd all stared at him, so far.
"The health education aside, if any of you have any ailments that you've been embarrassed about or especially anything your usual doctors have told you they can't help with, that they don't know how to help with, or brushed off as unimportant, I want you to let me know. You can just tell me afterwards, you don't have to in this group. I want to talk to all of you about what you know of your birth families, any Cardassian relatives you might have, about how you're treated here, how you're—"
"You're going to get us brought home?" interrupted Lora, and Julian sighed, leaning back in his seat.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'd like to. What do you know about Cardassian culture, any of you?" It wasn't a surprise to be met with a sea of blank faces, once again, and he nodded his head. "Okay, we'll have that conversation first. I don't want to lie to any of you, and I don't want to coddle your feelings – I know how hard it must be for you, and I don't want to be cruel, and I won't be, but I just want to be as honest with you as possible."
"Why should we trust you?" asked the eldest brother of the three siblings – Gerot.
"You don't have to trust me," said Julian. "But you can… accept my help."
He took the first of the boxes out of the crate, passing it to one of the young Cardassian boys: he opened it up and his grey lips parted in an awed smile as he pulled out the blanket inside, and then laughed when he saw what else was in there – some sweets, a bottle of rokassa juice, a PADD of children's stories, a few wooden toys. He pulled back the box, and traced his name carved in the wood, in Bajoran and Kardasi.
Three down.
Eleven more to go.
"Mr Garak?"
"Yes, my dear?"
"Do you think that maybe my doll needs a new dress? I think hers is out of season."
Garak arched his eye ridges, turning to regard the young girl addressing him even as her father, a Bolian gentleman who was having one of his father's old suits adjusted to fit him, stood back on the stool.
"Zimma," he said, "don't you think Mr Garak might be a little too busy to measure up Velyana for a new dress?"
"Now, Mr Argith, you plainly lack your daughter's keen awareness of developing trends," said Garak, faux-sternly. "Miss Argith, have you given any thought as to what fashions might be more appropriate for Velyana to sport as we come into spring?"
He never asked for payment when he designed clothes or blankets for children's dolls when they passed through his shop, but he ordinarily found himself with a significant tip regardless.
He liked children, had always had a soft spot for them.
He'd always grown up rather apart from other children. In retrospect, it had likely been intentional – growing up in the rooms beneath Enabran Tain's home, playing alone in the memorial gardens his father tended, he had never had cause to cross paths with other children outside of his schooling, and even then, he'd not been extremely friendly with others, nor widely sociable outside of educational hours.
Tain had gone to certain lengths to keep him away from children, through the initial movement of his career, he was fairly certain. Garak's softness for young faces was the first display of the sentimentality Tain found so distasteful in him.
He'd mentioned, of course, Garak having children of his own at some point, although his phrasing had always been…
Velyana had a new dress to change into when the father and daughter departed.
"Garak," said Major Kira, and Garak glanced up from where he'd been finishing the Argiths' invoice in his computer terminal.
"Good afternoon, Major, I'm afraid I'm about to close for the evening, but—"
"I don't want clothes," snapped Kira. "Did you know what he was doing?"
Six months of intimacy between Julian Bashir and Elim Garak, the two of them regularly spending time together, had done much for their own relationship. Regrettably – but unsurprisingly – those passing months had done very little for that of Garak and Kira.
"He, Major?" repeated Garak. "Doing?"
Kira gave him a very foul look, and Garak powered his terminal down, setting aside his tools. "Major, I really have no idea what you're talking about," said Garak. "I might glean from the accusation in your tone that you're referring to Doctor Bashir, but—"
"The orphanages?" prompted Kira. "On Bajor?"
"Ah," said Garak.
"Ah?" repeated Kira.
"You would have to discuss the matter with the good doctor himself," said Garak, "but I believe he has been conducting an outreach program of sorts with the Bajoran war orphans."
Kira studied his face, her expression very focused, and then she leaned back, her hands on her hips. "Third Minister Glodel was just asking me if I was involved in Doctor Bashir's intention to ferry war orphans back to Cardassia."
