The Universe Was Suddenly Ours

by same_asiteverwas

Summary:

“That’s right. And I’ve got a proposition for you all. It’s a big ask, I know, but I’ve been thinking about it since they locked me away. I want to start a magazine of our own. I’m calling it Defiant.”

“A new magazine?” Kay breathed.

“The kind of magazine that’s not afraid to publish stories about Negro captains and strong heroines,” said Benny. “One not beholden to the likes of Pabst and the owners. We’d be the owners.”

Chapter 1: February 1950: Welcome, Earthman

Notes:

Okay. Full disclosure. Somehow I planned out the entirety of this fic thinking ‘Far Beyond the Stars’ was set in 1949. It is not. But by that point, I was locked in and the time was too central to the narrative. So this is an au where FBTS takes place in 1949. Oops! I don’t know how I made that mistake considering they say in-episode that Stalin had died and I do know he died in ‘53. Go figure!

Now the wiki notes that the episode FBTS likely gets its title from the comic ‘Judgement Day’, written by Al Feldstein and drawn by Joe Orlando. You can see it linked here and it’s really short, so solidly worth a read. (Also it was published in ‘53, I really fucked up I don’t know what’s wrong with me). In a similar vein to the title of the episode, all the titles of this fic, from the actual one to those of the chapters, also come from that comic. I think it gives it a classic Trek feel, you know like ‘Requiem for Methuselah’ and ‘For the World is Hollow And I Have Touched the Stars.’

And before you begin, some warning. This fic takes place from 1950 to 1952. There will be depictions and discussions of period typical racism, homophobia, and sexism. I don’t think anything will be as heavy as the police literally murdering Jake in FBTS and then beating Sisko to near death, but just something to keep in mind, and I’ll be talking about the events of the episode as well. I’ll also be talking a lot about WWII, Korea, and the impact of war on people. I won’t ever get explicit when talking about the greatest atrocities of either, but war is an important part of this fic. Be aware, and take care of yourself.

Alright, spiel over! Enjoy the fic.

Their bar wasn’t a nice one, per se. The nice bars were segregated, though it wasn’t like any of them would have been able to afford to go to those even if they weren't. But The Promenade was their bar, dingy though it was, with a definite smell and the sort of general shadiness most things had when recommended by Herbert. 

Like always, Albert was the first there. His mother had always said that if he wasn’t ten minutes early, he was late, and, well, Albert made it a policy of his not to disappoint his mother, even if he was a grown man and she was several years dead. Their little group laid claim to the booth with enough frequency that the rest of the regulars knew to leave it open. 

Next, also as always, was Herb.

“One day I’m going to beat you here, Maclin,” groused Herb, plopping himself down next to him, some new cocktail in his hand threatening to slosh over his arm. Not bloody likely, Albert wanted to say, but all he managed was a pointed drag from his pipe.

“I just finished that new novel of yours,” he said, nudging Albert with his elbow, that half-smile of his splitting his face in a toothy grin. “Sorry I didn’t get to it sooner, but you get it with work and everything, you just get so busy…” Herbert shrugged.

“Did you, uh, did you—”

“Like it? Al, I loved it!” Herb slapped Albert genially on the back with enough force Albert almost fell out of the booth. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he was saying, “I mean a robot falling in love with a beautiful human woman? Some of those passages had me a little hot under the collar! I mean there was some properly steamy stuff in there! Color me surprised. Though you know if you ever need some help actually finishing the job so to speak and not just giving your readers balls bluer than a naval uniform...”

Albert was blessedly freed from having to stammer through a polite refusal by the appearance of Julius, Kay, and Darlene. For as long as Albert could remember, it had always been Julius and Kay. They’d joined the magazine together a little after Albert had, a newlywed writing duo that had met just after the war. 

Frankly, Albert didn’t see what they had in common outside of their mutual love of writing and science fiction, but they were always joined at the hip regardless. And then just as suddenly as Darlene had appeared in the office, she became as immovable a fixture of the group as either Kay or Julius. Somehow not a third wheel but the third leg of a stool.

