Hiii! If its no trouble could I have a zoro and reader fic with the one bed trope? The others know about their crushes on each other so they force each other to share a room? Anyway they end up cuddling and its all cute (the others will tease them forever about it lol)?? Thankss
intertwined ribbons
ABOUT
alternate title: opla zoro makes my hated tropes less hated
rating: general audiences/teen & up
characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!nami | live action!straw hats ensemble
pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader
word count: 4.9k
description: unbeknownst to you, your crush on zoro is reciprocated. the rest of the straw hats take it upon themselves to get you together by locking you in his bedroom overnight.
tags: strawhat!reader, only one bed, forced proximity, confessions, no use of 'y/n', nami is a true instigator, cuddling, soft zoro, humor
author's note: thank you so much for the request and i hope it meets your expectations!! fun fact i actually used to hate the 'only one bed' trope, so i decided to challenge myself in writing this. and i think it's one of my fave tropes now lol
(you have an inner spirit that helps you make decisions except it’s just nami.)
“I just think that maybe you should stop avoiding him,” Nami started. You bit your cheek, ignoring her as you tied up the last of the ship’s rigging into a careful knot. Nami had been going on for the past few minutes, and you’d zoned out exactly three seconds in, when the name Zoro had first been spoken. Because of this reason you weren’t really listening, so you blinked up at her in confusion.
“Sorry? Who am I avoiding?”
“You’re impossible,” Nami grumbled. “And you know exactly who I’m talking about.” Which, well, fair. The math added up: you heard the word Zoro, you stopped listening, Nami continued talking until she realized you’d stopped listening. “Especially since you’re, you know—” she gave you another look, eyes rolling over to stare dead into yours— “Avoiding him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you said innocently. Nami sighed, leaning over to tug the rope dangling from your hands out of your grip. You tried to reach back for it, but she didn’t let you. “Hey!”
“Yes, you do. Face it. You’re avoiding Zoro.”
You made a face at her. “I think there are ropes on the foredeck that I can attend to.”
“No, there aren’t,” Nami answered. “Now stop changing the subject. There’s this wild concept called communication. It works wonders.”
“Says you,” you muttered, though your arms crossed defensively across your chest. You noticed the action after a split-second and unwound your arms with a scowl. “Look, I just don’t see the point. And I haven’t been avoiding him.”
You were, in fact, avoiding him. Ever since that dreadful night a week ago when Nami had gotten you tipsy and stuck her hand in your chest cavity fishing for secrets, you’d been avoiding him. The other girl was ridiculously good at prying truths out of you, and during the conversation, you’d accidentally spilled your crush on the Straw Hat crew’s resident swordsman.
You’d managed to keep the secret for the months you’d been together, wherein the unfortunate feelings had developed, and you should’ve figured once somebody knew they wouldn’t leave you alone about it. Because Nami refused to talk about literally anything else. You’d expected this sort of behavior from Luffy, or maybe Sanji, but Nami? The world was more amatonormative than you'd thought.
Nami cast you a look. “You’re blushing.”
“Am not.”
“Are too. What’s the harm in talking to him?” Nami demanded, one hand on her hip as she stared you down. You gaped at her.
“Um, literally everything? One, Zoro can’t talk about feelings or emotions for shit, so when he rejects me it’ll be in the most excruciating, offhand manner that will probably leave me at the bottom of a barrel of rum, two, after being rejected I’m going to have to leave the Straw Hats, three—”
Nami rolled her eyes, looking increasingly fed up with you. “For someone so obsessed with not telling our resident grass-headed swordsman about your feelings for him, you’re talking rather loudly.”
You shut up, snapping your jaw closed with a glare. “Stop it,” you hissed.
“Besides, who knows if he actually will reject you?” Nami turned to work on the next section of rigging, glancing over her shoulder at you. “You’re catastrophizing.”
“I’m being realistic,” you snapped. “Okay, fine. He reciprocates my feelings. Then what? We date, we break up because all relationships eventually end, it becomes awkward, and—voila—I’ll have to leave the Straw Hats anyway. It’s a bad idea all around.”
Nami just let out a huff of breath, the exhale laced with irritation. “Catastrophizing,” she repeated.
“I am not—”
“Sure. Go help Sanji with dinner.”
You gave her an exasperated look, but at this point Nami wasn’t paying attention anymore, so you stormed off into the underbelly of the Going Merry. Speak of the devil, apparently, because once you entered the kitchen you spotted not only Sanji occupying it but also Zoro. He was lounging at the table, swords strapped to his waist and a bottle of something he was nursing in hand.
You averted your gaze from him, head running a million miles a minute. Had he noticed you’d been avoiding him? You’d tried to be furtive about it, but if Nami had noticed, maybe—
“Well, hello there,” Sanji called from where he was in the midst of dinner preparations. “Come to help?”
