Bashir was on his arm as they made their way into the meeting room. Bashir was on his arm in the way a Cardassian took someone's arm – at times, he took Garak's arm and leaned against him, sank into Garak's side as though trying to leech from him his heat, as though trying to melt into the cracks of Garak's hip and neck and elbow. It was really quite endearing – he'd done it last night, after all, and Garak had filled with affection even as he was glad neither of the children or Prang were looking – but not… appropriate.

This, this was appropriate.

He and Bashir walked with their steps synchronised to one another, and the neat lock together of their elbows, Bashir's other hand resting on Garak's upper arm, lent their movement an ease and perfect stability. Bashir had struggled to rightly accomplish the position at first, had made all manner of complaints about Garak's height and the shortness of his legs, the comparative slowness of his gait, the way he kept his hips still when he moved, which made it all the more obvious when they walked side-by-side like this that Bashir's did move, because his kept knocking against Garak's.

"This is Vulcan," he'd said savagely, eyes alight with frustration as they'd finished their idle promenade, Garak mildly critiquing his stance on their walk. "This is Vulcan is what it is – walking with no… no personality, just in sync with the other person, it's horrible, Garak. We look stupid – I look stupid."

"My dear—" Garak had begun to say, and there had been so many things he might have said – that Bashir's notion of just how crucial a matched gait was to a Cardassian partnership was perhaps overly influenced by the sentimental romances they'd been reading lately; that he found it a struggle to believe that Bashir could be a Starfleet doctor with such myriad skills and be incapable of walking in a straight line without flashing his hips about like an Orion dancer; that Garak had no desire to make Bashir look stupid, least of all by doing something like walking next to him and offering a reasonable comparison for onlookers.

He'd never managed to select one.

"Bashir to Quark. Is one of the holosuites free? Yeah, just an hour."

Bashir had expected Garak to mock him for it, dragging Garak by the elbow up the narrow stairs with a little stomp to his feet, and they spent the hour in the holosuites walking up and down the first city Bashir had picked out of Quark's available geographical stock – the capital of the western continent on Simperia, as it happened, so that there were as many Cardassians moving through the crowds as there were Simperians and Orions. How could Garak mock him?

How could Garak be anything but agonisingly in love with a man so desperate to walk beside him, just so he could do it right – not do it comfortably, not do it by his Human standards of efficiency, but by Cardassian standards of aesthetic, of appearance?

They had had twenty minutes of their reservation left when Garak had dragged the boy into an alleyway and hiked him up against a brick wall, using his fingers until Bashir was muffling his sobs into Garak's shoulder to keep from screaming and scandalising the holographic locals, and afterward, even with his knees weak and his body tremoring, he'd been a perfect mirror at Garak's side, the both of them straight-backed and walking evenly.

"The purpose of two partners joining arms is not affection or intimacy, not from an outward perspective," he'd told Bashir when they'd first come to the point in The Betrothal where Indar took her would-be spouse's arm and they immediately stumbled on the stone. "This is the first step toward enjoinment of one heart's half and another – they ought, most of all, be stable, be strong, be united. Think of Indar and Rodan's clumsy dance – neither strengthens the other, and together, they are even weaker than if they were alone. Were anyone or anything to befall them – a child barging past them in the market, a sudden gust of wind, a tremor of the ground, they would fall to the floor, and crucially, they would not fall together. Indar would likely stumble first, or they would topple in different directions, or one would pull down the other – do you see? A Cardassian union, first and foremost, my dear, requires synchronicity. This is the reason for our debate, the complexity of our dances, the mirrored movements of our hands and mouths. It is said that any couple truly enjoined shares not only their home and their family, but their pulse."

"Pulse?" Bashir had repeated, and Garak had almost not known how to describe it, how to explain it – and he had not wanted to, just yet.

"Their… heartbeat, shall we say."

Bashir now, his head high, walked with easy grace at Garak's side, their steps perfectly in-beat with one another, and he did not tug Garak with him, but squeezed with his fingers to tell Garak he wanted to turn, and let Garak lead him.

