Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.pas.earthlink.net!elnk-pas-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!priapus.visi.com!orange.octanews.net!news.octanews.net!green.octanews.net!news-out.octanews.net!news.glorb.com!border1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!newshosting.com!nx01.iad01.newshosting.com!yellow.newsread.com!news-toy.newsread.com!netaxs.com!newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "Penumbra" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW DS9 Dark Stone of Souls 1/3 (G/B) [NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 372 Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 18:55:03 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1092077703 209.198.142.218 (Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:03 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:03 EDT Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:82557 X-Received-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 11:55:10 PDT (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Dark Stone of Souls Author: Penumbra Contact: penumbra at clinched dot net Series: DS9 Rating: NC-17 Codes: G/B Summary: In the aftermath of a devastating loss, Julian Bashir learns Warnings: Character death (pre-story and no, it's not Garak), foul language, boy-meets-boy sex, copious angst, bad puns, quasi-consistent Brit vocabulary and spelling. Setting and Spoilers: Nine years after "What You Leave Behind" with only the vaguest of spoilers. Feedback: Comments, constructive criticism, and mash notes accepted with heartfelt gratitude either on-list or via email at the contact address above. Notes: I don't know what possessed me to write a story with a plot spanning over two (!) Post-It notes, and in present tense to boot, but here it is. I pilfered dialogue from this story to various drabbles you've already seen, so moments of deja-vu are completely understandable. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dark Stone of Souls by Penumbra (c) 2004 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dr. Julian Bashir doesn't quite know why he's still on Deep Space Nine. The cold, dead weight of his soul has never felt heavier than at this moment as he stands and watches over Kira. He rests his hand on the photon torpedo casket. The metal is cool to the touch and he smiles, appreciative. He finds it appropriate that she's getting a Starfleet funeral, because she was the best Bajoran that ever happened to the Federation. "I'm sorry we couldn't save you," he whispers. With 'we' he means 'I.' "I'm just...I'm so sorry, Nerys." Intellectually, he knows it was a Breen weapon that killed her, but he's not entirely convinced she was alive when it caught her in the chest. Even after a week, he's still surprised she died of the wound when her heart had been dead for so many years -- something only he saw, because his own heart has been as lifeless as hers is now. The funeral is in three days. Bashir hopes he won't cry, because Nerys wouldn't want tears and because tears remind him of Ezri. * * * * * The Cardassian delegation arrives in the nick of time -- an hour before the memorial ceremony -- and amidst controversy. When the Galor-class ship slides to dock in upper pylon 3, the station's Bajoran residents dial up their uneasiness a notch, which makes the Starfleet security forces finger their phasers more often than usual. Bashir tags along with the reception committee because he doesn't want to hog Kira. So, feeling out of sorts in his dress uniform, he stands between Jake Sisko (a man, now; a boy who only wants his father back) and Harry Kim (their interim station commander; a Peter Pan with the pips of Captain Hook). His limbs are numb from exhaustion and sorrow. When the airlock door opens, the Cardassian delegation brings the smell of ozone and reactor coolant with them. Their leader seems vaguely familiar. "Legate Gotenka," Kim intones solemnly and shakes his hand. "This is an honour." When it's his turn, Bashir holds Gotenka's hand too long although he won't remember it later. "I've heard of your exemplary work in overcoming radiation sickness, doctor," the Cardassian says. "My people are forever in gratitude for your efforts." Bashir smiles on autopilot. "Thank you, legate." Gotenka's next words go unheard by Bashir because by chance, he glances at the Cardassian entourage before the legate can utter them. Amidst unfamiliar faces he finds one that is achingly familiar. It's the face he's searched in crowds for nine years, first reflexively and then desperately. "Garak?" he breathes, unable to help the disbelief or the catch in his voice. The smile is sly and generous, much as Bashir remembers it. The voice is not. "The one and only. Hello, my friend." Breaching Starfleet etiquette and not caring, Bashir shoulders his way around Gotenka and grabs Garak's arm. Underneath his exquisite tailoring, he's still solid steel and strength. The years and the crowd around them fade away. "It's really you, isn't it?" Garak's lips twitch. "Would I be so cruel as to send a doppelganger in my stead?" "Yes," Bashir replies immediately. "Yes, you