“Nami sent me,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think she’s appointed herself queen of the Going Merry.”
“Oh, she did that long ago,” Sanji chided. “You’re only noticing it now. Pick up a knife, then. I’d like some help dicing the carrots.”
You stiffly moved over to the counter, ignoring Zoro as you went even as you felt his gaze following your figure. You picked up the first knife you found, positioning yourself in front of the cutting board to start dicing the vegetables already laid out for you. Abruptly, Zoro stood up.
“Heading out,” he muttered. “Call me when dinner’s ready.”
With that, he left the room, leaving you and Sanji to exchange looks. “He’s moody today,” you said.
“Probably ‘cause you’ve been avoiding him.”
You felt the familiar pinprick of a blush starting to warm your cheeks. “You too?”
“You’re rather obvious about it,” Sanji said with a raised eyebrow. “But enough of that.” Weirdly enough, he didn’t seem to question why. There was no way Nami had told him, so you were left confused, but no matter. The point was that for now, you were safe.
The hour dipped to evening, and soon the moon was glowing in the sky, a shining beacon of white amidst the ocean of stars and shimmering sea. You suppressed a yawn, busing the dishes from dinner as the rest of the crew got up from their respective seats to dissolve to their own rooms. Zoro had already retired for the night—if you were avoiding him, he seemed to be doing the exact same—so at least you didn’t have that to worry about.
“Ah, wait,” Nami said, after you’d finished washing the dishes and was ready to head out. “Zoro wants to talk to you.”
You jolted, glancing nervously around you before grabbing her wrist. “What did you do?” you hissed. Nami just laughed.
“Calm down. I didn’t do anything.” Off your glare, she relented. “I promise. And I swear it’s not about feelings or emotions or whatever. Even though it’s obvious you’re avoiding him, you know Zoro wouldn’t say anything.”
You were still suspicious, but you dropped your hand. “What, then?”
Nami shrugged, tilting her chin up just so. “I guess you’re going to have to find out.”
“I don’t trust you,” you muttered. There was that look in her eye, the one she got whenever she was thinking of something truly devious. Still, you couldn’t figure out what she was up to, so— “Fine, I’ll go to his room. Walk me.”
Nami rolled her eyes, but she fell into step with you as you made your way across the ship. “You should bring it up to him, you know,” she started, but silenced after your sharp glare. “Okay, okay. I get the point. I’ll stop bothering you about it.”
You stopped by the mouth of Zoro’s door. “Wait, really?”
“Yes, really,” Nami said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She leaned against the wall beside the door, arms crossing over her chest. “I’ll leave you alone about Mr. Prince Charming over there. Knock.”
“You can't call him Mr. Prince Charming,” you said, though you did knock. “Prince’ is already a title.”
Nami gave you a look. “Okay, smart-ass.”
The door creaked open before you could give your response, and you turned, heart pounding in your throat as Zoro stared down at you. His arm was propped up by the open doorway, the other hand still clutching the doorknob. “What.”
“Um, Nami said that you wanted to talk—” you swiveled your head towards the other girl, but before you could finish your sentence, Nami was raising up your arm and unceremoniously shoving you into the room.
You shrieked in surprise as you fell into Zoro’s figure, stumbling into him and causing him to lose his balance. Your head shot up in offense, only to see the gleam of a golden padlock in Nami’s hand before she was yanking the door closed.
A dull click echoed through the room. The only thing you could hear for a few seconds was your own heavy breathing and the sound of Zoro gathering himself.
“Did she just—” You gaped at the closed door. “Lock us in?”
Zoro swiftly pushed past you, jiggling the doorknob for a few moments before giving up. Sure enough, Nami had sealed it with the padlock from the outside, so there was no possibility of either of you getting out of the room. You could vaguely hear sounds from the outside—dull thuds and scrapes—and watched as Zoro started banging on the door.
“Nami,” he called, voice dangerously low. “Let us out.”
“Sorry, Zoro!” Your jaw practically unhinged from your skull once you heard your captain’s familiar voice, all bright and cheerful like always. “We’re putting barrels in front of the door, so don’t even try breaking it down. Have a good night!”
“Luffy? What are you—” Zoro’s knocking quickened in pace, his voice getting increasingly louder. There was no response from outside, though you could hear snickers that sounded suspiciously like Usopp. What was going on?
You kicked into action, joining Zoro by the door and trying the door handle again. “Nami!” you yelled.
Nami’s soft laugh came from outside. “Sorry!” she called. “We’ll let you out in the morning.”
You gaped at the door, only aware of Zoro’s gaze sliding down to you as you dropped your hand from the doorknob. There were some more tigers from outside, and then receding footsteps. Zoro tried knocking one last time, but it was evident that the rest of the crew had all but abandoned you.
“Okay,” Zoro muttered, moving away from the door. “I need a drink.”