Garak chuckled, letting himself sigh. He didn't show the surprise on his face, nor the tension, and he kept his hands busy, but not frantically so, that Kira couldn't see the stiffening in his hands or his fingers, nor his shoulders. "Major," he said with a tired affection, drawing as best he could on the warmth to keep the reality of his frustration showing through, "you know as well as I do that Doctor Bashir does have these flights of dangerous sentimentality. Do you really expect me to cure me of them?"
"Cure him of them? You're obviously the one who put this into his head!"
"Me? Hardly. While of course I feel for the plight of the Cardassian children stranded upon your planet, I am neither a foster parent nor a philanthropist."
Major Kira adjusted her stance, her lips shifting, and she looked at Garak analytically, her brows furrowed so that they met the tops of her nose ridges. Garak had socialised these past weeks with Bashir alongside some of his medical colleagues, and particularly alongside Dax – more uncommonly, alongside O'Brien and Kira, each of whom had their own disapproval of Garak.
"You didn't put him up to this?" she asked.
"I fear you overestimate the influence I have on him," said Garak softly. "Believe me, Major, had I even half of the control over Doctor Bashir's actions as you seem to think I do, I would be a very happy man indeed."
"Please," muttered Kira. "As if you'd want to control him."
Garak smirked at that, and Kira seemed embarrassed she'd said it, crossing her arms over his chest. "Garak," she said seriously, "he's been going into every orphanage with Cardassian orphans. Starfleet doesn't seem to know anything about it – and this word from Glodel is the first I've heard of it, but apparently this is the third one he's been to."
"He's been returning from his leave days exhausted," said Garak. "He told me he's been rappelling down cliff faces and rafting." He hadn't believed it for a moment, of course, and evidently Bashir hadn't expected him to, because Garak had looked into the matter himself and found evidence that was now apparently falsified – records of Bashir attending certain libraries, gymnasiums, which paralleled certain programs he'd been enjoying in the holosuites, whether it was meditation or martial arts.
Naturally, it was infuriating to find that Bashir had apparently been throwing himself into wasting time fussing over war orphans, but that Bashir had not only lied about it, but falsified data knowing Garak would go looking for it?
It was very flattering.
Once Garak had beaten the young man's arse black and blue for his deception, he would tell him so.
"I don't wish anything bad on the Cardassian orphans," said Kira. "But the Third Minister was furious that he would come asking for resources for Cardassian children when so many Bajorans have so little."
"What resources was he asking for?"
"He wants someone to speak with the Cardassian Civilian Government," said Kira. "From what I can gather, he's been bouncing around different Bajoran representatives – the Education Minister has turned him away twice."
Bashir hadn't mentioned it.
Of course, he wouldn't: he had become very good at keeping secrets, because Garak had been teaching him to. Garak was continuously picking at things Bashir told him, finding what Bashir was lying about for no reason whatsoever, echoing Garak's own playful tendencies. He knew Bashir had been doing more holo-consultations with people on the planet, both within and without his usual working hours; he knew, too, that Garak remained in contact with the Cardassians he had become friendly with on Vulcan. Dinar Madrel and he exchanged communications each week, as a matter of course, and he had received shipments from Vulcan – parcels of seeds for Garak and Keiko to grow together, bolts of fabric, books.
More than that, evidently.
After he had closed the shop, he walked down to the cargo bay where Bashir had stored a shipment he had taken on from a recent Vulcan freighter. He had brushed it off when Garak had asked about it, advising him that it was simply something Quark had asked him to order in.
Certainly, Quark had been involved in its procurement, because Bashir hadn't nearly enough latinum to cover the value of the purchase, and had been quietly exchanging all manner of favours as of recent to work up the value needed, with Quark, with other Ferengi. He hadn't asked Garak for a loan, but Garak had quietly invested in the venture with Quark himself, putting in some half of the value Bashir was meant to be working off – kept secret from Bashir, of course.
Quark found it interesting, the source of potential gossip down the line, and he kept secrets as a matter of course, just as Garak did.
