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comic-sans-chan · 2 months

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Fic I'll never write where Dukat decides the biennial Cardassian Festival of Whatever the Fuck (it is never actually specified) should be hosted on Deep Space Nine as a way of bridging the gap between the Cardassian and Bajoran peoples. Sisko and Kira are both Ehhhh about it, but Dukat is obnoxiously persistent until finally the Bajoran government and Federation higher ups are like “K”, on the condition that no Cardassian military (or Order) personnel be allowed. All security for the event will be handled by Odo and Starfleet. Dukat is suspiciously cool with this, which puts everyone on alert, but soon Cardassian vendors and decorators start showing up and they turn out to be pretty chill people, so they let it happen.

While the preparations for the festival are underway, another operation has started. A motherfucker from Garak's past is doing typical motherfucker things on the station. One of these things is scouting Garak's quarters, learning the layout, tracking Garak's routine. It becomes clear very quickly that the rapidly increasing number of Cardassians on DS9 is putting Garak on edge, though, because he seems to be fiddling more with his security protocols, so the motherfucker realizes they need to make their move and they need to make it fast.

They succeed. Sort of. With the circumstances as they are, they had to get a little... creative, but it should do the trick.

By early next morning, every PADD, screen, and computer system on the station is streaming seventy-two different poems on a constant loop. Love poems. Ardent, anguished, often utterly indecent love poems, all with the central theme of being about one Doctor Julian Bashir.

Quark is one of the first to notice the problem, being the type of asshole who opens early despite this only increasing his bottom line by a fraction of a fraction. At first, he's furious that his systems have been tampered with, but after reading a few lines of what his normal menu and advertisements have been replaced with, he's laughing, and by the end of the third poem, he's on the floor.

"Odo!" he shouts, banging on the bastard's door twenty minutes later. "Odo, open up! We've got a problem!"

Odo slinks under the door and slips up between it and Quark's pounding fist with a glare. "Quark! I'm not on duty for another hour. What could possibly be so urgent?"

Quark's sharp little rat teeth are splitting his face clean in half as he holds up the PADD. "Take a look."

Odo scrolls through a couple poems, then squints and scrolls through several more. "Erotic love poetry? I didn't peg you for the type."

"To like erotica? Hoo, I thought you paid better attention than that, Constable."

Odo returns the PADD with a dry expression. "To read."

"Oh, you're hilarious." He taps Odo's chest with the PADD. "The whole station is filled with this stuff. My bar, the Replimat, the Celestial Cafe, the promenade. Someone's either desperate to make a statement, or we've been sabatoged."

Dramatic sci-fi music swells and we get a close-up of Odo’s eerily hairless face and nasal cavity.

The next few hours are dedicated to trying and failing to seize back the servers and briefing the bridge staff on the situation.

"Are we sure these are all about Doctor Bashir?" Sisko's voice booms across Ops. He's on his second cup of coffee and a pile of useless PADDs lay beside him.

Julian has remained stoic throughout the discussion and he remains so now, avoiding eye contact with anyone who's smiling a little too wide. Like Jadzia. "Oh, definitely," she says. "He's mentioned by name in three of them, and several others make a point of highlighting the subject's 'golden sand dune skin', 'aristocratic' features, and 'voice that never stops singing.' Sounds like Julian to me."

A few snickers break out, but Sisko is taking the matter seriously. Thank fuck, Julian thinks. It actually looks like it's giving him a headache, which would make two of them if Julian was capable of having headaches. The captain's rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "And the source..."

"There's a clear data trail back to Garak's quarters. Whoever did this, they wanted us to know where it came from," Kira reports. A muscle jumps in Julian's cheek.

"I tracked Garak down for his statement on the issue," Odo says, gruff, "and he told me he had nothing to do with the virus. In fact, he denied ever having laid eyes on the poems in his life. He's claiming he's been framed." He rolls his eyes.

"Okay," Jadzia says, "we all agree he's lying, right?"

"But which part..."

"Oh, they're Garak's. I've read enough Lloja of Prim to be familiar with traditional Kardasi meter and syntax, and that isn't even going into all the parallels drawn between our doctor and Prime. Sand, heat, rainforests. Bit of Romulan imagery in there, too, if I'm not mistaken. A lot of flowers and vines. Wasn't Garak a gardener?"

"I see no reason why anyone would want to embarass themselves like this," O'Brien cuts in before Jadzia can make it worse. "Even if he is trying to distract us or something, this seems counterproductive in the long term. Everyone’s watching him now, not just us. The rumor mill is running rampant. Not exactly a spy’s MO."

"He did blow up his shop once."

"Because someone was trying to kill him," Julian pipes up for the first time, looking concerned. "Do you think this might be another cry for help?"

"Oh, it's a cry for something," Jadzia quips, and Julian shuts the fuck up.

"Dax," Sisko snaps, like the good benevolent Wormhole Alien Jesus he is, and Dax shuts the fuck up, too. Sisko gives them all the stink eye. "Constable, you're nearly as familiar with Garak as the doctor is," he says, and holds a hand up before any jokes can be made. "What do you think?"

"I don't think he's behind this, sir. None of the pieces add up, and he seemed genuinely agitated when I spoke to him, in his way. At present, I believe he is as much a victim here as the rest of us."

Sisko sighs. "All right. Do we have any idea who is behind this?"

The room is silent for a time, before Odo reluctantly answers for everyone, "Not yet, sir."

"Find out," Sisko demands, "and Chief, get these damn poems off of my reports. Dismissed."

Julian is out of the room before anyone else has stood up.

The rest of the day is spent ducking in and out of his office, only treating those who ask for him by name and keeping all conversations strictly professional. Any mentions of poetry, the festival, Cardassians, or Garak are firmly sidelined, and on a couple occasions, rewarded with a none-too-gentle hypo. He skips lunch altogether and extends his shift by two hours to avoid the dinner rush.

By the time he's leaving the Infirmary, it's late. Unfortunately for him, not late enough that the halls aren't still speckled with observers to his personal soap opera. With the Festival of Frank’s Hot Dogs less than a week away, DS9 is becoming increasingly crowded with tourists, mostly Cardassian, but a surprising amount Bajoran, too–apparently this festival was a rare bright point during the Occupation, when their oppressors were not only lenient with them for once, but generous with food and drink and freedoms. It doesn't hurt that the only Cardassians on board are civilian rather than military, so the atmosphere is rather more colorful, courteous and conversational rather than cold, dark and aggressive. It would make Julian smile if he wasn't so busy being gawked at.

"I don't see it," one Cardassian man grumbles and Julian's accursed augmented ears pick up. "He's even smoother than a Bajoran."

"Oh, yeah," his companion replies, "just think of how easily he'd slide around."

"Tanett!"

"Oh, hush, Grandpa. You're just xenophobic. He's cute."

"Well, you be careful who hears you say that. That Garak fellow is in the Order, you know. Ears everywhere. You don't want to know what things a man like that is capable of."

"Wasn't he exiled? Hardly intimidating now. Apparently all he's capable of anymore is whimpering over an alien like a pakrela."

Julian covers his ears and walks faster.

But that just brings him within range of a cluster of Bajorans. "Oh, there's the doctor now," one is saying, up on the balcony.

"The one the Cardassian tailor wrote about?"

"That poor fool. He thought they were friends, but here this whole time it was perverse. I can only imagine how much that hurts."

"Happened to my friend once. He thought a glinn was being kind because he was having a crisis of conscience and wanted to help him escape. No, he just wanted to–"

He could go to his quarters, but a flash of memory - Garak's bright eyes at the end of his bed, his figure encased in shadow - sends him in the opposite direction. Before long, he finds himself on an oft-unused Observation deck, since it offers no view of the wormhole or either Bajor or Cardassia's suns. It's blessedly empty, as usual, and Julian settles on a bench and stares into the dark nothingness of space for a long time.

At some point, he finds that his hand has retrieved the PADD from his medical bag, and the screen is lit up automatically with the first poem.

He reads well into the night.

—

The next morning finds Garak with a tall glass of rokassa juice and two eggs, staring intensely into a mysteriously operational PADD at the far end of Quark's bar. Quark pops out of his backroom like a jack-in-the-box.

"Ha! Well, if it isn't the man of the hour himself, gracing my fine establishment so soon after nearly destroying it. Do you know I've had to have menus printed, like we're in the dark ages? Do you have any idea how extensive my menu is? I ought to sue you for damages." He catches a glimpse of the PADD's screen and its decidedly unpoetic contents. "Hey, you fixed it? How?"

"It was just a simple virus. Viruses can be purged," Garak says without looking up. He barely seems aware of Quark's existence.

When no other words are forthcoming, Quark huffs. "Well, can you purge it from the rest of the station, then?"

"I gave the program to the Chief last night."

"And he didn't immediately come here to fix my bar? I'll have to file a complaint.”

Garak offers no reply. Just continues to stare into his PADD.

There are other customers he could be seeing to, but Quark can't pass up this golden opportunity. He's known Garak a long time and known of him even longer, and now that he has the guy's guts all neatly lined up on several dozen isolinear rods, he's never felt closer to the man. He makes a point of knowing things about his customers, but before yesterday, the most he knew about Garak was that he was an assassin, a tailor, a mean, weepy drunk, and friends with Bashir, Odo, and a smattering of other shopkeepers. That was it. But now...

He leans over the counter, closer to Garak's unblinking face. "You know," he says, with a smile rising slow on his cheeks, "if it's humans you like, I have a couple holosuite programs that might be just what you need."

Garak's gaze ascends as if on a motor, smooth and mechanical.

Good. He’s considering the bait. Now he just has to get him to bite. "All completely customizable. Skin, eyes, hair. You like long legs, they've got long legs. Scrawny, they're scrawny. Whatever you want. Although if you're really hung up on the one face, that can also be arranged. For the right price." When Garak just looks at him, Quark switches tactics. "Or maybe it's the uniform that does it for you? I've got 'em, but I'd suggest something out of my lingerie databases. I've still got some little Cardassian numbers filed away that I think even a man with your discerning tastes could appreciate. Just imagine, Doctor Bashir in a–"

He doesn't see the hand coming until it's already crushing his windpipe. Quark claws at it for several long, desperate moments while Garak continues to look.

Leeta scuttling over and yanking him away is what ultimately puts a stop to it, and it's while Quark is gasping in dramatic bursts of air that Leeta says in a rush, "Garak, please! Whatever he said, he didn't mean it!"

"Oh, I meant it," Quark coughs out with a high, strangled laugh, "he just didn't like it."

"Whatever conclusions you've drawn in the last twenty-six hours, allow me to dispel them," Garak says primly, as if he hadn't almost committed murder in broad daylight. "I am not a xenophile and I do not have feelings for Doctor Bashir. There are no less than two-hundred Cardassians currently aboard the station, and I assure you, none of them like me. Those poems were obviously planted."

Oh, but Quark is a little pissed now, unwise as that is. "Please, Garak," he says, "who has time to write that many poems about Julian just to mess with you? Two or three, maybe, but over seventy? If you're going to lie, at least don't insult our intelligence."

Garak's eyes flash and Quark ducks behind Leeta, repentant. Leeta sighs. "Garak, what's so bad about loving Julian?" she asks softly. "I thought the poems were really touching. It’s sweet how much you care for him."

But he's already staring into his PADD again. "I'm sorry, Miss Leeta, but I am a bit busy. Perhaps we can discuss my hypothetical feelings for your paramour another time."

"Julian and I have never been serious," she tries to assure him, but he's engrossed again, or at least pretending to be. Her and Quark share a look and leave him to it. Lesson learned.

"Let the bastard be pent up and miserable, then," Quark grumbles from the other end of the bar as he pours Table 3's drinks. A prickle on his neck has him looking up and there Garak's eyes are again, piercing, and Quark rushes off to deliver the drinks.

The three young Cardassians there are much more friendly. One has their nose stuck in one of the useless poetry PADDs while the other two smile at Quark while he sets out their orders.

"Three Raktajinos, extra bitter," Quark says, and is thanked. Polite. One even praises the drink's exoticness. Klingon coffee, exotic. Heh. "Your food will be out in a few."

Before he can finish turning, though, a hand is touching his arm. "What is the title of this anthology you include at every table?" the young man asks.

"Oh, that's not..." He sighs. "It's new. I can't remember."

"Find out for us, please," he says. "Works like these can be hard to come by on Prime and we make it our business to collect them. Whoever this author is, they're very unique."

"If these aren't banned on Prime already, they will be soon," his friend comments with a giggle.

"No doubt."

"'In my desolation, I am as weeds: Cut my roots and Let the waters take me, To drown and bloom anew, in You,'" the one with her nose in the PADD reads aloud, and shivers. "They'd burn the whole Central Archive down just for this one. It's so explicit."

"Let me see that," the boy demands, as the other one is already surging over to read over the girl's shoulder. Watching them fight over the PADD has Quark thinking back to the isolinear rods in his safe, and he hums thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder.

Garak isn't looking.

—

Glinn Halon Duvur. Former underling of Gul Dukat. Out of uniform, vacationing on Deep Space Nine with his wife and nine children. Spends his days gambling while his kids play unsupervised in the holosuites and his wife visits old friends.

Beloved uncle sent to trial by the Obsidian Order in 2356 and executed that same day for crimes of attempted sabotage against Cardassia.

