#Ziyal was done the most dirty

[libraflyter]

Ugh, and to me most of these issues are tied up with Doylist behind the scenes nonsense that makes us have to bend over backwards to try to build a meaningful narrative in-universe.

TLDR: it’s mostly low level Hollywood misogyny

- the recasting means no strong throughline in performance. The third Ziyal had the most episodes but was a) aware she was replaceable and b) working off an inconsistent character base

- Ziyal existed almost entirely as a tool for other characters’ arcs; she therefore became whatever was needed by each writer instead of being treated like a distinct character with her own motivations. Of course, it’s male character arcs she is primarily a prop for. As demonstrated, this leads to inconsistencies and a refusal to engage with narrative possibilities focused on Ziyal’s back story.

- I remain convinced the Garak/Ziyal romance was to de-gay Garak … as written by men who thought a 30 year+ age gap makes a beautiful love story. Fun fact: Memory Alpha has Ziyal as the same age as Nog and two years older than Jake, making her 21 when she dies. Ron Moore thought this was perfectly plausible because alien make-up and recasting third Ziyal with an actress only 20 years younger than Robinson vs 30.

- Memory Alpha also quotes Behr admitting they fridged Ziyal, making sure her last few episodes be at her absolute sweetest so she could die tragically to further Garak’s arc. (Which of course gets ignored in s7 when they needed Garak and Kira to work with Damar without bringing up that murder thing all the time.)

I love that the ds9 tumblr meta discourse is working hard to treat Ziyal right. I hate that the reason we have to is that 90s tv (and even today too often) don’t generally treat female characters as deserving thoughtful writing for the regulars, let alone the recurring.

Controversially, I think it was a logical and potentially even fairly interesting writing choice to give Ziyal romantic feelings for Garak, and it’s also totally believable that he didn’t have the emotional intelligence/wherewithal (or willingness to isolate himself even further) to reject her outright. I do get why it bothers people, and obviously the meta context is really unpleasant!

…but then I think about what Ziyal’s situation is. ‘I got rescued from a Breen camp as a young adult, and now I’m alone on this space station where almost everyone low-key hates people who look like me. Also, my dad who I just met sucks SO bad, but I am very traumatised and deeply alone and have been for a very long time so I want some kind of relationship with him. There’s one Cardassian here. He’s a screaming queen who is also my father’s arch nemesis, making him simultaneously the most dangerous and safest target for my sexual desires’. Like?? Yeah girl!! I’m sorry about all that but honestly, makes sense!!

Meanwhile, Garak is kind of a fucking loser (affectionate) whose Obsidian Order training did NOT prepare him for dealing kindly with a misguided young woman’s advances, but who absolutely would love to do anything at all to get under Dukat’s skin.

[philosopherking1887]

First line challenge

Thanks for tagging me, @sapphosewrites!

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have fewer than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line.

I interpreted “first line” generously... these are more like first paragraphs, or first few lines if the first is a short line of dialogue. Putting the quotes under a cut because this got quite long.

My first lines seem to fall into 4 categories (though the fourth only has one instance):

(a)  Line of dialogue: 4, 6, 7, 9, 14, 19 (b)  Description of a relevant background state of affairs: 2, 5, 10, 12, 17, 18, 20 (c)  A present, occurrent event that starts the action, always immediately followed by a statement relating it to a more general state of affairs: 1, 8, 13, 15(?), 16; 12 could actually be considered a mirror image of this pattern (d)  Description of setting: 11

Do I have a favorite? Maybe #5... but that might just be because it belongs to what’s currently my favorite fic of mine. Does anyone else have a favorite?

Tagging @conceptadecency, @damnhardwork, @delicatetrashstranger, @korvidaee, @richardcampbellganseytheiiird, @vermin-disciple, and anyone else who finds this amusing...