Garak almost wanted to fuck him on the table in front of the Cardassian retinue, but this would be ill-advised for a great number of reasons, satisfying though it would be.

The appearance of Kotan Pa'Dar was a surprise to Garak, but not to Bashir, judging by the young man's lack of response – Prang had told him last night, it seemed. It satisfied Garak, the way that Pa'Dar glanced up and his gaze flitted uncaringly over Garak and Bashir, almost not realising—

And then his eyes widened, and he put down the papers in front of him, his expression showing deep surprise.

Bashir and Garak walked so properly on one another's arms that, for but an instant, it hadn't even registered that Bashir was an alien – a point of pride for any foreign partnership, and Garak thought of the way that Bashir relaxed with Truly and Caractacus in his lap sometimes, almost wondered if it might be possible…

But, no.

Bashir and Garak parted from one another – Prang was looking over, and Garak could see the cold approval in the curve of his lips and the glitter of his eyes, no matter that his own retinue looked variations of fascinated and disgusted – and Bashir bent neatly at the waist, his shoulders back, the movement more sinewy than was in his nature but nonetheless appealing, before he offered the palm of his hand.

"Councillor Pa'Dar," he said, in his neat, clipped Kardasi – and how funny, that the young doctor should imitate the capital's upper middle-class tones, having modelled his intonations on those of a man with as little right to them as he had. "My name is Doctor Bashir – I honour you, and mark your presence."

Pa'Dar's eyebrow ridges threatened to meet his hairline. How haggard he looked, how tired and full of painful hope. Bashir made his eyes light up with light and surprise, and he returned the bow and touched his palm to Bashir's as the other Cardassians in the room – those of Pa'Dar's retinue and those of Prang's – murmured to one another in quiet approval at this Human child who spoke Kardasi and knew his manners, so different to the other Federaji in the room.

Sisko, standing with Kira flanking his shoulder, looked fascinated.

"Good tidings, Bashir," said Pa'Dar – he had once a powerful, rumbling voice once, Garak recalled, but with his age, or perhaps his grief, it had softened and sweetened. The change made him no more difficult to hear, and Garak found he rather liked it. "I honour you, and mark your welcome."

Garak wondered if Bashir's face showed the pleasure Garak could see depicted in his shoulders at the markers of mutual respect in Pa'Dar's tone, only lowering them for the sake of Bashir's age, and not his status as an alien, a non-Cardassian.

"For Cardassia," Pa'Dar appended the natural ending to their exchanged greeting, and Bashir's pride stumbled. Garak almost wanted to laugh, but didn't, at the way Bashir slightly stiffened and showed his uncertainty. Some of Pa'Dar's people laughed – Prang's nephew, Provor, snickered, but it was cut short, presumably as Prang pinched the young man's waist and bid him quiet.

Bashir faltered slightly as he replied, "For…" and glanced back to Garak, glanced to Sisko and Kira… and then raised his head, and offered Pa'Dar as dazzling a smile as the one Pa'Dar was giving him. "For our children, sir."

Oh, but if this were theatre, Garak might have clapped.

The collective our, which implied not only the our of the two speaking, but all of those present, which naturally included Humans and Bajorans, not only Cardassians; the appending of that sir, so clumsy in the Standard translation, but recognising in Kardasi not only Pa'Dar's place as elder and superior, but as a patriarch; the very traditional response to For Cardassia, not an echo of Pa'Dar's phrasing, nor a continuing of its meaning – For the Empire, For the State – but a more poetic one, one that would deeply please an aristocrat like Pa'Dar, and that was so apropos to this meeting.

More murmurs of approval from Prang's contingent – Pa'Dar's people said nothing, but Garak saw smiles of mixed genuine approval, and others a more simple delight, as though they'd seen a lemur do a fine trick. It was the best Bashir could hope for, with his simple ridgeless face – more than Garak told him he might expect.

"Zh'sara," Pa'Dar corrected Bashir's pronunciation gently.

Garak saw the ever so slight movement of Bashir's back, the tilt of his head, and Bashir met Garak's gaze, half-smirked for a fraction of a second, before he demurred and downcast his eyes.

He'd picked the literary children for more reason than one – so that Pa'Dar would have the chance to correct his pronunciation, and with how well Bashir had done, he did it as gently as any teacher corrected a student, and didn't even treat him like an alien.

Major Kira looked distantly disgusted; Garak had never been quite so titillated and amused in all his life.

"I am sorry, Councillor," said Bashir, going back to Standard now, though he used the proper Kardasi word, with the attendant suffixes to mark respect, for Pa'Dar's title. "A teacher can only mould what his student possesses." The inclination of his head toward Garak was a subtle movement, but showed all proper deference – more than proper, given that Garak was an exile.

Pa'Dar gave Garak a nod, which Garak returned, although he didn't move forward to greet Pa'Dar himself – even were he not an exile, and bound to linger back from the proceedings, this was Bashir's room, and they all knew it. Sisko and an ensign intending to keep minutes, and Kira and a representative from one of the central resettlement centres represented Starfleet and Bajor; Prang had intervened on behalf of Cardassia's best interest; Pa'Dar, of course, was here for the sake of Cardassia and his son.

Bashir was the centrepiece, the wheel in the centre of all these cogs in motion, and how fascinating all the Cardassians found him, this handsome alien child with his careful manners and his performance of Kardasi etiquette.

"Zh'sara," Bashir repeated – so humble, or so he appeared.

"Better," said Pa'Dar.

Garak stepped back, and Lora entered with Rugal at her hip, one of her hands gently curled around his shoulder, and Bashir immediately stepped back.

"Good tidings, Councillor Pa'Dar," she said, putting both of her hands on Rugal's shoulders and gently nudging him forward. The boy looked terrified, deeply nervous. "We honour you, and mark your presence. My name is Adorak Lora, and this, if I might reintroduce the two of you, is your son, Rugal."

Bashir's shoulder touched against Garak's, his body tight and slightly stiff, although he did his best to hide his anxiety.

Pa'Dar looked almost ready to weep as he dropped to a crouch, meeting his son eye to eye.

"Hello, Rugal," he whispered, putting up one hand, and Rugal hesitated, but Lora dipped and murmured in his ear. Rugal nodded, and he almost stumbled forward, hurried, and his hand was clumsy where it touched his father's.

Garak couldn't hear what the boy said, facing away from him as he was and speaking so quietly, but Bashir gripped tight at Garak's sleeve, and Garak could hear Pa'Dar say, "Of course!"

He took Rugal in a crushing hug, and Garak could hear him sob against his father's shoulder, although he tried his best to control himself, as Lora had no doubt coached him to do this morning.

"If he hadn't spent a few months with Lora and the other Cardassian orphans, and then with us," Bashir breathed out, such that only Garak could hear him, "I don't think he'd even be able to look his father in the eye."

"Best not to dwell on it, my dear," Garak replied.

When the doors opened again, it was Quark and his waiters bringing in food – Sisko had evidently decided, seeing how emotional Rugal was with his father, to push forward the brunch that had been planned to breakfast instead, and Garak expected they would allow an hour or so for Rugal to accustom before they began to discuss the legality of the matter.

"Your Kardasi's improved," said Kira tightly, but judging by the way Bashir relaxed and warmed his smile, he'd misjudged the intention of her words.

"It's easy to say that when all you hear from me is formal greetings and ordering drinks," he said, exhaling, his tone quite modest. Garak had never known a man who could make modesty sound as arrogant as Bashir did. "I'm struck dumb when I try to discuss a literary text."

"Oh no," said Kira sarcastically. "I forgot that that's what the language was for."

Bashir's smile faltered, and he made himself more serious now, set his lips neatly together. He took Garak's arm again, and locked their elbows.

"You're not seriously angry I greeted him in his own language?" he asked in quiet, but sharp tones. "He's a visiting dignitary, Major."