You watched him move across the room, picking up a glass from his bedside table that was only slightly full. He knocked it back in one swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. “Um, what now?” you asked uncomfortably.
“Nothing. Whatever,” Zoro said, turning to glance over at you. After a moment’s thought, you noticed that he refused to look you in his eye—his gaze was firmly trained at a spot beside your head. He turned away, stripping off his sword scabbard and setting them on the floor.
You glanced around nervously. Zoro’s room wasn’t that different from yours, really—less decorated, but the constitution was the same. There was the bed, a wardrobe, a desk with various paraphernalia across it, and a little couch in the corner too. “You can look through the closet for something to sleep in. I’ll take the chair.”
The words didn’t register at first, and you were left standing there, staring as Zoro kicked off his shoes and assumedly started getting ready to sleep. “Um, what?”
Zoro glanced over his shoulder. He still wouldn’t look you in the eye. “They’re not letting us out until morning,” he said slowly. “You can take the bed. Might as well sleep.”
“It’s your room,” you started, crossing your arms. “I can sleep in the chair. I’m smaller than you, anyway, so I’ll fit it better.”
Zoro regarded you with such a reproachful look you almost wanted to laugh. “That’s ridiculous. Change.” With that, he turned around, leaving no room for discussion. You stared at him for a second before giving up, moving to his wardrobe and opening it up to search for something to sleep in.
“So, uh, any ideas on why they stuck us in here?” You asked, although you already knew the answer. Whatever Nami thought locking you in a room with Zoro would achieve, you were stubbornly not going to let her be right. God, you were so going to kill her once you got out of there.
“Nope,” Zoro said, with such a degree of finality you figured it wouldn’t be safe to question him further. “They’re just stupid.”
“I mean, I feel like they would have a motive?” You rifled through his clothes, trying very hard to detach them from their owner. Wearing Zoro’s clothes was not something you wanted your mind to linger upon. Eventually you found a shirt of his that would undoubtedly be oversized on you, and you hastily changed into it, satisfied to find it draped well to your knees so you weren’t exposing too much skin.
You stole a glance over your shoulder at Zoro, only to catch him in the action of peeling his shirt off. The stretch of the muscles in his back gleamed in the dim light of the room, and you tore your gaze away, heat rushing to your face. “Um. Anything?”
“Nope,” Zoro repeated. Carefully, you closed the wardrobe door, lingering in one spot with your hands clenched together. Once you heard him start moving again, you deemed it safe enough to turn towards the rest of the room. He’d changed into a loose tan shirt, and had settled back into the chair.
“I said I’d take the chair,” you told him hotly.
“Yeah, and I said no,” Zoro said, tone dismissive. He had his eyes closed, and you stared at him in disbelief.
“I’m not sleeping in your bed,” you said, and then, just to emphasize your point, plopped down on the floor. Zoro cracked an eye open and stared down at you. He sighed.
“Get up. Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not being stupid,” you said. “It’s your room. It’s your bed. You will sleep on it. If you’re not giving me the chair, I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Zoro let out a long sigh, closing both his eyes as if he was contemplating all his life decisions. “I’m not sleeping in the bed, you know,” he said.
“Okay, so neither of us do.”
Zoro’s brows creased, and he opened his eyes to glare down at you. “Seriously? At least take the chair, then. I’ll sleep on the flo—”
You gave him a sharp look. “Zoro.”
“This conversation isn’t getting anywhere,” Zoro muttered, and finally got up from his chair. You glanced up at him expectantly. “What can I do to convince you to take the bed?”
“Uh, nothing.”
“We can work out a compromise,” Zoro said with a sigh. “I want you on it, and you want me on it, and neither of us are willing to take it ourselves.” He paused, brow creasing as an idea seemed to form in his head—one he didn’t seem to be a giant fan of, but an idea nonetheless. “How about.” His lips pursed, before he parted them again to finish his sentence. “How about we both take it?”
It felt like someone had hit you square in the chest, air kicking out of your lungs and leaving you gasping for breath. Your windpipe was all raw, and you had to fight to tear any words out from your throat. “Ex—excuse me?”
“It’s big enough,” Zoro said stiffly, though his hands were clenched at his sides. “I can take one side and you can take the other. Since you’re so dead-set on me sleeping on it.”
“I—” You cut yourself off, suddenly far too aware of Zoro’s eyes fixed on you. Watching your every move. Oh, Nami was in for it now. How were you supposed to survive sleeping in the same bed as—you didn’t even want to think about it.
“Well?” Zoro prompted.
“Fine,” you agreed hastily, ducking your head lest Zoro catch any of the flush that was undoubtedly rising steadily up your cheeks. It was bad enough you were stuck in his bedroom and wearing his clothes—but this had quickly become your own personal circle of hell. “Good enough for me.”