Garak was curious, interested as to whatever strange project Bashir had embroiled himself in, and was content to ease his way with some of the disposable income he had to hand, that which Bashir didn't have, not having a salary or savings of his own beyond the allowance Starfleet was giving its officers on DS9.
He had been content not to know – he would be content continuing not to know, but his curiosity had been roused by Major Kira's questioning, and he allowed himself to satisfy it.
Bashir's freight contained several hundred units of shedding stones, combs, cannisters of a more affordable moisturiser, pads, scattered care products for Cardassian children, Cardassian menstrual products… A few hundred bottles of rokassa juice.
Garak hummed to himself, interested, before he made his way back to the Promenade.
"Good evening, my dear," he said as Bashir stepped from the docking bay, looking quite tired, and Bashir leaned his cheek into Garak's hand, looking at him exhaustedly. The young man was a little taller than Garak, but he so easily made himself smaller, when Garak reached for him, asked without words for Garak to make him feel so.
"Garak," he said. "You didn't have to meet me."
"No," he agreed. "Nor did I have to arrange an order to pick up from the Celestial Café as we make our way to your quarters, where your sheets are freshly changed, your newly repaired uniform laid out for you tomorrow, and a hot bath waiting you once we've eaten… I don't believe I had to do any of that. Curious, isn't it, that I decided to?"
Bashir narrowed his eyes at him: he was tired, and judging by the sleep around his eyes and the stiffness in his shoulders he'd fallen asleep on the shuttle. Garak hadn't bothered to hide the mild irritation in his own, and Bashir plainly heard it.
"What do you know?" he asked, finally.
"What indeed, Doctor?" Garak replied, sliding his hand to Bashir's lower back, and the two of them walked together to Bashir's quarters, the young man sighing as they went.
"Ah, ah, ah, Garak, Garak, please—!"
"What was that charming little phrase you shared with me recently, Doctor? One cannot burn the candle at both ends?"
"Garak!" Bashir moaned, the whine coming from so low in his tensely held throat that his voice very nearly took on a vibrato as a Cardassian voice might, and Garak pushed up in one hard movement, making water splash in the hot bath. The tired muscle returned to its proper place with a quiet pop that Garak felt more than he heard: Bashir moaned, and his hips thrust into the water, his fucked-full belly pressing against Garak's knees, with which he had been keeping him in place. Bashir's bath was a miniscule thing, barely fit for Bashir himself, let alone the both of them, and it was frustrating to settle in such shallow water, but for these purposes it served him very well.
Bashir couldn't pull away, simply lacked the space to do so, as he might in Garak's own, and Garak was able to return the muscles of his shoulders and lower back to their proper state without too much wriggling about.
"I wish you'd transport down to the planet, if you're going to insist on going so often," said Garak. "All these cramped passages back and forth in the shuttle buses, my dear, will age your muscle beyond your years."
"I'd have to justify transporter use," Bashir mumbled.
"Oh, that would poorly impact the clandestine nature of your operations, I suppose."
"They're not clandestine," said Bashir. "I make appointments in advance, I tell them exactly who I am, when I'll be coming, I—"
"—tell your superiors you're simply spending your leave days on Bajor, falsify your personal logs, don't inform Starfleet of what you're doing, nor request permission from the Bajoran government—"
"Permission," said Bashir scornfully, and it made Garak laugh. He pressed his thumb into the tense line of Bashir's neck, making him gasp and arch his back. "I don't falsify my personal logs."
"Don't you?"
"Not the real ones. Only the ones you've been accessing on my personal terminal – I've been submitting the real ones in the Infirmary."
Garak laughed, pressing his lips into the dip between Bashir's shoulders. "Just for that, young man, I'll apply a balm to your backside once we're out of this bath. How is it?"
"It hurts," said Bashir, but he stretched out his arms, languid as a cat, and softly exhaled. "It's nice."
"You don't want the balm?"
"I'll take it."