“Two beautiful women in our office and they’ve both got to hang off the arm of the Brit,” grumbled Herb.

The Brit in question smiled brilliantly at the two of them, skidding into the booth next to Herb. “Sorry we’re late chaps! We got caught up talking about Albert’s new book.”

Herbert rolled his eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Gosh, it was just so wonderful!” Darlene said, ignoring Herb. “I was swooning the whole time. That robot hero of yours sure was a dreamboat, I mean, he was just so focused and logical and passionate !” She grinned broadly and made a show of fanning herself. Kay gave her an amused look. 

“Darlene finished it first and then wouldn’t let Julius and me get ready for the evening until we’d done the same.”

“It’s my fault you two are such slow readers!” Darlene pouted. 

“I’ve never heard someone say Julius was a slow reader before.”

“Believe me, darling, I’m just as surprised as you. And to think you used to complain about my tearing through books,” Julius laughed. “But truly, Albert, it really was fantastic.”

“Th—thank you,” Albert stammered, overwhelmed. “All of you.” He chewed nervously on his pipe. 

“It was our pleasure,” insisted Julius, disarmingly earnest as always. “Honestly I’m just surprised you weren’t offered a book deal sooner. Who’s next, do you think?”

“Herbert for sure.” Kay didn’t even look up from the cigarette she was lighting. 

“He doesn’t count, he’s already published two books.”

“Three,” Herb corrected, only a touch smug, “the last one was banned before it could really gain any traction.” Which meant Looking for Par’mach in All The Wrong Places had become an underground hit, and easily Herb’s biggest earner. Albert had barely made it thirty pages in. 

Kay seemed unimpressed. “Exactly, so it’ll be Herbert again.” Albert didn’t miss the curl of her lip as she said it, nor what the expression meant. She was a woman, and Julius too dark for big publishers. Silently, Albert agreed with her. 

“I think it’ll be you, Kay,” said Darlene, face set if serene. 

“Please,” she scoffed. “The world’s done with war stories by now.” Even still, she looked slightly flushed at Darlene’s words.

“Maybe real ones, but throw some aliens in there and set it in space and, well, you know from the fan mail you’re the most popular writer of our little group by a mile.” Julius nudged her shoulder encouragingly, softly smiling. 

“And the most talented,” added Darlene. 

Herb gasped in mock offense. “Hey!”

“And the prettiest too.”

“Aw, you’ll hurt Herbert’s feelings again,” said Julius. Herb elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Hey! Ow!” 

The four of them rapidly descended into bickering, and Albert tuned them out. The rhythm of these nights was familiar, and there was comfort in that. Even still, despite it all, Albert felt a familiar ache. Darlene was lovely and Albert didn’t begrudge her presence at all, but he didn’t forget for a moment who used to sit in her seat. 

Albert would be the first to admit he didn’t like change much, but beyond that, he missed the steady presence and low voice of—

“Benny?” Albert blinked. He must be seeing things. 

“What?” Kay paused her snarling at Herb and turned to where Albert was gawping. She almost dropped her cigarette. “Oh my God.”

Julius did drop his cigarette, but he didn’t seem to care. A brilliant smile enveloped his face. “Benny!” he exclaimed. “You’re back!”

“That’s right,” said Benny, tall, firm, their lost anchor, somehow here , how was he here—“I’m back.”

“It’s been half a year, are you alright?” Herb furrowed his brow. “Last I heard you were in that damned hospital.”

“We tried sending letters but—” started Albert. 

“But the staff kept sending them back,” finished Herbert with a frown. 

“They said something about ‘worsening your condition,’” Kay snorted derisively, ashing her cigarette.

“How did you get out?” Julius asked. His voice was quiet, and there was a tension to him Albert had never seen before, worry pulling his mouth into a taut line, the exuberance from a moment ago cooled. 

“By telling them what they wanted to hear.” Benny grinned, and oh , he really was back. “You think a place like that could hold me for long?”

“‘Course not.” The tension ebbed slightly from Julius. “Not the great Benny Russell.”

