Deep Space Nine has been your home for years now. Frankly, the Dominion could pry it from your cold, dead hands; as long as Bajorans were still allowed aboard the station, by the Prophets, you were staying.
Sure, things were...different now. But not terrible. No one had known quite what to expect when the Cardassians retook the station, and many fled back to Bajor in fear of the violence that was sure to follow. But over the past few weeks tensions had begun to ease as it became apparent this occupation was far kinder than the last – no doubt a result of the competent diplomatic leadership of the Vorta heading the whole operation.
You saw him sometimes, as you whiled away the afternoons people-watching on the Promenade. Flanked at all times by his Jem'Hadar guards, he wasted no time sightseeing - always places to be, people to meet. Occasionally a civilian would interrupt his brisk walk with a question or concern (the Cardassian officers knew better than to do so), but the Vorta betrayed no hint of annoyance and always took the time to hear them out. Rarely did the civilian seem satisfied by the exchange, but at least the new commander appeared to care about their day-to-day problems.
It was all PR, you knew. Paving the way for a smooth transition of power. The Dominion knew very well what the Bajorans had suffered here on DS9 and wished to avoid such an ugly and inefficient occupation, preferring instead to secure the approval of its subjects. You suspected, however, that they cared even less about the Bajorans' actual well-being than the Cardassian oppressors of old.
"Snakes, all of them," you sigh to yourself, shaking your head as you pick at your gagh. The Cardassians at least had the decency to show their scales; the Vorta hid their fangs beneath smiles.
"Worms, actually, I believe," comes a mellifluous voice from above, and your eyes, darting up in a panic, widen the find that the subject of your thoughts is now standing at your table.
You gape, completely unprepared to be face-to-face with the man you'd been watching all these weeks from afar. Amused by your panic, he smiles, gesturing at the empty chair across from you.
"Mind if I join you?"
"I – uh. No, not at all."
You suspect he wouldn't have taken no for an answer; but then, if you're being honest, you didn't really want to refuse him anyway.
"Excellent."
The Vorta slides gracefully into his seat and regards you with an unreadable expression; you hold his gaze for only a moment before his intimidating aura gets the best of you and you direct your eyes back to the squirming pile of gagh on your plate.
"Well, don't stop on my account," your new friend encourages, gesturing to your lunch.
You hesitate and then laugh a little, nervously, folding the napkin in your lap. "Oh, I just… don't seem to have much of an appetite anymore."
"Frankly I don't see how anyone could have an appetite for those things at all! Writhing, mushy little grubs." He shudders theatrically. "It's enough to make one want to gag. But, then, I do suppose I have a rather discerning palate. It can be quite limiting at times."
His smalltalk is beginning to put you at ease. Despite the disdain you hold for this man and all he represents, you feel a strange desire to play along with this pointless conversation – to get into his good graces. A strategic move to be sure, but something deeper, something visceral is yearning for more of that glowing Vorta smile, and the feeling frightens you.
"Have you tried any of the Bajoran restaurants on the Promenade?" you ask tactfully, leaning back in your chair. "Our cuisine is light years more appealing than the Klingons'. Loads of variety too."
"Oh, once or twice," he concedes, "but I usually take my meals alone. Too many pairs of prying eyes out here."
He gestures, without breaking eye contact, to the fellow diners at nearby tables. You glance over in time to see many of them turning hurriedly back to their meals. You feel very exposed all of a sudden.
"I see."
"It can be quite distracting. But, to answer your question more directly, yes, I do enjoy many Bajoran dishes. Hasperat souffle in particular is quite lovely."
You meet his gaze again as he mentions this. Its unwavering intensity unsettles you, and you find the next few words difficult to muster.
"...I make a pretty good hasperat souffle. It's my favorite thing to bake, actually."
"How wonderful! You'll have to make it for me sometime."
His words ring with genuine excitement. You realize with deepening horror that he means to follow through on that demand. Speechless, you stare at him for a beat before collecting yourself and supplying him with the response for which he's still waiting: "Oh – sure – of course. Whenever you like."
"Splendid."
You feel warm under his glowing smile.
After a moment, he laments with concern: "I'm certain you're well aware of who I am, but I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."
"Y/N."
"Y/N," he parrots back, tasting the name on his tongue, savoring it. A blush rises to your cheeks as the Vorta stands, reaches for one of your hands, and presses a soft kiss to the back of it. He maintains that paralyzing gaze the entire time.
"Thank you for indulging me. I will take up no more of your time; I'm sure you're a busy woman."
"It's...quite alright," you assure him, and are shocked to realize you mean it.
He fixes you with another lingering smile as he lets your fingers slide gently out of his grasp, and just before turning, adds: "I look forward to that souffle."
You watch in stunned silence as he returns to the Jem'Hadar awaiting him at the cafe entrance.
For the entirety of the time he and his cohorts have ruled over the station, you've known his name. You have simply never had to use it. But for the first time, as you parse what just happened, you don't think of the man who shared your table as the station commander or the Vorta oppressor.
You think of him as Weyoun.