1.  Julian was fully awake the instant he heard the door chime of his cabin aboard the Defiant. That was one of many curious perks of his genetic enhancements: no sleep inertia. Zero to sixty in no time flat, as they might have said in the old automobile days.

2. Jadzia loved dirty gossip (a trait she had inherited primarily from Curzon, but also, in varying degrees, from all her other previous hosts, with the notable exception of Tobin). She loved offering advice, solicited or un-, on other people’s love lives. She was a proud, unrepentant busybody. But now, in spite of all that, she found herself regretting having busybodied herself into the position of Julian’s sole confidante about his relationship with Garak.

3.  “Everything’s gone dark. I can’t see you. Are you alone?” “Yes. There’s no one else but you and me.” Julian would think about that later—what it meant that Garak wanted him to stay, had lied to his old mentor and superior, the man to whom he said he owed everything.

4.  “…then she grabs my wrist, and puts my hand on her arm, and says ‘You have very steady hands.’ At this point I was completely baffled. How’m I supposed to respond to that? So I said, ‘Well, they get the job done, I guess. But right now the most important job is bypassing the plasma emitter.’ And then, out of nowhere, she says, ‘I assure you I’m quite fertile.’”

5.  Since being exiled to Terok Nor, Garak found that he had nothing but time. That was more true than ever now that he had been sentenced to six months in a holding cell on this State-forsaken station.

6.  “So, Katara… I’ve been thinking.” “No, you shouldn’t try riding the unagi again,” Katara said absently, not looking up from her work.

7.  “You wanted to see me, Commander?” “Sit down, Doctor Bashir.” “Is everything all right?” “Everything except your head, apparently.”

8.  Katara swept through the halls of the Fire Nation Royal Palace like a hurricane, hand perched threateningly on the skin of water at her hip, while Aang followed in the path she had cleared, apologizing hurriedly to disconcerted servants and indignant officials standing pressed against the walls to let her pass. Katara had no trouble finding her way to the infirmary; she had spent a fair amount of time there in the days after Sozin’s Comet, helping to tend Zuko’s wound from Azula’s lightning, as well as the less life-threatening ailments of the combatants from the Day of Black Sun who were being released from Fire Nation prisons on the orders of the new Fire Lord.

9.  “Ziyal?” She turned and spotted him, and her eyes lit up. Garak closed the distance to her table and she stood, a smile breaking over her face like the sun scattering thunderclouds over the desert.

10.  Three years after the end of the war, Aang was finding himself feeling perversely glad that he had only been twelve years old when he’d had to master three elements in less than a year and save the world from a power-mad Fire Lord, because if he’d been just a few years older he would never have been able to focus.

11.  It was another sultry day on Ember Island, where the Avatar’s family had joined the Fire Lord’s for a brief holiday at the royal family’s beach house. The heat was verging on uncomfortable for Katara, who was used to the chill of the South Pole.

12.  It wasn’t often that all the heroes of the Hundred-Year War could gather in the same place at the same time, but they managed it for the fifth anniversary of Zuko’s coronation.

13.  Zuko lit four candles on the altar in his cabin and sat half-lotus on the bench in front of it to meditate, as his uncle had taught him, as he had done every evening for the past three months aboard the Wani. Or rather, it should have been evening, but so near the North Pole at the summer solstice, the sun never quite set, but hovered at the edge of the horizon even at midnight.

14. “We could call it the Fifth Nation.” Aang made this suggestion to Zuko as they walked back from an informal tour of Cranefish Town, which before today Zuko had never seen, to the hotel where they were staying.

15.  As it turned out, Katara was the first to have the opportunity for a night alone with Zuko—which she thought was only fair, since it was Aang’s impulsive kiss when he was alone with Zuko that had started all of this.

16.  Iroh looked away when Ozai put a hand to his son’s face—but even as he did, he swore that he would never look away from Zuko again.