“That’s right. And I’ve got a proposition for you all. It’s a big ask, I know, but I’ve been thinking about it since they locked me away. I want to start a magazine of our own. I’m calling it Defiant.”

“A new magazine?” Kay breathed. 

“The kind of magazine that’s not afraid to publish stories about Negro captains and strong heroines,” said Benny. “One not beholden to the likes of Pabst and the owners. We’d be the owners.”

Kay’s eyes shone, but Herbert seemed less convinced. “That’s a big risk. I mean, you know how long it takes to build up an audience with the sort of stuff that sells? And Negro captains and Kay’s heroines don’t.”

Benny sighed. “To mainstream audiences, no. We won’t make the sort of money we did with Incredible Tales. But there is an audience, of that I’m sure. And an audience that’s starving for what we can give them. If we want to write it, there are people who want to read it. Of that, I’m certain.”

“I’m in,” said Kay, her smile all teeth. “I’ve wanted to break out of Incredible Tales for ages now.”

Darlene chewed her lip. “I’m afraid I don’t know you that well, Mr. Russell, in person anyway. These guys talk about you so much I feel like I do. But I know that story you wrote, that Deep Space Nine was just about the best thing I’ve ever read, and it was a crime they pulped it. I want in too, if I can.”

“I’d be delighted to have you, Ms. Kursky. And you, Kay,” Benny said. 

“I like the title. Defiant.” Julius, it seemed, was back to himself again. “It would be an honor to join your team, Benny. The office hasn’t been the same without you.”

Herbert nodded. Then, snorting to himself, “Pabst is going to blow a gasket. I certainly like that. You can count me in too.”

Albert fiddled with his pipe. “And—and me. But won’t we need an—an—”

“An artist?” Benny finished. Albert nodded. As nice as Roy was, he’d never been a member of the group the way the rest of them were. And with how well Pabst paid him, it didn’t seem like he would jump ship as easily as the rest. “Yes, that we will. I had hoped you could help with that, Herb.”

“Me?”

“Aren’t you the one always going on about industry connections?” asked Kay. 

“Industry being the operative word, they all like steady paychecks and guaranteed income. But…”

“But…?” Benny prompted, raising a brow. 

“I may know a guy. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Herbert sighed. “He’s…shady. Like, don’t ask what he did during the War shady. For our side of course, just…”

“But you think he’d be interested.”

“More than interested, he’d jump at the chance.” Herb rubbed his eyes tiredly, displacing his glasses. “This is exactly the sort of thing he goes for. And he’s talented too, though don’t tell him I said that.”

“He seems just about perfect,” said Darlene. “What's the problem?” Albert wondered the same. Next to him, Herbert shook his head. 

“Just…you’ll get it when you meet him.”

---

A week and a half after his return, Julius still couldn’t believe Benny was back. After six months without him, Julius kept expecting to turn his head and see his empty desk. But no, there he was, tall and proud, soothing and steady as a rock. 

Herbert’s mysterious and shady artist friend (“not friend, Christ, don’t tell him you think we’re friends”) had agreed to a meeting, and while he hadn’t explicitly said he wanted to meet with just Benny and Herb, Julius assumed the entire Defiant staff were probably more than were welcome. Still, Benny said they were a team, and it seemed they were all taking it to heart. 

Julius for his part didn’t mind that. Especially with Benny gone, the Incredible Tales office had felt harsh and uninviting. It wasn’t anything the others had done per se, but it had still set his teeth on edge. Kay had said previously about wanting to get out of there anyway, with or without Benny’s offer, and Julius agreed. 

As the team made their way down the busy streets of New York on their way to the artist’s studio, Julius couldn’t help but feel hopeful for the future. It was a lot of things, but the confident set of Benny’s shoulders, that gentle laugh of his as Darlene chatted to him about whatever it was that struck her fancy, that helped. Even if Pabst wanted to pretend Julius was as white as he was, that didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t. The miasma of discomfort at being the only brown man in the office after Benny’s less than uneventful departure had been weighing on him more than he thought.