would." "Alas, then it seems my skills have gone to disrepair." The unfamiliar rasp in Garak's before so sonorous voice makes Bashir want to clear his throat. "A shame, really. Such an opportunity to devastate you, and I didn't even think of it." Bashir smiles. To his eyes, Garak hasn't aged, but he does bear new scars and a calm to his visage that he never had before. His uniform is obviously a uniform -- a deep, dark midnight blue with a high collar that screams for insignia to be attached to it, yet there is none -- and he carries a tablet of pale stone under his arm. "What's that?" Garak brushes the antique tablet with his fingers. The touch is fleeting, yet almost erotic in its reverence. "It's a *neltek'leht*, a Soul Stone. It carries a soul on its final journey into the void. Or in this case, to the Celestial Temple." "I'm sure Nerys would appreciate it," Bashir says, because that's what he's supposed to say. He's quite certain Kira would have words not suitable for polite company. Garak's smile is crooked; he understands absurdity like only a career nihilist can. "For the saviour of the Cardassian people, only the best will suffice." As Bashir stands there, grinning like an idiot and his hand forgotten on Garak's arm, he feels warm and content inside. An unusual feeling for him, and even though it's nostalgia he feels and the warmth of memories, he decides that as emotions go, it's no less genuine than his seemingly indissoluble grief. "You must be tired. Let me show you to your quarters." "I'd be delighted," Garak says and the familiarity of his gracious nod makes Bashir's heart ache pleasantly. "Well, c'mon. This way. We have just enough time to get you settled and to have a quick tour." * * * * * Twenty minutes later, Garak's belongings are in the guest quarters and Bashir has blackmailed him into a walk at the Promenade. He sells it with the promise of nostalgia; Garak scoffs at the notion and reminds Bashir of his hypermnesia, but comes anyway. "This certainly brings back memories," Garak murmurs. He gives no indication on whether the memories are good or bad. "It hasn't been the same since you left." Garak nods towards the tailor's shop and the Bolian puttering around inside it. "Alas, they are a species known for their expertise in plumbing, not fashion." He clicks his tongue. "A tragedy in the making." "That's not what I meant." "I know," Garak says and turns away with a smile. "I choose to live in the belief that intelligent species never let Bolians hem their trousers so please, do not dissuade me of my comfortable fallacy." "He doesn't get to touch my trousers," Bashir readily provides the untruth. "Really. Scout's honour." "Thank you. Now, shall we continue?" They make their way to the upper level of the Promenade, sparsely trafficked and quieter. Garak leads Bashir to the viewports facing the wormhole and leans against the wall. To Bashir, the pale blue of his eyes is like Romulan ale, alien and intoxicating. "Whatever happened to that Trill girl of yours?" Garak makes a show of his reminiscing. "That young thing. What was her name again?" Bashir smiles at Garak's pretense. "She's Bitan Dax now," Bashir says and thinks of the young, strapping Trill with magical green eyes. "Really?" Garak asks, as if the information surprises him. "Yeah. Six years and then some." Although they haven't seen each other in months, he believes Bitan must still have that look about him, the painful stain of reassociation. He thinks a familiar, ugly thought about Lenara Kahn. He doesn't blame Ezri for her momentary weakness -- not any more, at least. "I'm so sorry." No you're not, Bashir wants to say. "Don't be." You never liked her, he wants to add; there would be no malice in his voice, because he never liked her that much either. "Anyone new in your life?" "Just Kukalaka and various indoor plants I invariably end up killing." "Well," Garak says and smiles one of his not-smiles. "Now and then, euthanasia is the only viable answer." Bashir makes a noncommittal sound, not quite knowing how to take Garak's obvious jest. "And you, old friend?" he asks, because it's the polite thing to do. Garak glances at his side and touches his lips with his finger. "Watch," is all he says and guides Bashir's eyes down to the Promenade with a nod. Frowning, he complies. At first, Bashir thinks Garak is implying Legate Gotenka is what brings a smile to his face. Before the preposterousness of that visual can sink in, he understands what Garak wanted him to see. Or rather, whom. "Uh...Captain Picard? Garak, I'm impressed." Garak smiles again. "As always, the flights of your imagination are nothing short of astounding. Watch," he instructs again. Legate Gotenka is among the dignitaries gathering in front of the temple, as is the Federation representative, Captain Picard. The latter -- a sparse, regal legend of a man, resplendent in a dress uniform -- emerges from a group of Bajoran vedeks and approaches the legate. Three paces away, he stops, a storm gathering over his suddenly stony appearance. "What in the name of...?" Bashir mutters, frowning. "Keep watching, my friend." As Bashir looks, he can see the