"A dignitary from the Cardassian Empire—"

"Retrieving his son, who he thought was dead, and who has been abused for half a decade by Bajorans," retorted Bashir sharply, and before he could go on Garak twisted his arm, making him quietly hiss in pain and look askance at Garak.

"Apologise," Garak said, loud enough that Kira could hear. Her scowl faltered out of pure confusion. "Our Cardassian friends won't be nearly so impressed with your etiquette, my dear, if they see you tantrum like a child, insulting the good major for no reason whatsoever."

"No reason—"

"Major Kira cares for those children as much as we do," Garak reminded him.

He didn't have to, of course. Admittedly, he spoke so loudly because of the pleasure it brought him to see Kira's expression of tight, angry confusion. Her temper was easily held in check by her natural bafflement at having Garak come to her defence – to keep Bashir and Kira both in decent spirits, each of them hot-headed and painfully youthful in their own rights, it was best to keep one ashamed and the other baffled.

"Sorry," muttered Bashir, his cheeks darkening with a blush.

"No," said Kira, her eyes flitting away. "I'm sorry."

Garak looked over his shoulder to Prang, who was observing this interaction with amused interest – Garak had no doubt that no matter that no other Cardassians in the room could hear them, Prang could, or was at least reading their lips.

"Are you going to intervene, or am I?" asked Kira, and Bashir followed her gaze.

Garak set his teeth tighter together, seeing a member of Pa'Dar's contingent speaking with Lora as the two of them took plates from Quark's selection. Garak could see at a glance that Lora was building hers for Rugal, and not for herself. The young man was standing far too close, and he was a very young man, no doubt just released from his second round at whatever institute he had attended – he couldn't be older than nineteen or twenty.

"I don't believe Miss Adorak needs our intervention," said Garak. "Lora is a Cardassian, Major, and she can field her own battles."

"Garak—"

Lora laughed, the sound a little louder than necessary, and when she turned her head to address the young man, Garak could read her lips, although her voice was difficult to make out so far away. "Was that your understanding of the text, Lett? Evidently, you need some education in the basics of Romulan history."

"You'd make a fine educator," said Lett.

"I do," said Lora, "when motivated by worthy students."

She turned away from him then, and her voice was too cold for it to be flirtatious, the interaction cut short with too much speed and efficacy. She put her arm on Rugal's shoulder where he was sitting with his father, setting a plate down beside him, and when she tried to pull away, Rugal caught her by the sleeve, and then glanced anxiously over at Bashir and Garak.

"You go," said Garak, squeezing Bashir's arm. "He'll be intimidated with me over his shoulder, and my presence won't exactly be a conversational lubricant. The Major and I will keep Lora between us, won't we, Major?"

"You don't want to introduce her to the Vulcan Cardassians?" asked Kira.

"Lora is acquainted already with the Legate," said Garak. "I wouldn't presume to set the girl's social schedule for her, but it seems to me she'd like some peace for now."

"I'm surprised you aren't chatting with them all," said Kira venomously.

"I would be as welcome amongst them as you, Major," said Garak, and offered his arm as Bashir pulled away, repressing his laughter at the expression of horror it garnered. "What say you we provide a united front?"

Kira stared at him in disgust, and before Garak could draw his arm back to himself, Lora took it. "What an ugly boy," she said, quietly enough that Lett couldn't hear – he would only take it as flirtation – and Kira's snort of laughter was swiftly covered with her mouth.

Lora didn't look quite so amused.

"I hope he wasn't overly forward," said Garak quietly, watching as Bashir came to stand at Rugal's side, and let the young man take hold of his wrist to hold him nearby.

"The word exotic came up more than once," said Lora coolly, and Garak gave a neat inclination of his head.

"To be expected, my dear, if not welcomed."

"Introduce me to the Glinn."

"He's far too old for you," said Garak.

"Yes, and he's ugly, too," agreed Lora. "You have noticed his sleeve?"

"Your first commission?"

"If you introduce me as your apprentice."

Garak sighed, feigning a long-suffering exhaustion. "If I must, my dear."