The artist’s studio was in SoHo, which was less than promising if unsurprising for a contact of Herbert’s. Julius couldn’t imagine anyone not in dire straits of some kind knowing Herb and wanting what little the Defiant could offer them. 

But they didn’t call SoHo Hell’s Hundred Acres for nothing, and Julius felt himself drifting closer to Kay. Not that she couldn’t keep herself safe, but she didn’t exactly cut an imposing figure if you didn’t know what she was capable of. And her heels restricted her mobility. Julius brushed against Kay’s side and she glanced at him. She seemed to sense his thoughts and rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. 

The studio was located above an old textile warehouse that was being used as a ramshackle garage. The garage was empty of people except for an older man pawing through a clearly out of date newspaper. He nodded them over to a staircase without looking up. The stairs creaked ominously as the Defiant team ascended. They were met with a heavy metal door with paint chipping off of it that took a hard shove from Albert before it opened to reveal…

Oh. Oh, the studio was breathtaking. Massive windows took up large sections of the walls and ceiling, the light swirling down in a waltz of soft yellow haze. Every surface was covered in canvases—large ones that scraped the ceiling, small ones that dotted tables and littered the floor, medium ones propped against the wall and half-finished on easels. 

And the paintings themselves, a myriad of styles ranging from the naturalistic to the blood-curdling expressionistic. Julius let his eyes trace the lines of a ruined city, a lively dance hall, an old woman’s face staring in horror at the sky. The room itself felt alive, and despite the industrial wasteland it was seated in, Julius could have spent hours there taking everything in.

“Ah, you must be with Defiant.” A high, clear voice echoed through the room, shaking Julius from his reverie. He looked up from an enrapturing portrait of a drunken man to the speaker, and nearly did a double take.

He was, unquestionably, the artist. He had slicked-back black hair, jaw length in a charmingly bohemian way. He was dressed down, shirt rolled to the elbows and tie hanging loosely at his neck. It wasn’t his clothes that surprised Julius, though, but his eyes, an icy, piercing blue. He had a pleasant, round face, and was smiling genially around a half-smoked cigarette, but his eyes were too sharp, too clever to belong to a man as non-threatening as he otherwise presented as.

“When I spoke to Mr. Rossoff on the phone,” the artist continued, “I didn’t expect there would be so many of you, but no matter. It’s lovely to see you all. There’s—let’s see. Herbert, of course. Albert Maclin. The lovely Miss Darlene Kursky, and her constant companions Mr. and Mrs. Julius Eaton. Or do you prefer Miss Hunter?” Julius could feel the tension rolling off Kay next to him. “And, of course, the talented Mr. Benny Russell. It’s an honor.”

Benny seemed unimpressed by the man’s demonstration. “I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage Mr…”

“Eli Gramlich, though just Gramlich is fine.” His grin grew teeth. “Plain, simple Gramlich.”

“Just Gramlich, then. I’m not sure what Herbert told you on the phone, but we’re looking for an artist for our science fiction magazine.”

“Yes, Mr. Rossoff did say that much. I take it, then, you'd like a portfolio?”

“That would be appreciated,” Benny confirmed. Gramlich nodded minutely.

“Just a moment.”

As soon as he’d disappeared into the studio, Kay exploded. “He’s German? ” she hissed, whirling on Herbert. Herb looked ready to melt into the ground.

“It would appear so,” Benny said, staring thoughtfully at where Gramlich had been standing just a moment ago.

“The hell is he doing here?”

“Painting, it would seem.”

Kay glared at him. “Benny, tell me you’re not thinking of hiring this guy.” In lieu of response, Benny just hummed. 

Wanting to calm his wife before she did something she regretted, Julius rested a hand on Kay’s arm. “We haven’t seen his art yet.” Kay looked at him, unimpressed.

“It’s all around us! Just look at this stuff—it’s grotesque!” She wasn’t wrong, though Julius didn’t mind. The warped forms of people, their features, the environments around them held an emotionality that compelled him. He doubted Kay wanted to hear that though.

“That doesn’t mean that’s what he’ll make for us.”