“Finally.” With that, Zoro climbed into bed, settling himself on the very edge of its side. Your throat had gone dry, and you stared at him for another second before hurriedly turning away to flick the lights off. You approached the other side of the bed with an extreme lack of enthusiasm, staring at the empty sheets like they were cackling up at you. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Eventually you slid into the bed, busying yourself with arranging the blankets around your figure. Zoro’s breaths were steady and deep from beside you. You didn’t know what to do for a second, but then Zoro’s voice was cutting through the darkness. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You jolted, then suppressed your sigh. “Have not.”
“Yes, you have, and everyone knows it, and you’re not very subtle,” Zoro said, sounding almost bored as he rattled off the words. “Why.”
“I haven’t—”
“Don’t.”
You ran your tongue along your teeth, sucking at the valleys between them in annoyance. “It’s not important.”
Zoro paused before speaking, like he was mulling over asking the question. “Did I do something?”
“What? No.” You shook your head, despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to see. The sound did well enough to indicate the action to him, though—he scoffed, a low murmur from his chest that buzzed through your nerves. “I don’t want to talk about this. You’re giving the rest of the crew what they want.”
“They definitely did not lock you in here to talk about why you’re avoiding me,” Zoro muttered. Now it was your turn to scoff, because if only he knew. “Are you sure I didn’t do anything?"
“Positive. It’s all me.”
“Okay, so why?” Zoro prompted. You swallowed hard, trying to dodge around the subject. “Are you sure—”
“Please just stop talking,” you said, one hand reaching out to grip his arm as if the physical contact would make him shut up. There was a stagnant moment of silence, your breath catching as your brain caught up to your body. Your hand was on Zoro’s arm. Your hand was on Zoro’s bicep, and you were in his bed.
You cleared your throat, a panicked choke bursting from your lungs. “Um.” Your eyes skittered sideways, and then you finally turned on your side to stare at him. To stare at where your hand was still clutched around his arm.
You could just barely make out the angle of his jaw in the darkness, but you could see it was clenched, the vein along his neck protruding just slightly. Hastily, you removed your hand, the skin of your fingers tingling like you could still feel him underneath the tips. “Sorry. Why—why are you so certain that you did something for me to avoid you?”
There were a few moments of silence that ticked by, nothing but the rock of the ship interrupting it. Finally, Zoro spoke. “Because the reason they locked you in my room is because—”
“What? The reason they locked me in your room is because of me,” you said. Zoro finally moved from his position, head tilting to face yours so you were eye-to-eye. You swallowed. “Nami, um—Nami specifically forced me in here so I would… talk to you.”
There was a question evident in Zoro’s voice. “About?”
Your lips parted, and then closed again. “Um.”
“We can just sleep, if you want,” Zoro muttered.
“What if they don’t let us out in the morning because we haven’t talked, though?” you hissed. Zoro let out a low laugh.
“You realize you’re giving them exactly what they want.”
“So you’d be more comfortable if we just… fell asleep?” you asked. Zoro shrugged. Since you weren’t exactly averse to the idea of not confessing, you nodded in agreement, heart beating a million miles a second. “Okay. Fine by me.”
You settled back into your pillow, but soon came to realize that, due to the fluttering butterflies in your stomach and the fact you were very aware of the man of your affections being barely a foot to your right, you could not sleep. Evidently Zoro felt the same way, because he kept shifting around under the blankets—your hands brushed against each other a few times before he jolted away like you’d burnt him.
“Sorry,” you muttered. Zoro didn’t say anything in response. Somewhere in the back of your head, you could hear Nami hissing at you—I didn’t shove you in a room with Mr. Prince Charming just for you to not take advantage of the opportunity. You tried to get her out of your brain—it was a bad idea all around—but the words kept reverberating around in your mind until you found yourself suddenly speaking. “Zoro?”
“Hm?”
“Nami stuck me in here so I would tell you that, um—”
“You don’t have to say it,” Zoro murmured, and you shivered, his voice sounding suddenly closer. You squirmed, your hand brushing against Zoro’s again, except this time it took him a delayed moment to drift away. He had gotten closer—or maybe that was you, instinctually leaning towards the dip in the middle of the bed when you’d been lost in thought.
“The reason they locked me in here with you is so I would tell you about my feelings towards you,” you blurted, the words slurring together, consonants and syllables all in one rush. “Because I have them. Feelings, I mean.”
Zoro’s voice was very low when he spoke. “Excuse me?”
You sat straight up, the blankets previously nestled around your chin falling to your waist. “I have feelings for you and that’s why everyone locked me in here.”
“I—” Zoro coughed, and then coughed again, ridding his throat of whatever was preventing him from making full sentences. He slowly sat up, and you stared down at the blankets in your lap as you saw him rise to his full height beside you. And oh, this was it. He was about to reject you in the most excruciating, offhand manner that would probably leave you at the bottom of a barrel of rum. “That’s not possible.”