angry words leave Picard's mouth but can't quite hear them. He sees the sudden, restless activity amongst the Cardassians and the equally sudden appearance of Starfleet and station security, followed by Captain Kim. In no time at all, Gotenka is being led away amidst vociferous protest and kerfuffle. Bashir turns back to Garak. His manner is entirely unruffled, as if he has been expecting this very outcome to the accidental meeting -- which was not quite so accidental, Bashir realises. It seems some things in the Universe never change. "Garak. What kind of a game are you playing this time?" Instead of an answer, Garak glances at the chrono embedded in the cuff of his jacket and stands up. "We need to go lest we miss the memorial service," he says as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. "I have a delivery to make," he adds, again touching the stone under his arm. Resigned to his fate of incomprehension, Bashir follows Garak down the stairs and towards the temple. A smile inches its way on his lips. How he hasn't died of boredom without Garak, he doesn't know. * * * * * Bashir had thought he could cry no more, yet his tears are flowing freely. His grief is like a living thing, a growing, cancerous weight on his heart. He sees Jake Sisko's lips move but he can't hear his words. A touch on his arm jolts him from his paralysis. Looking down, he sees Garak's hand and a white handkerchief in it. "Thanks," he croaks. The fine linen feels harsh on his tired eyes. When Jake finishes his eulogy, Vedek Bertom takes his place. "Thank you, Mr. Sisko. Our beloved daughter has heard your words," he intones solemnly. "Who wishes to address Nerys and the prophets next?" Bashir is startled when Garak stands up. "I do." To the tune of scandalised whispers from the Bajorans and puzzled looks from everyone else, Garak makes his way to the front. His gaze lingers on Kira's gleaming torpedo casket for a moment before he turns to the audience and sets the Soul Stone down in front of him. "Or rather, I know who wants to be next," he says and smiles down at the stone tablet. "At your convenience, my friend." Just as Bashir is convinced that at last, Garak has lost his final marble, the tablet draws his attention. What before was inert, pale stone and intricate carvings now shimmers with a golden sheen. As he watches, stunned to silence as much as the rest of the audience is, the stone shifts and morphs and grows into a humanoid shape that's instantly familiar. "Garak, you old devil," Bashir breathes, his sorrow momentarily replaced by bittersweet joy. To hushed whispers, the golden statue coalesces into its final form. "Hello," Odo says as the final glimmers of gold vanish underneath black fabric. He turns to Garak. "Thank you, Garak." Garak nods and smiles. "Consider us even." "Oh, I don't think so." "Ah, well. Hope springs eternal," Garak says amiably and vacates the stage. As Odo turns to the spellbound crowd, Bashir's eyes follow Garak all the way to the exit. Frowning, torn between following him and listening to Odo, he vacillates between staying and going long enough for Odo to start. When Odo speaks, his voice is strong and with inflection that's unfamiliar to Bashir. It reminds him of Captain Sisko: strong, assured and mature beyond what mere mortals can achieve in their modest years. It also reminds Bashir of the war and he stops that thought before it can take him to places he doesn't want to go to. So he listens to Odo's words, watches his familiar shape and strength of his shoulders that seem to be able to carry any weight except this. Afterwards, the crowd gathers around Kira's casket. Bashir finds Odo standing at the sidelines, watching from the shadows. What do you say to a friend ten years gone, he wonders. "You're getting better with your noses," Bashir says stupidly and feels like kicking himself. "Thank you, doctor," Odo says and smiles as he touches his ear. "Alas, external auricles are still beyond my capabilities." "You'll get there. Give it time." Odo glances back at Kira's torpedo casket, as if to seek reassurance from her earthly remains. "Time is all that I have, now, it seems." "I'm so sorry, Odo. If there's anything I can do...?" "You already did more than enough, Julian," Odo says. The smile on his face is dying slowly. "You were a friend to her when she needed one." Bashir wants to say something about not being able to save her, but decides at the last second that it's something Odo doesn't need to hear right now. In a decade, maybe. A century, perhaps. "You'll stay with her tonight?" Odo nods, his eyes once again on the black torpedo. "If I may." "Of course. I'll see that you're not disturbed." "Thank you." Bashir touches Odo's sleeve. Distractedly, he notes Odo chose not to wear the uniform and wonders whether the decision was symbolism or convenience on his part. "I'll see you tomorrow. The funeral is at 0800 hours." Odo doesn't reply, merely nods and sits down again. To Bashir, he looks a broken man, although he knows Odo can't be broken nor is he really a man at all. ----------------------------- End of part 1/3. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: