Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When she shimmered her way into the infirmary that morning, I smelled trouble.

Well, not literally, of course. I don't think trouble usually has a smell qua smell, if that's the term I mean. I've certainly been in enough of it to know its pong, and it's never ponged of much of anything. Unless, of course, you consider the time that a younger Julian attempted to make vegetable soup from various plants tugged from the front garden, mixed with a generous splashing of puddle-water, and then forgot the whole dashed mess under the bed for several weeks. If trouble did have a smell, it seems more than likely that's what it would whiff of.

But I distract myself from the point, which is that Jadzia Dax smelled most definitely of trouble, except she didn't. Still, I greeted her with cheer.

"What ho, Dax!"

"Hello, Julian."

There was something not quite clement about her expression, and a warble in the tone that smacked of decidedly unpleasant things. She was, I felt, not up to her usual standard.

"What have you done to yourself this time?" I said, and shook the head in a fatherly manner. Now, you may fancy that my speech was a trifle harsh, but I assure you: it is no more than was required. Jadzia Dax is forever getting herself into scrapes. To set you the proper example, I will advise you that her idea of a giggler is to break into one's quarters and move all the furniture about, and when one protests, one is swatted upon the arm and advised to buck up, even if one's general behaviour is as giddy as can be. She is the kind of person that thinks life is something of an enormous joke, and I suppose she should know, considering she's had seven of them. Or is it eight? I can never remember. At any rate, she is an old thing with a positive pash for being a young thing, and it does tend to get her into trouble. If I am very lucky, sometimes she involves me too.

Today, however, it seemed the trouble had already found her all on its own. She held out her arm, and I noted a nasty tear in the uniform, along with a wound underneath that rather brimmed with the red stuff.

"Oh, dear. Dax, Dax, Dax." I may have tutted. "What ever have you been doing?"

"Bat'leth."

"Of course. Of course it was." I furrowed the solemn brow. "You know, you could get badly injured playing about in the holosuites with the safety off—"

"I wasn't in the holosuites."

"You weren't?"

"No."

"Well, where were you?"

"Racquetball court."

Well, now the time for correction truly seemed to be at hand. "Jadzia, what on earth possessed you to play racquetball with a bat'leth? Dashed dangerous, I should think! Didn't one of your previous hosts have some little inkling that it might cause a bit of havoc?"

"I wasn't playing racquetball. I was sparring."

All the time as we talked, I was, of course, plying my trade. I'd seized up a hypospray of something goodish and pressed it to her neck the second I'd seen that wound, and her pupils were expanding nicely. Now it was but a moment's work to snatch up the medical tricorder and run it over the wound. What I saw on its screen made me thoughtful.

"It's deep. Must have been a most palpable hit, what?"

"I'd say."

"Well, up on the biobed, then; we'll have you fixed up in a jiffy."

She made moan, but Jadzia Dax is a tough old thing: in a moment's time she'd hoisted herself up without the need for Julian's strong arm. My tissue regenerator was close at hand, and I ran it back and forth across the wound right slippily.

"Why were you sparring in the racquetball court?"

"Because Odo doesn't allow weapons on the Promenade."

"Jadzia!”

She saw that my patience was short.

"All right, all right. Vilix'pran and I wanted to get in some real practice, not even the basic safeties enabled, and the holodeck won't let you turn them all off—"

"Hold on a moment." Something was tickling at the old eidetic memory, and I drooped the eyelids for a moment to let it winkle itself out. "Vilix'pran? Isn't that the fellow with all the antennae? The one we threw the baby shower for some years back?"

"That's him."

"What on earth is he doing messing about with bat'leths? Far too dangerous for a family man! Hasn't he got little ones at home?"

"Not anymore, he doesn't. They've fledged."

"Have they really!" Well, that put a smile on my face. "How time does pass! The battles of our youth become soon enough the old warrior's songs, if that's the thing I mean." And I fancy she was quite impressed with my summation, for her own visage was suddenly wreathed with grins.

"You do know how to put things, Julian."

I inclined the bonce with modesty as I poked at her mended limb. I was tolerably pleased with how it didn't spout ichor. "You're patched."

Her shout of delight gave me all the thanks I could want. A physician such as myself must not stand on thank you and never-ending gratitude and such base things. The members of the medical class are, I feel, above these meaningless platitudes. Our true reward is in the brightened eye, the springing step, the tinkling laughter of the recovered patient once again living life to the juiciest, as indeed Dax seemed prepared to do. The happy chuckle she emitted made me want to leap for cover.

"Thanks! Now I can get back to the court—"

"Hold up, old thing—back to the court?"

"Of course! I left Vilix'pran waiting!"

Well, really. Not getting any thanks is one thing, but to have the individual in question immediately pop off and once again unravel the bit I've spent so much time re-ravelling, if that's the word I mean? Smacks of ingratitude, I feel. I drew myself up to my full height and frowned the paternal frown.

"If you could manage not to injure yourself this time?"

"Oh, don't be boring, Julian."

Once again, I draw to your attention the rumminess of this Dax. The female of the sp. is deadlier than the m., and this appears to go for every species that dabbles in the gender binary and quite a few that don't. The clever gentleman simply steps aside and lets the thing pass, as, indeed, did I.

"Well, then, I shall see you later."

"At the staff meeting. Don't forget this time!"

This was hardly fair, given that my missing of the previous staff meeting had been entirely beyond my control. When a man is embroiled in the vicissitudes of battling nation-states, well, he may forget himself a trifle, running perhaps over deadline very slightly—and then should he find the holosuite doors jammed when he's just upon the point of leaving, and then should he be subjected to a barrage of acerb comments about the dashed inconvenience of it all as he's being freed by the fellow who is supposed to be his pal—well, suffice it to say that the previous day had been a bit of a confounded mess, and I felt well shut of it. Still, there seemed the need to raise the token protest.

"I didn't forget, as you know very well—"

"Details, Julian. Just be there this time, all right? We're only having two in a row because of you."

The soul bridled a bit at this, but there was no use in dwelling. I extended the hand of friendship. "I'll see you there."

"Okay!" She slipped herself down from the table with a pleasant little wriggle—moderately ornamental, that Dax—and squeezed Julian's grabber in a tight squeeze. She grinned at me, and I at her, and the entire interaction, I felt, was wrapped in the very finest feeling to which friendship could aspire. I was rather bucked up by the whole thing.

As Dax left, I turned back to my work, thinking not at all about the meeting to come. I am one who focusses on the moment. The future, to me, is something not to be considered beyond the necessary. Such thinking only produces acid reflux and a general sensation of malaise.

"Hey, Julian?"

Dax had popped her head back 'round the infirmary door, a troubling look on her face. Note the choice of words: troubling, not troubled. Garak has gone to great lengths to impress upon me the importance of choice of words when one wants to get a certain thing across, and I am, I feel, beginning to wield such things rather deftly. And when I say troubling, well, I mean it: that look gave me trouble.

"Yes? Is there something else?"

"Oh, nothing important."

"Oh?"

"Nothing to worry about."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"Good, then."

"Only—"

"Yes?"

"I can't wait to see your face."

And with that she was gone, and Julian was left to brood upon the vagaries of life. Brooding is not, as a rule, a habit to which I am inclined. Close proximity to a Dax, however, does tend to give one reason for an excess of broodery. And so I brooded, and I brooded with a will, and as you will see, my brooding was not wasted, for the uses to which my colleagues planned to put me were worthy of brooding of the very highest calibre.

Chapter Text

Under normal circumstances, I very much enjoy staff meetings. This may surprise you. "Dull," you may cry! Well, yes, that may be so at your place of employment, but at mine… well, there really is no comparing this place and any other locale I've ever been local to. Always something new to look into, what? Something intriguing, something to dig into one and make one think potent thoughts. Given this, how can one fail to tingle just a smidgen at the thought of yet another adventure?

And so, you see, staff meetings don't bore me. Indeed, I thrill with unbridled pleasure at their very mention. One can always count on a scintillating discussion, Miles often has a gag to drop into the mix, and enterprises of great pitch and thingummy are set into motion with regularity. It is a matter of no small import, this being Chief Medical Officer on the station hight Deep Space Nine. Bit of a plum assignment, really, and I was topping lucky to get it in the first place, even if it does occasionally drop me square in the mulligatawny.

Of course my opinion is frequently sought at these gatherings. There is a recognition, I feel, that Julian Bashir is no ordinary physician, and his knowledge is plentiful. Often is the questioning eye turned my way; often is sage advice dispensed from my lips, to be met with nods and many an appreciative "Hmm!".

This, I am sad to say, was not the case at this particular meeting.

"You want me to what?"

"Now, Doctor, stay calm." That was the Captain, a man of great presence and strength of will. I usually admire him greatly. At that moment, I wanted to thump him one.

"I am calm! I'm a limpid pool!"

There was a sort of hih hih hih coming from the back corner of the table. It emanated, I thought, from the man who I'd once called a friend.

"I don't see what's so dashed funny about this, Miles."

"Oh, ah," he said, pressed his lips shut, and turned red as a beet before making once again with the giggles. He sounded like a sehlat in a lather. I didn't at all care for it, nor for the rummy way Dax was twisting her lips.

"Is this what you were on about in the infirmary?"

"More or less."

"More or less?"

"Maybe a bit more."

"I see," I said, layering my voice thickly with disappointment. "Oh, I see. Dump it off on the youngest officer, what?"

"Not at all. You were selected for this mission with a great deal of care." That was Odo. He picks his way through a sentence like a man who doesn't want to wet his spats.

"Do tell."

"The Xi'quallians are a people who appreciate conversation."

"Ah?"

"The request specifically asked for someone who 'had a lot to say'."

"And that's me, is it?"

"We all thought so." The captain was rubbing his lips.

"Did you really," I said, and I was frosty about it, let me tell you. "And did it occur to any of you for one moment that I might not want to marry the Xi'quallian ambassador?"

"I'm sorry you're so upset about this, Doctor, but we've all agreed that you're the best choice." Major Kira had a bit of a glint in her eye. I misliked the look of it. It seemed to be taking rather too much pleasure in the disposition of poor Julian.

"Well, I haven't had any say in the matter, have I?"

"It was discussed at the staff meeting yesterday. Which you didn't attend." Odo rumbled this at me most unpleasantly, and I felt the upper lip begin to curl.