“Why is that—” you decided to shut up instead of finishing your sentence, allowing him to speak instead. There was a soft burning starting at your skin, all red hot, and your brain buzzed, regret filling up your lungs and making it hard to breathe.
Zoro didn’t say anything, but you heard his hand before you felt it. It slid across the bedsheets before finally resting beside yours, fingertips grazing against your knuckles. “Zoro?” you whispered.
“The reason they locked you in here with me is so I would tell you about my feelings towards you,” Zoro said blankly. You blinked. It took you a moment to realize that he wasn’t just quoting you—that he hadn’t switched the pronouns accordingly. Your heart dropped.
Your voice was very faint when you spoke. “What?”
“I like you,” Zoro said carefully. Languidly, the words dripping off his tongue all saccharine-sweet like molasses, or honey. You shivered, your hand accidentally knocking against his, and he took the opportunity to draw it in closer, fingers pushing up your palm, just a hair’s breadth away from interlacing with yours. “Luffy unfortunately found out. He doesn’t know how to keep a secret and told the rest of the crew.”
You gaped at him. “I like you,” you said, dumbfounded. You could feel yourself trembling, fingers sliding against Zoro’s hand with every shake. “Nami yanked it out of me. Which is why I’ve been avoiding you for the past week.”
“I thought you were avoiding me because you found out I liked you,” Zoro muttered. His fingertips brushed against the pads of your hand, and you swallowed, mouth all dry. “So.”
You tentatively lifted your gaze, finding Zoro’s eyes even amidst the darkness. They were shining, a slight glint from the moon coming in through the window reflecting along the shadows of his face. Carefully, his hand slid fully into yours, fingers lacing together, and it was like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.
Zoro slid back down onto his back, tugging you along with him. You settled back on your pillow, using your other hand to pull the blankets back over your chest. For a full stagnant minute the two of you lay there, hands intertwined in the space between.
You were the one who made the first move, then, thumb running up and down the length of his index finger. Zoro ran with the action, tugging your hand just slightly until you were leaning into the dip of the mattress, gravity pulling you closer to his body.
He lifted your entwined hands, tugging you towards him until your back was pressed right to his chest. Then he settled your arms back down again, the back of his palm resting against your belly.
You swallowed hard, able to hear the sound of your throat in the utter silence. Zoro exhaled, his breath softly brushing against your neck. “Good night,” you whispered.
Zoro pressed a soft kiss to the nape of your neck, a ghost of something that left tingles fluttering down your spine, the drunken butterflies in your stomach swaying at the action. “Good night,” he murmured, and your breath caught.
He was warm, oh so warm, like a campfire with licks of flame that softened your hands in the dead of night. And even though you wanted to speak up, question when he’d started liking you, if he was lying or not—you were content to stay here in his arms and drift off to sleep.
So you did, settling back into his embrace with your head spinning and senses murmuring, all dizzy like you were caught in a dream. Eventually, your tiredness got the better of you, and you felt your senses fading as the world around you darkened to black.
The two of you jolted awake to the knocking and the very unpleasant hum of Nami’s voice. “Rise and shine!” she called through the door, and you blinked, bleary eyes adjusting to the light as you suppressed your yawn.
Zoro jolted up beside you, practically giving you whiplash as his arm was still comfortably around your waist. Your fingers tingled, and you realized that you’d fallen asleep with your hands laced together.
“Nami,” you grumbled, about to rise out of bed before Zoro stopped you. You turned towards him in question, only to stop short as you registered the look in his eyes. His gaze was deep, piercing; those butterflies rose up again in your stomach, apparently awake after they’d passed out from their drunken stupor. You swallowed. “Hi?”
“Hey,” he murmured. “They locked you in my room.”
“I’m going to knock Nami over the head with a rowboat oar,” you said blandly, eyes flickering towards the door, which Nami was still pounding on. You vaguely heard shuffling sounds, like the crew were working to move the barrels they’d stuck in front of the door to free you from your prison. “You can have the rest of them, if you want.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Zoro agreed. “But first…”
“First?” you prompted.
Zoro brought your hands—still intertwined—to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss along your knuckles. “Good morning,” he said, voice low and awkward, like he wasn’t used to letting the words out of his mouth. He let your hands drift to his lap, leaning forward until his forehead brushed against yours.
A faint sigh escaped your lips when he finally kissed you. It wasn’t rough or hard; it was a soft press, like your hands had been just a few hours ago. There was a degree of finality to it; a held-in breath that’d exhaled from your lungs, one you hadn’t realized was building up that much pressure until you finally let it all go.
The door flung open, and you jolted away, but Zoro tilted your head back towards him before you could. At the mouth of the room, Luffy had started screaming. “Aww,” Nami cooed. Behind her, Usopp and Sanji were gripping onto each other like they were watching a particularly engaging fight.