"Yes, you'll take whatever I give you, don't you?" Garak pressed against the fat curve of Bashir's belly, brushing his fingers over the stretch marks on his sides – they showed more obviously, had a more pleasing texture, when Bashir was between sessions, so to speak. "Would you like to tell me about it?"
"Would you like to tell me what you know, first?"
"Very good," said Garak, sliding his hands over Bashir's upper arms. "This is the third of the orphanages you've been to. You've purchased supplies from Quark to give out to the orphans you find – blankets, sweets, toiletries, books, why. You're spoiling them, Doctor. They won't find such luxury on Cardassia.
"I've seen nine full-blooded Cardassians, forty-one Bajoran-Cardassian hybrids, two Cardassian-Vulcan hybrids. Fifty-two orphans in all, between three orphanages I've attended thus far. Would you like to guess as to how many of them have been physically beaten by the people who are meant to care for them in those orphanages? Not one of them is older than sixteen – want to guess how many have been raped? How many have been told the Cardassians left them behind because as cold-hearted and ugly a people as they are, even they don't see the worth in them?"
"Mmm, over half," said Garak. "Let's say thirty-five, forty. For rapes, let's say six? And as for the latter, all of them."
"You're very good at this guessing game, Garak," said Bashir in a very tired, wooden tone. Garak was glad they were seated as they were, Bashir in front of him, and the mirror around the corner, so that he didn't have to hide away the quiet grief on his features.
"I am, aren't I? You've been treating their wounds?"
"Treating their wounds, their maladies. Talk to them about their puberty, where applicable, because almost none of them are being given… Giving them toiletries. Children's stories."
"Filling their heads with fantasies of being returned to Cardassia?"
"Garak, I've told every single one of them that Cardassians value the family unit above all else. Many Cardassians look poorly upon orphans, and especially for the older children, there's a sense that it's too late for them to learn to be productive members of society, and even if they went home to Cardassia, it's unlikely they'd be adopted. I know, Garak – I've told them all that."
Garak frowned in interest, resting his chin on the crook of Bashir's shoulder, feeling Bashir's cheek lean into his. "What do you want from the Bajoran government, then?"
"Many of those children have living relatives on Cardassia, you know. Their fathers, primarily, but then there's grandparents, aunts and uncles. I doubt the military officers told their families or their spouses about the children they sired on Cardassia, by rape or otherwise, or they simply lack the ability to contact the relatives they have left. I've told them some of their families might want them back. But it's not about that."
"Isn't it?"
"I know what the Cardassians did to Bajor. I know that people are traumatised, I know how many people died, how many people were tortured, raped. The harm Cardassia did on Bajor is insurmountable and unforgivable. It doesn't excuse revenge taken out on the children left behind. They don't get to use these children as fucking chew toys, Garak."
"You think that the Bajoran children aren't abused?" asked Garak mildly. "You're not a fool, my dear – you know as well as anyone that predators like to work in schools and orphanages, that they seek out such roles for a reason."
"Well, we can debate the finer points of children's rights and child safety in foster and adoptive environments at another time, Garak, I'm sure you have a great many insights," said Bashir scathingly. "For now, I'm working on this."
"What's your plan?"
"If the order comes from Starfleet, which it wouldn't because of how they'd respond, but if it does, the Bajorans will naturally resist. They'll be offended at the implications, deny all the abuse, keep talking about their lack of resources… If Bajor reaches out to Cardassia, it might be that there'll be some movement by the Civilian Government – I don't need them to offer to take the children back. I just need them to address that those children exist."
"… Why?"
"So that the Cardassian community on Vulcan can leverage their acknowledgement against their lack of action. Bajor gets to send a few hundred orphans away, fewer mouths to feed, fewer Cardassians planet side, and they get to spit in the face of Cardassia Prime in the process; in the meantime, those children can go to a community that will actually care for them, or at least not spit on them whenever they pass by."
"… Dinar Madrel's idea?"
"My idea. I've been working on it with her, though, and several other Hebitians and other Vulcan-Cardassians – there's actually two representatives of the Cardassian Empire on the committee."
"Committee? My dear. You're a regular diplomat."