17.  In the Fire Nation, unlike in the other nations, the solstices are not festival days. Most of the archipelago is arrayed along the equator, so the length of the days does not change appreciably over the course of the year. What distinguishes the solstices is that the tilt of the planet makes the angle of the sun’s rays more indirect than at any other time of year, while it is strongest and most direct during what the hemispheres call the equinoxes.

18.  Zuko was accumulating epithets, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

19.  “Do you think something is going on between Mom and Dad and Uncle Zuko?” Kya asked, apparently out of the blue.

20.  Zuko had given Aang every argument he could muster for why he had to kill the Fire Lord.

[professortora]

a pleasant distraction

It’s something Naprem notices a little at a time - D’rorah’s in love.

Nowadays, she’s almost positive of it. She’d noticed the change in mood almost two months ago, back when she’d still been with her aunts in Musilla. There was something different about her - she was happier. The constant gloom that’d been draped over her shoulders since Naprem returned - and, Naprem now suspects, for quite some time before - had vanished, only showing itself in short, erratic spurts. She’d taken on her old glow. She was smiling more. Laughing more. At first, Naprem thought she must have told someone on the station her secret, something Naprem had been urging her to do from the start. But there’s something about the way she’s taken to staring longingly out the window, and waxing poetic at the strangest times, listing strange romantic hypotheticals in conversation without any real elaboration or cause. 

Naprem knows love when she sees it. She’s dealt with her own fair share, and she’s a mother - she can sniff out secrets quicker than a Cardassian riding hound these days. 

That, and Dr. Bashir had let it slip in casual conversation that D’rorah was seeing someone during his last call. Naprem had done the smart thing and acted like she already knew, though of course she hadn’t - it never helped to let someone know they’d slipped up and told you private information. Always easier to get the full story if you pretended you already had it.

And that, of course, is when the harassment began. 

Naprem could chalk it up to boredom - in fact, at her most honest, she does. Since she moved to the apartment in Tozhat to be closer to Ziyal’s university, her days have been frightfully boring. She tells herself she’s doing better now than she was. Here, the sunshine is impossible to avoid, as are the people. The city of Shara is emblematic of the entire province: bustling, beautiful, and crowded, with brilliant colored buildings crawling and scrambling over one another, tumbling together in a hundred thousand tiny shanties and shacks, all gaping wide-eyed at the crystal blue ocean far below. The streets are narrow and steeply-sloping, and more than half of them wind, labyrinthian and random, over the roofs and stairways of the apartments. Naprem’s apartment has a balcony that looks over the city, and neighborhood children come vaulting over it, laughing and playing. 

At any hour of the day, the city rings with the songs of street musicians, the heated arguments of neighbors shouting between their balcony, the whooping calls of vendors and merchants, and the raucous laughter of children. Colored lamps and bells dangle from wires that run over the roads, and the streets are always crowded. The city smells deeply of sea and trash, of summer and piss and dirty bath water, of fresh fried katarra and jungle wind. Naprem lives right up the road from the Tozhat Resettlement Center, and sometimes when she’s out walking, she’ll see the Cardassian orphans out with their caretakers, running errands or doing community service. Her local bakery is home to the only other Cardassian-Bajoran hybrid she’s ever seen - a stocky, dough-faced boys whose ridges give way to a patchy premature baldness he seems completely unashamed of. (Ziyal has told her, with a surprising reticence that he’s part of a hybrid support group that meets at the university - there are some thirty of them living in Tozhat, and every week they travel hours to meet in one of the university recreation rooms, to laugh and tell stories.)

But, for all the city’s constant activity, Naprem finds herself just as ill-at-ease here as she was in her aunts’ house. Her heartsickness has followed her here. She’s able, now, to force herself to go outside most days, if only to run errands. She makes Ziyal breakfast in the morning and dinner every night, and she doesn’t make lunch unless Ziyal comes home early. She spends a good deal of the time sleeping in the sun, regaining the color she didn’t realize she’d lost. She reads when she has the energy, occasionally in a coffee shop if she can find one, or at a bakery or sandwich shop if she can’t. 

