Work Text:
Arc de Triomphe
Paris, 2381
The ambassador’s private rooms were unexpectedly modest. The door opened straight onto a small sitting room, with a neat writing desk in one corner and a little kitchen area to the right. The room was warm, the lamps dim, like a little piece of home transported to an alien world. He must have become good at doing that, over the years. Music had started playing when the door opened, very quietly, taking the silence off the place for anyone who might be returning here alone. Parmak recognised one of Tarn’s nocturnes.
The ambassador pushed the door shut behind them. He took Parmak’s jacket and hung it up, with his own, on hangers on the back of the door. He paused for a moment to brush the creases out from them both. Then: “I’ll make tea, if that suits,” he said. “Or did you want another drink? There’s wine, there’s kanar—”
“Tea, please.”
The ambassador went off to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. Not replicated then; very hospitable. Parmak took stock of his surroundings. Two big windows – it was dark outside, now – took up the wall opposite the door. A rather shabby chaise longue ran parallel to one window, with a reading lamp behind; there were two or three woollen throws heaped there, and a paperback book on top of these, open, face down. A low round table bearing a kotra board partway through a game, another couple of books, and a bowl of leya fruit. Two armchairs, placed round the table. Both of these were covered with books and padds; they clearly did not see much service as seats for guests. So who was the other kotra player? Did he play against himself?
Parmak went over to the chaise longue and picked up the book. It was written in Earth Standard so he reached into his pocket for his translator film. Giovanni’s Room. He didn’t know it. He put the book back in its place and looked round. There was a big bookcase against the wall by the entrance filled with books; a free-standing full-length wooden mirror stood beside this. He went over to the bookcase in search of clues, looking for some kind of key to the man. Paperbacks, mostly, their spines creased and worn. There were a dozen or so books in their own language, although most were in Earth Standard, and a handful in two or three other languages – could he read all of these without assistance? Parmak cast his eye over those titles he could decipher. Possession of more than a few of them would have got him sent to a labour camp, in the old Cardassia, for various crimes running from sedition through to deviancy. Had he read them back there, back then, on Order business, perhaps? Or only when he landed safely here?
The ambassador, coming back with a tray, saw him looking at the books. The ghost of a smile passed over his lips. He put the tray down on the table, and started clearing the chairs so that they could sit down. “I need a better system,” he said, apologetically.
Parmak helped him move the books, stacking them on the floor by the side of the table. Their arms brushed against each other at one point; the ambassador cleared his throat, swallowed, and put a little distance between them. When Parmak was seated, he poured the tea and handed it across. Parmak breathed in the welcoming scent of redleaf. The ambassador sat down. Before picking up his own cup, he loosened his collar, and then – quickly, precisely – took off his shoes. Black leather ankle boots, in fact; supple, smart, and expensive-looking. Like an actor taking off a costume. He tucked the boots neatly, side by side, out of the way under the table. Then he picked up his cup, and sat back in his chair, legs stretched out in front, feet crossed. He sat contemplatively, tea in his right hand, head propped up on his left.
“I think tonight was a success,” the ambassador said, after a moment or two.
“Oh, I think so too, most certainly.”
“Good. Hard to tell, sometimes. There’s always so much going on. More than one man can keep tabs on, really.”
Even an Order man? “There’s Akret.”
The ambassador smiled. “That’s true. She doesn’t miss much.” He checked the time. “I hope she’s home now…”
He fell silent again. His features began to alter, subtly. More of the costume being shed? He began to look pensive. Careworn. Lonely?
Why have I been granted admittance here?
“So, doctor,” he said. “What do you think of Paris now that you’ve seen something of it?”
“I think,” said Parmak, “that it’s one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen.”
A soft smile changed his face once again. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Still, though…” He stopped, and sighed. “Well, there are considerably worse places to which one can be sent, let me assure you.”
“It is a long way from home.”
“Yes,” he said, quietly. He pushed out a breath. “Well. It is what it is.”
But, palpably, he would prefer to be at home. Did Garan know, Parmak wondered, exactly how much she was asking, sending him all the way out here?
“So what would you be doing this evening back in Ses’erakh, doctor? Where do you live now?”
“I have a little place on the west side of Paldar,” said Parmak.
“Very nice.”
“Well, it was. My family home was there…”
He saw the other man looking steadily at him. He would know this, already, of course.
“Well, so, after the Fire, I rebuilt where I knew, as I think so many of us did.”
“Yes.”
“If somewhat more modestly. Three whole rooms! Quite the luxury, these days. I have a small trikolat that I have restored, which I play—”
“That’s not an easy instrument, or so I understand.”
“I didn’t say I played it well.”
“No,” he laughed. “You didn’t.”
“I suppose, on an average evening, I would come home, listen to music, play some music, eat…”
“Do you cook?”
“I cook about as well as I play the trikolat. Do you cook?”
“Yes, I love to cook,” said the ambassador. “Though I don’t, much, on the whole… There are so many lunches and dinners and receptions that when I’m back here I hardly feel the need. Such a hard life,” he said, waving a hand with just a touch of that considered flamboyance that distinguished his public persona. “How I long to be home eating Federation rations and sieving water.”