"I'd rather you insult me than call me a diplomat, Garak."
"I thought I was insulting you."
Bashir was quite limp where he melted back against Garak's chest, his arms crossed. "Do you think it's stupid?"
"Stupid? By no means. Sentimental, misguided, naïve, but not stupid, no. You do realise that if there are representatives from the Cardassian state, it is likely that there is some way they believe this situation can be leveraged from their side, some benefit they seek to glean from the matter."
"I really don't care who benefits, politically," said Bashir.
Garak sighed.
"Yes, I know that's the wrong answer," he said. "Smack my arse again if you want to tell me so."
"However will I do that?" asked Garak. "I can't reach, my dear."
"I'm going to Jumala next," said Bashir. "Next month – in about three weeks. Three days planet side."
"Want to make a bet?"
"Do I want to hand you some latinum or a sexual favour over pretended odds, you mean?"
"Alright," said Garak indulgently, "no bets. But Major Kira is going to ask to accompany you on your next rendezvous, I expect."
"She's the one who tipped you off?"
"Tipped me off?"
"You know what I mean."
"She thought I put you up to it."
Bashir laughed.
"Yes, I thought the idea quite funny myself," murmured Garak. "With your secret out, I don't suppose I might examine your true personal logs, these meeting minutes?"
His tone was quite neutral, warm and curious, but he had mis-stepped in those last three words: abruptly, Bashir turned in the bathtub and he looked at Garak very seriously. "What?" he asked.
"You're truly so horrified at the idea I should be interested in your work?"
Bashir was so attuned to him. There was something electrifying in it, Bashir's focus on him, how much he noticed even the most fractional changes in Garak's pitch or his expression, and like this, engaged so with Garak's language. It was quite the challenge, juggling the young man – the better Bashir got at reading him, the harder Garak had to work to deceive him, and it truly was such a pleasure to find one might hone one's skills even at his age, even for small errors like this one.
Better to make an error with Bashir than someone else.
"Are you worried about me or Cardassia?" asked Bashir, his eyes narrowing. "The station? Yourself?"
Garak smiled at him.
Bashir, sighing, sat back against the other end of the bath, and smiled back at him, albeit tiredly. "My bath is too small," he said, a handsome moue tugging at his handsome lips. "Do you think the Chief would put one of the old Cardassian baths back in here if I asked?"
"You might try your luck," said Garak. "I don't know that I like your chances."
"Nor do I," said Bashir. "I'll show you the minutes if you help me."
"Help you?"
"You think I scattered fake personal logs about just to indulge you? You're not the only one, Garak, with an understanding of leverage."
Garak curled his hand around one of Bashir's ankles, lifted his leg, and pressed a kiss to the side of his foot.
"Sentimental old man," said Bashir.
Garak bit the spot he'd kissed, and Bashir laughed as he struggled in his grip.
"Doctor," said Kira.
It was a little after 1800 hours, just after the end of his shift – he'd been expecting her, and she looked at him with surprise as he handed her a PADD. The first page was just statistics and figures as to traumatic experiences the children he'd treated had suffered so far, and he watched Kira's lips part, her expression quietly pained and aggrieved.
"Have you told Sisko yet?" asked Julian softly.
"No," she said, scrolling down, her expression showing even more pain. "No, not yet, I wanted to… to talk to you about it. Julian, are these figures…?"
"I've seen fifty-two children out of three-hundred-and-twenty-seven, Major. They're accurate to what I know so far. I thought you might like to go to the commander together, and I can just… present what I know so far."
"I think I would have preferred it if you were a Cardassian spy, you know," said Kira quietly, and Julian laughed tiredly, powerlessly, thinking of Adorak Lora telling him in her cool, blunt tones, far colder and more scathing than he ever wanted to hear again from a young girl of just-fifteen, Well, there are some benefits to my Cardassian reproductive system as far as Bajoran men go, Doctor, as you can see. I'm sure the puberty guide will be very helpful.
"Yes, Nerys," said Julian lowly. "Me too."