"You're smiling, Mr Garak," said Sisko, moving to stand at Kira's side. "Should I be alarmed?"

"Deeply, Commander," said Garak quietly, allowing Lora to lead him aside. "I am given to understand the new apprentice tailor on the station is quite the menace."


"… and Doctor Bashir has given us our own blankets that are insulated against the Bajoran weather, with how cool it is, and books and grooming things," said Rugal, and Julian gave Pa'Dar a small smile as the man met his gaze. "Which has… has made things better. I really was nervous about going back to a resettlement centre or an orphanage, but Lora takes such good care of everyone, even me, and things have gotten a lot better, the past few months."

"How many more orphanages have you left to visit?" asked Pa'Dar quietly. "My people inform me you've been visiting them one by one."

"I've gone to five out of fourteen," said Julian quietly. "Unfortunately, I'm only one man, Councillor, and for some time I was doing this without clearance from Starfleet or Bajor's provisional government – it was a project of my own. I try to keep in contact with every child I meet, so that they have someone off-planet that they can call on, but I've only made contact with just under a third of the Cardassians and Cardassian hybrids on the planet."

Pa'Dar nodded his head, squeezing Rugal's hand. "You must miss your adoptive parents," he said gently.

Julian ached at the frozen, uncertain look on Rugal's face, the pain there, as he hurried to say, "Of course. We have to honour our parents."

He used the Bajoran word for honour, and at the religious tint to it, wholly different to the atheistic, Cardassian duty that the Kardasi imparted, Pa'Dar's attempt at a warm expression faltered.

Pain showed in his face, too.

"I am sorry to interrupt, Councillor," said Lora, and Julian could see from her expression that she'd seen the tension too, and chosen this moment to interrupt very carefully, "but Rugal and I have been attending the school here on the station, and it's very nearly 1000 hours."

"A Bajoran school?" asked Pa'Dar slightly tightly, and Lora gave a neat shake of her head, showing no offence.

"It's run by a botanist named Keiko O'Brien," said Lora. "She's a Human – a Federation citizen, but not a member of Starfleet. She offers a very balanced curriculum, and we've been enjoying it immensely. Right, Rugal?"

"Yeah," murmured Rugal, nodding his head. He glanced at Lora, who smiled at him

"Like we practised," she said softly. "He won't mind if you get it wrong."

Rugal looked back to Pa'Dar as he stood to his feet, bowed slightly, offered his hand to press palms. His Kardasi was fumbling and uncertain, struggling with the formal words, but even when he stumbled, he rallied and kept going, relying on the UT when he forgot the constructions. "Good tidings, Father. I am… I'm glad to be returned to the… the shade of your… tree? I'm getting it wrong."

"The quote is, to the shadow of your great boughs," said Pa'Dar gently, but his smile was bright with a sort of paternal glee. He'd looked exhausted when they'd all first come into the room, but an hour with his son across from him seemed to have cured him of that. Julian couldn't imagine it, to think your son was dead for what, eight years? And then to suddenly find he was alive – alive, and brittle, and scared to look in your eyes, stripped of the language you shared and speaking it in stammering, uncertain snatches of phrase, heavily aided by his UT. "Once more, my boy, we will be nourished by the same soil."

"See you later," Rugal chirped, more confidently, in a street-Kardasi portmanteau that didn't fit with the proper accent Lora had been trying to teach him, and Bashir winced, because Pa'Dar blinked at the modernity of the slang phrasing – perfectly acceptable among youths, not really acceptable to use with an elder, let alone your father.

Lora was glaring sidelong at him instead of Rugal, albeit with more amusement than heat, and Bashir said, "Sorry, I taught him that."

"That's the parting salutation you use with young Lora?" asked Pa'Dar.

Rugal decided to drop Julian in it and hiss at him, "But you used it with Legate Prang!"

Pa'Dar was looking at Julian with a sort of scandalised entertainment on his features.

"Yes, well," said Julian out of the side of his mouth, wishing the plating underneath him would open up and drop him into the cargo bays as he tried to avoid Pa'Dar's exacting gaze, "it was very rude and inappropriate for me to use with Legate Prang, and you shouldn't use it with any adults, Rugal."