A steady blush rose along your cheeks, but Zoro was absolutely shameless, the hand not held in yours raising up to give them the finger. “Get out of my room.”
“Told you it’d be okay,” Nami sing-songed, and then you really did break away from Zoro, picking up the object nearest to you and barrelling towards her. She shrieked, dodging out of the doorway as Zoro laughed from behind you.
“Wait!” she stopped you from whacking your pillow against her head, raising up her arms in defense. “I was right. I saw you two—”
“Nami,” you started, dangerously low. “You locked me in his room.”
“Yeah, to help you!” she cried defensively, slowly taking backwards steps as you gained on her. “Come on. We can talk about this.”
“Good luck,” Zoro called out from behind you—you turned around, catching his gaze. He had gotten up, leaning against the doorway and watching you with a sparkle of fondness in his eye. “You’ll need it.”
You blew him a kiss, ignoring the long groan it pulled out of Luffy from beside Zoro in the hallway. And then you turned around. Nami had darted off, taking the time you’d been distracted to run off. “Oh no you don’t!” you yelled, and then lunged after her with Zoro laughing all the while.
Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad thing, you thought. But you were still going to beat Nami’s ass.
© halfvalid 2023
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The Guilt (Alastor x Reader)
Pairing: Alastor x Reader)
Description: Y/n was the one person he never meant to kill, but Alastor didn't have a choice. Years later, much to his surprise, they run into one another in the depths of Pentagram City.
Warnings: Murder, cannibalism mentioned in a metaphoric sense. Un-detailed descriptions of rotting bodies.
Word Count: 2,701
Master Lists:
Master Lists
Hazbin Hotel Master List
A/N I promise I will get to the rest of the requests soon, I just wanted to write something that has been stuck in my head for a hot minute since I've like only been doing requests the past couple days. I think the only ones I have left are ones that have been sent in since February 15th so I hope that is okay.
Alastor recognized her the minute he first saw her. It had been a year since his arrival in Hell and he was already making waves. Demons avoided him on the streets, shot him fearful glances over their shoulders. He enjoyed the privacy it afforded him, the padding of air around him.
He didn't pay the others mind, focused on his own goals and patterns of being. Friends, relationships, they were far from his top priority but still, Alastor recognized her the minute he first saw her.
In his years of blood soaked escapades in the world of the living, he had wreaked havoc on the world. In all those years, he had only ever made two mistakes. The first had been getting caught, getting killed by that hunter. The second? Had been killing that girl.
He hadn't had a choice. Normally, Alastor chose his victims carefully following a specific criteria. She had been an accident. He had gotten careless one night, cocky even in his streak of successes. Alastor had been transfixed, carving a man's intestines from the cavity of his stomach. The girl had had wide eyes, her mouth open. She had trembled.
Their eyes had met across the darkened street. She had clutched at her coat, pulling it tighter. She hadn't even tried to run.
Alastor never learned her name, avoided all reports on her disappearance and death like the plague. She haunted him. He saw her around corners, when he shut his eyes at night like a vengeful spirit. Always just staring at him with those big, knowing eyes. He didn't need more reminders, more facets of feeling, than he already had.
Alastor had recognized her the minute he first laid eyes on her in Hell. It had taken him a moment to realize she was real, she still looked so deeply human after all. He had never expected her to be here. He had never expected to see her again.
When he opened his eyes and she was still there, sitting placidly at the cafe table, it was like some uncontrollable force pulled him to her. He pulled out the spare chair, falling lazily into it. She looked up at the noise of metal against concrete, curiosity painting her features as she lowered her book onto the table.
"Hello?" she said after a moment, though it was more of a question than a greeting.
Alastor had never heard her voice before except for when she had screamed. It was melodious, it was soft and sweet. His smile grew.
"Yes, hello indeed."
She stared at him with those eyes, those same eyes that had haunted him for years.
"My apologies but, who are you? Do I know you?"
He was unable to keep the surprise from his features. It had been a long time since anyone had asked him something like that, he couldn't tell if she was joking. But then there were those wide eyes, earnest in their honesty.
"No, my apologies. I did not introduce myself. My name is Alastor, quite the pleasure to meet you. Quiet the pleasure."
He grabbed her hand from where it lay daintily across her open book, shaking it in his own.
"Oh!" Y/n lightly exclaimed in response to the action, "Oh, well, Alastor, I am Y/n. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well."
The contact broke and Alastor leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands.
"Forgive me for saying this but, you seem a bit unsuited for all this mess. Prim and proper. What landed you here?"
"Is that why you've come to join me?"