"You know very well I was trapped in the holosuite until—"

"If you had not chosen to play juvenile games, you would not have been trapped in the first place." This last from Worf. (Everything one needs to know about that particular chappie is embodied in his name. Worf sounds, I feel, rather like an eructation, issued from a distended belly after a surfeit of Vulcan mollusks. The man is a perpetual cloud of gloom over any kind of enjoyable proceedings. Oft's the time I've attempted to lift his spirits with a bon mot or genial practical jibe of the sort much enjoyed by self and chums back at the Academy. But is he grateful? Never! The man is impervious to fun. A keen reader will, by this point, have discerned that the gentleman in question does not see eye to eye with our Julian. But I digress.)

"I hardly think that's fair, and at any rate, you can't make me marry anyone. There are laws about that sort of thing." The arms were folded, the chin raised, I rather fancy the voice rang with an authoritative flair, and to put the point upon the thing I nodded once, sharply, to make it clear that Julian Bashir did not go in for this sort of behind-the-back skulduggery.

Captain Sisko rubbed his eyes in a fatigued sort of fashion. "Doctor…"

"No, sir. No, thank you, sir." Not to be rude to one's C. O., of course, scarcely the path to promote optimal career success, but truly there are limits to the trials one man can be forced to undergo, and I believed he'd understand from tone of voice and steadiness of eye that I was to be pushed no farther.

Well, quelle surprise to learn that this was not the case. You may think I should have known better than to be shocked, but I pride myself on my open mind. Often it is said of Julian Bashir that his mind is as open as any fellow's, if not more. Unfortunately, there are times it is a damned nuisance.

"Is this my C. M. O. talking?" said my captain.

"It is."

"Doctor Julian Bashir, open-minded and full of the spirit of adventure?"

I saw what he was angling at straightaway, and moved to head him off at the pass. "Now look here—"

"Doctor Julian Bashir, who when he arrived on this station said to me, 'Sir, I hope I can be of service to you in any way possible. You may count on me for anything'?"

Well, that was dashed awkward. I did recall saying some such thing. Still, it was hardly fair to take advantage of a man's youthful enthusiasm at a new posting. One's liable to say any sort of thing when filled with that sort of joie de vivre. "I say, I—"

"Doctor, I have to say…" He sighed a sort of gusty sigh. A really very over the top sort of sigh. "I'm disappointed. You seemed to be the perfect choice."

Qualms began to brew within me. I shoved them down ruthlessly. "I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps you'd better choose someone else."

"But who could represent the Federation like you? Who could explain the ideals of our culture to the Xi'quallians better than someone who lives them every day?" Another sigh followed. He seemed to be venting air at a pretty good rate, and I feared a bit for his structural integrity. "You've really let me down, Doctor."

I wriggled in my seat, feeling decidedly put on the s. "I certainly don't want to let you down, sir, but—"

"Julian…" Now it was Dax's turn, apparently, and she was pulling the same sort of gently-blowing-wind business the Captain was sporting. The environs were becoming downright breezy. "I told Benjamin you'd do this for him. I told him you'd be delighted. Are you really going to let me down, too?"

I became increasingly aware of a deep-down sensation of nerves. It was like a sort of twitchy tingling in the pit of the stomach, akin to the feeling one gets after having wrapped oneself around a plate of indifferent gagh.

"Jadzia, I… I mean, it's hardly the sort of thing I—"

"And it's not permanent. It's just for a week. It's symbolic, Julian," and the old spotted thing batted her lashes at me in the most frightful way. "We all think you'd be perfect for the job. Won't you do it? As a friend? For me?"

Well, let it never be said that Julian Bashir is indifferent to the needs of his friends. Never let a pal down, that is the Bashir motto, even when it lands one most awfully in the soup. Call me a chump if you will, but among chumps I will stand as the chumpiest if it is to serve those who flock to me in time of need.

"All right. All right, all right." I placed my head gently in the palm of my hand, supporting that drooping stem as troubles piled upon me. "Now look, what exactly have I got to do?"

The more fool me, you say? Well, spot-jolly-on.

Chapter Text

Now, you may be wondering to yourself, why the devil would a young, red-blooded, stout-hearted egg such as this Julian Bashir avoid so assiduously the institute of marriage, especially in such a guise as this? The mind's eye paints it clearly. The lithe young thing, longing to burst free of the chains of privilege and restraint… the debonair Starfleet Officer, rakish and handsome… the midnight dance… the tight embrace… the whispered words shared in a heated moment… then matrimony, and with it, all the pleasures love can offer—and then to be shut of it all in a week? Surely, you might say, the gentleman doth protest too bally much.

Well, there's some reason to what you say. However, there is information you lack. I shall provide it forthwith:

First, that Julian Bashir does not take kindly to having his life twiddled about with. From my youth, my path has been re-directed time and time again by vociferous fathers and well-meaning mothers and slightly strident fiancées and others of that ilk. It makes one's day-to-day living very mucky. Now, I am an adaptable man. Many have said of me, "Julian Bashir is the man to see when you want adaptability," and I strive to live up to this reputation. But there are certain things up with which I simply will not put, and one of these is having my marital status altered without my permish.

Second, that the information with which I had been provided gave me to understand that the ambassador was some three hundred years of age, and that in the Xi'quallian species, as in my own, this was a rather significant accumulation of years. Strike from your mind, therefore, the image of the lithe young thing. Rather, paste in a grumpy old thing of, very likely, an auntish persuasion. Does this image charm you? Let me make it plain: it did not charm me.

And thirdly, if all of this information still does not suffice you, there is still one more point. I put it to you thus: Julian Bashir does not embark on the voyage of matrimony when he is already thoroughly entangled with another.

Well, a bit entangled. Somewhat.

At any rate, we've an Understanding.

An Understanding, I hear you say as you adjust the monocle? Yes, an Understanding. Sometimes there's no escaping le mot juste, if that's the term I want, and unfortunately I've been given nothing more solid to go on than that. Really, the man is stubbornly inscrutable, no matter how hard I try to unscrew him. Nevertheless, I assure you the fellow in q. is possessed of considerable pash for me, tucked snugly away within that scaly skin of his, and I hate to cause him any distress. I simply could not, at this juncture, abide the thought of him hearing the news, perhaps from a second party: Julian has up and married another, they'd say, and now what are you going to do? Why, the very thought brought a pearly one to the eye. Julian Bashir is not cavalier. He does not woo and then toss the emotions of the love object aside with an airy faugh. He is preux to a fault, mindful of what is the proper thing.

In this case, the proper thing to do was evidently to go and see my man Garak immediately.

This was what I did at this moment, when, leaving the conference room, I bent my steps immediately towards the turbolift, and from thence to the tailor's shop on the Promenade where I was habituated to finding him, as, indeed, I did today.

"Garak!" I cried, the voice raised in a passionate howl. "I've had terrible news!"

This was not met with the level of excitement one might wish. Instead, Garak merely raised his eyebrow ridges at me in a very non-committal kind of way. Now what is one supposed to do with the kind of person who goes about raising his eyebrow ridges? It seems to me not the thing to do at all when confronted with a man whose soul is troubled. Still, I pressed on.

"The Captain's told me I have to marry the Xi'quallian ambassador!"

One expects, when one declares such a thing to the object of one's affections, a bit of rancour. Perhaps a leap into the air, or an exclamation. A fist might be shaken at the very least.

He disappointed me entirely. To say he took it well would be an understatement. I fancy, in fact, that the ridges rose higher, and a smile played about the lips. Nothing, his expression seemed to say, could please Elim Garak more than the news of the impending nuptials of Julian Bashir.

"Is that so, Doctor?"

Do you recall how a moment ago I referred to Garak as my man? I rather think I may have misled you slightly. To tell you the whole of the thing, he's about as much his own man as any fellow I've ever met. He does what he pleases, when he pleases. We have our luncheon together on a regular basis, and he drops the most intriguing sort of hints about all kinds of mysterious business as we bash on about literature and such—but will he answer a simple straightforward question? I tell you he will not. He prefers, instead, to let a chappie dangle in the wind till he is good and fruity. The man's a bally mystery, to put it plain, and I find him absolutely enthralling. Neither age shall wither him nor custom stale, and from our first meeting I have followed him like a spaniel pup tracks its mother.

None of this, however, affects the fact that from time to time I am forced to be a bit sharp with him.

"Well, you needn't sit there and say 'Is that so, Doctor' at me. That doesn't help!"

"My apologies, Doctor."

"It's all right. It's just a bit of a jolly old shock."

"I'm sure it is."

"I mean, one day more or less single, the next bound for the aisle, what?"

"Indeed."

"And what am I to do? I don't want to marry any old ambassador!"

"Why ever not, Doctor?"

Well, there he flattened me. I mean, the man may keep a low profile, but… well, hang it all, hadn't we an Understanding? I'd been assured on several occasions of his affections for me, and he hadn't spared any words in so doing, either. Iloja of Prim had been brought into the conversation. So had the Song of Solomon. Much had been made of eyes and lips. And now this? Well, what I mean to say is that I felt the fellow was doing a bang-up job of talking out of both sides of his mouth. I was maddened. I felt an o’erwhelming desire to express exactly how put out I was, preferably in a stentorious tone. The fact that we were in public, however, dashed my hopes, much like the experience had by the vole that hopes to sneak a few locar beans from Quark's bar, only to meet the business end of a kanar bottle. I resorted instead to the angry whisper.

"Don't you sit there and 'why' at me! Forsake for me this 'why'! Leave it right out!"

"Ah."

This, I felt, was no better.

"Look, you've got to get me out of it."

"Must I?"

"Yes! I don't want to be married!"

"It's only for a week, Doctor. I'm sure you can manage the bonds of matrimony for that long…?"

That flummoxed me. "How do you know it's only for a week?"

"The Xi'quallian ambassador won't want to carry on any longer, believe me. It's purely customary. Besides, three hundred years is a trifle old for you, don't you think?" With this he turned back to his sewing as if naught had passed between us, and I stood there with the jaw dropped and the mouth at home to flies. How on earth did he know what was to transpire before I did?

It was dashed rummy, and I told him so in no uncertain terms. “Garak,” I said, “this is dashed rummy. How do you come to know all this business before the chap involved quite has it tucked into the bonce?”

“It’s astounding what one overhears when taking in skirts, Doctor.” The blighter smiled up at me with positive cheek.

"And this whole matrimonial wheeze doesn't bother you at all?"

"Not at all."

"Not even a tiny bit?"

"Not even that."

"The trials of your Julian do not concern you?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Well," I said, and I imagine he took it to heart. True, there was no impact visible on that slate-grey exterior, and his demeanour was unchanged, but when Julian Bashir is concerned, Elim Garak is a jelly. He bore up well, though, I'll give him that.