Parmak laughed. “It’s not that bad these days.”
“Well, good, that’s rather by way of the point of me being here, isn’t it? So you like music, you play… I won’t say ‘badly’, let’s say ‘for pleasure’, and you cook… what, under duress?”
“That more or less captures it.”
“What else do you like to do, doctor?”
“I read a lot,” he gestured back to the bookshelf behind him.
“It fills the hours, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” he said. “But it’s no substitute for conversation.”
The ambassador was staring at him. Bright blue eyes. He looked away, quickly, at the wall beyond Parmak’s shoulder. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”
The music had come to an end. The room was becoming still, with a faint threat of turning oppressive. Parmak put down his cup, stood, and walked over to the window. “Tell me about the view,” he said. “What am I looking at?”
Behind him, he heard the ambassador sigh. After a moment he came to stand beside him. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he was leaning slightly away. “We’re… on the river. The Jardin des Tuileries is right ahead, on the other side.” He pointed. “The Pyramide du Louvre, to the right… That’s the point of the Obélisque, there, to the left…” He continued pointing as he spoke. “If you carried on that way you’d reach the Champs-Élysées… the Arc de Triomphe… la Tombe du Soldat inconnu… As you can see, I’m very favourably situated.”
“Yes, but where’s the Eiffel Tower?”
“Oh!” He laughed and gestured to the left and slightly behind. “That way. Round a bend in the river. You can’t see it from here. But some nights there’s a beacon on the top, that moves around. Like a lighthouse. You can see that. Some nights.” His hands came to rest, flat, on the windowsill.
“Like I say. It’s beautiful.”
“It is. Very, very beautiful, and very, very alien.”
Yes, lonely. Gently, Parmak touched the back of the other man’s hand. The ambassador made a move to pull back, so he caught his fingers, entwining them. “Look at me.”
The ambassador stared down at their hands. “This wasn’t why I…”
“No. This is me. Look at me.”
The ambassador looked up, but slightly to one side. Parmak put his fingertips against his chin, and moved his head around until they were, by necessity, looking directly at each other.
“Better.” He leaned in, and placed a soft kiss on the other man’s cheek. The ambassador’s eyes closed, and he drew in a breath that was almost a sob. His eyes flickered open again; they were wide and wet and… was that scared? Whyever would he be scared?
“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
“No. But I want to.”
He put his hands upon the other man’s shoulders, and leaned in to kiss him full on the mouth. The ambassador all but crumpled against him. His right hand was still on the windowsill; the left hand flailed around for a moment, unsure, it seemed, of what to do, before settling on the side of Parmak’s face, pushing up into his hair. The other hand joined in, eventually. They kissed for some time, until the ambassador fell back. He was trembling; he looked… undone. This was really not what Parmak had expected. So what had he expected, then? Someone more in command of the whole situation? Yes, someone more like that. Life brought many surprises.
“It’s been a while,” the ambassador said, with a small laugh.
“Mm,” said Parmak, happily. “Me too. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is. May we go again?”
“Oh, I think we should, yes…”
They did, for quite a while. The ambassador’s arms came up to circle around his neck. He was a touch shorter and had to tip up his head… Parmak ran his hand gently up and down his back. He was relaxing, yes… gaining confidence, yes, yes… He was rather good at this... Better than good, in fact… What else was he good at? Parmak, mumbling, said, “The bedroom?”
“Mm? Oh. That way…” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.
Parmak looked across the room. “Left-hand door or right-hand door?”
“Oh. Right, go right… The other is… the other is the bathroom…”
“Mm. Helpful information. Perhaps for later.”
Later, they lay quietly together. The ambassador’s head was resting on his chest; his hand upon his stomach. Parmak watched the strange lights of an alien world dance across the bedroom walls, and reflected upon the unanticipated turns that life could take. A long time ago, after a period of great pain, he had made the decision to meet the cruelties of the world without fear and with love. He was by that time veteran enough to know that he was rarely, if ever, likely to be repaid in the same coin, but sometimes, sometimes, the balance was settled.
The ambassador was sleeping. Somewhere, in the midst of this unanticipated tangle of bodies and limbs and sheets, he had found peace. Parmak studied the contours of his face for a while. He felt as if he had been given the keys to a strongbox, which, upon opening, turned out to conceal all manner of unexpected treasures – precious jewels, rare books, something quick-moving and subtle for which he had, as yet, no name – all hoarded away until the day someone came by, and saw their worth and claimed them. Parmak was, by nature, a gentle man, temperate – but he was not without reserves of passion, and, lying here, looking at that sleep-softened face, he felt a powerful desire come over him to protect. To keep safe.
He kissed the other man, very gently, on the top of his head. He turned, to hold him better. Then he closed his eyes, giving himself over to the warmth that lay between them, and whatever might lie beyond.
4th-6th March 2026
What happens next morning... Sacré-Cœur.