Garak watches the man wander down the promenade sans his proud lineage, jingling a fat little bag of gold-pressed latinum and yet-unconverted leks. He wanders out of range, so Garak switches to the next camera and there that unfortunate face is again. He drums his fingers on the desk. It won't be long now.

An alert rings in his ear and he almost initiates the shockfield on impulse, but the flash of smooth, brown skin on a monitor stays his hand. The knocking comes, and that haunting voice calls out, "Garak! Are you there?"

Garak rests his head next to the surveillance screens.

Predictably, the doctor tries to input his override, but the door remains shut. There's a long pause.

"Garak..." Julian sounds irate. Garak hums. "Did you deprogram my override code? Nevermind how illegal that is, that's dangerous! What if you're injured? Or fall ill?"

He says this just after attempting to abuse his station privileges for personal reasons. Infuriating hypocrite.

"Oh, my barging in at random, odd hours is no less than you deserve, Garak," Julian says as if in response to Garak's thoughts. "You set that precedent in our relationship yourself."

Terrible man.

"Fine. I'll give you some more time, since you want it so badly, but I'll be back and when I am, that override had better work. If it doesn’t, I promise there will be hell to pay, my friend."

Beautiful man.

"Goodbye, Mr. Garak."

Goodbye, Doctor.

Glinn Duvur dies two hours later of alcohol poisoning while his wife is in bed with Gul Rilimn's wife.

—

“I just can’t believe it,” Kira is bitching. Jadzia smiles and sips her drink, looking out over the Replimat balcony at all the happy brunchgoers. “A Cardassian writing poetry about something that isn’t conquest or the wonders of dictatorial rule or, at best, the pride of the traditional family nobly bowing and scraping. I’ve never seen it.”

“It would certainly seem to run counter to Cardassian values.”

“And about Julian!” she shrieks in her inside voice, slapping her hands down on the table. “Garak the spy, writing love poetry about Julian. Going on and on about his–his...”

“Ass?” Jadzia offers.

“Eyes. His eyes! Ohhh, I knew he wanted to have sex with him, everyone knew that, but to write about his eyes like... like that? It’s practically Bajoran.”

“That’s true.”

Kira stops long enough in her tirade to eye her, and presses her lips into a thin line. “How are you so calm about this?”

Jadzia takes another sip. “I’m just fascinated,” she says. “I’ll admit, I’ve been looking at this more through Tobin’s eyes than my own. Have I ever told you that he met Lloja of Prim during his exile?”

“He did not.”

“He did, and Lloja flirted with him outrageously. It was embarrassing, looking back. Of course, nothing ever came of it, because Tobin was always hopelessly blind to those sorts of things even without the language barrier, but his children liked to joke that many of Lloja’s poems were about him.”

Kira’s jaw is hanging. “Were they?”

Jadzia grins and shrugs. Kira laughs.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” Jadzia allows, “but I do wonder... Being able to call nervous, asexual Tobin the lover of Lloja of Prim would have been quite the notch in my belt. Think of the stories I could have told! And now here Julian is with the opportunity. I know it’s not the same, I mean, it’s Garak. But, you have to admit, to write about him like that...”

“He must really love him,” Kira finishes for her, stumped. “I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I didn’t see it, either,” Jadzia confesses. “I was still wrestling with the idea that they were actually friends. I thought their association was strictly professional and all the books and flirting were just a front.” She cradles her head in her hands suddenly and sighs. “Ugh, but those poems. The poems are so good! Kira...”

“I know,” she moans. “They’re heart-wrenching. Which one are you on now?”

“Thirty-nine. I came back home, but I came back gone.”

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

A shout from below interrupts them and they both shoot out of their seats. Below, a Cardassian man has just had a beam fall on top of him. Jadzia and Kira bound down the stairs to him, Jadzia already slapping a hand on her comm badge.

“Dax to Infirmary, a man has just been crushed, possibly impaled. Send a medical team to Replimat and be ready for emergency beam out.”

“Acknowledged, we’re on our way,” Girani says, but already Kira is looking up at Jadzia helplessly, the man’s wrist laying limp between her hands.

“He’s gone.”

“Shit!” Jadzia hunches over, hands on her knees. “That’s the third one today. Are Cardassians always this accident prone? No wonder you won the war.”

“No,” Kira says. “They’re not. You don’t think...”

“I don’t know,” Jadzia says grimly, and looks around at the crowd that’s formed. All Cardassian, all terrified. “But we need to find out.”

—

A Cardassian is sitting at the bar. This isn’t an unusual sight now, with the Festival of 90s Funk and Beyond coming up, but seeing one so young and looking so hunted is odd. Quark approaches him casually.

“What’ll you have?”

The Cardassian’s eyes dart. “Uh...” He leans over suddenly, cups both hands over his mouth, and whispers, “E. G. Special.”

Christ, these kids are going to kill him. “Coming right up,” he says in a normal person voice, and reaches under the bar for a glass. A little drink-mixing magic later, a beautiful fizzy blue drink is sitting between them, with an isolinear rod tucked neatly in the straw.

The Cardassian takes the drink between both hands excitedly, and Quark snaps his fingers in front of him. “Oh! Right,” the kid stutters, and all but launches the latinum at Quark’s face. “Thank you!” And off he goes, out of the bar with the glass still tight in his grasp.

“Idiot,” Quark mutters to himself, crouching carefully down to pick the latinum up off the floor without dirtying his expensive pants. “You’re supposed to take the straw, not the entire glass. That’s it, I’m switching to plastic. These little rebel brats don’t deserve my ni—Oh, hello, Constable! I didn’t see you there. What can I get you?”

Odo looks as unimpressed as ever. “That’s a funny question since last I checked, I don’t drink.”

“Ah, right, because you’re a liquid. How could I forget. You know, one of these days, I ought to serve you up with a little umbrella, see how people like it. I’d bet you taste bitter.” Odo harrumphs, and Quark makes himself busy with wiping down the counter. “Well, out with it then. What nefarious scheme am I up to now? I love to hear your little stories.”

Four isolinear rods drop onto the counter, right where Quark was just cleaning. “Hey now,” he says, throwing a performative glare at the changeling. “Careful. If you shatter glass in my bar, you’re cleaning it up.”

“I just had the most interesting conversation with the Tokal family,” Odo says, steamrolling right over him. “It seems their four darling children had somehow come into some questionable reading material. They tried searching for it in the Central Archives and yet, despite it being clearly Cardassian in origin, they could not find it. And I don’t need to tell you that when a piece of Cardassian reading material isn’t in the Central Archives...”

Quark, from his plastered position on the floor, stares up into Odo’s face directly horizontal to his and smiles. “What?”

“It’s illegal,” Odo sneers, stretching his body even further over the bar and nearly sending Quark starfishing.

“Okay! Odo! I get it! But what does that have to do with me?”

“Quark!”

“Okay, okay! Whatever it is you think I’ve done, I’ll stop! I’ll stop, okay?”

“I know you’re going to stop, because I am going to confiscate every copy of Garak’s poetry that you have absconded with and destroy them.”

Quark gasps. “Book burning? In this day and age?”

“Garak did not give his permission for you to sell his work! He didn’t even want anyone to see it in the first place! Those poems were stolen. Now, I expect a list of every person you sold a copy to and a full and complete refund to be issued by tomorrow morning. Do I make myself clear?”

Quark glowers. “You’ve made yourself something, all right.”

“Quark...”

“Okay! All right. Consider it done.”

Turora Lumok. Obsidian Order operative and old colleague. Usually in deep cover in the Organian sectre, but has abandoned post to explore the space station. Barren, unattached. Cold. A model agent, if you ignore her unfortunate habit of going rogue and eliminating civilians on a whim.

Recruited into the Order by Enabran Tain’s former right hand, Euluk Bucun, who was assassinated by Elim Garak in 2341 under orders from Enabran Tain for suspicions of treason. Turora Lumok disciplined shortly afterward by Elim Garak for complaining that she had wanted to be the one to kill that bitch.

Garak watches as the woman pretends to touch up her makeup while scouting for cameras. “Oh, Lumok, you always were woefully obvious. Have you been expecting me? I wonder why.”

Satisfied with the positions of the cameras, she puts away her mirror and strolls out of sight.

Garak shakes his head. “Fool. You forget how long I’ve lived on this wretched station. I don’t need to see you every second to know where you are.”

But then, the smell of antiseptic. Starfleet issue soap. Herbal shampoo, unique, robust. Gels. Oils. Sweat.

He’s near.

Forcing calmness with a deep, measured breath, he takes off his eyepiece and slips it into his sleeve. He pays for the food he barely ate. He stands. He turns.

And is promptly thrust into the dark, deep woods of Julian Bashir’s eyes. “There you are, Garak! I’ve been looking all over for you,” the doctor says as if it’s just a regular day on Deep Space Nine. His hot, mammalian body caging him tightly in place against the table betrays the ruse. “Who was it you were talking to?”

Garak tries to step around him. Julian steps with him. “Oh, only ever myself. Forgive me, but you’ve caught me just on my way out. I have a strict appointment at 2.”

There’s Julian’s hand now. On his shoulder. Garak is calm. This is normal. “Well, why don’t I walk you there then.”

“My dear Doctor, I couldn’t rob you of your meal. Clearly you’ve just walked in.”

“Actually, I’ve found I’m craving something a bit different now.”

Garak makes to step around Julian again, and still Julian’s steps match his. It’s like they’re dancing. He doesn’t let this deter him. He’s not sure he’s capable of letting anything deter him now, with his heart trying to pound out of his throat. He keeps stepping doggedly forward, and Julian keeps mirroring, still with that damned hand burning through his tunic. “Well, you only have so much time before you must return to the infirmary, I know. Do not allow me to delay you in securing a table at a different locale.”

“Oh, but you’ve already delayed me so long. What’s a few more minutes?” A peek of teeth, a hint of warning. “Though I will admit... I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.”

“Then don’t.” Finally, Garak manages to elbow past this madness and shoot out of the restaurant. The station is so crowded these days, it’s short work to get lost in it. In a sea of ridges and black hair, Garak slips his eyepiece back on and lets the wave take him.

“Garak!”

Oh, for the Union’s sake—

He does not run. He does not stumble. He walks normally and not desperately, keeping his eye on both the path to the turbolift and Lumok. She’s down the corridor now, pretending to check her makeup again like an imbecile. Just a few paces more. Almost there...

“Garak, you’re the best dressed one here! You are not difficult to spot, you ridiculous dandy! Oh, no offense, Ma’am. Lovely scarf. Excuse me.”

There.

In the reflection of the mirror, Garak makes eye contact with the rogue and taps in the correct sequence on the device sewed into the seam of his pants just as the turbolift doors close behind him.

Like that, Turora Lumok is beamed into space and dies instantly, without a soul to mourn her, and Elim Garak walks back to his quarters with a hand over his mouth and a warmth on his shoulder, without a soul to mourn him, either.

—-

The Festival of Fierce and Fantastic Frogs is two days away and already it is being protested.

Outside Quark’s Bar is a growing army of dissident children with voice amplifiers and holoprojectors shouting to the stars that if they don’t get their porn back, they’ll tear it all down. Signs are projected in the air with essays cycling through them that look to be several pages each, a small holographic fire barely reaching ankle-height is lighting up the length of the promenade, and – perhaps most disturbingly – a comically inaccurate approximation of Odo is rotating at the center of the group, fitted in the typical regalia of the Cardassian military and holding a Klingon bat’leth. It is certainly... something.

“They’re Cardassians,” Quark is saying as he pours out some root beers. “They’ve probably never seen a protest in their lives, they don’t know what they’re doing. The Union puts an end to things like this pretty fast on the surface.”

“Heh,” Jadzia says, “what happens on DS9, stays on DS9.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Kira asks.

“It’s something Julian likes to say. Basically, they figure they can get away with speaking their minds here.”

Kira drums her fingers on the bar, staring into the flailing protestors thoughtfully.

Right then, Odo arrives back on the scene. It looks like he’s trying to get through, respectfully, but the protestors are not making it easy. Jadzia and Kira come to his rescue just as about fifteen Cardassians start forming a blockade around him.

“I walked around as you do, investigating the endless stars,” one young woman is yelling at him while he stands there with big helpless baby eyes, “and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind!”

“I don’t know what that means,” Odo says consolingly.

“Clearly!”

“Okay, okay, let him through!” Kira wiggles her way between the crowd and Odo, snatching him by the arm like a fish with a hook. “He’s not your enemy here, he was just upholding your laws!”

“The Cardassian government has no jurisdiction on a Bajoran station!”

“He made his choices!”

“Beautiful Julian would be ashamed of you! Repent! Repent!”

Kira and Jadzia manage to reel him most of the way through the protesters and he shapeshifts the rest of the journey. The protestors try to follow, but Quark bustles over to stop them. “No, no demonstrations inside! Remember who your allies are,” he says, and they all cow back. “Thank you.”

Odo ripples his form a couple times to make sure everything’s back in the right place and harrumphs. “Allies, Quark?”

“Yes, allies. It’s terrible what you’ve done to them. You can’t police art, Odo–-this is culture we're talking about here, the very bedrock of society.”

“And I’m sure this virtuous attitude of yours has nothing to do with the incredible profit you made and lost at the expense of our mutual friend.”

“Oh, I did him a favor.” Quark uncaps another bottle of Kanar and gestures back to the entrance, with its swarm of frothing Cardassian children. “Look, he’s got fans!”

“How has Garak been handling all this?” Kira asks Odo, sharing a look with Jadzia. “I haven’t heard a peep out of him since he gave us that antivirus program.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Didn’t you have breakfast with him yesterday?”

“Hmmm, that would have been routine. Except he didn’t show. When I made it back to my office, I found a message from him apologizing, telling me he’s so busy with orders he’s lost all track of time.”

“How has he been getting commissions?” Jadzia asks. “His shop’s been closed all week.”

Odo rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure the reality is he’s simply avoiding the issue. Dr. Bashir has informed me he’s been treating him like ‘the black plague’ as well.”

“Julian’s one to talk. He practically pole-vaulted over a vedek the other day to get away from me.”

“Speak of the devil,” Quark says, looking towards the door, and everyone turns just as the commotion starts–or, more accurately, the commotion abruptly stops.

The protestors have all gone quiet, in apparent awe as they part around Julian like the red sea around Moses. He’s smiling stupidly as he stands in the center of them, nodding at something a Cardassian man is exclaiming. It’s an incredibly awkward scene, and Quark starts choking at some of the things his ears are picking up. “They’ve deified him,” he tells them, and Jadzia bursts into giggles at the idea, but Quark isn’t joking. “Really. He might as well be one of the prophets to them. You read the poems. You know.”

Ugh. Kira wrinkles her nose in disgust. The worst kind of blasphemy–horny blasphemy. “What is he even doing here?” she asks.

“Getting his head inflated,” Jadzia says dryly, because now that Quark has mentioned it, it’s pretty clear from the shit-eating grin on Julian’s face that that’s exactly what’s happening.

“Poor Garak.” Quark says it absentmindedly, but the comment gets several eyes turned on him. He’s shaking his head as he watches the scene unfold. “First, he falls for a human… humiliating… but then that love becomes public knowledge and several young beautiful Cardassians decide that he’s onto something, and now that human is going to get more action in a week than he’s seen his entire life. I’ve witnessed the rise and fall of more than a few star-crossed romances, but this might just be the saddest.”

“Julian wouldn’t have an orgy the same week the whole station found out Garak’s in love with him,” Jadzia says, insulted on his behalf.

Quark hefts a tray up onto his shoulder. “He just did,” he says as he leaves to go do his job, and Jadzia whips her head around to see Julian escorting two attractive Cardassians away from the protest. Her jaw drops.

“Bastard,” Kira spits, surprising everyone, herself most of all. Those poems must’ve affected her more than she realized.

Odo clears his throat unnecessarily. “I’m no expert on the behavior of solids, but it seems to me that neither party is handling this situation well.”

“I’ll tell you how the pakrela should be handling this,” an older Cardassian sitting at the far end of the bar cuts in, with a twitch to him that makes it clear he’s more than a few deep. “He should be settling his assets, because he doesn’t have long now. Whatever his human is doing is the least of his worries. Ha. Hehe. Being a traitor wasn’t enough for him. No, now he’s gone and corrupted the next generation with his degeneracy. Exile was too soft a punishment. Uh-huh.”

Kira opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but Odo touches her shoulder. “You speak as if you know him,” he notes mildly, because of course, the exact reason for Garak’s exile isn’t public record. It’s barely even private record. The Order doesn’t work that way–or didn’t, as it stands. It is interesting that this man is acting like he has classified information despite being a civilian.

But then, sometimes day drinkers just like to spout speculation as fact.

The man looks into his glass and laughs at his reflection. “Who doesn’t know Garak these days? But that’s temporary. He’ll be forgotten soon enough, just like the Order.” He finishes his drink and gets up. He insincerely mutters some friendly Cardassian farewell and starts to walk past them, but Kira can’t let it go.

“Excuse me, but what’s your name, sir? You’ve been so informative.”

He looks at her for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says, and elbows past the protesters.

—

“Solt Mebol, left behind a widow and child six years ago when he was tragically killed in a transporter accident. In reality, he accepted an undercover mission which required him to fake his death and have his bond dissolved. A significant sacrifice. Certainly not one many Cardassians could have made.”

The Cardassian stares at Garak sitting on his couch. Turning, he tries to exit his temporary quarters, but the door won’t open.

Garak tuts. “Oh, you know better than that, Mebol.” He taps his disruptor with his forefinger, resting harmlessly against his knee. “The festival isn’t for another couple days, yet here you are. Catching up with old friends before the festivities, I assume? Only I haven’t found you in anyone’s company but your own. You must be lonely. Please, let me alleviate your loneliness for a while.”

The Cardassian sighs at the closed door. “Solt, is it?”

“I can tell you the names of your wife and child as well, if you’d like, and the city they live in. Do you know your wife never rebonded? Unusual behavior for a Romulan. Quite dangerous, as I understand it.”

Solt steps carefully into the small living space and sits in the chair opposite Garak, with the coffee table between them. “As one of the last living members of the Order, I don’t suppose you would consider letting me go?”

Garak smiles pleasantly. “I would be delighted.”

“Would you? I had a deal with Central Command and they’ve been good to me so far. You, however, have been known to…” He eyes the disruptor casually turned in his direction.

“Yes, I imagine I must be something of a mystery these days to my people. I have been… squirrely, is what I suppose a human would say, and I must as well now that I’ve been painted with their brush. Oh, it is an incredible sin, I know. That I should enjoy the company of an attractive alien while in exile.”

Solt snorts. “You expect me to believe those poems were the natural result of a fling?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything you do not wish to. I only say that it’s convenient that I should be seen as even more traitorous just as a swarm of Cardassians should enter the station.”

“What’s convenient is that you’re still alive. You have friends in high places willing to go to bat for you, in spite of everything you’ve done. It’s a disgrace. You are a selfish disloyal anarchist and no one is holding you accountable, because you just happened to be good at your job once and everyone likes the idea of having you as a potential weapon should the need for one arise. Until then, they’re content to keep you in a cabinet collecting dust and sentiment. You can wave that disruptor all you want, but we both know you make a poor operative now. You’re in love.”

Garak is still smiling, but Solt can see the signs of a grimace. Dusty, indeed. Too passionate. Too human. “I’m hardly so foolish. You know better than I the dangers of such things in our line of work. You’re little better than a puppet now that you’ve had a whiff of the truth, Mebol.”

“You’re right.” Solt attempts to raise one eye ridge, despite it being unfit for such maneuvers, and leans forward towards that disruptor. “Pull my strings, then, and let’s test that grip Bashir has on yours.”

—

Kira crashes into Garak’s quarters and kickflips past all his booby traps like Indiana Jones’ hotter cousin.

“What the fuck, Richard?” is basically what she says, only it’s in character, so it’s more like, “What the fuck, Garak!”

Garak spins around in his maniacal villain chair with a look of surprise. “How did you get in here, Major?” Miles bustles his way in after her with his impractically enormous toolkit, and Garak lets out an, “Ah,” then, sedately, “I suppose Dr. Bashir filed a complaint about my tampering with the door codes. Of course, there’s a perfectly logical explanation. You see, it–”

“This isn’t about door codes, Garak,” Kira yells. “What I want to know is why our best suspect for the sudden influx of murders on the station was just found drowned in his own toilet!”

“Oh my,” Garak says. “What an unfortunate end.”

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. We know what you’re capable of, but we’re good people and we didn’t want to accuse a victim until we had exhausted the rest of our line-up. Only, interestingly enough, they’re all dead, so now…” she marches over with the fury of the Prophets on her heels and stands imposingly over him, her teeth clenched, “here we are.”

“That is interesting.” He runs a hand down a roll of fabric in his lap, smoothing it. “I suppose you must have some of that ironclad evidence that the Federation so treasures.”

Kira glares at him.

Garak feigns looking around. “Oh, but I can’t help but notice the good Constable isn’t here with you. What could that mean? Surely not that you broke into my quarters without due cause or a hint of warning–at your own word, not even to fix my glitching door. For all you knew, I could have been in here writing one of my vaunted Bashir epics.”

Kira’s hands are in fists now. “The evidence we have would be more than enough to have your face plastered on every viewscreen in Cardassia and you know it.”

“The Federation and Bajoran legal processes do seem a tad inefficient in moments like these, don’t they?”

“Okay,” Miles cuts in, because he has Turbo PTSD and is not in the mood for a flare up. “I think I'll just wait in the hallway, then. Holler if you need me. Good luck, Major.”

Kira and Garak spend a few moments watching him waddle out of the room and then go back to staring each other down.

“Look, you ass,” Kira starts, “we couldn’t link every victim to the Cardassian government or some third-party organization, but we were able to link enough of them to recognize that these aren’t just random nobodies having ‘accidents.’ Someone was able to break into your computer and embarrass you and you don’t like that so you’re pitching a fit. I can’t have Odo arrest you – yet – but I can tell you to cut it out. This vigilantism isn’t helping–”

That gets a reaction. “Vigilantism!”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“Self-defense.”

“They attacked you?”

“Possibly.”

“Goddamn you, Garak! Just… don’t do this anymore, okay?”

Garak looks at her with innocent astonishment, like he’s still bewildered by her totally plausible accusations. “Well. You have my word, I suppose,” he says, bemused.

—

Gul Skrain Dukat. Blessed with a wife, seven children, two sets of living parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, minus one father. Habitually cheats with lower ranked military officials, slaves, and barely legal adults, unbenownst to his family. Father was interrogated by Elim Garak and executed by the Union over live broadcast in the year 2350 for the crime of being a piece of shit.

Elim Garak was shortly thereafter levied with an amateurish execution attempt by Gul Dukat. It failed.

The second attempt will succeed, but at a great cost.

The Festival of Filthy Fucking Foot Fetishists has officially begun, but Garak is struggling to feel any enthusiasm. He is surrounded by his people. The station has been dimmed by 15% to better suit Cardassian eyes and misting stations have been set up in limited locations. Extinct and invented flowers crafted by Cardassian and Bajoran artisans decorate the banisters and doorways. A wash of blue, green, and sparkling gold lights up every direction. There is the smell of freshly prepared Cardassian sweets on the air, a gentle warmth suffuses the atmosphere, and children are laughing on the promenade. It’s the first time the station has felt not just tolerable, but nearly pleasant, in years.

But then, Garak has never felt particularly welcome among his people. As a child, he was an orphan generously cared for by service workers and sponsored by a government official, and as an adult, he was a member of the Order, which granted him more fear and loathing than it did admiration and respect. Companionship, in its truest form, was a rare thing to come by and not something he was encouraged to come by at all.

Perhaps that is why Dr. Bashir blindsided him.

In any case, Garak is delicately balanced on the line between proper misery and numbness. He gave up imbibing around the same time that he gave up the implant—or rather, the implant gave up on him—but he’s on his third cup now, wandering through the festivities with no particular direction in mind. The exact spot of this last operation isn’t important, only the timing.

He finishes his drink while a group play a spirited game of cold moba in front of him. It shouldn't be long now.

All the nearby screens suddenly flicker from the event schedule to Dukat’s sharp grin and Garak hums. There we are. He knew the bitch wouldn’t be able to resist showing his face.

“Welcome everyone to the biennial Festival of–” a baby wails, “generously hosted here on Deep Space Nine by Bajor and the Federation, and of course organized by our own prodigous Detapa Council. Ah, that wormhole… quite the view, isn’t it?”

Garak looks around for another food stall that serves alcohol.

There aren’t any stalls in his immediate vicinity, but there is a young Cardassian couple marching towards him while making dogged eye contact.

Oh no.

Garak starts to make a break for it. Not too fast, it won’t do to cause a stir, but there are a number of very good reasons for him to stay far away from any Cardassians who might recognize him right now. Especially if the source of that recognition is those damn poems he was too stupid and sentimental to destroy.

Before he can make it more than a few steps, however, he looks up to see another few Cardassians working their way towards him, also making eye contact.

No, no, no.

He makes to move towards the stairs then, only for his eyes to land squarely on him.

Him, wearing the silky green outfit he lovingly crafted for him a few months ago. Him, shining in the festival lights, casting him in an even more arresting shade of gold than usual. Him, looking determined and coming straight towards him.

Oh, fuck no.

“Garak,” Julian calls out, likely reading the panic on his face and stance and soul.

“Today, I am not a Gul, though,” Dukat is saying. “I am but a humble representative of the Cardassian Union in its totality, and as such, I would like to thank Colonel Kira Nerys and Captain Benjamin Sisko for their hand in this week’s festivities. They have been nothing if not accommodating these last few weeks while our coordinators ran rampant through their halls.”

He should have accounted for the possibility of this. Thinking of Julian had become excruciating as of late, but that was no excuse. Whatever interaction Julian had been hoping to have with him couldn’t be allowed, not now, and not only for the sake of Garak’s traitorous, disgusting feelings. Even if it would give the sweet man closure, it would not be worth his life.

“Now, it may be a bit unorthodox, but I thought it would be only fitting if the first Reenactment was carried out by our benevolent hosts, and the Lakarian City Acting Troupe were all too happy to take them under their wing.”

More eyes are turning towards the screen now, the laughing and playing and sloshing of cups quieting down. Julian is nearly with him, his approach halted only by the gathering crowd, and Garak can only pretend to be interested in Dukat’s speech while he racks his brain desperately for a solution. Any solution. Anything.