But she doesn’t speak to anyone if she can help it. She avoids the gaze of strangers and the kindness of her closest neighbors. She keeps very strictly to herself, pursuing absolutely no company. 

It isn’t that she hasn’t had the opportunity to get out of the house, for lack of a better term. She has old friends in the area - colleagues who work at Ziyal’s university, who’ve reached out with offers of employment. She’s been contacted by a local archivist, a historian who knows her work pre-Occupation. She’s even been contact by the Resettlement Center to ask if she’d like to work with the children there.

But she doesn’t have an interest in going back to the work - certainly not as a teacher or an archivist. There’s something weighing her down, keeping her curled up in the windowseat near her balcony, making the sunlight sour.

She’s doing better, she tells herself. And if she isn’t, D’rorah certainly is. D’rorah’s life is evolving and changing, even as Naprem’s seems to resist any tangible improvement, no matter what changes she inflicts on it. So she pries and she pushes and eventually she outright demands that the next time D’rorah come to see her, she bring whoever it is with her.

@drorah-walks

[cardassiansstolebutton]

Troublesome Heart

Requested Anonymously

You didn't cry when he died.

You weren't an idiot. You knew that your crush on Weyoun was just that- a crush. A passing infatuation brought on by hormones and the romantic inclinations of youth. Nothing more than that. Not to mention that he was hardly what you would call a nice guy. He was on the opposing side of a rather nasty conflict, after all. And your interactions and been few and rather brief, probably a necessity from his point of view. You were friendly with some important people, including Odo, so Weyoun flattered you. Oh, did he flatter you, so prettily and with sincerity on every syllable of his lying tongue, and when he touched you, it was gentle, not like Dukat's forceful grip trying to rein you to his will. You had blushed and loathed it.

So. You didn't cry when he died.

But if you were a bit less chipper for a few days (or maybe a week) after hearing the news, no one noticed, and if they did, they did not realize the true reason.

You didn't rejoice when you found out he lived.

Apparently, Vorta were clones, copies of copies, each one containing the memories of its previous counterpart, and the Weyoun you met had been the fourth of himself. 

At least, that was the latest tidbit buzzing around the station. Once upon a time, you had heard that Cardassians laid eggs, but that was obviously tark-pucky. But the clone thing sounded about right to you. Very Dominion. Break the toy, replace the toy, no muss, no fuss. No need to train a new assistant, just grow one, pre-programmed and all.

Had you ever really known Weyoun, though? No, of course you hadn't. You had hardly spoken to him and it had all been false pleasantries. But the man named Weyoun whom you had been acquainted with, what of him? Had he really been Weyoun? Was he just alike to his previous clone, and was that clone alike to the one before it? Was he, or they, true to the original? And the original, what had he been like? A sleazy politician, or something completely different? How much of Weyoun's personality was genetic engineering? Was he of the Founders' design, or was he still mostly him?

It didn't matter, you decided. You might never see his new replacement, after all, and that was probably for the best.

He was on the station. The new Weyoun. You watched from a corner, unnoticed, and saw that he looked and acted exactly as he always had. Like he had never died at all. His smile was bitingly pleasant, his bright eyes falsely soft, his posture somehow both arrogant and demure at once. Beautiful, and you knew it, even though he was completely unaware. You hated yourself for being pleased to see him.

When he saw you, he didn't hesitate. He took both your hands in his, just as his previous self had, gentle and soft, and he smiled eagerly, as if he was reuniting with a dear friend instead of a passing acquaintance.

"My dear!" he called you, just as he always had. "My dear, I'm delighted to see you again. I thought I might not, but here you are, and you look well."

Flattery.

"It's nice to see you too, Weyoun," you said, not really lying. "I didn't think I'd see you again either." Then you tilted your head just so, speaking the silent language of opposing diplomats. "You're here to see Kai Winn, aren't you?"

