Work Text:
Long Distance
Ses’erakh, 2384
“Don’t you have anything better to do this evening than watch me do the ironing?”
“No,” said Parmak, truthfully. He was lying on his side on the bed, with the padd propped up against one of the pillows. The ambassador, who was in Paris, had been talking nonstop for the past hour. He’d covered the latest play he’d seen (passable), the castellan’s recent choice of deputy (unsanctioned and barely acceptable), the exchange visit from a group of xenolinguistics students from U of U (charming), his ongoing feud with the attaché-without-portfolio who had been blatantly sent by the castellan to keep an eye on him (the man was mad to have taken the post), and his struggles with the Russian language (overdramatised). During this time he’d cooked and eaten supper, washed up, polished his shoes, and, about fifteen minutes ago, embarked on his current task. Parmak didn’t mind. It was almost as relaxing as listening to music, and infinitely more companionable. He was worried, however, that he might suddenly fall asleep. “I like watching you do the ironing.”
“Oh well, I suppose you might learn something.”
“I’ve already learned that ironing boards can both suck and blow. Who would ever have guessed that? But surely we’ve now reached the limits of what there is to discover. And before you say it – yes, I know they can heat up too.”
“I don’t believe you knew what an ironing board was before you met me.”
“I had a perfectly good kitchen table before the Jem’Hadar destroyed it along with the rest of my house.”
“I don’t believe you owned an iron.”
“What would you do if I told you my mother did my ironing?”
“I would believe that statement to be completely true.”
They smiled at each other. Parmak wished, very much, that they were not so far apart. He rubbed his eyes so he could keep on enjoying this admittedly largely one-sided conversation.
“Tell me about Vorat. How was his speech to the Assembly? Was it as appalling as imagination makes it?”
“Has the castellan not discussed this with you?”
The ambassador gave him a look that said, What do you think?
“He was very wooden, I’m afraid. Not what you’d call inspiring. But she’s stuck with him, really, isn’t she? Who else is there?”
“Well, quite… It’s not a line of succession that fills me with confidence.” He sighed. “I wish I wasn’t so far away.”
“You could resign, you know. Come home.” Impishly, he added, “Set up a tailor’s shop.”
The ambassador gave him a look that said something unspeakable. “I could. But I won’t.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“You could resign. Come here. And… Oh, of course, you don’t have any backup skills.”
“I’m highly qualified in my field and my skills are transferable.”
The ambassador disappeared briefly off screen. Hanging up a shirt, probably. When he reappeared, he said, “We could be very happy here together, you know. In Paris.”
“I might, with a little effort. But you won’t be happy until you’re home.”
The ambassador didn’t reply, since the truth of that was evident to both of them.
“We need to think of something you can do.”
“I think about that all the time. And I get precisely nowhere.”
Six years, now, since he’d first been posted to Earth. Three years since they’d started whatever-this-was. Time marched on, and neither of them was getting any younger.
“I have to go soon. I have to go and get changed.”
“What is it tonight?”
“Tonight is a drinks reception with a group of experts on the poetry of Iloja of Prim who are here from Vulcan for a conference.”
“That sounds…” Well, Parmak was glad he wasn’t over there for that one. “I’m not sure I know. Will you enjoy yourself?”
“Depends who I end up talking to. The things we do for Cardassia…”
Parmak, smiling, reached over to take a sip from the glass of water on the bedside table. When he came back into view, the ambassador was glaring at him.
“Kelas, where are you right now exactly?”
“I’m at your house.”
“At my house?”
“You asked me to check on the roof.”
“So I did. How’s the roof?”
“It’s fine for the moment. It’ll survive another week or two.”
“Oh yes? What happens then?”
“Don’t worry, everything’s in hand.”
There was another pause. Parmak, feeling his eyes close, blinked hard.
“And, where – exactly – are you, in my house?”
“Where do you think? I’m lying on the bed.”
“The bed?”
“Don’t worry, I haven’t touched anything.” He held up the padd, facing it outwards, so that the ambassador could see. “All drawers unopened. All pictures unadjusted. I’ve not even moved the book you left here, look…” He turned the padd round to show the ambassador the copy of Mrs Dalloway that was lying open, face down, on the far side of the bed.
“I was wondering where that had got to. May I ask why you’re on the bed?”
“Because after I arrived the dust kicked up, and I assumed you wouldn’t want me to choke to death having just checked on your roof. So I decided to stay over. Is that acceptable?”
“I suppose it’ll have to be, won’t it?”
They looked at each other, one of them rather more alert than the other. They couldn’t, they were both thinking, carry on this way much longer. Something was going to have to give.
“Oh well,” he said. “Time to go and pretend to be the Cardassian Ambassador to the United Federation of Planets.”
“You are the Cardassian Ambassador to the United Federation of Planets.”
“Knowing that certainly helps with the pretence.”
Parmak smiled, sleepily. He opened his eyes, wide, not sure whether minutes had passed or merely a moment. The ambassador was looking at him, thoughtfully.
“Kelas, what time is it there?”
Parmak checked. “Late. Or early, depending how you look at it.”
“You mean it’s the middle of the night?”
“Yes.”
The ambassador’s expression was suddenly, painfully, and charmingly contrite. “Why didn’t you say? I thought it was evening…”
“I told you, I like watching you do the ironing.” He felt himself drifting off to sleep again, and abandoned any attempt to stop himself. “Come home…”
“I’m working on it.”
11th April 2026