“I trust that the history of Cardassia is in capable hands.”

The screen flickers again and changes to a shot of one of Quark’s holodecks, where a lone Bajoran man stands in a beam of red light.

A hand grabs Garak roughly by the arm, and he nearly cries with relief when he sees that it’s Lumok.

Well, Lumok with the face and attire of a Bajoran, but that ever-present spark of unchecked malice in her eye is quite unmistakable to someone who worked with her for over a decade.

“Surprised, you ugly old regnar?” she asks under the actor’s impassioned opening monologue.

He sucks in a breath as the sharp edge of something presses into his back. “Impossible. They found your body caught on one of the station’s spires.”

“A simple bait and switch,” she purrs, pressing the weapon closer, slicing through his tunic. A pity. This was one of his nicer ones. “You’ve gotten sloppy.”

He manufactures a smile. “A knife, then? A favorite of yours, I recall, but terribly messy for such a public venue. Not to mention if your aim is even an inch off, I’ll be in and out of the infirmary within the day, as if nothing at all had happened.”

“Don’t lecture me,” she growls. “You can’t do that anymore. You’re not anyone to anyone. Your master is dead, and what did you do the second you were off leash for the first time in your life? You went and choked yourself on the first Starfleet sotl you could find. You’re pathetic.”

It took incredible effort to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull. “Oh, just stab me already.”

“I’m not going to stab you. I’ve done a bit of outsourcing, in fact.” She slid the knife from his lower back to his side and looped her arm through his, pinning him in place with a wide smile. “All I had to do was suggest to my new friend that you were infiltrating the Federation. That you were poisoning them against Bajor from the inside, uniting Cardassia and Starfleet in a secret alliance under the guise of wooing the CMO. No, no, you won’t be killed by one of your peers. Your death will be at the hands of a perfect stranger. A pointless death for a pointless man.” She leans in and whispers into his aural ridge, “It always was so easy to make people hate you.”

The next few seconds are a flurry of chaos. One second he’s watching as Human, Bajoran and Cardassian actors alike are all holding hands and reciting ancient poetry and the next he’s on the floor with a searing weight bearing down on him from calf to shoulder. There are screams and footfalls coming from all directions and Odo’s voice is immediately discernible shouting over the commotion. His back is on fire, he can’t breathe, and there’s a slash in his side, but he doesn’t miss the thump of Lumok’s body a few feet away, dead before she hits the ground.

“Garak? Garak?” the weight on him is speaking frantically, pawing at his head and shoulders. The weight shifts and the hands flip him onto his back. Those same hands pat him down, blazing a path down his chest and his stomach and his sides, stopping at the superficial gash near his rib, and Garak knows who this is before he even opens his eyes.

“Garak,” Julian sighs with relief. Garak was meant to be dead by phaser blast right now, but instead Julian Bashir is smiling down at him like he’s important, kneeling beside him, his hands on him, branding him with their incredible heat. It shouldn’t be possible. No one could be that fast.

“Doctor,” he manages on a wheeze. One of his ribs might be broken, actually.

“Dukat,” Sisko growls from the monitor in billowing robes and a long flowing wig, surrounded by flowers.

—

“Explain,” Sisko commands.

Having decided that showing weakness right now can only help his case, Garak is sitting hunched to the side, holding his reeling head in one hand. It’s through a hiss that he replies, “A woman named Turora Lumok was responsible for sabotaging the station with those poems forged with my data signature. The Bajoran woman who was just assassinated–she was no Bajoran, but rather one of the last remaining members of the Obsidian Order. She was hired by Dukat to kill me during the festival under the guise of a hate crime. No doubt because of her indomitable reputation, I’m sure. A number of Cardassian casualties these past several days were at her hands.”

Sisko walks to the viewport to stare out into the stars for a moment, processing this. “All his talk of friendship between Bajor and Cardassia…” he trails off, the ghost of a sneer on his lips as he turns back around. “His goal was just the opposite. He wanted to destroy any hope of cooperation.”

“And get me out of the way in the process,” Garak grumbles.

Sisko hums and wanders over to Garak’s side, looking down at him thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me who assassinated Ms. Lumok?”

Garak stares at the floor through his fingers, his eyes glazed.

“Or who your informant is on Dukat’s involvement?”

“Captain,” Garak mutters, not looking up, “I have sat here concussed after an attempt on my life and shared with you everything that I know, and here you have not even told me who the tailor of your magnificent robe is.” He tugs half-heartedly at a strip of embroidery on the fabric. “I must admit, I am feeling a touch betrayed you didn’t come to me.”

Sisko flicks his eyes up to Julian, who has been standing in the corner with his hands behind his back. “Very well, Mr. Garak. I release you into Dr. Bashir’s care for now, but I expect to continue this conversation soon.” He massages his forehead. “Once I figure out what to do about this damned festival.”

Julian comes over to help Garak out of his chair, but Garak snaps upright and to the door before he can touch him. Sisko takes the opportunity to lean into Julian’s face and whisper, “Get more information out of him.” The doctor nods.

Julian isn’t angry when he steps out of Sisko’s office and sees that Garak is walking in the exact opposite direction of the infirmary, but he is disappointed.

“Mr. Garak,” he says urgently once he’s caught up to the idiot.

Mr. Garak interrupts him in the same tone, “Now, now, my dear doctor, we both know I have a dermal regenerator in my quarters, so we need not extend–”

“And I think we both know this is about much more than a few bumps and bruises. I’m afraid the time for beating around the bush passed quite a while ago.”

“You’re right, Doctor,” Garak says, coming to an abrupt stop and rounding on him with wild eyes. “There is an urgent matter we must discuss.” Julian’s eyebrows raise, and Garak nods severely. “Oh, yes, let us not ‘beat around the bush.’ We should talk about how you threw yourself directly into the line of a lethal phaser blast on the one in a millionth chance that you might save my life. The cost of such an action being almost certainly your own life, and yet, here you stand, and here I stand. Will wonders never cease.” Julian opens his mouth, but Garak raises a finger. “Nevermind that I was in the middle of an altercation with a very dangerous, very volatile woman who would not have hesitated for a second to dispose of you. She had a nasty habit of that. Now I knew that you were naive, Doctor, Doctor! I knew that! What I did not know – what I never could have guessed after all these years – was that you are an idiot.”

Julian stares back into Garak’s hissing face, unimpressed. Garak feels a wave of deja-vu and does not like it. It has no place here. And yet, Julian takes in a breath and smiles, raising his shoulders. “All right, Garak. If it’s really so important to you, we can talk about your suicide attempt.”

“What?” Garak bites out.

“You were going to let yourself get shot, yes?”

“I was n–” Garak starts to lie, disgusted, but is stopped by Julian stepping entirely too close. He stumbles back a step, then another when Julian attempts to crowd him again, and the familiarity of the routine has him shutting his eyes, rueful. They’re dancing again. It’s humiliating, the things this man makes him do, how effortlessly he can gain the upperhand. Most of the time without even having to lift a finger.

“You figured out Dukat’s plan and arranged for Lumok to die if she succeeded, but you expected her to. You didn’t expect to be saved,” the doctor tells his blank, unresponsive face. His eyes are still closed, his hands tense at his sides, but he knows Julian’s stepped closer again by the heat of his livid breath. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Very well. I didn’t figure it out. I was informed.”

“So, the captain was right.” He sounds bored, but Garak seizes his chance. His eyes open in a sudden burst of animation.

“Yes, I had an informant. I believe the major was familiar with him, a fellow by the name of Damoc who was recently presumed dead? Though I knew him far better as Mebol. We first met on Romulus, you see. In the event of my death, he had strict instructions to reveal Dukat’s plot in my stead and protect my remaining assets. In return, he was to receive some valuable coordinates, which by now he will have long accessed. I suppose he’s already booked passage off of the station, if he hasn’t already gone.”

“Quick to abandon you,” Julian says, completely off-script. Garak’s carefully measured breathing stutters.

“Surely Captain Sisko would like to have a word with him.”

“I’m sure.”

“Doctor…” Garak says, lost. “There isn’t time to was–”

Suddenly there are two hands slamming into his chest like they’re iron forks and he’s a slab of meat, rocketing him back into the nearest wall with a loud thud. Garak gasps at the strength of it, astounded, but all his attention is quickly monopolized by Julian’s snarling words.

“Stop trying to distract me, Garak! Stop racing away before I can even properly get into the room, stop begging off lunch, stop ignoring my comms, and stop acting like your bloody life is over just because it was found out that you have feelings for me!”

“I–I don’t–”

“Lke hell you don’t! Thirty-seven.”

Garak blinks several times. “What?”

“Thirty-seven. That’s how many direct references to our literary discussions are in your poems. All chronologically concordant with the dates of those discussions, and six of which from that classic Earth album I recommended to you a year ago that you swore up and down sounded like a pack of voles had been crammed into a bucket and shaken around. I knew you were having me on. You love Mitski, and you love me.”

Garak’s face shutters.

Finally, Julian takes a step back. His hands remain on his chest, pinning him in place, but he allows him some oxygen. Exactly twenty seconds pass like this, before the doctor becomes impatient and huffs, “You can’t possibly have nothing to say.”

“What would you have me say, Doctor?”

“I would like you to admit it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve heard it from friends and coworkers and strangers and every tourist on this damn station, it feels like, but I haven’t heard it from you.”

Garak is silent for a long time. Finally, he quietly asks, “You would further humiliate me this way? Knowing what you do? My dear friend…” He, carefully, with only the gentlest of pressure, puts a hand over one of Julian’s. “Please. You’ve read everything I could possibly have to say. What more could there be?”

Julian’s hands are unforgiving, but his eyes soften at the simple lowering of the curtain. It’s not the direct confession he was looking for, the I love you completely, traitorously, ruinously that his poems professed and a deep, broken part of Julian desperately wants to hear, but it is, it is. For Garak, this is as explicit as it gets, and Julian can feel his heart trying to catch in his throat.

“Garak,” he starts to say.

Garak isn’t scowling anymore. His eyes are shining as he looks away and sucks in an aggrieved breath. “Oh, please, let us skip this excruciating precursor. I have no intention of remaining on this station.”

Julian goes unnervingly still. “Excuse me?”

“I will need time to pack up my shop and settle my lease, but then I promise, you will never suffer the consequences of my unfortunate… condition again.” When Julian only stares at him with mounting alarm in his lovely eyes, Garak grimaces. “You must know I had no intention of pursuing you.” At least, not after the implant had been shut off and he’d realized what horrors he’d stumbled into with the doctor while under its influence, and by then, it was already too late. He was too weak to stop speaking to him, but he was not a complete monster. “I wouldn’t have. My writing was never about nurturing the emotions, only managing them.” A bit of a lie, but only a bit. He does love to languish and he never could resist a good innuendo. Their friendship had been infinitely precious to him, though, and he couldn’t bear the slow death it would undergo now that everyone knew the truth.

The worsening rumors that would spread. The suffering of Julian’s reputation, career, and love life with the Cardassian spy’s drastic affections hanging over everyone’s heads. The danger it would place them both in, the damage it had already done. The way Julian would know every time Garak flirted now, it was never idle. It had never been and could never be.

It would be a torture hitherto unthinkable. Better to sever the limb before it could rot.

Still, Julian is silent. The pressure on his chest is more a suggestion than a command now.

“Doctor, I…” he swallows back anymore hideous truths. “I apologize. Your rage is understandable, but I swear to you, I have every intention of righting this wrong.”

“Oh,” Julian says then, softly, as if he isn’t speaking to Garak at all, “you don’t know.”

“Doctor?”

He makes a bizarre human gesture, skimming the heel of his hand off his forehead. “My God! Of course. I thought it was pride, or shame, or paranoia. Anything and everything but this, but of course you would be this ridiculous. Well. That’s an easy enough problem to solve.”

“Doctor–?!”

The hands on his chest are gone. Instead, they’re seizing him by the head and pulling him up to connect his mouth to Julian’s.

Oh.

If Julian’s touch was a brand before, this is lava running down his throat, into his stomach and down, down, down to eat through the twenty inch thick duranium floor. Slow, thorough, and final in its devastation. A transformation that cannot be persuaded. He grapples with it, hands scrambling stupidly over and across his doctor’s shoulders. Whether it’s to pull him closer or push him away, he doesn’t know. He’s too busy being brutally altered to give it much thought.

His hands settle for burying themselves in his hair at some point. When doesn’t matter. Time holds no power here. It happens, and then he knows how soft Julian Bashir’s hair feels, and there is no going back.

The loss of control becomes alarming enough that he finally manages to pry himself away, gulping in desperate, anxious breaths of frigid station air. It works. The fire and the madness that followed it calms down and he manages the strength to push Julian back, but the wet smack of their lips disconnecting will echo in his dreams for the foreseeable future, as will the dizzy grin on Julian’s face inches from his own. There’s a hand on his ass keeping him from tumbling through the hole in the floor and a couple unlucky passersby gawking at the gruesome scene and Garak is a different creature entirely, incandescent and strange, forged anew in the curious fires of mutual attachment.

He feels insane.

“Doctor, you cannot truly be this naive.”

Julian looks anything but naive right then. He can’t focus on that, though. He needs to focus on the fact he was nearly assassinated; the fact that the kindest man alive nearly died with him out of some misguided terran idea that all lives are of equal value and importance.

And yet, Julian is leaning in to kiss him again, so Garak puts a hand on his chest and says, “You know what I am.”

Julian’s expression turns complicated and it’s clear he understands. Garak’s roiling emotions can’t settle on being relieved or horrified. How to go on after this? After knowing intimately what he almost had, with the smoke of it still thick in his eyes and his throat and his heart?

A gentle hand on his jaw brings him back to the moment, where Julian’s eyes are serious. “I know,” he murmurs.

Garak sucks in a wet breath.

“The question is,” Julian continues, even quieter, “do you know what I am?”

His head is spinning. “Doctor?”

Julian just smiles sadly, and it's clear that there are some long conversations in their future. But for now… “About that dermal regenerator in your quarters,” Julian begins, and Garak is relieved to find out that whatever stupid, lovely thing he’s become can still appreciate an innuendo.

—

Not long after, in the middle of telling Sisko all about Mebol over Julian’s comm badge while its owner watches expectantly in a state of teasing half-dress, he’s horrified to find that whatever thing he’s become is also rather eager to please.

—

A couple days later, the two of them are picking from a generous cut of flaming taspar in the Replimat.

Or, Garak is picking, anyway. Julian is stuffing his face. Ordinarily, this would mildly scandalize him, but the fact it’s taspar, one of the most traditional delicacies of his homeworld, being shoveled enthusiastically into that pretty face makes it so he can feel only hope.

Rather than giving into that inadvisable feeling, he takes a dainty sip of his tea and tries to look nonsuspect. Cardassians from all sides and angles are staring.

“About Miss Leeta…” Garak begins.

Julian wipes his face with the side of his hand. Disgusting, but oddly compelling. “What about her?”

“When will you be breaking the news to her?”

“Oh.” Julian smiles, bemused. “She knows.”

A tightness in his chest dispels slightly. “Does she?” he says faintly.

“She’s the one who first brought it up. We performed the Rite of Separation days ago. She said it was great timing, what with the festival and all. We didn’t even have to leave the station.”

“So you were together then.”

“Well, in a sense. We weren’t in love, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Garak takes another sip, lowering his eyes. “I wasn’t worried. Only concerned for the young lady’s feelings.”

Julian’s face is incandescent. A Cardassian to his far left is openly gaping. “Of course, of course.” He leans suddenly over the table then, moving a hand forward to rest on his knee. “So, should I take this line of questioning as an indicator that you’re open to a relationship with me?”

Garak shifts a little in his seat, moving his knee further under the table and its shadows, but otherwise doesn’t pull away. “It would be unwise,” he says quietly, without actually saying no.

The hand squeezes. “It isn’t as if people won’t assume anyway.”

“Rumors can be dispelled. Redirected. Altered.” He reaches forward to take a small saucière and pours a bright red sauce over a couple groatcakes. “There would be no coming back from a confirmation.”

Julian’s hand falls away. “Would it be so bad?”

“I don’t know,” Garak says, splitting a cake up into three neat sections. “Would it, Doctor?”

A Bajoran couple walks past their table then, and while one purposely avoids eye contact and seems to be giving them a wide berth, the other throws a meaningful glare Julian’s way. This is the fourth judgemental or pitying look he’s received since they came in for brunch. Julian calmly returns the look, refusing to be the first to look away, until finally the man averts his eyes and Julian looks back to Garak with a stern smile. Garak inclines his head.

“Be careful, Doctor,” Garak goes on. “Rumors can ruin lives. End careers.” He scoops up a bite of his cake, dripping with red sauce, and lifts it to his mouth. “Kill,” he finishes, and eats.

At that, Julian leans back in his seat with his arms crossed tight. Garak gives him his time. It’s a relief to have finally made a dent in Julian’s lovesick, idealistic conviction–and Garak can admit, after the last few days, that it is lovesickness. Julian’s decided he loves him back and there will be no stopping him from pursuing this, but there may yet be some tempering. A small, equally stubborn, sentimental part of Garak despairs at the whole horrid affair, but the behemoth of his good sense squashes this part down with little difficulty.

It’s this moment that a smattering of young Cardassians, accompanied by one Jadzia Dax, arrive at their table. Immediately, Garak recognizes them as the ones that nearly intercepted his meeting with Lumok and his stomach drops. Julian, on the other hand, brightens back up.

“Well, hello there,” he says warmly.

Jadzia responds first, with each elbow leaned on a Cardassian’s shoulder and a knowing sparkle in her blue eyes, “Hello to you.” The Cardassians all echo with similar greetings, some shy, others giddy.

One young woman standing at the front, with her hair in three elaborately plaited braids and little makeup, is looking at Garak with particular interest. “You’re the one who wrote the poems about Julian.”

Garak looks at the girl coolly. “Do you mean Dr. Bashir?”

She goes blue. “Oh, um. Yes. I do.” She tucks an imaginary lock of hair into her perfectly coiffed hair and lowers her head respectfully. “My apologies, Doctor.”

“Hey now,” the doctor scolds with good humor, “none of that. We’re all friends here.”

The girl throws another searching glance Garak’s way. “Friends?”

That’s enough of that. “This is certainly quite the surprise,” Garak says genially, plastering on his most pleasant smile. “Is there something you needed? As Deep Space Nine’s resident Cardassian tailor and reputed troubadour, I’m always happy to be of service.” Julian sends him a sharp look, which he ignores.

Jadzia is looking as foxy as she ever does, with a grin nearly to her spotted ears. “Julian asked me to bring them here,” she says too happily, and Garak has to sit back in his seat to process that. Julian scratches his neck with a guilty smile, obliviously alluring. It cannot be overstated that there are, still, eyes on them from all directions and angles.

“Garak, sir,” the Cardassian woman-child begins again, earnest, “let me start over. My name is Inia Milam. I am the President of the Ivory State Liberation Library. We collect–”

“Madam,” Garak interrupts her quietly, stunned. “This is hardly the time and place.” He blinks, still shocked stupid by her brazenness, and leans towards her, peering into her distressingly young features with beseeching desperation. “And I am hardly the audience.”

Milam doesn’t appear to process his warning at all, though. She just continues to look inquisitive. She has that gleam in her eyes that is common in Cardassian women, calculating and intelligent, but there’s something else there. Something indefinable that he’s seen hundreds of times over an interrogation table, but without the fear to staunch it. Without the hopelessness. It makes his stomach flip. “On the contrary, you are exactly the sort of person we look for.” She bows her head. “Dr. Bashir promised that if we assisted him a few days prior, he would introduce us so that I could formally welcome your book of poems into our shelves. I apologize if this comes as a surprise. I wish only to thank you for your excellent contribution, E. G., and tell you that we hope to welcome many more pieces from you in the future. I’ll be in touch. Dr. Bashir.” She nods to him, returns his gentle smile, and walks confidently away. The rest of the group mirror her, voicing similar words of polite farewell and appreciation, and leave.

Garak forces himself not to track their departure and instead picks up his fork again, as if nothing world-shattering has occurred at all. The cake is tasteless in his mouth.

Julian is concealing nothing of his thoughts, however. He’s staring openly at Garak, as if he’s a bomb and he’s trying to figure out which color wire to cut.

Ultimately, it’s Jadzia that breaks the tension. “Well,” she says, “that is some harem you’ve got there, Julian.”

“Jadzia,” Julian barks. She laughs.

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing.” Uncharacteristically, her impish smile turns regretful. “Now that that’s out of the way, I do have to bring your friend in for questioning,” she says, and that explains that. “I’m sorry, boys. I stalled Ben as long as I could.”

Garak polishes off the last of his meal and takes one last gulp of his tea to wash it down. With that done, he stands with a placid, conciliatory smile.

Julian puts a hand on his shoulder before he can take a step. “I’ll come see you after my shift.” Those lovely, dark, deep eyes search his, pinning him like a moth above his fireplace. “Okay?”

Garak inhales. “Without end,” he murmurs, waits for Julian’s eyes to light in understanding, and then aloud says, “I am at your disposal, Doctor. Good day.” With that and a firm, friendly pat on Julian’s hand, he limps away.

Jadzia rather pointedly watches him limp to the exit for a few long seconds before throwing Julian a rakish grin. “Well, well,” she says largely. Julian pretends not to notice, and Jadzia pivots on her heel after Garak.

“Before we lock you up and throw away the key, could you sign my datarod,” Julian hears Jadzia asking, and he shakes his head, unsuccessfully trying to rub away his smile.

Without end Do I think of you and so Come to me at night. For on the path of dreams at least, There's no one to disapprove! Ono no Komachi

#my posts #garashir #I wanted to post this on April 1st but LONG SIGH it didn't work out #at least it's still april. pranking people on the 1st is so predictable anyway #fics I'll never write #credits to ono no komachi cynthia cruz and pablo neruda #really weird how tumblr just lets you publish blank posts like this one #this entirely blank post with nothing in it at all #very strange

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taduki · 1 year

Text

M6 w/ a skittish MC

Skittish as in jumpy and playful. The definitions also add frisky, but we ain’t doing allat tonight… I added in something calling squeaking to these hcs. What I mean is like a little “eep!”, when someone gets scared.

Asra

Squeaky toy fan #1.

Hugs you tightly in an attempt to hear the squeak. Other than that, doesn’t pay much attention to it.

They’re way more interested in this child-like, playful side of you. Once the shop closes, it’s playtime!! You and Asra play Find the Faust and run around the shop looking for a familiar wriggly tail or head. It’s always full of giggles, especially when Asra jumps out of shadowy corners to spook you for no reason.

Both of you try to keep tame when going into the heavy traffic parts of Vesuvia, but once something gets you guys started, there is no going back. It could be anything from Asra slinking behind you and going invisible to Faust playing peekaboo in the rafters.

Neither of you can EVER get pickpocketed when you’re together. You’re high alert and Asra is like a magic buffer for you. In the shadier areas of your travels, people attempt SO often, you two find it different ways to mess with the thief each time. Examples including: making an army out of eating utensils at an outdoor restaurant, bringing armor stands alive, and making an invisible wall where the thief runs away to.

On nights when you can’t sleep and horsing around doesn’t help, they’ll meet you in your dreams so you both can get rest and you can play to your heart’s content with them.

Your getaways are the best vacations because they’re like dreams. With Asra, it feels like any magic is possible, and they want to explore it all with you.

Julian

You are running around everywhere in the South End. He can’t keep up! Are you on a sugar high?! Why are you so jumpy…?

Alright, a trip to the Rowdy Raven for you!! Let’s get all that energy out with a dance party and a fancy drink !!

Sometimes it’s fun for him, like when you. Other times, he’s very worried for your safety even when you reassure him you can handle yourself. You really just want him to have fun with you, so you played one prank on him, dyeing his one of his coats pink. Then, he played one on you, acting like he was a burglar (before you trapped him in a closet and he unmasked himself). It then escalated into a prank war, because where else would it go? He would never let you get away with a prank!

(He is ticklish GET HIM !!)

Mazelinka’s immediate reaction is “Oh god, there’s two of them”.

Also purposefully startles you just for the “eep!”

Also also makes him want to protect you from things you’re scared of. He’s a bit of a worrywart when it comes to you… Even despite your clearly powerful capabilities, he still worries, but he’s working on it. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt…

Portia

Squeaky toy fan #2.

Also compares you to Pepi. She says you look like a puffy cat when you’re startled.

Occasionally, Pepi will scare YOU just for funzies and it turns into a zoomies race every time. All Portia hears during it is just, “EEK!!”, and “prrrbt!!”

Luckily, her cottage is a huge space to mess around. You’re super excited at first to see all the cool plants and run around the open field, but after a day or two, you realize wow, there’s like nothing else to do here.

Portia’s response? A list of things you could try like journaling, gardening, tie-dying… TIE-DYING?? All of your white clothes are now as colorful as the rainbow. Oops.

You realize the list soon becomes a bucket list, and you intend to check everything off it, and Portia walks in to you’d doing the craziest things like, “MC, why are you doing cat yoga?” Okay, she wrote that one just to humor you, but Pepi seems to be enjoying it…

She starts joining in on some of the hair-brained things she pulled out the depths of her imagination and actually finds some of them lots of fun!! She’d never tried abstract painting before, and she still doesn’t get it, but she’s more interested in how the paint got in her hair.

When you two finally reach the end of the list, a celebration is held, and she asks what sorts of things you plan to do now. So, you ask her what’s the first thing to come out of her mind, and that ends up being the next new adventure for you guys.

Nadia

Sort of surprised at first, but loves your enthusiasm and energy. Melts her heart.

She’s used to a long life of self preservation and refinement. She is unfamiliar with your type of playfulness, so you compare it to like how the kids in the streets run around and play. Hearing this, she tries buying you toys you might like. If those fail, she tries toys she had as a child like ribbon dancing ribbons and puzzle boxes.

If you like dress up, she will get SO excited. She loved playing dress up as a kid too!! It escalates from stuff in her closet to asking if you’d like the palace tailors to take a hand at your design ideas. If you’d like it to go that far, you grow new relationships with the tailors and Nadia is very pleased with everything you design. If word gets around to her sisters, get ready for sudden maximum involvement. Nasmira is excited about the new ideas, Natiqa wants one in her size, Navra is amazed with the colors, and so on.

Catches you doodling on a notepad during a boring event/meeting and just smiles knowingly at you.

Palace? More like PLAYHOUSE !! This is the best place to get lost and run around. Okay maybe not run around… For the sake of the chamberlain’s heart, please. The garden might be more suitable !!

If you are easily startled, the palace servants notice quickly and quietly. Nadia has no need to tell them what to do. She is sure they are aware enough.

If you are away from the palace, however, and something shakes you up, she’ll be on her feet to protect you and reassure you if needed.

Muriel

Unstoppable force (playful MC) versus Immovable object (Muriel).

You tried playing Chase MC!! But he would just slowly walk over to where he last saw you and grunt. He thought you wanted to show him something……..

He thinks it’s cute that you run and jump around a lot, but he’s worried about you getting hurt, so if he thinks you’ll fall or trip, he’ll stand there with his arms open, waiting for you, and you just plop into his arms because they were open. He is flustered but keeps doing it because he secretly loves it…

You find yourself very restless living at Muriel’s hut, seeing as there’s not much to do… but at least you have INANNA!! She LOVEESSS to run around and play with you outside when she gets bursts of energy. There is a very nice nap time afterwards and Muriel, he loves you, but he also appreciates the peace and quiet of the post-playtime.

He suddenly realizes he’s dating Snow White because every animal in the forest is your friend. Sometimes he’ll come back to the hut and you’re just kinda having an animal tea party outside with nuts and berries in bowls.

The first time you squeak, he thinks there’s a mouse in the hut, but his ears led him to you. You hurriedly explain to to him best you can and he’s just like, “Cute…”

If you’re startled by certain things, he’ll take note and be more careful around them. Inanna and some of the forest animals are aware too, and will actively avoid those things if you’re with them. What? Nooooo he’s not jealous of the animals!!

Lucio

Thinks it’s so funny.

He claims you act like the dogs when they’re excited, except you’re way cuter and you make playtime much more interesting. 👀

You and the dogs look like cartoon characters when you peer around a wall. All he sees is two long snouts and a bundle of hair.

Once of the first things he ever saw you do was jump a foot into the air when Mercedes and Melchior followed you into the abandoned wing. Seeing as it was like the first possibly funny thing he’d seen three years, he never forgot it and brings it up whenever it happens super often.

If you squeak, all the thoughts in his brain go to mush for a second. Like, if he’s in the middle of talking, something startles you, and you make that noise, he will loudly trail off his sentence and stare at you. If you don’t like him pointing it out, he’ll try his very best to brush over it with awkward laughter and “Where was I?”s, but if you let him do whatever, he’ll call you cute before teasing you that you sound like a chew toy.

It happened once with Morga over. Much to Lucio’s dismay, Morga was invited to the palace by Nadia conveniently on the same day you two dropped in for a quick lunch. While Lucio was talking about something, a servant in the hall dropped and shattered a dish, startling you two and making you squeal. Morga was deeply unimpressed, but mainly because she thought Lucio was scared by a plate. She’d met you before and is knowledgeable about this quirk of yours, but not Lucio’s reaction to it. If you explain to her in private, she says nothing and just tells Lucio he’s obviously never done the dirty with you before.

Now it bothers him even more than before because that statement is all he can think of when it happens.

#lucio morgasson #the arcana game #julian devorak #lucio montag #lucio the arcana #muriel of the kokhuri #nadia satrinava #portia devorak #the arcana muriel #asra alnazar #the arcana x mc #the arcana hc #the arcana headcanons #the arcana imagines #asra the arcana #portia the arcana #nadia the arcana #julian the arcana

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sunflowercider · 4 months

Note

what was the bullying incident in tged?

ANON IM SORRY HOW LONG WAS THIS HERE <- someone who never checks the inbox

Im guessing this is about how i said bullying wasnt a problem for Suho in this post.

It didnt make it into the webtoon (for pacing I can kinda see why), but Kim Suho was bullied exactly Once (1) in his school days. And then he made sure it Never Happened Again.

The incident is brought up when Lloyd meets Julian for the first time at the academy, and witnesses his bullying. Suho thinks about how Seoul had rampant bullying issues. He escaped any bullying in school... until one day a known bully orders Suho to get him some food from the cafeteria. Suho says hell no, and gets slapped around. So he slinks off. But instead of doing as he was ordered to do, he goes and finds one of those long florescent lightbulbs that was left out to dispose of later, comes back into the classroom, and slams the bully in the head with it, glass shattering everywhere. Suho isnt done, and then throws a chair at him. Then he tramples him. Bully gets sent to the hospital, and Suho gets suspended.

No bullies ever bother Suho again his entire school life. Other victims of the bully also speak out after that too, and the apparent damage is to the point where multiple families actually sue to get the bully into juvenile court.

The ends justify the means here i guess, and I can't argue with results, but i was truly not prepared to be told that Suho at 14(?) beat the daylights out of another student with a lightbulb and a chair. Not like I have a better solution to surviving rampant bullying, but still. Wow.

#i think its interesting to me how the violence in Lorasia is less startling to me #lloyd beats the shit out of diego but i really think the lightbulb and chair part get me #potentially also the difference in how justice works in lorasia vs us #lorasia is old school and as far as i can tell theres no real justice system. just the nobility.#whereas. you know. we have courts and laws.#i dunno im rambling #tged

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impashableimagines · 1 year

Note

(I dont know if you do these kinda of requests, but) Could you do Asra, Julian, Muriel, and Lucio seeing their new born baby for the first time?

I absolutely do these kinds of requests!! This is such a sweet idea, I love it!

ASRA

Asra is with MC throughout the labor, from start to finish, and is probably going to be the first (besides MC, of course) to hold their newborn daughter.

As Asra looks down at the little bundle in their arms, they can't help but soften visibly. They're quickly realizing that they would do anything for this child, to keep her safe and happy.

They coo at her, waggling their fingers at her and bringing Faust and MC's familiar over to meet her. Faust is smitten, as much as Asra is, and gently curls herself around the baby to cuddle her and keep her warm.

JULIAN

Julian is literally delivering this child, and so is the first to see and hold her as she arrives.

He takes his time cleaning her up and wrapping her in her swaddling blanket, taking great care not to upset her or hurt her.

He cuddles her close, pressing little kisses to her cheeks and forehead, before passing her off to MC to hold.

Malak perches close by on the ledge of MC's bed, standing vigilantly to watch over the mother and baby as they rest, ready to signal to Julian if anything is wrong as he takes care of MC's needs while she rests.

MURIEL

Muriel waits outside the birthing room during the process, although not by choice. Inana all but prevented him from entering the laboring room to give Portia the space and focus she needed to help MC through her labor.

As soon as the baby's first cry rings out, Inana and Muriel are both inside the room to check on MC and the little one.

When Muriel sees the baby for the first time, and holds her in his arms, he observes her in complete awe. He just can't believe that she's half of him, she's so small and frail looking.

Inana curls up next to MC on the bed, pressed into her side to keep her warm and safe, and Muriel rests the baby in the crook of MC's arms.

LUCIO

Lucio waits outside the birthing room because he can't handle the sight of the birthing process, and Nadia doesn't want him passing the fuck out.

But as soon as he sees Melchior and Mercedes slink out of the room, sitting at his feet with their heads held high and proud, he knows it's time to enter.

He sees MC holding the little bundle that he presumes is their child, and he can't help the proud smirk that graces his lips.

As soon as she places the bundle in his arms, he's struck hard with the thought that this is his child. His blood. His life. And he'd do literally anything for her. He'd raze the entire world to the ground for her, if needed, just to destroy anything that hurt her.

#arcana #the arcana #julian devorak #count lucio #asra alnazar #the arcana muriel

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inafieldofdaisies · 1 year

Text

WIP Wednesday | Tagged by @adelaidedrubman <3 | @thesingularityseries @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @euryalex @strafethesesinners @strangefable @nightbloodbix @aceghosts @madparadoxum @g0dspeeed @trench-rot @josephseedismyfather @josephslittledeputy @theelderhazelnut @purplehairsecretlair @jinfromyarikawa @shegetsburned @clicheantagonist @locustandwildhoney @fourlittleseedlings @poisonedtruth @vampireninjabunnies-blog @cassietrn @wrathfulrook @jacobsneed @voidika @harmonyowl @schoute and anyone with something to share <3

This week, I'm treating you all with two snippets: first one is a bonus POV of the confrontation between the unlucky Peggie and Zorro (as part of Chapter 10 because it was floating around in my brain way too vividly not to write it all down; I can picture the whole thing as a cartoon scene and can't help but cackle at poor Owen's fate. Now, I didn't fully snap and write it from Zorro's POV, thought it would have been hilarious.), the second snippet is from Chapter 11 where we go back to John and Sabrina (tension, something, something).

*in my best Julian Slink voice*: Enjoy the show, folks.

obvious warning for the first snippet about descriptions of a racoon attacking a cultist.

"I don't think the Sinner would show up.", Owen muttered as he sat down in one of the old chairs, trading places with William at patrolling the perimeter around the cottage. "We have orders, Owen. Or do you feel like finally facing the fact you ain't cut our for this job?", Constantine smirked at him, lounging back in his seat, clearly enjoying the fact they were faced with another uneventful night shift. Owen was the youngest and most recent recruit between the three of them and the man sitting next to him had spent every waking second in making his life hell since being assigned to work together a few days back. "I know, brother. But don't you want to be out there delivering Sinners to brother John instead of sitting around when the Reaping has begun?" "Are you questioning John's orders?" "No, of course not.", Owen retorted quickly, knowing full well what happened to those that disobeyed the Herald. Constantine only grunted in response, and they sat in silence, watching William do his routine check of the grounds in the distance. Two more of their people were stationed down the road that connected to the property, keeping watch in case the Deputy finally decided to make an appearance at his home. Minutes passed where Owen found himself close to drifting off, overworked from all the long shifts, then a loud noise came from inside the cottage, making him jump in alarm and causing the sleepiness to fully leave his system. "Go check that out, Owen.", Constantine ordered. "Uh-, what if it's the Sinner?" "We're here to capture him, are we not?" "I, just, should I go alone, brother?" "Yes." Constantine was in no mood for arguments, staring at him impatiently and when he saw no movement from the young recruit, he pointed with his thumb behind him, muttering, "Chop-chop, Owen."

Owen couldn't help but think of the stories he had heard about the Deputy taking out every capture party sent his way. He knew he had to follow John's orders because that was the Will of the Father, but it still didn't help the primal fear he experienced at the idea he might come face to face with the one they were tasked to catch. "I will go.", he whispered as he got up and headed for the front door with convinction, the rifle shaking slightly in his hand. Constantine didn't bother with a reply and he wondered if the man would even come to his assistance if something was to go wrong. Owen pushed the door open quietly, his eyes struggling to make anything out in the dark living room, the only illumination came from the porch light and it didn't go too far inside. He stopped at the threshold, listening for any sound and when he came up empty he passed through the doorway with a simple goal in mind: to turn on one of the lamps that he could distinguish as a silhouette ahead of him. The door shut with an unsettling click the second he let go of it to proceed further in and he wondered if it had done it on its own or Constantine was pulling another trick on him. Just as he reached for the switch, he felt something bump into his leg, but he told himself he was just on edge, imagining things. I'm bigger than my fear. Joseph said God will protect us. The words worked at calming his nerves until a sharp pain came in his pinkie as teeth closed around his hand, making him scream out and drop his weapon. He managed to clumsily turn on the light with his other hand and his eyes shifted between his bloodied fingers and a raccoon on the ground, its menacing pose foretelling Owen of more trouble to follow. Shock overtook him as his gaze landed on a bloody piece of sausage at his feet, then moved back to his hand instinctively. No. It wasn't a sausage, but his pinkie. He looked at his hand again, counting his fingers in dread, refusing to believe what he was seeing.

One.Two. Three. Four. No. And no matter how many times he counted, he came up short with one finger.

"OH MY GOD!", Owen shouted, his voice springing the raccoon into action and before he could react the animal launched itself at him, grabbing onto his shoulders. The crazed look in its beady eyes made his blood freeze. Tiny claws dig into his skin through his sweater. "Brother, HELP!", he screamed over and over again as he ran around the room in an attempt to shake off his vicious attacker. Disoriented and in a complete state of terror, he kept spinning in circles and knocking into various pieces of furniture. His feet couldn't stop slipping on the blood gushing from his injured hand, hindering his movements. To his horror, as much as he tried to remove the hellish creature off his body, it continued to hold on with a ravenous look on its small face as it bared its teeth at him. The whole time it produced the most haunting noise Owen had ever heard in his life, it was between a snarl and scream, and he had no doubt it would haunt him in his nightmares. At one point he inevitably stumbled over a chair, finding himself unable to catch his fall since his hands were too busy grabbing at the racoon in desperation to unlatch its claws. The frenzied animal wasted no time when he hit the ground, aiming its attack at his face next and Owen closed his eyes in last last ditch effort to protect his eyes, knowing John would have no use of him if he loses his sight. Save me, Father. God. Anyone. Please.