"But you—"

"I think you're going to be late for class," said Julian, looking at Lora pleadingly, and she chuckled, already leading Rugal with her. As they went, he could hear her explaining the slang's root origin – something to do with a hanging moss that fell from trees in high wind – and the different levels of Kardasi language and slang.

"I had no idea you and Legate Prang were so familiar," said Pa'Dar.

"We're not, sir," said Julian, feeling like his cheeks were going to burst they were so hot with blood. "I'm just… Provocative, that's all. I do apologise."

"Provocation is a natural instinct of youth," said Pa'Dar, looking as though he were trying to hide his smile, and Julian thanked his lucky stars that most Cardassians couldn't help but look at him and see a child instead of an adult, no matter that they knew how old he was. "Although not one I would like for you to teach my son."

"His hearing is better than a lot of Cardassians'," said Julian, and Pa'Dar laughed.

"Your enjoined?" he asked, tipping his head toward Garak, who was leaving with Lora and Rugal.

"My teacher," said Julian, and what a relief it was, to use the Kardasi word and receive immediate understanding, because Pa'Dar gave a neat inclination of his head.

"You are evidently a worthy student," said Pa'Dar. "I don't know that there are many in the sector Prang would allow to speak to him with such verve and disrespect."

"I think the novelty is part of why it makes him laugh, sir," said Julian, and Pa'Dar laughed again, patting Julian's back. He patted it hard, not as hard as a Klingon would, but with far more weight to the slap than anyone else on the station might – it was nice, didn't make him itch or want to squirm like a lighter, ticklish slap would. "I would like to talk to you later on about Rugal. There's… I've not been able to tease all of it out, and nor have Lora or Elim, but his Bajoran parents did treat him in ways that… that complicate his relationship with himself, his own identity, with Cardassians."

"He's scared to look me in the eye," said Pa'Dar, almost croaked the words, speaking them quietly and in pained tones.

"Not you, sir," said Julian. "Cardassians, any Cardassian. Even Lora he's not always comfortable with – even children his own age."

"Is that supposed to comfort me?" asked Pa'Dar.

"Yes, Councillor, it is," said Julian. "The past two weeks he's been very nervous about the idea of having living relatives – today he realised his father was still alive, and asked for you to hold him in your arms."

Pa'Dar's nostrils flared, and he glanced over to Sisko, who was beginning to gesture to the table, that they all sit down together.

"I lost half of my heart that day," said Pa'Dar quietly. "How it ruined me to think I had lost him too – and now I discover that my son yet lives, but he's as lost to me as ever, hates his own people."

"I don't think that Rugal hates anybody, sir," said Julian, "and he's nervous of Bajorans, too. He's been through some painful hardship, but he's young, and with love and support, he'll flourish as he was always going to."

Pa'Dar gave him a look of challenge. "On Cardassia?" he asked. Had Prang told him about Julian's reluctance, or had someone else? Maybe someone had overheard them talking about it in Quark's last night, or heard him and Garak talking about it. It didn't matter who'd told him – it didn't matter if no one had told him at all, and Pa'Dar just hated the idea of any children going to the exiles on Vulcan.

Julian met the other man's gaze, not looking away from him as Pa'Dar studied his face. "Are you asking me as a doctor, in my professional capacity caring for Rugal and other Cardassian children?"

"I am asking your opinion," said Pa'Dar, "informed by your profession and your person. Cardassians are not of the habit, as Federaji are, of separating themselves into their personal and professional lives. We are ourselves, whole, without fracture, and give our views accordingly."

There were a great many things Julian could say in response to the idea of the average Cardassian being without fracture, but he held his tongue. Instead, he said, "I don't think Rugal would do well on Cardassia Prime. You've heard him speak about history, his interest in literature. I think that his curiosity and analysis could too easily be mistaken for dissidence. Prang and Garak have each assured me that my interpretation of Cardassian culture is too strict and unforgiving, particularly on your children, but they've not heard Rugal's analyses of the Occupation first hand, as I have. More than that, Councillor, it will take time for him to learn Kardasi so that he doesn't need to rely on the UT, and not having been raised with even an equivalent, he struggles with Cardassian social stratification. He analyses and critiques when he should assimilate; he questions when he should obey."