“Here we are,” said Gramlich, reappearing, and placed a large brown folder down on a desk, gesturing for the Defiant group to look through it. The others descended on it rapidly, but Julius paused for a moment to look, once again, at Gramlich. Briefly, they locked eyes, and Julius knew, though he was not sure how, that Gramlich had heard what they had been saying while he had been off collecting his pieces. Julius looked quickly away, down at the table where the art was laid out and couldn’t bite back a gasp.

“Oh!” The table art was vastly different from the paintings that surrounded them. Where those had been, as Kay had said, grotesque, these were serene. Their figures were beautifully rendered and seemed to almost breathe on the page. 

Julius found himself drawn to an advertisement featuring a princess and a dragon. The princess was lithe and lovely, draped in rich blues and leaning against the hulking gray figure of the dragon. Smoke poured from its lips, circling the woman like an embrace.

“That’s a piece I did for Woolworth’s a few years back,” said Gramlich, and when had he moved behind Julius? He was close enough Julius could feel the other man’s breath at his ear. “A minor promotional campaign, but I’m quite happy with how it came out.” Gramlich’s hand traced the lettering above the princess and the dragon, broad fingers slow and deliberate and just a hair's breadth from Julius’s own. “Maybe not the most exciting, but what the client was looking for.”

“You seem to have a very diverse portfolio, Gramlich,” Benny said, and just like that, Gramlich had moved away again. Julius took a shaky breath and blinked rapidly. What was that? What had happened? Worse, had anyone seen? Julius jerked his hand away from the painting and glanced at his friends. No, they all seemed busy with one thing or the other. Good.

“I find that it allows me to better tailor my work to what my clients want,” Gramlich was saying to Benny. To his left, Kay scoffed and tossed down a Saturday Evening Post cover.

“None of this is science fiction.”

Gramlich just smiled. “An excellent observation, Ms. Hunter. Mrs. Eaton? Did we decide on a nomenclature? Ah well, in any case, you’re quite right about that. I figured you’d want a sample of the sort of thing I could do for you all, and so I took the liberty of drawing something based on Mr. Maclin’s delightful new novel.” He pulled a canvas from out of seemingly nowhere and placed it down. “Here we are.”

“You made this?” Kay gasped, despite herself. Julius couldn’t blame her. If the rest of Gramlich’s art had been spellbinding, this was in a class all of its own. 

“That I did,” Gramlich preened.

“It looks better than the actual cover!” Darlene exclaimed, and she wasn’t wrong. Where the official cover of Albert’s book had been well made, it lacked the allure of Gramlich’s piece, the sensuality and the tension between Albert’s robot hero and his human lady love. The colors were rich and intoxicating, the chrome of the robot stark and magnificent against the woman’s flushed skin and long, swirling black hair. Jesus, between this and the Woolworth’s dragon and princess Julius felt like he needed a cold shower.

“Why, thank you, Miss Kursky. It’s much appreciated.”

Albert’s face was flush, but he was smiling around his pipe. His fingers stroked the figure of the metal man reverently. “How’d you manage to get the—the—”

“The gears looking like that?” Gramlich asked.

“Quite.”

“Just a little lighting trick I learned when I was a younger man.”

“It’s lovely,” Julius said. “All of this, they’re fantastic.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Gramlich met his eyes again. A shiver ran down Julius’s spine. He didn’t look away.

Once again, it was Benny who broke the moment. “I have to agree with Julius. You know, Gramlich, we won’t be able to offer you much in the way of compensation.”

Gramlich nodded, unsurprised. “I had assumed so.”

“And, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, this is our team. All of us. Kay and Darlene are not going anywhere, nor are Julius and myself.” Benny stared down at Gramlich, a single brow raised over the frame of his glasses, studying him. Gramlich, for his part, didn’t flinch.

“I should certainly hope not.”

Benny studied him for another moment, and seemed to come to a decision. “With that out of the way, then, the job is yours if you want it.” Benny offered Gramlich a hand.

Gramlich grinned, his smile all teeth. “It would be an honor and a pleasure, Mr. Russell.”