"Trust me, Doctor. It will be fine."

"Trust you?"

"Mmm. Look on it as a chance to learn from an elder."

"A chance to learn—"

"Yes. Really, my dear, you're being given quite the opportunity. tin'kur ti tonkh."

"Tinkerty what?"

"tin'kur ti tonkh. Kardasi, Doctor. It translates more or less accurately as ‘we all learn our lesson eventually.’"

"Sounds rather an ominous thing to say—what?"

"Not at all, Doctor. The intent is a kind one, I assure you."

I gave him the cool eye. "I'm rather put out about this, Garak."

"Oh, dear."

"Not at all sporting of you to let me down this way."

He made a sort of moue.

"Do you know, my lunch calendar is getting awfully full."

It seemed to me, by the careless way he laughed, that my threats were falling on deaf ears. I was no longer in the mood to stand in a tailor's shop and be hounded mercilessly by its proprietor. My destiny, I felt, lay elsewhere.

"All right, then. But when you see me all got up in wedding weeds, don't you forget who it is that landed me there!" And with that I turned, leaving behind me the meaningful look and the cold shoulder, pausing only at the door to launch my final shaft.

"tin'kur ti tonkh," I said. And I meant it to sting.

Chapter Text

Well, where can one turn in times such as these? When one is downcast, one must take pleasure in the little things, and it is to little things that I turned. And when I say "little," I mean approximately the length of one's finger, with a pointy end on, designed to be hurled with great force towards a target that one can easily pretend is the head of one's insensitive paramour. I mean, of course, that I went to find Miles, swept him up in my wake, and embroiled him in a game of darts.

Now, you may wonder why I would seek out Miles when he was bally well laughing at me in the staff meeting, and the answer is that I didn't have anyone else on whom I could count to bend the listening ear. Dax would snicker herself sick. Odo would harrumph. The captain would look at me in that way he has, as if I alone am the source of all misfortune in the galaxy. And Kira… well, Julian Bashir does not seek out his own demise. He prefers to remain aloof from such overt threats to health and w. b. Besides, Miles isn't such a bad sort, not really. A bit light on the convo, perhaps. Not much for the classics. But offer the man a dart and he will impress you, as, indeed, he does me. Also a dab hand with a skillfully-tossed peanut.

"Julian," he was saying as I wept into my synthale, "it's not so bad."

"It seems perfectly rotten to me."

"You don't understand the opportunity you have here."

"Oh?"

"You can impress the captain. You can curry favour."

"Curry favour? Me?"

"You could use it."

"I say, I can't imagine why!"

He rolled his eyes toward me and I sizzled under their glare.

"Oh, he isn't still on about last month, is he?"

The man gave no reply. This caused me to become fretful.

"Look, I didn't mean for the newts to get loose in his quarters."

"Oh, really?" The look he gave me was fishy in the extreme. "And where exactly were they meant to end up?"

Dashed awkward, I must say. I still felt a bit of a chump about the whole thing. I mean to say, I hadn't meant for the firenewts to slither their way into the captain's sanctum sanctorum.

And what did I mean for them to do, you ask? A fair question. I admit, possession of firenewts on a space station is a bit suspect. No real reason to have any such thing, what? I shall come clean: they were meant for Dax. A bit of turnabout is fair play, I feel, and if Jadzia Dax decides to fill my quarters with Volpat firenewts, I shall do the same to her.  Julian Bashir does not shrink from battle, even when newts are the weapon of choice. My plan had been foolproof, but my intel had been rotten, and the conduitful of newts that was to end up in the quarters of Lieutenant Dax had somehow instead reached a terminus in the quarters of Captain Sisko. I'd been given to understand the rug would never be the same. Wicked metabolisms, those newts. Still, it seemed a bit much that he was still all twisted up about it, even after I'd apologized. Things without all remedy should be without much bally regard: what's done is done, as Garak is wont to say, and I feel I must agree.

Miles was still offering up the fishy one, and I felt I must assuage his doubts. "All right, all right. You're on to something. Curry, you said."

"Yeah. Make his life easier. You know the captain isn't much for ambassadors."

Well, that was something in the nature of an understatement. Still, though. The spirit rankled. "Oh, Miles, why must it fall to me?"

"I don't get it. Why're you so bent out of shape over this?"

"Look, I mean, I'm to escort this lady… she is a lady, isn't she?"

"Yeah. I guess you got off lucky there. Old guys aren't really your type, eh?"

"Ah ha, quite, um, at any rate, I'm to escort this lady about the station, I'm to permit no harm to befall her, and I'm to stay by her side every second of every day until she leaves."

"Right." And the way he said it, so very bland and flat and clearly without even a soupçon of finer feeling, made me come all apart.

"Miles, it's torture, I don't want to—"

"It'll be fine."

"It won't!"

"Why d'you think it's gonna be torture?"

"What, escorting some blathering old higher-up about? I can't imagine anything much duller than having some oblivious twit wittering on at me about this and that, can you?"

"Oh, it's not so bad. You kind of get used to it."

"I don't want to dangle on her every bleat. I'm done babysitting ambassadors! I'm busy, don't you know. Chief medical officer and all that."

"You don't say. More synthale?"

"Yes, please. Thanks awfully. Look, I mean, what with this and that, I scarcely have time to breathe. Have you any idea how many fragile lives rest in my hands?"

"Lots, I'm sure."

"Well, exactly."

"It's your throw."

"Is it? Right-ho."

I toed the line as he wandered off to squeeze more ale out of Quark, generally beweeping my outcast state and feeling pretty sour about things. I mean, it's one thing to be an obliging sort of fellow, but at this point I was feeling a bit stretched thin. The rumminess of life weighed heavily upon me, and what with one thing and another, I very nearly missed the board entirely.

I greeted Miles's return with a pale smile, weak with sadness. He noticed not at all and handed me my drink with an uncaring grin. Cruel, I felt.

"What've you got to be so happy about?"

"I know something you don't know."

"Oh, really."

"Really."

"And what's that?"

"I know what the ambassador looks like."

Well, to say this captured my interest would be a bit of an understatement.

"You don't say! Well, offer up, offer up—where is the lady in question?"

"Lookit. Over there."

I followed the indicatory digit, letting my eyes drift over the plenitude of Promenade passers-by until I spied—

"Oh, my aunt."

"I don't think so." This was said with something of a satisfied air, and normally I would have been a bit sharp about it, something in the vein of who thinks he's so jolly clever, but I was too busy slipping an absolute cog.

Gorgeous. She was gorgeous. If that was three hundred years, she wore it well. Corking profile, eyes like twin stars, prettiest little set of antennae you've ever laid eyes on—like delicate little chopsticks, really, or p'raps those fretful-porpetine locks that Garak's made mention of, except not the littlest bit fretful, rather completely the absolute backwards of the thing—and oh, the shimmeriest carapace I'd ever goggled at, I mean, all green and really pretty something.

Did I gawp? I'm afraid I must've, because Miles was all a-grin.

"Now remember, Julian, you're upset about this."

"Am I?"

"You feel very put out."

"Do I, by Jove?"

"Taken advantage of. You don't have time for this, yeah?"

"Oh, I say, rather!"

"You don't want to escort her around and—hey, where're you going?"

"Tally-pip, old chap," and I was off, and when I say I can move at a fair pace when given a good old motivator, well, Turellian bloodhounds have nothing on me. Julian Bashir, when he spies a face of sufficient pulchritude, shakes a pretty decent leg, and the distance from Quark's to the shop-window this vision of loveliness was currently eyeballing was as nothing to me. I arrived with alacrity and displayed my dentition, hopeful of favour.

"Good day, my lady—ulp!"

Not exactly preux, is it? Not exactly the way one hopes to greet one's intended, I admit, but I dare you to do much better when you suddenly have a sort of spearish thing making friendly with the intimate areas of your throat. Bally well put me off my lunch, what?

"I say!" I said.

"Get back, intruder!"

This less-than-welcoming address issued from a bulky sort of lad whose presence I had completely failed to note, as had Miles. Couldn't blame him, really, any more than you could blame me: the fellow paled somewhat in comparison to his rather more fetching companion. The pointy bit he was now jabbing at me had, however,  riveted my attention.

"Sincerest apologies, my dear chap—I didn't catch your name?"

He was all frowns, mandibles clattering. "I am Drekor, guardian to the Lady Chhh'x!"

"A pleasure to meet you, old thing, really," and I offered him the pally one. He stared at it as if I'd suggested he grapple with a dead fish, then glared at me again.

"Your pleasures do not concern me! Remove yourself, or I will remove you!"

Well, all of this noisy business did unsettle me a bit. I could see a selection of Odo's thin beige line of security officers detaching themselves from the milling crowd, no doubt prepared to make rather a nuisance of themselves if required. It didn't seem quite the fashion in which to catch the lady's multifaceted eye. Fortunately, Julian Bashir is known for his quick mind and his way with conversation. I responded with candour.

"My dear fellow, I've certainly no wish to cause you or your lady any inconvenience at all. Let's have bygones be bygones, what?" He raised his spear; I redoubled my efforts. "I simply realised that you both appear to be of the Xi'quallian persuasion, and so I thought I'd nose 'round—I think I'm to be married to your Lady shortly, don't you see. Julian Bashir, at your service."

This disconcerted him. "You are Doctor Bashir?"

"The one and only."

I inclined the bean and smiled, and he gazed at me in a musing sort of fashion. The Lady herself, meanwhile, kept her head down and both sets of hands clasped, but I thought I detected a bit of curiosity in the tilt of her antennae.

Eventually Drekor seemed to decide that perhaps this fellow was the goods. That remarkably distracting spear dropped down, and he wiggled his antennae at me in a conciliatory sort of way.

"This is acceptable. I offer my own apology for this misunderstanding. I fear the last-instant substitution of Lady Chhh'x for her mother has caused some security concerns."

"Oh?” This was news. “Things a bit up-ended?”

"I… yes. The High Lady has taken ill, and refuses to be seen. Her daughter has offered to take her place." Suddenly he looked at me with a bit of concern. "This affects nothing, I assure you. The Lady Chhh'x will be an excellent wife. She has studied the four Forms of Address. She can recite the Bakra of Unthok. Her grasp of the Ungripping of Fyx is unrivalled."

This was Greek to me, but perhaps it did make a kind of sense. I suppose a chap never does know when he might need his Fyx Ungripped. "Seems all right to me, old fellow. I'm certain she'll do your species proud."