"Do you think the Cardassian State so fragile, my dear doctor, that it should crumble at the questions and critiques of a child?"

"Cardassia? No. Lugheads in his vicinity who fear a child with more wit and intelligence than them? Oh, yes. As someone who grew up in the Federation, unable to intuit the silent rules of every situation, I'm accustomed to exactly the situation I think Rugal can expect."

Pa'Dar stared at him, quite stunned, and his laugh was too shocked to show as much scandal as he likely felt.

"You asked for my opinion, Councillor," said Julian, shrugging his shoulders. "I've given it to you."

"I appreciate your honesty," said Pa'Dar, "although perhaps you should be less anxious for my son's success on Cardassia, and worry more for your own, speaking with such… frankness."

Julian's voice was quiet, full of easy humour, as he asked, "In case of those stupid soldiers, you mean?"

Pa'Dar laughed again, looking away from Julian. "I see why Legate Prang laughs, Doctor," he said. "You are a provocateur beyond measure."

"I learn from my teacher, sir."

"Your teacher got himself exiled," Pa'Dar reminded him, abruptly serious. "Take care you don't learn every lesson he offers you."

"Yes, sir," said Julian, cowed by that, and losing the warmth of feeling he'd been experiencing, feeling as though he was finally managing to dance the verbal tango that seemed to come to Cardassians so easily. "Of course."


Pa'Dar had brought a holosuite program of Cardassia City, and Bashir lingered on Garak's arm, the two of them hanging back. Pa'Dar gesticulated widely as he moved, gesturing here and there to different buildings, different cafés and restaurants, and the homes of other members of the aristocracy.

"… is the oldest part of the city, which you can tell from the shape of the architecture – see how square the spires are, how firmly angled the rooves and eaves? As you go south, and the architecture modernises, you will see more curves and angular movements, but for the bouts of neoclassicism in the Tovan and Ri'l sectors. Our family has inhabited the Coranum Sector for some four or five hundred years, my child – and your mother's family too. Arys played in these gardens over here from when she was a child."

So did I, Garak almost whispered in Bashir's ear. My father maintained those gardens, Doctor, did you know that? When I had finished assisting him with his work, I would play in those gardens too, and pretend I was important.

Bashir's comm badge chirped.

"Odo to Bashir."

"Bashir here," said Julian. "We're just in the holosuite with Councillor Pa'Dar and the children, Odo."

"Gul Dukat has just arrived on the station," said Odo. "He says he has urgent business with the Councillor."

"Where's Prang?"

"Here, in the docking ring. Dukat seems to be giving him a wide berth."

"He will do that, Constable," said Garak. "Dukat has a caution of the legate which is unusually sensible."

Bashir gave him a sideways look, but Garak revealed nothing in his answering expression, and Bashir sighed. "I'll let Pa'Dar know."

"Thank you," said Odo, and the comm badge clicked off.

"How's he going to react to me?" asked Bashir, not yet moving to catch up with Pa'Dar, Lora, and Rugal as Pa'Dar pointed up to the spire of one of the justice buildings. "Dukat? What with your history together?"

"What history might that be?"

"Garak."

"Dukat has no affection for me, my dear, which you know well," said Garak softly, "but Pa'Dar already knows who I am, as does Prang. If you think Dukat will embarrass you to the Councillor by referencing our entanglement, you are putting too much stock in his ability to succeed in the process."

"I hate how he looks at me," muttered Bashir, and Garak glanced down at his face, studying the lines of his cheeks, his jaw, his tight-pressed lips.