---

If Herbert had been unenthusiastic to introduce Benny and the team to Eli Gramlich, he was downright miserable to introduce Benny to whoever his mysterious money man was.

The fact of the matter was they needed money to start Defiant , and their collection of five writers and a secretary (and now, blessedly, an artist) were not exactly the wealthiest group in the world. Herb’s many and mysterious connections were as numerous as they were questionable, and they’d come through when it came to acquiring them an artist. But capital was a whole different beast, and Herbert’s nerves were getting to Benny.

It would just be Herb and Benny this time, and Herbert had so far filled it with anxious chattering as they made their way to their hopefully future benefactor. Benny mostly tuned Herbert out, until they reached the stoop of the building they’d been making their way towards. It was a nice stoop connected to a nice house in a nice part of town. Once again, Benny wondered at how exactly Herbert had the connections he did. Ah, well. It was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Herbert took off his hat and toyed with the brim with one hand while the other hovered above over the surface of the door, poised to knock. He gave Benny a weary look. “This guy we’re meeting, Ronald, you’ve gotta promise me you won’t judge me for him, alright?”

Curious. “And why would I do that?”

“He’s the eccentric type.”

“Eccentric,” Benny repeated.

“Yeah. Got a lot of weird ideas about money. He’ll help us, I know he will, but you’ve got to promise you won’t judge me for how odd he is.”

Herbert looked so serious that Benny had to bite back a laugh. “Alright.”

“Okay. I’ll hold you to that, Benny,” he said, before knocking on the door. The pair of them only waited a moment before it swung open to reveal a beautiful, wide eyed woman in an eclecticly patterned house dress. She gasped when she saw them.

“Herb? Is that you?”

Herbert, normally the type to blossom in the attention of an attractive woman, seemed to wither under her gaze. “It’s me.”

“Oh my goodness, it’s been so long!” She beamed, waving them inside. Herbert walked like a man condemned. “You know Ronnie has been worried sick about you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And you’ve brought a friend!” She seemed utterly delighted by Benny’s presence, which only amused Benny all the more. “Ronnie will be so excited. It’s been months, Herb, and you haven’t so much as called!”

“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” muttered Herbert.

The woman gave him a disapproving look. “Like that’s ever stopped Ronnie from talking to you before.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll do better, alright?”

“You’d better,” she said, frowning at him. She stopped her progress through the enormous house and knocked lightly on a rich, wooden door. “Ronnie?” she called, “are you in there sweetheart?”

A low and lilting voice came from behind the door immediately. “Coming, Lisa!” Footsteps, then the door swung open to reveal a short, balding man much like the one Benny had come to this house with. The man saw them and beamed. “Brother!” he exclaimed, pulling Herbert into a tight hug. 

“Hi, Ron,” came Herbert’s muffled reply as he tried to pry the other man off of him. The man, Ron, shuffled back into the room he’d come from, and Benny, Herb, and Lisa followed. 

The room itself was old fashioned, from the wall paper to the décor, but strewn all around it were machine parts and slick, half-assembled modern looking devices Benny had never seen before. Herbert seemed unsurprised by the discordant design and tossed haphazardly a loose mechanical crank from the seat of a plush armchair before sinking into it. Benny took the one next to him.

“‘Brother?’” Benny whispered at Herb, who just glared at him by way of response.

Ron was perched at an elegant desk in the sort of chair that Benny thought only existed in the movies, Lisa at his side. “Brother, I can’t believe you’re here! And with such good timing, Lisa just made lunch.”

Lisa seemed less happy Herbert was there than she was that Ron was happy to see him. “You’re lucky I always make extras so we can snack later in the day.”

“Thank you,” Herbert grumbled.

“Of course,” said Lisa. Then she nodded at Benny. “Who’s your friend, Herb?”

“Benny Russell.” Herbert waved his hand between Benny and the others. “Benny, meet Ronald and Lisa Rossoff. My brother and his wife.” He said the last bit like it physically pained him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Benny said, meaning it. This was priceless.