Weyoun's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "... Yes."

You had already known. You had just wanted to see if he would admit it. Not that he had any reason to deny it, as it was no secret (Bajorans tended to be terrible gossips), but he could have lied through his teeth if it so pleased him. It didn't, apparently. Interesting. What that meant, you weren't sure, but you hoped it might mean that he didn't think you were a fool.

"I'm so sorry," you said with mock solemnity. "Have you met her before? She's unbearable. I can't be around her for more than five minutes."

A light and airy laugh, either genetically engineered or dutifully practiced, rang free from Weyoun. He grinned at you as if you had offered him the juiciest gossip or the most marvelous joke. Again, flattery. Trying to make you feel special.

"That bad, hmm?" he said, leaning closer to you. Ah, you knew that trick. Close and friendly proximity meant to instill a sense of intimacy and trust.

You can't play me, Weyoun.

"I've never met a more condescending woman," you confided. "She's a nightmare. I can't imagine having to negotiate with her."

At that moment, you would have made some sort of counter-move. You would have rested your hand on his arm or squeezed his shoulder, something to imitate familiarity as his leaning did, but you suddenly realized that your hands weren't free.

He was still holding them.

You looked down and saw your hands clasped in his, as intimate of a gesture as there ever was. You had noticed him take your hands, of course. He did this to quite a few people, not just yourself. But you hadn't noticed that he had kept his gentle grip.

"My apologies," he said, releasing you. You spotted a light dusting of lavender rise across his face and realized he was blushing. So he hadn't meant to do it after all. How strange. You had thought him too calculated and detached for something like that.

"It's alright," you said, patting his arm. "I don't mind."

And maybe you didn't.

He was gone in almost no time at all. There and back again, you supposed. Such was the life of an interstellar diplomat. You didn't really have time to miss him, but, every once and a while, you would think of those brief encounters and wonder, if he could hold your hands and blush about it, had any of those other moments been real?

No. That wasn't a fair thought. You put it out of mind.

You were left behind.

Well, not really. The Dominion occupation of Deep Space Nine was swift and sudden. Some people got out, some people didn't. You weren't really left behind as much as you were separated from the crowd and caught, sort of like a fish in a net. The other fish hadn't left you. You just happened to be too close to the fishing boat.

Kira was still on the station, but it did no good to go to her. She was in what you liked to think of as her Resistance Mode. She was nothing but biting fire in the face of yet another reign of terror. You didn't want to touch that flame. The burn wasn't meant for you.

Odo was still on the station, but it felt like he was gone. He had fallen so far, and you watched in disgust as the Female Changeling twisted him, pulling him down to her level and tainting him. You could hardly stand to look at him anymore. It wasn't completely his fault, you supposed. Odo was not only an orphan but one imbued with a homing instinct, and his need to find how he fit in the universe was something beyond human comprehension. But it was still on him, that he did this. It was still on him to resist, and he was hardly even trying.

Weyoun was on the station. That didn't make you feel any better.

You saw him from a distance but never approached him. There were always Cardassians and Jem'Hadar or, worst of all, the Female Changeling. Her, you didn't want to go anywhere near. You wouldn't be able to hide your absolute distaste if you did. She was like poison. Avoiding Dukat was just a plus in this situation.

But, one day, Weyoun spotted you, and the joy on his face made your chest hurt.

"My dear!"

Always. Always, my dear. Never your name.

"My dear, I was afraid you had vacated the station!" he exclaimed happily. He made a point of not taking your hands this time, but he was closer than was probably considered a polite distance in respect of personal space. "But you're here! What a pleasant surprise."

"Yes," you agreed, at a loss for words. You know he would play at being pleased to see you, but he seemed absolutely ecstatic. There must be something he wants from me now.

"No, really, I'm delighted to see you," he told you, sincerity dripping off his lying tongue. "I was hoping I would. I'm so glad you're here, you know. It will make staying on the station so much more pleasurable."