"Cardassians will always look at you this way, Doctor," said Garak quietly. "In the same way that many Federaji can't help but look at us and see cold-blooded lizards unworthy of their compassion or care, most Cardassians can't help but see your features as babyish and undeveloped. I have seen you turn this to your advantage several times, these past few days of negotiation, and I have no doubt you will only become more adept at it as time goes by. Xenophobia or xenophilia, my dear, are two sides of the same coin, but they're the price paid for your being xeno in the first place."

"Yes, and if I ever brought you to Earth, I know it'd be the same in reverse," muttered Bashir. "But at least when men like Prang and Pa'Dar look at me, they see their children; when you look at me, you see a young man, your student, and a lover; when other Cardassians look at me and see something sub-Cardassian, a lesser species, an animal, that's… by the by. I don't like it, but I can handle it."

"You're worried Dukat puts you in this latter category?"

"Dukat probably puts me in the first or the third category," Bashir muttered, "as he does with most Humans, and most Bajorans. The difference between Dukat and the others is that Dukat sees virtually any sub-Cardassian or animal as a receptacle to put his cock in."

Garak coughed, and Bashir immediately looked to the children and Pa'Dar to check they hadn't heard, then gave him a discomforted look. He hadn't said that to be playful or even insulting, and Garak could see from the twist of his features and the beat of his heart that his anxiety was real. He didn't know that Dukat had even noticed Bashir last they'd met, but then, that was then, when Bashir was nothing more than Terok Nor's new medical doctor.

Now, he was attached to the exile tailor and ex-Order operative, and worse than that, he was a player on the board in his own right, an unpredictable factor. He was precisely the sort of figure that Dukat liked to romanticise when he was commanding Terok Nor – and the sort that he would want to eliminate, as soon as he wounded Dukat's fragile ego.

"He'd only be worse if I went with you, you know," Garak advised him. "He'd posture purely in the hopes of upsetting me."

"I know," said Bashir.

A part of Garak bristled, although he took care to hide it well. "Dukat has made overtures toward you before?"

"It's different now."

"Why?"

"Because they know."

Garak frowned at him, leaning back to better examine Bashir's face to see precisely what he meant, and Bashir met his gaze, looked away, sniffed. "Not that," he muttered. "They know I'm trans. I heard Provor mentioning it to one of Pa'Dar's assistants, and I know enough about Dukat to know him and Provor are birds of a feather."

"Reptiles of a scale," said Garak, and Bashir gave him a very flat look. "Well, my dear, would you rather I encourage this catastrophising of yours? You are a problem solver, my dear, but this is a problem that you cannot solve. You can't talk your way out of people's bigotries, or the assumptions they make of you, only prove them wrong or leave them be. I'm neither interested in indulging your maudlin self-pity or stroking your ego."

"Thanks, Garak," said Bashir dryly. "I'll remember that the next time you want comfort from me."

"You oughtn't need my comfort," murmured Garak, sliding his thumb over the inside of the younger man's arm and listening to the soft, sweet sound of Bashir's exhaled sigh. "Not for this. I won't soothe the hurt you choose to feel at simple facts of the world, and would not ask that you do so for me."

Bashir pulled away, and said, "Councillor Pa'Dar? Constable Odo's just advised me that Dukat has arrived on the station. I can go and meet him now, and tell him you're still spending time with your son, but just so you're aware he's here."

"The holosuite reservation continues for another hour," said Lora, glancing at her watch. "Garak and I will leave the two of you together, sir."

"Please don't tell me you want to meet Dukat," muttered Bashir to Lora as the three of them made their way out, and Garak watched the stiffening of her shoulders, the way she raised her head slightly.

"No," she said, and Garak patted her back, allowing Lora to descend the staircase before them.

The press of Bashir's palm against his was brief and warm, almost as brief and warm as the touch of Bashir's mouth to Garak's own, and then he was gone, and Garak and Lora walked together across the Promenade.

"You've met him before?" asked Garak.

"Dukat used to consider himself a friend of my step-father," said Lora. "He thought they had things in common, you see, between me and… Adorak never liked him."

"Come, my dear," said Garak quietly. "We'll go to work, and spare him no further thought."