Ron shifted in his seat. “N—not that it isn’t nice to see you again, Brother, but why are you here? Usually you spend all your time at work or in that apartment of yours.”

“We’ve got a business proposition,” answered Benny. Ron furrowed his brow, confused. He glanced at Herbert questioningly.

“B—but you always said you never wanted to talk about money with me again after I got all our employees at the bar to unionize.”

“Bar?” Benny asked. He realized in this short afternoon he had already learned more about Herbert’s background and personal life than he had in three years of working with the man.

“Me and Herb ran a bar during the Depression,” Ron explained. 

Lisa beamed. “It’s where me and Ronnie met.”

“She was the most beautiful and talented lounge singer you’ve ever heard.” Ron’s expression was soft, and he gazed adoringly at his wife, taking her hand in his. “I was hers the first time she went on stage.”

Lisa kissed her husband’s knuckles. “Oh, Ronnie.”

Herbert just scowled, looking like he was going to hurl. “It was a great bar. But thanks to the actions of this moron, we had to shut down.”

“If you can’t afford to pay your w—workers a living wage, you shouldn’t be in business,” Ron said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

“And that’s why we don’t run a bar anymore.”

“I see,” said Benny. He figured Herbert would hit him if he laughed, and so tried, unsuccessfully, to school his features. From the sour look on Herbert’s face, his efforts were unappreciated. 

Lisa ran her thumb across Ron’s knuckles and smiled warmly at Benny. “What’s this about a business proposition?”

The Rossoffs seemed interested in their pitch, even if it was just Benny making it as Herbert sulked in silence. Not one to delve into familial drama, Benny let him brood. He thought Lisa and Ron were kind people, and he especially enjoyed Lisa’s gasp of excitement when he spoke of Kay’s work. Even if they didn’t end up investing, he was sure he’d found at the very least two prospective customers. 

Benny was talking about some of the logistics of running a magazine, printing costs or something of the like, when Ron interrupted him for the first time in his pitch.

“So, how are you thinking of paying your workers?” 

“The usual rates,” said Herbert, glowering, “are two to five cents a word.”

“But you also have a secretary, right?” Lisa asked. “And you’re going to need an editor if you don’t already have one. How are they getting paid?”

Ron nodded. “I’d suggest collective ownership.”

Herbert had become one with the armchair. “God, here we go.”

“You give everyone an equal share of whatever profits you get outside of what’s needed to run the magazine itself,” said Ron, ignoring his brother. “That way, everyone is also incentivized to put in as much work as they can in creation and promotion.”

“A very smart idea, Mr. Rossoff,” Benny said.

“It’s not his idea,” Herbert snapped, “he got it from his good buddies Marx and Engels. And I bet a loan from you’s conditional on accepting your communist nonsense, is it?”

“No.” Ron frowned. “It’s just a proposition. I like you and Benny’s idea for the magazine. And you know I always want to help you, brother.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So you’ll help us?” Benny asked. Ron smiled. He had a kind, open face. Benny wondered how on Earth he could be related to Herbert.

“I can give you enough for a few months of printing and keeping you all with enough money to live on,” Ron confirmed.

“And you have that building you use as a workshop!” Lisa exclaimed. “There should be plenty of room in there for their office on one of the floors!”

“Oh, Lisa, you’re so smart!” Ron once again gazed adoringly at his wife.

“Ronnie…” Lisa breathed. In an instant, they were kissing. Or, kissing was the wrong word with the intensity of their actions; the pair seemed intent on devouring one another.

As soon as Lisa’s hand started making its way up under Ron’s jacket, Herbert cleared his throat. “Alright, alright, enough of that. Jesus, you two.” 

“We should be heading out. I don’t want to intrude on your hospitality,” said Benny. Or anything else. From the way Ron and Lisa were still looking at one another, he and Herbert had a limited time to leave before they would be treated to rather more of the pair than they wanted to see.

“It’s no trouble!” Lisa said, barely managing to wrench her eyes away from her husband’s. “You’re a lovely man, Benny.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And you, Mr. Rossoff. We’ll be in touch.”