He purred the last word like a dirty secret, but it hit you like a final blow.

"I'm glad to see you too, Weyoun," you said, and he beamed at you.

Oh, that smile.

He leaned in as if to share a secret, and then whispered, "Do you mind doing me a favor? Nothing strenuous, I promise. Just something to help me avoid Dukat's incessant yammering."

You couldn't help but laugh. "He does like the sound of his own voice, doesn't he?"

"Yes. How he managed to father such pleasant offspring as Ziyal, I don't know," Weyoun lamented. "But that's the thing- he's given me a painting of hers and I just don't know what to make of it."

Ah, yes. Vorta lacked any sense of aesthetics. How horrid that must have been.

"And Dukat will probably want a whole report singing Ziyal's praises, right?" you asked, because you knew that Dukat would take nothing less.

"Exactly," said Weyoun. "So you'll help?"

"I'll do what I can."

"Marvelous!" And then he actually tapped your nose playfully.

Who are you and what have you done with Weyoun?

The wardroom was dimly lit. This, you imagined, was probably because the Cardassians that came in and out at almost all hours would probably have complained if the room was kept in lighter conditions. Also, as you had discovered before, Vorta had extremely poor eyesight and relied heavily on their sense of hearing for just about everything. For Weyoun to keep his own space well-lit would be like a blind man keeping all the lights on when he lived alone.

That said, you had to strain your eyes somewhat to see Ziyal's painting.

Tora Ziyal's work was a tad too minimalistic for your tastes. It wasn't bad, no, not at all. It was very good. You could see the skill that went into it, the precision with which each stroke of paint was made, and it was beautiful. It just wasn't something you would hang on your own wall. The sparseness of it didn't seem Cardassian or Bajoran despite both styles being present. You wondered what that had come from. Maybe, you thought, it was something to do with the fact that Ziyal had lived the majority of her life without decoration. That had to have an influence on someone, especially in the developmental years.

“It’s very good,” you finally said when you felt Weyoun lurking at your shoulder. “Excellent combination of traditional Cardassian and Bajoran styles. Funny, you wouldn’t usually see this sort of technique used outside of Bajoran icon paintings, but it looks good used this way. The minimalism is a unique touch.”

Weyoun sighed in relief and you felt the gusty breath fan over the back of your neck. “Oh, thank the Founders. I asked Major Kira, but she was no help. Now I can face Dukat tomorrow without getting my own ears handed to me.”

You stifled a laugh at that. “Yes, well, Dukat can be… difficult. I’m sorry about Kira. She’s just… not good at socializing. You’re either very close with her or you’re not even on her radar, and it can seem like she doesn’t like you.”

“But…” You felt Weyoun’s warm breath ghost across your neck again. Why was he so close? Was it so those weak eyes of his could see? “She doesn’t like me.”

Your lips pursed into a flat line. “No, she doesn’t. But I wouldn’t take that personally. She doesn’t like most people, whether they deserve it or not.”

There was a brief silence, and then, “You’re very kind.”

You flinched from the unexpected words. “Not really.”

“No, you have been,” Weyoun insisted. “You’ve never been anything but kind to me.”

Flattery, flattery, flattery, you reminded yourself. Nothing but flattery, pretty words to make you lose your guard. He’s a lying snake.

“I know you don’t want me here either,” Weyoun continued. You could feel the heat of him there, at your back. Almost touching, but not quite. All you would have to do was lean back, just the slightest bit… but, of course, you didn’t. “But you have been courteous to me. I asked you a favor and you granted it without complaint, and when you came to me, you truly helped.”

“I don’t have a reason to be unkind,” you argued, and Weyoun made an odd, inhuman sound that was almost like a hiss.

“You have plenty of reasons,” he said waspishly. “More, perhaps, than even Major Kira, but you have always been kind and you have not wavered in that kindness despite your distaste for a situation that is ultimately my fault.”

“Maybe I hate Dukat more than you.”

A hand at your elbow, applying just enough pressure for you to know he was holding you. “Don’t lie to me.”

“That was hardly a lie. Dukat’s scum, if you haven’t noticed.” Then you took a deep breath, calming yourself. It didn't really help, but it made you feel like you could speak without wavering. "Do I need a reason?"

"I'd feel better if you had one," Weyoun admitted. His grip on your elbow eased slightly, but he still held his hand there, on the soft skin of your arm. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No." It was the truth.

"You want something from me, then?"

"Not a thing," you answered, because there was nothing he could give you that you wanted. It would be wonderful if he could end the occupation, but that wasn't within his power, so you wouldn't snark at him about it.

Finally, you turned to him, hesitantly making eye contact. He still hadn't let go of your arm, though, bringing you close. His bright violet eyes bore into yours like neon, closer than you had ever seen them, and you could feel his breath on your face. There was starlight from the porthole shimmering on his milky skin.

This was wrong.

"I'm not like you," you said, suddenly too honest. "I don't need a reason to be kind. I don't give only because I plan to take."

"Everybody wants something," he growled, low and dangerous. You didn't flinch.

"And the Founders want everything," you snapped back. "They're a monster with a bottomless pit for a belly. The Dominion will eat the whole galaxy if they get the chance, Weyoun. They'll never be satisfied. And what use will you be when they've finished?"

Weyoun recoiled from you like you had burnt him. "That's not true! The Founders bring order and peace everywhere they go!"

"Is that what they did to your people?" you demanded. "Tell me, Weyoun, what use will you be? What will they do with a tool that's outlasted its usefulness? Do your gods have sentiment?"

Weyoun snarled and your eyes burned with the hurt of it all. You had always felt like Weyoun was the villain, but that wasn't really it, was it? He was a kicked dog crawling back to its master time and time again. He was still wrong, of course, and he still did terrible things, but you wouldn't be able to look at him like it was his fault ever again.

You reached out and pressed your palm against his white cheek. Weyoun stiffened at the unexpected touch, probably having expected a slap and certainly not a gentle caress. His mouth parted in surprise. Tentatively, he leaned into the touch.

"Do the Founders do this for you, Weyoun?" you asked, as gently as you could even though your throat had gone hoarse.

"I obey the Founders in all things," he said, high and quiet like a child.

You came even closer and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. He gasped softly, like you had wounded him, and you felt him press his cheek more firmly into the cradle of palm.

"Do they do that?" you asked, brushing your free hand over his silky hair.

"I obey the Founders in all things!" he repeated, even more desperately this time even as he fluttered into your touch like a moth to flame. "I obey..."

There wouldn't be anything else out of him tonight.

"I'm so sorry," you said, pulling away from him.

As if you had been his only support, he sank to the floor. He looked shocked, like he had seen death, his mouth curled downwards and his eyes wide and glossy. He shook, and you wanted to hold him, but you knew he needed to feel this. He curled into himself, as if to shield the hurt, still looking up at you like you had snatched the world out from under his feet. And maybe you had.

"I obey the Founders in all things," you heard him repeat as you left him there. "I obey the Founders in all things, I obey the Founders in all things..."

You saw him again but only from a distance, and then one day, he was gone. He had left to be on Cardassia Prime, or so was the gossip. You wondered if you would ever see him again.

The occupation of Deep Space Nine ended abruptly. The Dominion flooded out and Deep Space Nine's loyal occupants flooded in, taking back their homes with immovable pride. For you, nothing much changed, except that you still couldn't look at Odo without feeling ashamed of him. And, although you said nothing, it seemed like he knew. He wouldn't look you in the eye.

You cried when he died. This time.