But no matter how much he prayed, help refused to come and the Devil's pet remained on top of him, nimbling on his long hair, its angry snarling getting closer and closer to his ear. God, it's going to eat me. This isn't how I want to die. "What are you screaming about like a little girl, Owen?", Constantine asked in annoyance, entering the cabin, his sudden appearance making the raccoon finally release its hold on Owen and scurry off towards one of the unlit rooms of the cabin. "It-it bit off my finger. It re-refused to let me go.", Owen stuttered out, holding out his hand, the pain coming to him at once as the adrenaline abandoned him. The sight of his injury and red-hot sensation in his finger made him feel dizzy. Blackness was taking over the corners of his vision quickly and he couldn't understand why Constantine's lips moved but no sound was reaching his ears. "Owen.", was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

"You won't disappoint me, would you, Owen?"Joseph's voice played on repeat in his mind, getting louder and progressively more accusatory as he fought darkness. Those same words were spoken to him on his official acceptance as one of John's Chosen before the Reaping's start. He had felt hope and believed he would be helping the Project to save people's souls, instead he had ended up on cabin watch duty with a partner that hated his guts for no reason. "He's not cut out for this, brother. Can't you see. Defeated by a RACOON.", John's maniacal laughter was deafening and coming from all directions as the racoon's beady eyes and sharp teeth flashed in his memory. "Owen. Owen. Owen.", his name echoed, then he felt a sharp pain in his face. "He won't wake up like that, Constantine.", a voice scolded. "Be my guest then, William. Wake the Sleeping beauty up." The arguing brought him back to reality, the bright light coming from overhead blinding his eyes for a brief second as he forced them open, then they adjusted and took in his two "brothers" looming over him as he laid on the floor. "What happened?", he asked in confusion, then everything came back to him. "You passed out, Owen.", Constantine narrowed his eyes, shaking his head as he muttered, "How did you even make it through your Confession?"

"I bandaged your hand, brother.", William interjected, pulling him to his feet. He eyed him over with concern as he asked, "What happened? Did the Sinner do this? Your face is all scratched up." "Thank you.", he said in a small voice, trying to ignore the blood at his feet and the pain he felt as he stumbled outside, sitting down in one of the chairs again, "It was a-a-a racoon." Constantine let out a guttural laugh, "Oh, mercy me, wait until brother John finds out about this. You couldn't even deal with a racoon? Hope you like roaming in the fields, boy, because you're going to be an Angel soon." "Cut it out, Constantine, or do you feel the need for another Confession?", William sent him warning look as he sat down too, "Show some concern for our brother, will ya." Owen took a deep breath, the throbbing in his hand making him feel nauseous, "I think I need to see a-a doctor." "Our shift isn't over, Owen.", William reminded him quietly, "We can't leave the cabin unattended in case the Sinner shows up. We would have to call this in and it won't end well for you with John." "But-" "You have an issue, take it up with brother Wyatt or John himself.", Constantine gritted out, as he went down the stairs leading off the porch, "I'm going out on patrol next."

The downstairs area was empty, silence ruled over the whole house as she made herself a cup of coffee. She eyed the untouched plate that was still on the table with disappointment and without a second thought she threw away the food, knowing it would hurt Savannah if she finds out when she wakes up that John hadn't eaten the dinner they had prepared. Fresh morning air seeped in through the open window above the sink when she leaned against the counter, holding her almost finished cup of coffee. If she closed her eyes, for a second she could pretend nothing had changed, that Ms. Darcy or Cal would soon knock on the door, stopping by for breakfast. Instead any of that happening, minutes later John finally appeared, entering the kitchen quietly. He was already dressed for the day, wearing a pair of jeans and thin dark sweater with its zipper down, showing off the strange scar on his chest again. "Morning, Deputy.", he muttered as he beelined to the coffee machine. His arm brushed against hers when he grabbed an empty mug from the dish rack and poured coffee into it, not bothering to add any sugar or cream. "Morning.", she responded, her voice was even despite the fact he was standing unnecessary close and his presence that had taken over the room the second he appeared. His eyes darkened, darting to her collarbone, then his hand reached out, fingers grazing her skin as he moved her T-shirt's neckline back into place until it wasn't slipping off her shoulder.

His arm retreated then, but she could still feel its warmth at the place of contact and the way her body reacted to the simplest touch. You're calling this keeping your distance? "Are you feeling like telling me about your tattoo yet?" "What's to tell?" "A lot, Deputy. People usually ink their skin for a reason and what they choose reveals even more about them." "And what if I just got drunk, stumbled into a tattoo parlor and pointed at the first thing I saw as design? What then, John?" "Now, we both know that would be a lie." His gaze remained on hers, the intensity making her clear her throat and blurt out the first thing that came to her mind, in hopes of changing the subject, "I'm going to wash the shirt you gave me and return it-" Amusement flashed in his eyes before he said, "Keep it. But I'm holding you to the promise about my jacket, Deputy. I'd like to wear it again, you know." When he didn't say anything else as he picked up his cup and headed towards the door, no doubt planning to go to the Bunker straight away, Sabrina spoke up. "You promised we'd talk. Are you running off to your "happy place" again?" He shook his head, not bothering to look back at her, "I'm not. I'm going to grab something, I had no idea if you're awake yet with how quiet everything was." John climbed back upstairs as Sabrina took a final sip of her coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, wondering how long he would make her wait on him this time. To her surprise he returned shortly after, placing a black notebook on the table before he took a seat across from her.

Sabrina flipped through it, empty pages greeting her, as he said, "It's for your visions. Whatever comes to you, you write it all down as usual. This time for me." "And if it's nothing of significance? I have no control over what I see or-" "I understand that you can't force them. Just note them down, I will be the one deciding what's important." "Okay.", she sighed.

Deep down, she knew she had an advantage in the situation: the fact he had no way of confirming what she'd actually seen and as result she could in a way control what information he receives. John raised his cup, taking a sip, before saying with a faint smile, "I can sense all the questions bouncing around in that curious mind of yours, Deputy. Shall we get this over with?" I might as well try. "Whitehorse, Joey, Pratt… do you- do you have the others?" His eyes narrowed, making her wonder if she just ruined whatever good mood he was in, "Remember what I told you before?" "That I should worry only about myself?", at his nod, she added, "That's not the type of person I am, John." "They refused to listen to your warnings, Deputy.", his gaze darkened as a frown took over his features, "Then they left you behind for me to find, wounded, if I may say." "After your people made our helicopter crash and-" "Did you even stop to ask yourself why Whitehorse wanted you to arrest my brother. Why he or that arrogant Marshal wouldn't do it instead?" "It's not my place to question his orders." Her words didn't stop him, instead a dark smile appeared on his face, "For years, he chose not to get in our way, "keeping up the peace", he'd call it. But, Sabrina, he was afraid. He knew my brother was right, that there's nothing he could do to stop what's God's Will." "God's Will". There was nothing more she hated than those words, how people hid behind them as they hurt others. She'd seen it so many times. When she said nothing, John continued, probably believing he was getting through to her, "And when "evidence" finally appeared, when old Earl had a warrant, what did he do?"

"Just-" "He put you in the center of everything, Sabrina, basically threw you to the wolves. Did you think he had no idea how an arrest would unfold and what consequences it would bring? You're not that naive, Deputy. Deep down, you know." In a way he was doing what she had tried to do back at the cabin: convince him what he believed was misguided, dangerous. Yet where her words came from a place of concern for him and the people he would hurt in attempts to appease Joseph, here John wanted her to stop asking questions, accept the Project and overlook all the red flags surrounding his brother's ideas. "It wasn't my first arrest, John. I've faced so many criminals, some would make your brother look like a saint. Do you expect me to join the Project and leave all my collegues in Joseph's hands, free to do whatever he decides with them?" "You've been here for what, two months… you owe them nothing, Sabrina, worry about your sister and keeping her safe." Of course you'd say that. "Loyalty isn't determined by time, John. I've made a vow." A vow to her father. To herself. That she would protect people, just like he had done his whole life. Still, Sabrina knew the conversation would lead nowhere, she hadn't expected much anyway. "And Ms. Darcy?" "What about Darcy Harris?", his face was unreadable, the mask refusing to slip even for a second. Sabrina let out a frustrated breath, "Where is she? Locked in that bunker of horrors? I know you two had bad blood." His blue eyes shone at her questions, "My Gate. Are you asking for my alibi, Deputy? And again, you should-" "Worry about myself? NO. You told me to ask questions, I'm doing just that." "They're all where God wants them to be. It's all unfolding according to His plan. That's all you need to know."

"God or Joseph's plan? Because to me, they're two different things." John gave her a warning look, "Sabrina. I'm not getting into this with you." She took a deep breath, knowing she had to be careful how much she pushed, so she kept her silence as her fingers clutched the notebook. "Should I remind you that you're the one that should be providing information according to our deal, not the other way around?" Sabrina fought back a smile at his tone, "I feel like I should have my lawyer present… is this where I demand my one phone call?" John let out a chuckle, "You seem quite capable at negotiations on your own, Deputy." "A compliment? Careful, I might start to think you're impressed by a Sinner." "Impressed?", he licked his lips, "That doesn't seem like the right word to me." "What would you call it then?", the question slipped before she could stop it. "A complete bewitchment.", his intense gaze didn't waver from hers, "When it comes to you, Deputy, I just can't help it. I want to know more." She forced herself to look away, eyes darting up to the window while she attempted to ignore what his tone and the conviction in his words did to her insides. The air grew heavy with tension as he pushed back his chair and stood up, coming to stand next to her, the sudden move making Sabrina scrunch her face in confusion as she stared at him. In a blink, he was cradling her cheek with one hand, the move shocking her not only because of how unexpectedly it happened, but because of the gentleness lurking behind it. "You have no idea about how much danger you are in, do you? You still worry about everyone else but yourself. You're good at pretending, but not good enough to fool me." She tried to keep her emotions in check, but her breath hitched at his next words, his blue eyes pulled her in as his fingers stroked her cheek, "Did you even sleep last night?" She shook her head, hoping his touch would retreat as she did, but it remained, the heat from his palm spreading across her skin as the seconds ticked by. "I'm fine." "I'm not convinced, try again.", that all-too-familiar look was hiding in gaze, holding a dark promise. I have to stop this before you drag me into dangerous waters. "I'm fine.", she repeated, ignoring the giddy sensation she felt as she grabbed his hand and how a part of her wanted to hold his palm to her face, instead of removing it.

John backed away, grabbing his coffee, smirking as he said, "At least you took care of that wound for me. That's progress." Sabrina cleared her throat, moving onto her next question while willing her heart to slow down, "I wanted to ask… What did you mean by staying on the premises? Savannah wanted to go play outside yesterday, but I had no idea what to tell her." "You can go out, Deputy, just don't leave the property or go running off to-", he stopped himself. "Who?" He shook his head, "Nobody." But his face said otherwise, clouded by something she couldn't place. What were you about to say, Seed? "Thank you then.", she mumbled. He turned to the door without replying and was almost out of the kitched when she spoke up again, "Are you headed back there? Will you resort to avoiding me again, now that you've kept your promise?" As much as she tried to ignore the thoughts about what was going down in the bunker, what he was doing… she couldn't, and she swore she'd find a way to stop it. Find a way to get through to him. "They all have a light in them, monkey, sometimes you just have to look very hard until you find it.", her father's words came to her as a reminder that she had to have hope, keep pushing. Seconds passed in silence before John turned, "No, Deputy." No to which… Sabrina gave him a questioning look, forcing him to elaborate, "I'm staying here today, I have some things to take care of." "Oh. Then should we expect you for breakfast?" He gave her a nod, followed by a small smile, "That would be nice." "Savannah will be thrilled, she kept waiting on you to arrive yesterday-" A tired breath escaped him as he whispered, "I'm sorry. For being no-show, when you had dinner ready-", he stopped, eyes darting to the table in realization, "Where's my plate?" "I threw the food away." "Sabrina-" She waved him off, hiding the shock at his apology, burying it deep, "I'm used to it, my mother-", she bit her lip before the rest of the sentence could slip out, knowing saying anything further would provide information on her life. How it would feed his curiosity further, make him crave to hear even more. The less he knew, the better, especially when he viewed secrets as currency. "Your mother what, Deputy?", John raised an eyebrow. "Nothing." "There's something there, I can tell. All you have to do is open up, let it all pour out. I'm a good listener, I promise." "Pass.", she deadpanned. "The offer remains on the table.", he shrugged before heading back upstairs.

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txemrn · 1 year

Text

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x f!OC (Tatum Erikson), with special appearances by Tobias Carrick and Julian Santiago (m!OC)

Word Count: ~2473

Warning: 🔞for mature audiences only 🔞 NSFW (little squirts of 🍋); fairly fluffy; smallest sprinkle of angst; strong language

A/N: Some characters and plot points belong to our friends at Pixelberry; this fic was not beta'd or pre-read. Please excuse my errors.

A/N 2: I am participating in two different prompt challenges this week. This is my submission for @choicesflashfics, where I am using Prompt #3: "I am nothing if not consistent." "Yeah. A consistent pain in my ass!" I am also submitting this to @aprilchallenge with the following prompts: Love is in the air, love, kiss, hug. Thank you for allowing me to participate, and thank you for hosting these events! All prompts will be in bold.

~🖤~

The warmth of his breath tickles the back of her neck. His fingertips dig possessively into the soft skin of her bare hips while the rise and fall of his chest against her back lulls her into a soothing comfort of home. And just like that, waking up at 5AM doesn't seem so awful to Tatum Erikson.