Alastor nodded after a second's thought. It was an easy cover up for his true motives. Y/n seemed to have no idea who he was after all and to be perfectly honest, even Alastor himself was struggling to understand his motivations. Guilt wasn't an emotion he was familiar with. It was confusing, writhed in the pit of his stomach like a snake.
"Well, thats a rather personal question to ask someone right off the bat, isn't it?"
"I suppose you're right. How about this one then, what are you reading?"
After that day at the cafe, Alastor followed Y/n like a hurt puppy. He didn't rightly know why. It was a compulsion of a sort, he couldn't stop it. She was disinterested by radio, by the newfangled video boxes popping up. She knew nothing of his reputation, she just thought he was a friend. A fairly determined friend, but a friend none the less.
Alastor didn't understand it. He was a man obsessed, not with Y/n per say but with the opportunity she offered. She smelled like making good on past wrongs. That wasn't something Alastor had ever been interested in before. Y/n was the exception. She was always the exception, he supposed.
It wasn't long before their little lunches, their random rendezvous in the streets, carefully orchestrated by Alastor of course, not that she knew, became something more. Spending time with her calmed the raging sea of uncertainty in his gut. Being kind to her felt like salvation.
Alastor had never been concerned with that before, but it was such an intoxicating thing to hear her words of thanks, of praise. To witness her smiles and her apparently unending kindness. They would spend hours pouring over one another's collections of books. They would spend hours in deep philosophic discussion. It was Y/n who first brought up their previous lives.
"Do you ever miss it?" she had asked when they had been making lunch together one day in her apartment.
Alastor's hand had stilled, his knife halfway through the cut of veal he had been handeling.
"Miss what, my dear?"
"Life."
He began to move the knife again, letting out a slight hum of thought.
"Not particularly. I take it you do?"
Y/n leaned over the pot, checking to see if the water was boiling yet for the potatoes. It wasn't and so she turned to him, leaning up against the counter.
"Sometimes." she admitted.
Alastor turned to her as well. The apron over her dress was stained with jam from the times they had baked together just a few days before. Y/n hair was tied up and away from her face. He felt his heart stutter in his chest.
That had been happening a lot lately when he looked at her. Alastor figured it was a progression of guilt, a giving away of it. He figured spending time with Y/n was helping it go away.
It wasn't like it was a burden for him. They actually had a surprising amount in common.
"What do you miss?"
"My mom."
And there it was again, the cannibalistic sickness eating away at his brain.
"Were you two close?"
Y/n nodded, turning her gaze to the window.
"Yeah. She... I didn't have a big family. Or a lot of friends growing up. I was shy, painfully shy. She was... she was all I had. And now she's alone up there."
"What landed you down here?"
Y/n looked back to Alastor, smirking.
"Back to this are we? Only took what, six months?"
"We're friends now, aren't we?"
"Alastor..."
"Shoot me, I'm curious."
Y/n laughed lightly.
"Okay, I tell you, you tell me. Deal?"
Alastor thought it over for a moment. He could always lie to her, make up some story or another but, she was bound to find out eventually. More than anything, he wanted to keep her from connecting the pieces. Y/n figuring things out felt dangerous, it pained him to think about how she would react.
"Deal."
"Okay, um," Y/n looked away again, her hands fiddling with the frilled edge of her apron, "I don't really like to talk about it. It's kind of embarrassing."
"You made a deal."
"Yeah, yeah. I know."
"So spill."
Y/n smiled lightly, meeting Alastor's eyes for a second.
"Well, I was kind of... maybe... sort of... a thief?"
"Really?"
Alastor hadn't expected that. He wasn't quite sure what he had expected to be honest but, it wasn't that.
"Yeah. Times were... tough growing up. Single mom with a kid in the early 1900s? Not everyone was a fan. It was hard for her to find work so I would... supplement. No one suspected the little girl, you know?"
There were two types of demons in Hell. There were the ones that had their demon forms, and then there were the ones like Alastor with more than one form, more abilities, more strength. It was the anger that fed it, the person they were on earth. Alastor had always assumed Y/n fell into the first category but, as she relayed her tale to him, her body began to change. She rotted before his very eyes, becoming a standing corpse with his bones all showing.
"I always felt awful about it but, we didn't really have a choice. You know? I didn't want to do it, didn't like it, but I did it and I was good at it. When I grew up, well, sometimes it is just easier to stick to what you know. I worked for a cleaning service, maids for hire, working parties, stuff like that. I, well, the people I worked for were rich. They didn't need the money but my mother and I certainly did."
It was then she seemed to realize her own changed appearance. Her eyes shot up to Alastor as she retook her original form.
"Sorry about that." she awkwardly laughed, "Guess the guilt is still eating me alive, even in death. So, what'd you do?"
Alastor took a breath, appraising the situation. The guilt, the sense of having truly sinned.
"I was a serial killer."
Y/n's eyes went wide.
"Really? You? But you're so..."
"So what, my dear?"