The news came and went like the flitting of birds in Spring. A freak transporter accident, they said, but it hadn't been an accident. Of course it hadn't been. Good riddance, they said, but all you could think of was that man, pale and trembling on the floor of the wardroom like a lost child. And, with more regret than you had ever felt over anything, you wished that you had gone back and held him instead of leaving him there to tremble alone.

Odo had been gone for a short while when he returned and immediately called for you. The truth was, you had gotten so used to him avoiding you that he hadn't realized he was gone.

You stood in his office, and there was no judgment in your gaze. You were tired of being angry with him. You missed him. He looked up at you like he expected a tongue-lashing to rival one of Major Kira's bursts of temper, but you only waited for him to speak.

"Another Weyoun has been activated," he finally said, his gravelly voice sounding as hesitant as his eyes looked.

You felt a jolt of panic in your gut. Why was Odo telling you this? No one knew about your... odd relationship with Weyoun. Relationship wasn't even the right word. More like a series of very strange encounters. But, still, no one knew... Except for the new Weyoun. Was that where Odo had gone? To meet the new one? Had Weyoun said something? No, why would he? Especially after the last time you spoke. No Vorta would admit to something like that, and certainly not Weyoun, and never to Odo!

"And?" you prompted. "What's it matter? He's not here."

Odo sighed heavily, but it lacked the infused sarcasm of long-suffering that his sighs usually did.

"We barely made it back," Odo said, and your heart jolted, "but he is here. He's defected."

"Defected?" The word stuck to your throat and came out like a croak.

Odo nodded. "He... asked for you. Specifically." He looked pained to make the admission. "One of his conditions for providing the Federation with information is that he be placed under your care." At this, Odo's eyes sharpened into his detective's gaze.  "Do you care to explain why?"

"I'm not sure," you said, because you really weren't. After last time, why would he want anything to do with you? "I was nice to him, but I wasn't that nice, and the last time we talked mostly involved me chewing out his gods. No offence."

"None taken," Odo grunted. "The question is, do you agree to this?"

It took you a moment to remember what Odo meant. "You mean, having him placed under my care?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't think the Federation's going to let me say no, if that's the only way Weyoun's willing to talk to them."

Snorting, Odo gave you that proud, sharp look that he always used to do when you figured something out on one of his cases. You had missed that look.

"You're right," he said. "So, you agree?"

"Yes." You paused, and he waited. "Odo... I really missed you."

And Odo smiled at you for the first time in a long time.

Weyoun looked a bit worse for wear, but when he saw you, he smiled, but it was a soft and shy thing, something you didn't know Weyoun was capable of. It broke something inside you to see that smile.

"My dear," he said, quiet and soft, not with the lyrical cadence he usually used. Used to usually use. You saw his fingers twitch to grab your hands and wondered how habits like that could be passed from one clone to another. "It's... good to see you."

You smiled, deja vu cluttering the moment oddly. "It's good to see you too, Weyoun."

"I had hoped..." He winced slightly, in the way meant to hold back a grimace. "I would have told them what they wanted anyway, you know, but I thought that if I asked, you might... at least be willing to see me again."

"I'm here, aren't I?" you said. "And I'm attached to your asylum contract. We'll be seeing a lot of each other."

At this, that soft smile returned, a little less nervous than before.

"I'm glad you agreed to this," he said. "I... defecting was... I had you in mind."

You raised an eyebrow. "You didn't betray the Founders for me."

"No," he admitted, "but I let Damar kill me knowing that I would come back to you."

The admission rocked you harshly. You tried not to let it show, but there was suddenly concern in Weyoun's expression. Real, genuine concern. It made you shudder with the knowledge of possibilities.

He raised on hand and cupped your cheek, just as you had once done to his previous self in a dark wardroom.

"You were right," he said, his thumb brushing close to the curve of your mouth. "The Founders don't do this." He kissed your forehead. "And they don't do that."

You sighed softly. "And what else?"

Weyoun lowered his head and pressed his lips against yours.