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Kira arrives first, although she’s still late.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “There was a...thing.”
“A thing?” Keiko says, quizzically.
“Yes,” Kira says, “a classified thing.”
“Oh,” says Keiko. “One of those...things.”
They share the kind of understanding glance you can only have between two people for whom the last “thing” involved one of them carrying the other’s baby six months into the pregnancy, and sit down.
“So,” Keiko says, “Ziyal.”
And that’s when Garak rushes in, looking actually and genuinely flustered for the first time in the five years Keiko has been on DS9 - and judging from Kira’s expression, perhaps even longer than that.
“I’m not too late, am I? I’ve been held hostage by angry bridesmaids since just after lunch, honestly they were positively rabid-”
“Oh, for Ensign Pallah?” Keiko asks, interested. “She asked me to do the flowers.”
“Then steel yourself, my dear Mrs O’Brien,” Garak says. “The woman is an unholy terror.”
“Sounds like Officer Flaxley’s got her work cut out for her,” Kira says, grinning.
Garak smiles back, like it surprises him. It might even be genuine, Keiko thinks. All sorts of new experiences today. There’s an awkward pause, as though he’s waiting for them to remember who he is and throw him out, and then he sits.
“Well now,” he says, smoothing down the fabric of his trousers. “On to more pleasant matters.”
“Yes,” Keiko smiles, “Ziyal.”
Keiko is pleased with how this is going. Ziyal’s an excellent student, and a pleasure to talk about. She isn’t surprised that Kira is attentive, but Garak also seems to be taking this very seriously, and all in all, they’re some of the easiest parents she’s had to deal with so far this term.
In the distance, there is the sound of angry footsteps, a growl, and the sound of someone or several someones getting very hurriedly out of someone else’s way. I spoke too soon, Keiko sighs internally.
Garak raises his eyebrows at Kira, who, to his poorly concealed astonishment, winks. “Just play along,” she whispers, and turns to face Keiko.
Garak does the same, perplexed, and waits. The doors burst open.
Dukat is having a bad day. Glorious combat has not been his lot; even outlaws, however lawless, have to do paperwork. Particularly, it turns out, if they want to eat. The air circulators on the bridge have malfunctioned, five crates of supplies have gone bad, and assorted minor breakdowns in the engine room have insured that they’ve limped into the station twenty minutes late for the start of Ziyal’s parent-teacher conference with that insufferable O’Brien woman.
He puts on his most charming smile, straightens his armour, and strides in, declaring “So sorry I’m late, Mrs O’Brien, a minor skirmish on the edge of the Badlands -”
Or at least, he intends to. But when the door swishes open, he’s greeted not by Mrs O’Brien’s scowl but with Nerys and Garak, who turn slowly to stare at him in such perfect synchronisation that he would assume they’d rehearsed it if he didn’t know that Nerys found the man as odious as he did.
“And what sort of a time do you call this?” Nerys snaps. “Do you know how long we’ve been sitting here, wondering if you would bother to show up?
He opens his mouth, though whether in shock or to defend himself, he’s not entirely sure.
“He’s always been this way,” Garak opines, Garak, leaning conspiratorially in to address Mrs O’Brien. “Feckless, you know. Unreliable.”
“And what’s the deadbeat’s excuse this time?” Nerys continues. “He always has one. Each more ridiculous than the last.”
“Now wait a -”
“Found some other poor sentients to assault with his lack of manners and dismal taste in clothes, no doubt.” Garak says, voice dripping with disdain.
“I was at a border skirmish in-”
“And what kind of work is that for a father?” Nerys interrupts, and turns back to Mrs O’Brien. “He had a perfectly respectable job, you know.”
“Gul in charge of the occupation forces,” Garak nods. “Most respectable.”
“Most respectable,” Nerys says, words dripping with false sincerity. “No higher calling.”
“And then,” Garak sighs, smug little insect, “he throws it all away. And for what?”
“Chasing Klingons like some kind of pirate,” Nerys snorts.
“What is that delightful human expression, Mrs O’Brien? Mid...life crisis?”
“That’s correct, Mr Garak,” Mrs O’Brien joins in, ignoring Dukat completely. “Often characterised by neglecting one’s responsibilities in favour of behaviour befitting much younger men, buying expensive and needlessly fast vehicles, and indulging in reckless and immature-”
Dukat has heard enough.
It’s an unfortunate flaw in DS9’s design, he thinks, that the doors are impossible to slam. Something to think about.
“His face,” Major Kira howls, one hand on Garak’s shoulder and one hand on the table for support.
Mrs O’Brien has her head on her arms, and from the muffled snorting sounds, she is also having trouble restraining her laughter. That, or she’s suffocating herself. Humans. Ridiculous creatures.
Although, he believes, they have been quite outdone this evening. He is chuckling before he realises it; this will make an excellent story to regale the good doctor at lunch.
“I must tell Julian,” he says. “I think this beats even the incident with the station lockdown.”
“Surely not,” says Mrs O’Brien, who has presumably had the whole story from her far less interesting husband.
“No, wait,” Major Kira says, recovering herself enough to speak without spluttering. “You weren’t there when I explained the baby!”
“The baby?” Garak asks, then remembers, “oh, of course. How is young Kirayoshi?”
“Doing well, thank you,” Mrs O’Brien says, eyes lit up. “But I don’t think I’ve heard this story either?”
“Oh, oh gods,” Kira says, “it was...it was something else.”
“Well, don’t leave us in suspense, Major,” Garak says, intrigued.
“He cornered me on his way out, back when I was pregnant,” Kira hiccups. “And he was trying to make small talk, but behaving, I don’t know, kind of jealous, you know?”
“I know,” Garak says, gravely, though he’s sure his eyes are twinkling. Humans. They rub off on you.
“Like,” and here her face takes on an unnaturally pompous aspect, as though she’s swallowed some sort of acidic fruit - “oh, I’m sure Shakaar must be thrilled, he’s such a lucky man”” - she’s imitating Dukat, he realises, and she’s really quite good - “because obviously no-one told him - and I just turned round, innocent as you like, and said “Oh, the baby isn’t Shakaar’s,” and he said “Oh?” like he was dying to ask but it’s beneath his dignity or something, and I said -”
“It’s Chief O’Brien’s,” she and Mrs O’Brien finish together, the former with dramatic flair and the latter with a tone of dawning realisation, and collapse in another fit of cackling. Garak, helpless in the face of Dukat’s imagined expression, joins them.
“Shall we continue this at Quark’s?” Mrs O’Brien says, once they’ve all got their breath back. It takes, Garak is amused and slightly concerned to note, rather longer than it should have. He can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard.
“I think so,” Kira says. “I need a drink.”
“And I feel like Garak has far more humiliating Dukat stories than either of us,” Mrs O’Brien says.
Wicked woman. Garak likes her immensely.
“More than you could possibly imagine.”