She and Ethan Ramsey made things official over three months ago. Their blooming relationship grew strong quickly, their physical chemistry becoming hungry. After exploring their bodies in the most playful of ways with kisses and hugs, the young couple finally took things intimately a couple of weeks ago, the connection terrifying them in the most exhilarating way.

Finally crossing that threshold, Ethan and Tatum discovered they barely had time to feed their new found desire. Last night, however, was Tatum's first time to actually stay the night at Ethan's, and even though they barely got any sleep, everything about it felt perfect.

Seeing the time, Tatum slips out of Ethan's arms, finding an old t-shirt of his to wear, and sneaks off to his shared bathroom.

"Well, lookie what we have here!" A familiar baritone chirps behind her, just before she can close the door.

She rolls her eyes. "Carrick."

He puts his hand on the door, preventing her from closing it for privacy. He stands there, staring at her intently in his boxers, shirtless. "I didn't know we were having a slumber party."

Tatum sighs, ensuring the hem of Ethan's shirt hangs past her bottom as she glares at his roommate. "What do you want?"

Tobias tisks. "Now, now, Miss Erikson, I was just saying good morning." He looks her up and down, his lip curling into a smirk. "Just know… you're always welcome here." He chuckles as he slinks back to his room.

With a huff, Tatum shuts the door, locking it before getting ready for the day.

Moments later, she emerges, hurrying back to Ethan's room. Noticing him still slumped over in bed, Tatum quietly giggles to herself, padding lightly to his side as she takes off the shirt she borrowed. She crawls in behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"Time to wake up, sleepyhead," she mewls before nibbling on the shell of his ear.

A soft, raspy chuckle floats from Ethan's chest as he turns onto his back, putting an arm around Tatum before pulling her into a kiss. "Hi."

"Hi," she whispers back, her lips finding his again as his large hands find her curves.

"I like this," he titters into another kiss, his grip becoming stronger, massaging the swells of her ass.

"Don't start something you can't stop, Mr. Ramsey," she croons, biting her lower lip.

Ethan slowly flips them over, pinning Tatum down against the bed. Her ankles naturally cross behind his back as his morning desire presses firmly into her swollen core. "Who said anything about stopping?"

Ethan nips at her pulse point, his hands wandering the slopes of her full breasts. Small whimpers tumble off her lips, as she begins to grind herself into his hardened length… when all of a sudden, there's a loud bang on the door.

"Ramsey! Clinical! Let's go, bro!" The door abruptly swings open, leaving Ethan and Tatum frozen in the act.

"Julian!” Ethan barks, “what the hell–"

"Oh my God!" Ethan’s third roommate Julian Santiago walks in with a beaming smile on his face, looking back and forth between the couple. "Awww, look at you two all–” he laces his fingers together. “Love is in the air!” He lowers his voice, nonchalantly waving to an embarrassed Tatum. “Morning, sweetie." He leans his shoulder against the doorway, crossing his arms. "So… when did you two lovebirds start… you know?"

"Juls–" Tatum starts, pulling a sheet over herself.

"I swear to God, if you don't get the fuck out of here, Santiago–"

"Okay, okay," Julian holds his hands up in surrender. "I'm leaving."

Ethan sighs, laying his forehead on Tatum's shoulder as they both fall into awkward snickers. Without warning, Ethan feels a slap across his rear end. He reaches back to find a long accordion of foil-wrapped condoms.

"That's it," he snarls, climbing off of Tatum and chasing after his roommate.

"Damn, Ethan," Julian looks down, his eyes widening, "I figured you were packin', but daaaa–"

"Get the fuck out!" Ethan throws the stack of condoms at his roommate before slamming the door.

He huffs, leaning against the door, combing his fingers through his hair with frustration.

"Hey," Tatum slinks towards Ethan, placing her hands on the firm planes of his chest.

He takes her hands in his. "I am… so sorry about that. They can be so… and they like getting a rise–"

"Shhhh," she places a finger over his lips, silencing him. "It's fine."

"No, it's not fine–"

Ethan's words abruptly falter. Tatum's slender fingers wrap around his girth as she begins to stroke him, her thumb pressing tenderly under the head of his cock.

"Is… this fine?" Her voice softens, a sensual gravel in it as she continues to work Ethan's hardened length.

"Tatum," his breath catches in his throat, his fingers brushing back her blonde strands. "Y–yeah, baby, that…" he swallows thickly, "that feels… God–"

"How… about now?" Tatum falls to her knees, her eyes sparkling with hunger as her gaze remains on him. She licks up his length to his tip, her tongue savoring his precum as her hand continues to pump him languidly.

"How… about…?" Tatum takes him into her mouth, allowing him to sink fully down her throat before she’s pulling him back out for another swallow. Over, and over.

"Fuck…"

------

It was a busy morning in the research clinic, between lectures and laboratory assessments. When the group finally broke for lunch, it was after 2 o'clock. The guys were walking to the bookstore to grab some snacks when Ethan notices Tatum already making herself comfortable on the planters in the commons.

"Hey," Ethan calls out to her with a wave, "can I get you something?"

She shakes her head, "I'm fine."

Watching her stick her head back into her study material, Ethan could sense something was off. He calls out to Tobias and Julian, "Hey, I'll catch up with you guys."

"Sure, you will," Julian mocks as he looks over and notices Tatum alone. Tobias clues in and pretends to hump the air.

Ethan flicks them off as he jogs to Tatum's side. "Hey, you," he grins.

"Hey," her eyes widen in shock, "what happened to snacks?"

"You just… seemed off," Ethan shoves his hands in his pockets. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she feigns a smile, turning back to her notebook. "I'm fine."

Ethan bends over, waiting for Tatum to meet his eyes. "But…"

She snickers. "But… I think I'm getting a cold or something–really, I'm fine though–"

"Oh yeah?" Ethan sits down next to her. "What's wrong? Maybe I can get you some–"

"No, no," Tatum waves her hand. "My throat has a tingle like it’s getting sore, and my tonsils feel swollen."

"You still have your tonsils?"

"You don't?" They fall into titters, Ethan knocking his shoulder into hers.

"Let me see."

"What? No," she chuckles.

"Why not?" He jokes.

"Because," she blinks her eyes, trying to come up with an answer, "that's… weird. I don't know."

"C'mon, Tate," he laughs, "it could save your life."

"My hero," she sasses. "Fine." She opens her mouth wide, Ethan reaching into his satchel for a pen light.

"Oh. Ohhh–"

"Huh?" Tatum mutters, her mouth still open.

"It's awfully big in here. No wonder you talk so much–"

"Ethan Ramsey!" Tatum shoves him away, closing her mouth.

Ethan chuckles to himself as Tatum playfully glares at him. He continues. "But your tonsils are pretty swollen. They even have petechiae on them."

"Seriously?" She runs her fingers over her neck.

"Hey," Ethan's voice grows soft, serious. "Just go to the infirmary on campus. They can swab you for strep."

"You think it’s strep?" Tatum frowns.

"Or flu," he shrugs. "But the sooner you can diagnose–"

"--the sooner you can treat. Right." She nods in understanding. "I'll give them a call."

After making a doctor's appointment for the next morning, Ethan and Tatum head back to class to finish their afternoon of lectures. Usually their evenings consist of studying, either individually or in their study groups, but with her sore throat getting worse, Tatum decides to call it an early night, and heads back to her place.

The next morning, Tatum arrives early to her appointment. While she waits for the doctor, she examines her own throat with a mirror, flashing an otoscope light into her mouth.

Shit. The bruising has gotten worse, explaining why it was so hard to swallow.

Explaining everything to the doctor, the older gentleman decides to order a routine blood test while also obtaining swabs of both her throat and nose. "Miss Erikson, do you bruise easily?"

"No, sir–I mean, I’ve never noticed before."

He kindly points to a few spots on her arms, legs and back. "I'm going to ask you some personal questions, is that okay?" Tatum nods. "Are you in a relationship?"

"Yes, sir," her lips begin to curl at the thought of her boyfriend.

"Do you feel… safe with him?"

"With Ethan?" She gives the clinician a peculiar look. "God, yes. He's great."

"Has he ever hurt you?"

She emphatically shakes her head. "No, never."

He scribbles down a few notes before turning his attention back to Tatum. "Would you describe yourself as accident prone?"

She giggles. "No, sir. I mean–I can be clumsy at times, but nothing noteworthy."

He hums, writing down more information. "If it's okay with you and depending on your WBCs and platelet count, I would like to also test some clotting factors."

"Clotting factors? Like, hemophilia? I'm twenty-three; wouldn't I know that by now?"

"Not unless it's caused by…" he stops himself. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he cordially smiles before leaving the room.

Cancer. He was going to say 'cancer.' And she thought the worst that could happen today was a strep diagnosis… but cancer?

Nerves get the best of Tatum as her knees bounce incessantly while she picks at her cuticles. Waves of nausea rush to her stomach, and she's unsure if it's because she's worried or if she's getting sicker.

She finally pulls her knees up, hugging them to her chest, resting her head on top of them as she closes her eyes. She takes a few deep breaths and drifts off.

"Miss Erikson?"

"Yes," Tatum jolts up, rubbing her face. "Do we have the results?"

The physician nods, smiling kindly as he pulls up a chair. "Everything… is negative. No strep, no flu, no staph. Your crit and platelets are all fine, and your WBCs are normal–"

"So… no cancer."

"No," he titters, “no cancer.”

"And no infection?"

"That we can see. Even if there was one, your body seems to be taking care of it without having to enlist a ton of help."

Tatum nods her head slowly. "I guess I don't understand. I mean, why else would my tonsils be so swollen? Why is the back of my throat so… so bruised?"

The doctor purses his lips, deep in thought. "Do you chew your food all the way before swallowing?" Tatum scoffs into a chuckle, nodding her head as he continues. "Have you recently choked? Or maybe…" he titters, shrugging his shoulders, "... I don't know, maybe… some… blunt trauma?"

Tatum screws up her lips, thinking about anything unusual that may have happened in the past few days.

And then she freezes.

Her eyes widen in horror.

Oh. My. God.

------

Tatum hurried back to her lecture, already missing the first two hours due to her appointment. She saw several of her colleagues outside, getting some fresh air during their professor-granted twenty-minute break. Glancing around, she instantly finds Ethan, chatting with his roommates.

"Hey," she taps him on the shoulder before waving a hand at Julian and Tobias.

"Hey," Ethan puts his arm around her, tucking her into his side. "How are you feeling?"

She nods agreeably. "I'll be fine."

"Wait, what happened, sweetie?" Julian's eyebrows knit together.

"Oh, um, I wasn't feeling well–"

"Her tonsils were huge," Ethan interjects, "with, like, marbling of petechiae–"

"--we don't have to talk about it–" Tatum mutters.

"They're bruised?" Tobias clenches his teeth, his face contorting with disgust.

"What did the doc say?" Concern etches across Julian's features. All three men turn their attention to the blonde, waiting for her to answer.

"Well, I, um," she stutters, "everything came back negative, and, uh… so I need to… rest my throat," she lowers her voice, "and not talk about this anymore."

"So it's not strep?" Ethan raises an eyebrow. "And not the flu?"

"Open up, and let me see," Tobias motions for Tatum to step forward. "Maybe it's the mumps–"

"You idiot," Julian playful chides, "she has to be up-to-date with her MMR to be in the program–"

"But vaccines aren't 100% effective–"

"It's not the mumps!"

"They probably didn't even test her for that–"

"They had no need to! Look at the differentials!" Julian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You just always have to be oppositional, don't you, Carrick?"

"Oppositional?" Tobias sardonically chuckles. "I am nothing if not consistent."

"Yeah. A consistent pain in my ass!"

"Will you two–" Ethan stops himself, taking a deep breath. "Just stop." He turns his attention back to his girlfriend. "Tate, did the doc have… like, an explanation? Something?"

"Can we maybe talk about this later?"

"I want to know if you're contagious," Tobias jokes, holding his hands up, turning up his nose.

"Dude, shut the fuck up," Julian shoves Tobias shoulder while Ethan glares daggers into him.

"Fine," Tatum huffs, "you really want to know? Fine." She crosses her arms, planting her feet. "Blunt. Trauma."

"Blunt trauma?" Ethan repeats.

"What? Like you shoved something down your throat?" Tobias gives an inquisitive look.

"Oh," Julian takes a step back, covering his mouth. "Ohhh." He looks away, shaking his head before staring back at Tatum in disbelief. "God… damn, girl!" He belts, falling into snickers.

"What?" Ethan looks to Julian nervously.

"Oh, hell naw," Tobias chimes in, his eyes wide as he looks Tatum up and down. "Hello, Miss Erikson! Fuck!"

Tatum rolls her eyes before she stomps off back to the lecture hall.

"What just happened?" Ethan looks confused, looking back and forth between his friends and his girlfriend. "I don't get what's–"

"Dude," Julian wraps his arm around Ethan's shoulders, slowly guiding him back into the building. "I knew those condoms were going to be too small for you."

Ethan glares at him with humor budding in his expression, wondering where Julian was going with this.

"Apparently… so is Tatum's mouth."

~🖤~

Thank you so much for your support! Every like, comment and reblog means the world to me! 🖤

~🖤~

#ethan x tatum #tathan #choices fanfiction #n*fw

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