"Of course she will," he said, and his tone was sharp. "She is the Lady." He stole a sidelong glance at the party in question. Her head was still primly bowed. "But it is… unforeseen."

The man, if man was the sex-denominative I meant, seemed all in a lather. He practically radiated anxiety. I, on the other hand, felt awfully braced about the whole thing, and therefore waxed magnanimous.

"Quite all right, old bean, quite all right. I’m sure the old girl will be in the pink again—or possibly in the green—before you’ve even begun to miss her. Meanwhile, we can all get better acquainted. Now," and I turned my gaze toward the object of my attention, the sparkling-carapaced heart of my desire, "Lady Chhh'x, was it? Such a pleas—gak!"

Once again the undignified expostulation, once again the spear at my throat, once again the racket of clacking mandibles. "Do not address the Lady Chhh'x!"

"I'm frightfully sorry, old trout—"

"I am not your old anything, and you will cease to address the Lady! The time is not yet right!"

I couldn't follow him.

"Dear me, didn't mean to cause a mix-up. So sorry. Rotten old misunderstanding, what?"

"She is only for her husband."

"Well, that's me," I said, with a bit of a careless laugh. Drekor didn't seem amused.

"You are not her husband yet—and the Forms of Address must be followed!"

"What, surely a bit of premarital chit-chat can’t cause any kind of muddy water?"

"I warn you to remove yourself!" Now his eyes were glittering in a very enthusiastic fashion, and I suddenly felt discretion the better part of valour. I stepped back.

"Sorry, sorry. Terribly sorry for all this upset, what?" I waved my hands. "Just trying to do my bit for the Federation, as per the captain. Get to know you better and all that."

His interest sharpened. "Your Captain Sisko has ordered you to take this action?"

Well, that wasn't strictly true, but one thing Garak has taught me is that it's only a lie if one says it out loud. What other people think is true is their own silly fault. "We do like to keep our allies happy, don’t you know."

"Then here is information to aid you in keeping future followers of mmm'Cek happy:  do not approach them!"

mmm'Cek, he'd said, and with a very final click of the mandibles on that resolute "k". It wasn't a thing I knew much about. Unusual for me, what with the old eidetic.

"Sorry—mmm'Cek, you say?"

“Indeed!”

Something new! I was positively chuffed. “Well, well! Do forgive a chap for a bit of frothing at the mouth, what? I’ll inform myself instanter. tin'kur ti tonkh and all that!”

Why I popped off with that bit of Kardasi I’ll never know. The mouth does things the brain does not wot of, and all that sort of thing. It didn’t matter: it was the cream in the raktajino, for the Lady’s demurely lowered head ratcheted up, and I saw the bright light of passion in her eyes. Every single one of them. Her mandibles quivered, as did I. A sort of little whistling issued from her spiracles, and everything seemed pretty well set for premarital bliss until Drekor’s bulk occluded my vision of loveliness post-haste.

"Enough! We have dallied too long under these watchful eyes! Nothing more from you, Doctor! My lady, if you please." Over he bent in a fashion I wouldn't have credited—chitin not being the most flexible stuff—still, he managed it, and she swept past me in a manner that would have been a trifle imperious if she hadn't twiddled an antenna at me as she passed. An awfully flirtatious antenna, I felt.

I risked it. “Ta,” I said with charm.

Drekor spun, weapon waggling. “Begone, Doctor!”

Well, I be-went. But not without casting behind me the alluring smile, the wave of the fingers, and catching in return her flutter of mandible and bounce of antenna, promising no end of corking good fun.

Things were looking up for our Julian.

Chapter Text

Only natural, I feel, that after a bit of good luck such as this, one should want to share the good news with a friend. Spread the joy a little. And if said friend has been less than uplifting in the recent-to-immediate past, to rub it in the blighter's face. 

Off I set with light heart and dancing step to Garak's shop, thence to meander slowly past with a smile on the face and a song on the lips. I fancied this would cause him to pause, and perhaps to take note of my joyful mien, if that's the thing I mean. Surely, he would say to himself, there has been a parcel of good luck slung Julian's way? Perhaps, he might venture, it has something to do with that ambassadorial matrimony I so selfishly mocked only a brief span ago? Indeed, he might conjecture with that great fish-juice-soaked brain of his, perhaps he has tumbled into the bran tub and come up with the grand prize?

All of this seemed frightfully cogent to me, and so I sauntered along the Promenade whistling to myself and giggling at odd intervals. About the fifth or sixth time past his shop, he greeted me.

"Good day, Doctor!"

"Oh!" I made rather a show of turning about in surprise. "What ho, Garak! Fancy meeting you here of all places!"

"You are, in fact, standing in front of my shop."

"Oh, am I? Gosh!"

He blinked at me, putting on an awfully good show. Poor chump. I knew the pain in his heart. Still, I felt it only right to let him stew a bit.

"Sorry," I said, and I let the voice quiver with fond feeling. "I scarcely know where I am at present. I've come over all strange."

"Dear me. Are you ill?"

"Soul-sick."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"Perhaps not."

"Oh, Garak!" I drooped the lids. "I'm in love!"

Well, that fetched him.

He had me by the elbow in a flash, tugging inexorably at the sleeve which he himself had repaired only a few weeks prior. Rather than be dragged, I trickled along obediently and readied myself for questioning.

"Is this about the ambassador?" he asked.

"Who else, old thing?" I replied, turning the screws.

He made a musing sort of noise. Pondering, I should think. "I take it your fortunes have improved?"

"You see before you the luckiest man in the galaxy."

"Ah?"

"My fears have vanished as that thing with the logic, you know, the Vulcan thing."

“As logic vanquishes emotion’s tearing grasp, perhaps?”

“That’s the gag. I’m entirely ungrasped.”

I waited, confident, for the outpouring of regret. It failed to manifest.

"I'm glad to hear it, Doctor."

"By Jove, are you?"

"Certainly."

"Because I'd hate to think that this upset you at all."

"Of course."

"Or caused you any distress or pain."

"None at all, Doctor."

"I see." And I did: brave soul, he didn't want to interfere with my newfound joy. He was putting up a tough front. Oh, foolish heart! Served him right!

"I did hear something about a last-minute replacement for the post of ambassador…?" he asked, once again knowing a fellow's business before the fellow does himself.

"You heard right."

"Ah."

"Not three hundred. Lots younger. Fresh as a daisy."

"Good."

"And she's gorgeous."

"Is she?"

"She's got oomph, Garak."

"Dear me."

"And espièglerie. Oodles of espièglerie."

“Ah.”

“Along with the most corking set of facial decorations you’ve ever seen.”

"How very nice," he said, a little smile twisting 'round his lips.

I sighed a lovelorn sigh. "I simply can't wait to speak to her."

This seemed to unsettle him a trifle. "You haven't spoken to her?"

"Not a word."

His brow ridges rose. I felt the urge to explain myself.

"Come now, Garak. When it's love, I mean, well, speaking to her, what does that signify, in the grand scheme?"

"A great deal."

"I mean, I've spoken to her man."

"Ah?"

"And he gave me to understand that the Lady is more than eager to marry me, don’t you know." Which wasn't untrue, not exactly; as Garak has often told me, let them make up their own lies. Works much better, what?

Garak seemed unconvinced, and suddenly I saw the thrust of the thing. No doubt the poor fellow fairly writhed with jealousy. I proceeded to rub salt in the wound.

"Never fear, Garak. Please don't mistake our current lack of chit-chat for any kind of bad feeling. Her man was a bit strict about it pre-wedding, is all. It's a tenet of her religion or some such thing."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed. Something about mmm'Cek—" And here I paused, for Garak's smile was suddenly in evidence, and it was a jolly toothy one. I was instantly less enthused about the whole prospect. This may seem contradictory to you, but I assure you, when Elim Garak smiles with toothy delight, clever folk make for safer ground on the hop.

"Do you know something I don't, Garak?"

"I shouldn't like to say that kind of thing, Doctor."

"I mean about this particular set-up."

"With your bride-to-be?"

"The very same."

"Nothing to concern yourself about."

"Ah?"

"I wouldn't give the matter any thought at all."

"Glad to hear it."

"But it might be prudent to inform yourself further regarding the ambassador's dietary needs."

I was puzzled. I failed to see how one got from this to that.

"Sorry? As a doctor, you mean?"

"That would be one aspect, yes." His gaze was of the type novelists call 'significant.' Significant of what exactly I didn't know, but it was all very rummy.

"As her husband?"

"It would be prudent." Rummier still.

"Would it?" I essayed.

"Indeed."

It was all very mysterious, and I failed to grasp it by any handle. Still, I felt I should show the proper appreciation.

"Thanks awfully for the tip."

"Think nothing of it."

"And I do appreciate your being so absolutely topping about this whole situation."

"Ah?"

"Well, you know." I gestured at him, at self. I made free with the eyebrows and pursed the lips. "It must be a bit hard on you."

"I assure you, Doctor, I'll bear up under the strain."

I shook the bean in admiration. "You are a good egg, Garak."

He tipped me a nod and a cheerful smile, and with a brief clap on the shoulder, I left him, aiming straight for the infirmary and my cozy chair. When one such as Garak suggests that Julian top himself up with knowledge, well, Julian listens with a keen ear. And in this case, as you will see, the chap jolly well had me nestled 'tween his lobes. If that's how the Ferengi wheeze goes, anyway.

Chapter Text

It was the work of a moment to run the fingertips over the touchscreen and call up the knowledge of a thousand races, and I began to scan with alacrity. There wasn't quite as much data on the Xi'quallians as a fellow might have desired, but Julian Bashir makes do.

First of all: insectoid. Well, yes, clearly; one doesn't usually see chitinous plating on mammalian types, what? A bit restrictive when one's got all those squishy parts to deal with, and it doesn't lend itself well to sweating.

Next: ritualistic. Fair enough, although if I were in a quibbling sort of mood I might raise the question of which race, exactly, isn't ritualistic when caught in the thick of it. I mean, Humanity is not known for being given to ritual, but I do very much like my cup of Tarkalean in the ack-emma. But very well, ritualistic insectoids. Still not much to raise one's hackles.

Further perusal netted me descriptions of the Xi'quallians as, variously: secretive, strict, suspicious of strangers, adherent to custom, devotees of formality, etcetera ad nauseam, if that's the thing I mean. They were, in short, a very sticky bunch of folks, liking everything just so. Fair enough; Julian Bashir can bend as the wind blows him. I saw nothing here to give me the pip. It was a headscratcher.

In desperation I turned to footnotes, where all the juiciest details lurk. This was shortly productive, for here I found mention of various sects that governed day-to-day Xi'quallian life: how they ate, how they slept, how they danced; once again, the list went on and on. There seemed to be very little room for the spontaneity that is life itself to self and set. I furrowed the b. and read on, and shortly came to a listing that was familiar: mmm'Cek.

That was the item that Drekor had been on about. I recalled the sound of its clattering "k" in my shell-likes. In rapid succession, I was made aware of a vast many rules that governed propriety and duty to the family and rules of address and the respectful consumption of others and where one could—

"Hold on just one dashed minute," I said to myself in a stern sort of tone, and scrolled back up to where that phrase seemed to wink at me in a ghastly way.

There was no mistaking it. Followers of mmm'Cek—at least, those of the female persuasion, and I'd pinned the Lady Chhh'x as most certainly of this ilk—insectoid, of course, but one tends to get good at picking up these things if one's a physician or very much for parties—at any rate, look, the gist of the gag was that she was a female and I was a male and therefore, quod erat whatsit and all that sort of thing, I had a roughly sixty-percent chance of being consumed on my wedding night.

Now, I must advise you that Julian Bashir has faced dangers untold in his time as a Starfleet Officer. I have gazed with a stern eye at irascible Klingons. I have spoken rather coolly to Jem'Hadar. I have wrestled my way through games of the mind that threatened my corpus with annihilation. Given this, it is probable that you expect that my reaction to this latest revelation was of the stiff u. l. variety: chin up, sparkle in eye, a hearty laugh and a sort of shrug, as if to say, well, what of it?

It is my sad duty to inform you that this was not so. Instead, I wauled like an infant and ran for Garak.

Chapter Text

I found him where I'd left him, doing things to bits of fabric with other bits of fabric. It's really something how he manages to bash together togs out of nothing at all. I mean, what a talent! Of course, we don't always see eye to eye on the fashions of the day. He leans toward the staid, whereas my feeling is that if a man feels the urge to wear purple velour, why should he not do so? Life is too dashed full, I feel, to spend one's time wagging fingers at purple velour. Still, it takes all kinds to make a galaxy, as they say, and meanwhile I am digressing.

"Garak!" I cried as I hove to. "Garak, she's going to eat me!"

He looked up from his work with the rummiest expression. It looked as if he couldn't decide whether to shout alarums or break into song. "Dear me, Doctor! Is that so?"

"Yes, it is—look here, look," and I brandished the padd to which I'd downloaded the proof of the thing. "Sixty percent!"

He scanned it and pursed his lips in a considering sort of way. "Well, it could be worse, I suppose."

"How could it be worse?"

"It could be one hundred percent."

This did not strike me as the time to quibble about percentages. This struck me as the time to jolly well straighten up and help out a chum. "Garak! Never mind about percentages!"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Let the exact percentages trickle from your mind!"

He blinked. "Do forgive me, Doctor. I'm listening."

"I hope so, for I'm absolutely counting on you."

"On me, Doctor?" His voice carried mild surprise, and I suppressed the urge to gnaw on the padd in agitation.

"Yes, on you! You've got to get me out of this!"

"Must I, Doctor? But surely if you love the woman, all will be well…?"

He smiled that little smile and watched me stew, and I was dashed sour about it, let me tell you. The brass of the man, to hold a fellow accountable to what he says in the heat of an over-excited moment!

Now, I imagine you might be wondering why I ran to Garak in the first place. After all, you might say, he's a simple tailor. What use can he be to a clever lad such as our Julian Bashir?

Well, it is my humble duty to tell you that you are a silly ass. Understand forthwith that Garak is very hot on brains and has reliably gotten me out of rather a lot of the sticky situations into which I seem to fall with alarming regularity. Through no fault of my own, may I add. Is it Julian Bashir's fault if the holosuite decides to vanish his clothing along with the simulation, and he faces the bitter option of an exposed dash through Quark's? Is it Julian's fault if the sister of the Security Chief's second-in-command's wife's best friend's neighbour decides Humans are just her cup of tea and makes her pash known by turning up half-clad in his quarters, squiffed to the gills and warbling on about destined romance, with no way to get her back to her own quarters unseen by prurient eye? Is it, I ask, Julian's fault if the Gem of Oferot, pinched by a chappie who had no right to it from a gaggle of other chappies who had no right to it and who were all of a bunch being chased by a whole third lot of chappies who had rather more right to it, is then planted in his quarters where it looks dashed incriminating? I submit to you that it is not.

Still, it does make life frightfully complex to have all these things descending upon one, and Garak has, despite his faults, been my salvation more than once. If there's a situation he can't think his way out of, I've yet to smack into it. His mind is my delight. I suspect those ridges contain auxiliary brain matter. So you'll understand, I'm sure, why in my despairing state I thought at once of him. There was nothing for it. I swallowed my pride.

"I assure you, Garak, love is dead. Now won't you please get that brain of yours on the case?"

He inclined his head slightly. "As always, Doctor, I will endeavour to give satisfaction."

"I bally well hope so! I don't want to be eaten up!"

"It does seem a distressing outcome."

I frowned at him. The man has a rotten habit of empathizing far too little. Now, however, did not seem the time for remonstrations. I wanted the fellow in my corner.

"Have you any thoughts on the matter?"

"I am afraid that nothing comes immediately to mind…"

"Well, think, dash it!" I paced about the shop, heedless of fashion and frippery. "There's got to be a way out. I can't be the first man in such a rotten fix, can I?"

"I am afraid, Doctor, that seeing as this is the Xi'quallian's first formal contact with the Federation—"

"You mean to say—"

His look was significant.

Well, I was rocked. I admit I lost myself for a moment, and let go with a "Tchah!"

Garak frowned at me. He is not much for wanton displays of emotion.

"Sorry, Garak, but there's got to be something we can do?"

"Given time to think, Doctor, I could perhaps be of further assistance."

"How can I help?" I was rattled. I needed to feel useful. "Can I prompt you along? Joggle the old grey matter?"

"I hardly think—"

"Look, let's try free association. I'll say a word and you say the first thing that comes to mind. Now, let's see: corking."

His lids drooped. I fancied his brow furrowed. As much as it could, anyway, with all the scaly bits.

"No help there?"

"I am afraid not, Doctor."

"Oh, there's got to be something—oh, I know!" An idea came to me, and it seemed pretty hot. "Fish juice! That great brain of yours needs fuel!"

Now those blue eyes opened, and I was certain I saw gratitude in their depths. "I would appreciate your obtaining a glass for me, Doctor."

"Instanter, old thing. Hold on, I'll be back before you know I've gone, what?"

I bounded from the shop with wings on my heels. You may wonder why fish juice leapt to mind. I confess it never used to leap to mine. But Cardassians, as a species, do seem to enjoy liquefied seafood, and who am I to quarrel with an entire species? No one of consequence, that's certain, and besides, fish is brain food. It stood to reason, therefore, that the ingestion of such would speed along the workings of Garak's cerebrum.

It was but a moment's work to reach the Replimat. Unfortunately, a herd of inconsiderate blighters had also decided to graze the pasture, and were queuing in an obstinate sort of way. As I waited, shifting from foot to foot, I turned the thing over in my head. Not to worry, of course, Garak would have it in hand in a trice, but still it seemed to me there must be something Julian could winkle out, some solution that would have it all sorted before—

Well, it smote me between the eyes with a certain amount of force. I may have staggered.

"Of course!" I cried, attracting a small amount of attention, and I turned on the heel and dashed back to the shop. Garak was there, doing something with a laser cutter in order to hide the fearful strain of it all. I spoke to alleviate his suffering.

"Never mind the fish juice, old thing. It's all sorted."

He seemed surprised. "Is it?"

"It is."

"Ah," he said, and I sensed immediately that he required further explanation.

"Well, don't you see, it's got to do with me talking."

"Has it?"

"It has. I mean, the Captain took pains to point out to me that the Xi'quallians had requested someone with a bit of pip, what?"

"Indeed, Doctor?"

"Indeed. Someone with conversational flair. Someone who knows how to manipulate the old vocab. So of course the Captain thought of me."

"I see, Doctor."

"Even Drekor mentioned the need for the proper forms of address, don't you know."

He nodded.

"So clearly, if I come down with a case of aphasia, well, they won't want old Julian anymore, will they? Goes right against the grain of the entire species." I bounced on the toes, tolerably braced. "Tied up with a bow and all that, I should say."

He appeared uncertain. "I'm afraid I don't entirely understand—"

"Oh, it's all right, Garak." I made to reassure. "Not everyone can keep up with a Bashir! We are swift of mind when in the thick of it!"

"I see."

Something was clearly not quite clement.

"What's chafing you?"

"I did not realize that one could come down with aphasia, Doctor."

"Oh, certainly, certainly! Remember that charming little virus that had us all spouting gibberish? 'Round the turbulent quick' and all that rot?" It had been a good bit of fun, actually, excellent for a laugh until it had come over all fatal.

"I do recall, Doctor. But you yourself have shown no signs of such an infection—"

"Oh, it's pretend, Garak, do try to keep up."

"But won't this interfere with your work?"

Mmm. Well, that was a bit of a stopping-point. I mused upon it. The answer came to me in a flash.

"Well, it's a very specific form of aphasia, don't you know! Only affects me when exposed to pretty ladies!" I grinned, rather bucked-up about the whole thing.

He blinked at me, then tilted in that little sort of bow he has. "You do seem to have resolved all possible problems."

"Without a doubt, Garak, without a doubt," and I patted him on the shoulder. "You have only to leave these little things to me. I'll sort them without fail."

"I see, Doctor. Had you perhaps best clear this with the Captain?"

"Oh. Yes, yes, perhaps I'd better, what?"

"It would be wise."

"Well, that's next up, then, isn't it!" I bowed back at him, feeling very goodwill to all about things. "Awfully good of you to offer your assistance with this, but I think I've got this one stitched tight."

His smile was, I fancied, admiring.

Chapter Text

"Let me get this straight." The captain flattened his hands on his desk, his manner that of a chap who's had a sure thing go belly up on him. "She's going to eat you?"

"It seems a pretty dead cert, sir."

I offered up the relevant padd, and he took it with a frown. Once he'd sponged up the data, he passed it to Kira, whose eyes widened as she read. The two of them exchanged a look.

"What do you think, Major?"

"I think she's gonna eat him, sir."

"I suppose we can't have that."

"I don't think so."

"What should we do?"

"Maybe she'd be willing to just eat part of him?"

"You mean… just a leg?"

"A token offering from the Federation. He's a doctor, he could probably block out most of the pain—and then we can just bring him down to the infirmary and regrow it, right?"

"That sounds plausible. Would it satisfy the Xi'quallians?"

"I'm no diplomat, Captain, but it sounds fair to me."

The astute reader will notice that I had no part in this exchange. This was not for lack of trying. My frequent "ah"s and "oh"s and "I say"s were flatly ignored. At this proposition, however, I strained to make myself heard.

"I say, Captain, Major, I do think I ought to be consulted about this!"

They both looked at me as if Julian's presence had more or less slipped their minds. I stood my ground.

"I don't want to be eaten. Not by half, not in quarters, not, I must say, at all." The voice did not quiver.

The Captain rubbed his forehead. "Well, then, Doctor, what's your solution?"

It seemed the time for boldness. "Captain, I recall you saying at the staff meeting that the Xi'quallians had requested someone with a bit of oomph."

"Did I say that, Major?"

"I don't remember you saying that, Captain."

"Not in those exact words, perhaps, but I think I've got the spirit of the thing. They wanted someone with a bit of verbal whatsit. Someone who could give and take, don't you know."

"Go on."

"Well, surely if I can't speak, they won't want me."

He failed to grasp it. "I don't understand."

"Aphasia, sir. I've all of a sudden come down with a ghastly case of it. Triggered by stress, don't you know, or some such thing."

"You seem to be talking just fine."

"Well, of course, sir." Here was the beauty of it. I let him have it. "The aphasia only strikes when I'm in the presence of the opposite sex."

"Which one?"

"Um. Female, I suppose." It didn't make sense to include every sex. I'd never say anything again.

"But you're talking just fine," said the Major, who was as astute as she was terrifying.

"Yes, Major, that's the cleverest bit. It only troubles me around extremely pretty ladies. You see? It compliments the ambassador and it gets me out of the soup!"

The Captain smiled. The Major frowned. I twigged. Not for nothing is the Major known as the nastiest bit of business in three sectors. It boggles me how such a tiny person can be so dashed terrifying. Something about the hands, don't you know, and how they work as if testing the fit of one's neck between them. Being rather fond of my own windpipe, I immediately made a whimpering sort of sound, gaped a bit, then shrugged helplessly. She nodded, pleased.

The Captain had watched this bit of business with a sort of thoughtful expression. Now he nodded. "All right. Go ahead. We'll let the Xi'quallians know. After that, it will be up to them."

"Thank you, sir—"

"Ah, ah, ah," said the Major, and her smile was fierce.

I backed from the office without a word.

Chapter Text

The next two days were, I'm afraid to report, jolly awkward. I mean, when a fellow such as myself, who's known about the station as someone of the sunniest disposish, suddenly goes all tight about the lips, well, what is one to think? Concerns are raised. Sleep is lost. There is, in short, a sort of bally upside-downness to everything, and I found myself at the very centre of it. Morn questioned me without cease. Quark gave me the pip. Even Miles—my best chum Miles—raked me o'er the coals. At this moment, he was following me down the Promenade like a targ who's caught sight of a nice wiggly bowlful of racht, chivvying at my heels.

"Julian! For crying out loud, why won't you talk to me? "

I made a grand gesture and rolled my eyes at him. He failed to comprehend.

"It's just me. You can talk to me. I'm not a pretty lady."

Well, that was something of a frightful understatement, but the situation was a bit rockier than that, wasn't it? With fluttering fingers and force of personality, I attempted to enlighten him as to his surroundings. I may even have given voice to a persuasive grunt.

He frowned. "Eh? What d'you mean? Oh!" Suddenly he turned, suddenly he understood: we were, on all sides, surrounded—nay, besieged by members of the fairer sex. This would once have been a sheer delight. It was now, sadly, horrifying.

The issue hadn't made itself clear to me straightaway. Only when I'd popped out of the Captain's office into Ops to briefly apprise the senior staff of the situation, and Dax had immediately given me a frosty eye and threatened my well-being—only then had it come to me that I had, in fact, painted myself into a jolly tight corner. Garak has told me of a story—from Earth's own history, don't you know!—about some god or goddess or supernatural wit deciding to have a bit of fun at everyone else's expense by tossing a golden apple marked 'For the Fairest' in amongst a hitherto quite chummy group of deities. Well, as soon as that happened, didn't everything go all to pieces, and wasn't there a shrieking and a rending of garments, and didn't it all end up, as things do, with someone getting it in the neck.

Now, picture Julian Bashir as said golden apple, dropped in amongst the female-presenting inhabitants of Deep Space Nine, and let your imagination do its frightfullest. Mine bally well did.

Clearly Miles's imagination, such as it was, had caught up to the situation, for the gaze that he turned on me was a mirthful one. "Oh ho!" he said, and then, "Oh ho ho!"

I would have said something pretty sharp about it, but circumstances being what they were, I opted for the baleful glare.

It didn't seem to bother him. "Heh," he said, now expanding his repertoire of amusement, "heh, Julian, you can't talk at all, can you!"

I oscillated the bonce.

"I mean—there're women all over this station!"

The fact had not escaped me.

"What're you going to do?"

I shrugged elaborately.

"Has it worked, do you know? Have the Xi'quallians called it off?"

Another shrug, although I hoped most devotedly that success was assured. I'd heard nothing from the Captain. I had to take that as a good sign.

"But you've got to stay quiet 'til they go, haven't you." He was having a corking good time at my expense, the pug-nosed brute.

I nodded, and he smiled at me in childish delight. Oh, I could have kicked him!

"Well, we can still have a game of darts, eh? C'mon, I'll buy you a beer."

That went some way towards smoothing my ruffled feathers. I followed him through the milling crowd to Quark's. Shortly, after a beer and a rather hot game of darts, the world seemed sunnier. Cheer began to burgeon within the breast. That in itself should have told me that dark times were ahead.

Now, it has been said—probably by Garak, although no doubt it was some other chappie who actually wrote the thing, don't you know—anyway, doesn't matter, point is that at some point someone scribbled down that just when a fellow is at his juiciest, just when all signs point to happy days ahead, life is aptest to punt him out an airlock. This is what happened, at this moment, to me.

You see, my combadge twittered. "Sisko to Bashir," it said tinnily.

You are no doubt wondering how I managed to get round the obvious problem of combadges, what with the presumed lock on the Bashir lips. This had been problematic. It had taken me a few minutes to sort out the first time it happened, in fact. The solution had, in retrospect, been obvious, and I employed it now: I squinched the peepers shut, slapped the badge, and gave it my all.

"Go ahead, sir."

"I have good news and bad news, Doctor."

I'm sure you know that when anyone at all drops those words on you, pain is certain to follow.

"Yes, sir?"

"The bad news is that the wedding's still on."

The station rocked. I mean it absolutely trembled.

"Doctor?"

"Here, sir. I'm… I just don't follow." I was aghast. "Their culture is positively firm on the concept of chit-chat above all else. How can I a decent husband make, given my circs?"

"The ambassador's representative agrees with you."

"Drekor?" Good lad, I thought.

"He says that if the Lady's mother were ambassador as had been planned, there'd be no question of a marriage. Unfortunately, however, the Lady C'hhhx is turning out to be a bit… rebellious."

Females. I ask you. Sometimes I think Quark may be on to a hot thing.

"Beg pardon, sir?"

There was a sort of sigh. "Well, Doctor, it seems the Lady has become extremely fond of you."

"What! Why? She hardly knows me!"

"She says it's true love."

"But I—"

"And no matter what your faults—"

"Hang on a—"

"—it's got to be you, or no one at all. And I'm afraid the Federation is not receptive to the idea of no one at all."

"Even if I'm to be eaten, sir?"

"They seem to be confident that the Xi'quallians won't eat you. Admiral Nechayev advised me that forty percent is pretty good odds."

I felt sick.

There was a moment's solemn silence, and I cracked the lashes just enough to see Miles's mug peering at me with a sort of whatsit of empathy poured all over it. It didn't help.

At that very moment, as things were lowest, aid came to me. There's a lesson in that. It's like what somebody said about the bright side of life being where one ought to look. At any rate, a hand landed softly on my shoulder, and I gave vent to a squawk as I turned.

"Doctor?" came the voice from my combadge. "Doctor, are you all right?"

"I just might be, sir," I said with great affection as I gazed into the smiling face of my man Garak. "I have a feeling things are going to sort themselves out."

Chapter Text

Within moments we had all three piled ourselves into a dark corner, away from any hint of femininity, and Miles and I braced ourselves for genius.

"You heard?"

"I did, Doctor."

"Well? What am I to do now?"

"I believe I may have a solution for you."

"Yes? Don't keep it to yourself, man!" I fairly brimmed with impatience.

"The dietary habits of the adherents of mmm'Cek are well known, Doctor. Little can be done about them."

Well, they hadn't been well known to me. Still, I was prepared to let the thing slide. "Go on."

"It occurs to me, Doctor, that we could perhaps focus instead on the particular tastes of the lady in question."

This didn't track. "Hold on, I thought we'd just set up that the whole trouble was that I'm apparently just to her taste!"

"It is not the Lady's romantic taste to which I am referring."

Miles and I looked at each other. It seemed neither of us had quite got a firm grip on the thing.

"What do you mean?"

Garak suddenly went very mild. "I believe I must have a discussion with the lady, Doctor."

Well, there went that, as the man said to the fellow. I laughed airily. "No chance of that, I fear! Our man Drekor will have you by the ridges in a trice!"

"You must trust me on this, Doctor." His smile was gentle. "It will be to your benefit."

Miles immediately started to frown. Now, I should perhaps tell you that Garak is, as you've perhaps determined, of the Cardassian persuasion. A bit grey-ish. All over ridges. My chum Miles has, unfortunately, had a few run-ins with less savoury Cardassian types, and this has naturally left him with an untrusting disposition. I fear to add that Garak himself is—although brilliant and charming and absolutely the gem of my collection—perhaps not always as forthcoming as one might like. Add to this the fact that Garak does seem to delight in baiting the poor fellow, and things can get a trifle bunged-up. To wit:

"Trust you!" Miles said with heat. "Not bloody likely!"

My man Garak simply smiled at him. No one can smile quite like he can. It melts me rather, and I may have simpered. Miles was less affected.

"Julian, are you really just going to go along with whatever he's got in mind?"

"Oh, he knows, old sport," I said, with an air of complete confidence. "Whatever you may think of Garak, you cannot deny that he knows."

There was, of course, nothing that Miles could say to that.

"And what shall I do, old thing?" I returned my attentions to Garak. "Shall I keep on with the aphasia?"

"I believe it is of utmost importance, Doctor." His gaze was level. I could see the wheels within wheels spinning merrily.

"Then steady on, Garak, steady on: I shall be as quiet as a mouse!"

He inclined his head in appreciation, and I was chuffed nearly to bursting.

Chapter Text

Usually I am a fellow who prefers to take charge of his own affairs. Come what may, I am filled with devil-may-care spirit and oomph to spare. But when one has such a topping asset as Elim Garak in one's back pocket, well, one may be forgiven for leaning a bit on his steady arm.

He shimmered off to sort my life out for me, and I followed at a certain remove, glimmering with the hope of possibly catching a glimpse of genius at its juiciest. It's a real treat to watch the man converse, don't you know—he has the most corking sort of way of phrasing things just so, and it fills me with a certain wistful sort of whatsit.

It wasn't long before he'd sniffed out the Xi'quallians. The ambassador was peering at a table of trinkets set out by a hopeful Bajoran shopkeep. I found I no longer sparkled with the same pash at the sight. I mean, she was certainly still a tender bud, perched on the verge of bursting into bloom, but now I gazed upon her profile with the jaded eye of one who has known the dark truth that withi' the bud lies the devouring worm, or that kind of thing, you know. What I mean to say is that I found her bally terrifying, and I stayed well back, availing myself of a convenient bit of signage which offered itself up as camouflage.

Her man was there at her side, as before, and Garak approached him with a smooth step. I expected him to receive the spear to the throat, as I had—not that it would bother him much, him being made of scalier stuff than I—but I noted with interest that he stopped just outside its range. Words were exchanged. Declarations were made. And then the rummiest thing happened: Drekor wiggled his antennae at him in a very pally sort of way, and let him step right up to the Lady Chhh'x as if they were best of friends.

Well, I couldn't fathom it. I gaped a bit. How he'd managed that, I hadn't the foggiest, and then I was illuminated: out came his measuring calipers, and didn't Garak begin, right there on the Promenade, to fit the Lady for some kind of garment.

I'd never seen anything like it. Here was a man satisfying himself regarding the exact particulars of a lady's profile under the nodding visage of her guardian. It was miraculous. That kind of miracle does seem to be Garak's stock in trade—I daresay if the man had been around when that Noah chappie was clapping together his ark, he'd have had a quiet word with the Creator and sorted out the whole mess without any need for worldwide ablutions.

Now Garak was conversing quite amiably with both parties. A joke was made. There was laughter. Out came the padd, and both grey and green heads bowed attentively over its screen. All the while Garak was chattering away, and both the Lady and Drekor were nodding as if every syllable from his lips was solid gold.

This went on for some little time, and I confess I was starting to get a bit twitchy. Even thinking of the whole gag as a bit of espionage failed to rally my spirits, and I was considering slipping away for a quick bit of prion-poking when something bally odd happened: Garak said something—a bit of nothing, apparently, judging by the way he launched it carelessly into the air—and the Lady recoiled from him as if he were a cat with something both questionable and soggy in its mouth.

"What?" she cried, in a voice that was really kind of remarkable. I’m hard pressed to pin it down. Let me see. Have you ever heard Terran crickets singing of a June evening, their little screeches sounding from pretty near every direction? Well, drop the pitch by an octave, crank up the volume, and squeeze it all into one voice-box, and you’ve a fair approximation of the Lady Chhh’x’s dulcet tones. I blinked.

Garak, meanwhile, was attempting to soothe. His hands waved gently in the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra playing pianissimo. This failed to sort the thing out.

"Oh, no!" said the Lady, and there was definitely a bit of perturbation in her voice. She sounded jolly well put out, in fact, and turned now to Drekor, fire fairly blazing from her multi-faceteds. There was a moment of intense discussion, and then the Lady skittered away, Drekor fluttering after her with tension in his frame. Garak was left standing by himself, padd in hand.

I panted up to him, no longer concerned about being seen.

"I say, old top, that was a rummy bit of business!"

His gaze turned to me. His smile was warm. "There you are, Doctor. I was fairly certain you'd be in the vicinity."

I've no clue how the man always seems to know my movements before I quite know them myself. "What did you say to the Lady to make her storm off like that?"

"I am sure I cannot say, Doctor."

"Oh, go on. Something's up!"

"I merely took the opportunity to acquaint the Lady with some of the sartorial options available to her for her wedding day—"

This seemed to me a bit thick. "You're supposed to be putting a cork in that blessed event, Garak, not drumming up custom!"

His look was censorious. I clammed up. "Rest assured, Doctor, events will unfold in an acceptable manner."

With that he turned on his heel and drifted away down the Promenade, and bite at his heels as I might, I couldn't get another word out of him. The man is a mystery wrapped in an enigma all tied up in a thingummy, don't you know. I had no choice but to trust and wait.

Chapter Text

No doubt you can imagine Julian's state of mind as the matrimonial day dawned. Well, I say dawned, but of course it's always black and starry-ish around these parts. Still, the gist is clear, what? Let us not dwell on this, and instead let us discuss how I fretted, which was wholeheartedly.

"Miles," I cried as I goggled at my groom's regalia, "what am I to do?"

"I think the robe goes on first," said Miles, "and then you tie this sash—"

"Not about the clothes! About this wedding! About my imminent demise!"

"Oh, you'll manage," he said with a careless air, and donned his ceremonial cap with what I felt was rather heartless relish.

"Manage? Manage how?" I paced and wrung my hands.

"Hold on a minute. I've got to figure out this sash."

"Oh, blast the sash! I don't want to hear any more about the sash!"

"But if it's not properly tied, the Xi'quallians will—"

"Look, Miles, if you haven't anything useful to say, I wish you'd dry up."

He tossed me a reproachful one and turned his back. "I'm only trying to help."

"You aren't!" I lifted the robe and held it up to the light. It was maroon. This seemed to me the most frightful of colours.

"It's going to be fine. The Captain won't let her eat you."

"You don't know that." I rolled my eyes towards him in the manner of a Klingon confronted with a particularly obstreperous tribble. "What if Starfleet has decided I'm an acceptable sacrifice? What if I'm being offered up on the altar of interspecies relations?"

The prospect seemed dreadfully likely. I felt that my hair was getting more porpentinial by the second.

"Julian, get a hold of yourself!" He turned to me, tugged the robe from my hands, and gripped me firmly by the shoulders. "You need to relax!"

"But in less than an hour I'll be a canapé!"

"The wedding's not 'til sixteen-hundred. That's an hour and a half."

I felt he was not approaching the situation with the gravity it deserved. "Let that slip, Miles! I'm going to be devoured and no one seems to have taken this to heart!"

"You'll be fine, Julian. Now come on, put on your robe and then I'll help you with the sash—"

Against my stalwart protestations, I was trussed up like a mummy and pried from my quarters. Miles dragged me down the corridor, ignoring my pleas, and in short order had me installed in the conference room, maroon from head to toe and quivering like a jelly.

The captain awaited me, his brow furrowed and his dress uniform immaculate.

"I hope you're up for this, Doctor."

"I don't seem to have much of a choice, do I!" I wrung my hands, sick at heart and other areas.

He sighed the sigh of a man whose patience was sorely tried. "It's just a ritual wedding."

"With me as the reception banquet? I find this all very sticky, very sticky indeed!"

"Relax, Doctor. It's going to work out." He ignored my spluttering and frowned at his padd. "It's a good thing we've been able to modify the ceremony to accommodate your… aphasia. You are still aphasic, aren't you, Doctor?"

To this I clung as a drowning man to a life ring. Garak had promised me that my silence would be my salvation. "Yes, sir. Not a word shall pass my lips."

"Good."

"I shan't utter a sentence."

"Glad to hear it."

"I shall be as quiet as the grave."

"Ah, Major," said the captain, and I sealed my mouth shut as if with surgical glue. 

"Captain. Doctor." Her nod was brief as she entered the room. "Are we ready?"

"I'm expecting the delegation shortly."

"And how's our doctor? Ready for matrimony?"

She knew very well I couldn't answer. Hardly fair of her to bait me that way, and I frowned at her. This did not seem to faze her. In fact, both she and the captain seemed a bit tickled by my expression. The whole thing was pretty sour. I thought dark thoughts and waited.

"Don't worry, Doctor," said the captain, "I think you'll find you'll come out of this all right."

It is very difficult to communicate the kind of sentiment I wished to express with the eyes alone. I tried anyway, straining something crucial behind the eyeball. It was a jolly good thing that the Xi'quallians showed up just then, as otherwise I could have done myself a severe injury.

Of course, at that particular instant I was less than chuffed by their entry. I nibbled at my lower lip as in came one Xi'quallian after another, all green carapaces and spiky bits, and at last my heart sank as Drekor escorted in the lady whose intestines I was to have the ghastly pleasure of knowing a dashed sight better than I would have liked.

"We are here," announced Drekor. This seemed obvious to me, but perhaps it gave him a thrill to make the thing known.

"We welcome you," said the captain, following his script, and all concerned took their places in the ritual semi-circle. My attempt to sidle out of the party was foiled sharpish by Major Kira's strong arm. How the devil such a tiny woman can be so dashed strong confounds me. 

"The joining that occurs today strengthens us all," droned a vaguely clergy-ish Xi'quallian, who went on to make various other utterances in this vein while Julian checked out. I mean, it's one thing to make a fellow truss himself up in matrimonial bond, but it's quite another to make him bend an ear to the whole bally spectacle, especially if he's not going to be able to pipe up in his own defence. Instead, I let the eye rove over the assembly, taking in what I could.

Most of the Xi'quallians seemed just as disinterested as I was. I supposed this was a bit of a bore for them too. Standard-issue diplomacy, what? Never fails to make one think of spacing oneself. I dismissed them from my mind and focussed instead on the Lady Chhh'x, whose pretty palps quivered slightly as she listened. Despite it all, she was still really something. That profile... but no, I said to myself, no, Julian, this one is not worth the risk. Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds, as the fellow says, and my pash had pretty severely altered itself when I found that she was planning to use my limbs as luncheon. Still, a chap can't be blamed for looking, and so I looked, and shortly found that she was looking back.