"So nice."
Alastor stilled.
"Nice?" he repeated.
Even in life, it was a word that few had directed towards him. Polite, yes. Talented, yes. Charming? Of course, but never nice.
At the sound of bubbling from the pot, Y/n turned his back to him.
"Yeah." she shrugged, opening the lid and dropping the potatoes in, "You probably one of the nicest people I've ever met."
The way Y/n saw him was intoxicating. Nice. He began to spend more and more time at her side. It was hard to keep the other half of his life from her but, he managed. It was a delicate balance, a game he knew well.
It was a day about a year later that Y/n approached him, blushing and unable to meet his eyes. It was a year later she told him how she felt and he realized he felt the same. They moved in together, did nearly everything together. It was a happy afterlife for them both. The first time they had kissed, she had tasted like redemption.
Y/n never questioned what Alastor did on his late nights out alone. She trusted his fidelity and when he said he liked going for walks alone in the evening air, she accepted it. When he said he was at work, broadcasting his radio show, she never asked why they didn't have a radio of their own. It was an unspoken agreement, he didn't ask where the money came from and she didn't ask what he did in the long hours he was away.
The guilt felt heavy in the pit of his stomach, growing stronger every day but still, Y/n remained blissfully ignorant. Alastor could practically hear the clock ticking. Every kiss felt like it might be the last, every caress, every meal shared at the kitchen table. He did everything he could, but knew one day she was bound to find out.
Alastor knew the day had come when he entered their lovely home on the outskirts of the Pride ring. He called his usual hello out into the house from the foyer, letting the door fall shut behind him. Y/n didn't come.
"Y/n?" he called, taking a step further into the house, "Are you home?"
All the lights were on. That was something she was careful about from the old days, making sure not to use electricity unless necessary. There was no way she wasn't in the house.
Tentatively, he stepped into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, her head in her hands.
"Are you alright, my love?"
It was then he noticed the radio on the table.
"Oh."
"Yeah." Y/n sighed, looking up at him, "Oh."
"Where did you get that?"
"Someone dropped it off, left it at the door. I thought it was you originally but, now I'm not so sure."
Someone had left it for her? One of Alastor's numerous enemies was responsible no doubt. He had always been so careful to keep her protected, out of the public eye. It didn't make sense.
"You heard todays broadcast?"
"Oh you mean the screams of innocent demons mixed in with your stories about New Orleans?"
Alastor was silent. Y/n's eyes were rimmed with red, her hair a mess.
"They were far from innocent. Everyone is down here for a reason. Besides, I told you. I'm a killer."
"You didn't tell me you were my killer."
His heart stopped. He hadn't realized exactly how much she'd managed to piece together from the simple broadcast.
"Am I now?" Alastor asked placidly, trying to remain calm as he clasped his hands behind his back.
He didn't know what he was playing at. He was grasping at straws. Y/n got to her feet.
"You never told me you were from New Orleans, just said you grew up in the south. I let it slide but, I shouldn't have. I should have known, the similarities in our experiences... god, I was such a fool! I should have known we grew from the same patch of dirt. Alastor, there was only one serial killer active in the city at the time we were both alive, at the time I died."
"And you think it was me, my heart?"
"Alastor." she crossed her arms.
"I..."
"How could you not tell me?"
Y/n's anger mixed with grief, it misdirected itself, it got caught on the details. It hurt more that he'd been lying to her. The act itself was something to be dealt with later. Now was the time for the lies. They had spent years together, built a life together and the whole time, he had been lying.
"I didn't me-"
"Mean for me to find out?"
"Well, yes." he took a step forward, he tried to grab her hands but she pulled them away.
Y/n's skin was rotting now, she was taking on her other form. It was the first time he'd seen her do it when not remising about the past or telling stories about her mother. He had no idea what she was capable of when in this state.
"But also, I didn't mean to-"
"To what, to kill me? To marry me? To make me fucking trust you?"
"I..."
The world was falling down around him. The one thing he couldn't lose, the one thing he cared about besides himself or his power. The person that meant the most to him.
"My darling, my heart, m-"
"No, Alastor. Just... just stop." she sighed, a hand to her forehead.
She rubbed her temples, exhausted and overwhelmed.
"I'm sorry."
The words were spoken softly but they crashed into Y/n like a speeding truck. They broke her ribs. She lowered her hand.
"I... I need some time."
"No, Y/n, wait. Please."
Again, she brushed off his attempts to hold her, making her way to the door of the kitchen. Alastor followed her out into the hallway.
"Y/n. Please. Please don't leave."
"What, so you can keep up your pity project?" she scoffed, rounding on him, "I am better than that Alastor. I deserve better."
"It... you aren't a pity project. You're my world, I love you."
"No, your world is this city. Your world is running Hell. I... Alastor, I'm leaving."
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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
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