You may recall that when I described our earlier meeting, I flattered myself by suggesting a certain interest on the part of this female. I'm definite on the point: every little eye-segment seemed rather taken with young Julian, and the flutter of her proto-wings had sped up most intriguingly. Now, however, things seemed altogether different. She looked at me, yes, but not as if she liked what she looked upon. Instead there was a sense that she was staring at a horrible fate that she could not avoid, a bit like someone coming upon a particularly horrific shuttle accident —the whole wheeze about not wanting to look and yet having to train the orbs on the grisly mess. She did not, in short, seem enthralled. I couldn't help but wonder what Garak had said to her.

"Doctor," said the clergy-ish type, and I rallied round. I couldn't answer, of course, on pain of blowing the whole thing, but I made a kind of inquisitive hum.

"Are you prepared to give your life to this lady?"

I may have paled. Still, I nodded for the look of the thing, fingers crossed firmly behind my back.

The older type turned now to the Lady, who seemed a bit green about her posish. More so than usual, I mean.

"My lady, will you accept this union, and with your joining unite our peoples?"

The moment stretched in an awkward kind of way. At last she ground out "I will." But as the clergy-bug turned back to his books, I saw her mutter something, and her hands twisted together. 

"Then as these two are joined, let us join our peoples as one. Let us offer unto each other our most sacred mysteries. Let us follow light and find our way together." 

With that wheezy utterance, everyone seemed to relax. I definitely saw the captain blow out air, and even Kira's martial stance drooped a trifle.

The impact of Miles's heavy hand on my mid-back made me stagger. "Congratulations, Julian! You're hitched!"

He missed my sour look, as he was now offering a paw to the Lady, who stared at it as if he'd offered her a past-date spice pudding.

"Congratulations, Lady, you've really—ulp!"

Reliable old Drekor. It was a bit splendid, really, to see someone else get it in the neck.

"You will not approach the Lady! She is not for you!"

Miles redirected the spearpoint with a delicacy uncommon for him. "I don't want her. I'm married. Happily."

"Then do not approach! She is only for... him." With those words the fellow looked at me. I feel it honest to say that there was a lack of enthusiasm in his eyes. Something scraped from the sole of a shoe would, perhaps, have been more welcome to Drekor than the sight of one Julian Bashir.

I, meanwhile, had been resigning myself to things. There was nothing to do but trust in Garak. He wouldn't leave me swinging, after all. And meanwhile, all the talk of unions and joinings had gone a bit to my head. Perhaps I'd judged too harshly. My heart was warmed by the thought of love's triumph, and I spread my arms wide, inviting my new wife to rush into them.

She shuddered. I do mean she visibly shuddered. I've never seen anything quite like it. All kinds of clicking noises emanated from her carapace as bits of her knocked against other bits.

"I— Drekor, I must go!"

And with that she turned on her heel and swept from the room, followed by a swarm of Xi'quallian courtiers. The place cleared out rather quickly, I must say.

Kira frowned at me. "Did you do something?"

This hardly seemed fair. I opened my hands and shrugged as hard as I could. Not exactly preux to poke at a man who can't defend himself.

"I'd better go check on them," said Kira, and stomped out, leaving me with Miles, the captain, and Drekor, who was giving me a very dubious sort of look.

Unhampered by the presence of femininity, I unsealed the lips.

"I'm sorry, sir, I really haven't the foggiest—"

"You will not approach the Lady!"

Drekor didn't have much of a knack for conversational timing. 

"I—ah, what?"

"She does not wish to be burdened with your presence!"

Well, that seemed a bit harsh. I daresay I run off at the mouth from time to time, but having Julian around can scarcely be described as burdensome.

"Now see here—"

"There will be no argument!"

He said it in the kind of fruity self-satisfied tone that makes a fellow lose his head and say stupid things, and all in all, looking back, it's a jolly good thing that the captain stepped in.

"Is something wrong, Guardian Drekor?"

Drekor made a sort of whistle through his spiracles, reminiscent of a tea-kettle that's feeling a bit ignored.

"All is well between our peoples. All agreements stand. But this one will not visit the Lady. He is repugnant to her!"

If I gaped, I'm sure you can understand. Meanwhile, Miles was once again emitting his signature hih hih hih.

"I say!"

"I do not care what you say!" He waved his spear about. "She does not want you! She will honour her commitment as befits her rank, but if you trouble her, I will trouble you! Is this clear?"

That spearhead did tend to fix one's attention. "Crystal."

"Then we are agreed." He made a little bow to the captain, eyed me balefully, and then hopped to after his mistress, leaving me swimming in a bog of confusion. The captain didn't seem particularly upset. He was smiling a strange little smile. Still, I felt a bit off about the whole thing.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize aphasia would be such a bitter pill for her to swallow."

"What?" he said absently, then seemed to click. "Aphasia? Right. Right, Doctor. Well, we live and learn, don't we."

"Repugnant," wheezed Miles.

"Yes, sir. tin'kur ti tonkh," I offered.

"What?"

"Nothing." 

Chapter Text

I found myself in a bit of a daze after this. Miles had taken his hih hih hih elsewhere at my forceful request, and I was left to wander the Promenade, musing at the vagaries of Fate. What, after all, can a man expect from life? I'd been engaged, married, and spurned in a matter of days. It left me thoughtful. Questioning the paths not taken and all that sort of thing.

There seemed to be only one thing to do with myself. There's only one person who can bear me in my thoughtful moods, and so I sought out my man Garak, and found him where I might expect, torturing fabric.

"What ho, Garak," I said, with a certain whatness in my tone that did not go unrecognized.

"Doctor," he said. His expression was solicitous. "How did the ceremony go?"

"Goodish, I suppose." 

"You seem to be unconsumed."

"Oh, yes, that," and I waved a hand. "Yes, not going to be eaten, jolly good. She wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole."

"I thought you'd be happier with that outcome."

"Oh, I'm pleased as punch, Garak, really. But I think there might be a pleasanter way of putting it across to a chap, don't you know."

"I'm sorry?"

"All very 'you must not touch her' and 'repugnant,' I mean, really, Garak. Repugnant. Does that seem to you a proper way to sum me up?"

He looked me up and down.

"You seem no more repugnant than usual to me."

"Exactly, and so I fail to see why a touch of aphasia should be enough to cause Julian Bashir to become yesterday's eggs."

He raised his brow ridges at me in that way he does. "I am quite certain that you'd prefer this outcome to any other."

"Oh, I daresay," I said moodily, and prodded at a mannequin, which toppled over. In the course of righting it I let out a gusty sigh, which caused Garak to gaze at me quizzically.

"Forgive me, Doctor," he said. "I fear that I have not arranged matters to your satisfaction."

"Well, I'm not sure that you arranged anything at all, if you'll forgive a bit of uppitiness, Garak," I said, and that was really the thrust of the thing. "It seems to me she meant to go along with the gag all along. I hoped you'd pull one out for me, but it turns out I'm so bally horrid that she wouldn't touch me with someone else's mandibles." Really, it rankled: I'd made myself a nuisance all over the station, certain that she'd gobble me whole, and all the while the Lady had been choking down the need to upchuck at my very presence. It was enough to make a man sour about the whole of life.

Garak seemed to sense the turmoil within. He bobbed his head. "I see, Doctor. I believe I may have some news that will reassure you on that score."

"Oh? Do tell."

"You may recall that the young lady and I had a discussion the other day."

"Mmph."

"I complimented her on her choice of husband-to-be."

"Did you."

"She waxed effusive."

I perked up. "Did she?"

"Her compliments were manifold."

"Were they, old thing?"

"Much was made of your physical perfection."

Well, I dare say Julian Bashir has been called a few things in his time, but this was a new gag.

"Perfection?"

"Indeed."

"Even though—I mean, she did know I couldn't utter a peep, didn't she?"

"She told me she found it charming. And complimentary."

"Just as intended, dash it!" I said, completely flummoxed. "Then why the sudden insistence on 'repugnant' as le mot juste?"

"Ah," he said, and gazed musingly at a corner of the room where there was nothing at all. "You will, perhaps, recall the Lady's sudden reaction during our discussion on the Promenade?"

"Hard to forget it, old thing. Couldn’t fathom what brought that on."

"That, I am afraid, is when I advised her of your genetic enhancements."

Well, if I thought I'd been flattened before, this informed me otherwise. The cheek of it! When a man's been tinkered with, surely it ought to be his own decision to post it up to be seen by every Tom, Dick, and X'uv? "You did what? Garak, you astound me!"

"I do apologize, Doctor." There was the faintest aspect of grief on his features. It undid me. My fury melted as the drifting snow.

"I suppose there's not much to be done about it now. Never mind it, dear fellow."

His eyes were grateful.

"But why, Garak?"

"I happened to be aware of a certain predilection common in the followers of mmm'Cek."

"Give over, man!"

"They are... I suppose you might say they are naturalists, Doctor."

"Meaning?"

"They do not care for genetically modified food."

A light burst in upon me, and I gaped.

"You don't mean—?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Well, I say," was all I could bring to bear. The weight of the thing nearly bent me double. Here I was thinking I was a clever sort of chap, and all the while Garak had jogged on ahead, setting the pace. "Did you know this all along?"

"It was at the back of my mind."

"But then why did you have me wander around with my mouth stitched shut?"

"Major Kira gave me to understand that she found the situation quite restful, Doctor."

And that, as they say, is that.

I mean, initially I was rather put out with him. Hardly seems fair to pull the wool over a man's eyes and let him dangle over a pit of trepidation, if that's the thing, when all the time one has the power to yank the fat from the fire. Even worse to tell all the senior officers that Julian's corpus is safe and sound from insectoid delectation, and to then neglect to inform Julian himself. I was awfully sour about it. 

Of course, I wasn't sour for long. He charmed me as he always does. He reminded me in gentle, remonstrative sort of tones that I could have been dinner. I had to admit it was, on the whole, better to not be dinner, given all options. And as a sort of consolation he offered me dinner, which made the mouth fairly drip with anticipation--casse-croûte de kemprel! oeufs regova sur zabU baignée!--and once that had lived up to every desire a man could have... well, I say, I mean, Song of Solomon, what? Ode to the Tamed Mind and all that sort of thing, you see, and how can one stay upset when one's being cossetted and told how very unrepugnant one is, all in all?

My man Garak astounds me on the daily. Just when I think I have him pegged, he turns around and sorts me out again. He absolutely stands alone. tin'kur ti tonkh, what? Well, I mean, exactly!