Benny and Herbert left rather quickly after that. What Ron had promised was more than he’d dared hope for, and, well, their surprise benefactor certainly hadn’t been what Benny was expecting. As they made their way down to the Subway, a thought struck Benny.

“If your brother’s a communist, how does he have so much money?”

“He’s an inventor. A genius. He helped invent the refrigerator.” Herbert sighed. “All that money and all he ever does with it is give it away. What a moron.”

Benny let out the laugh he’d been holding in all afternoon. “I quite liked him,” he said. 

Herbert just sighed again.

---

Ron insisted on letting them work in the building for free, despite Benny’s offers and Herbert’s protests. 

“I won’t be a landlord,” he said firmly. “I have space a—and you need it. What I have is yours.” Herbert made his thoughts on that rather well known to his brother, to Benny, and the rest of the Defiant staff, but personally, Benny was grateful. Grateful and relieved.

The office wasn’t the most luxurious or spacious, but there was room for a reasonably sized art studio, a large, comfortable writer’s room, two different bathrooms, and what they could charitably call a waiting room if the need for it ever arose. It took the better part of two days to set it up, but even as the days went long, Benny couldn’t help but smile. 

It was their office. Theirs, not any bosses or managers. There was no Mr. Stone or Pabst to hand-wring about marketability and an excess of personal effects on their desks. A photo of Cassie sat proudly on Benny’s, next to a baseball Willie had given him from one of his first games, and a matchbox Jimmy had given him a few days before he’d been killed. Not much, maybe, especially considering how busy Albert and Julius’s desks were kept, (how did they work like that?) but it was enough for him. 

When they finished on the second day, no one had to ask where they were going to head. It was, after all, their bar, a scant two blocks from their new office, with a booth the regulars knew to keep open for them. They piled into their booth in The Promenade, packed like sardines but comfortable. Gramlich had begged off, but Darlene, who Benny was just starting to get to know, was there and chatting amiably with Kay. Julius offered Albert a match wordlessly while Herb explained to the both of them what was in whatever new cocktail he was trying tonight.

Benny had missed this, those long months in the hospital, missed his team. Placating doctors and their contemptuous faces, sterile white rooms and a barred window like a jail cell, they had eaten at him more than he’d like to admit. There was none of that here. The smell of disinfectant was gone, replaced with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor. The white coats and pale blue scrubs were replaced with brown tweed and black ties and the splash of matching red lipstick and nail polish. 

Partway through the night, Herbert stood to get another round, insisting he didn’t want anyone’s orders and that he knew just what to get each and every one of them, and Benny found himself sitting, for the time being, next to Albert.

Benny stretched and sighed contentedly. “I’ve missed Herb’s mystery cocktails,” he said. Albert snorted.

“You haven’t missed much. Recently they’ve been more, uh, more…”

“More losses than wins?”

“Exactly. One week I swear the bartender just wanted to get rid of his supply of absinthe. It was in everything.”

“Even still.” They lapsed into comfortable silence as Julius and Kay laughed uproariously at a joke Darlene had told them. 

“Benny?” Benny looked away from the group on the other side of the booth and back at Albert.

“Mm?”

“What are we going to do about an editor?”

“I’m not sure,” Benny admitted. Lisa had mentioned getting an editor too, and they couldn’t exactly run a magazine without one, but it hadn’t been top of mind. “I figured we’d all just review one another’s work until we found someone, or something along those lines. We don’t exactly have much cash to spare.”

“No, no I suppose not.”

“Why, did you have someone in mind?”

To Benny’s surprise, Albert nodded. “I do.”

“Oh?”

“It’s…well, my wife.”

“Is your wife an editor? I don’t think you’ve talked about her all that much before.”

“Ah, well, she used to be a teacher back in California. She was on track for a doctorate but then the War broke out and she…” Albert trailed off as he often did, but Benny got the general idea.

“I understand.”

“But she’s brilliant, she really is!” Benny startled at Albert’s sudden animation. His face was flushed, his eyes wide, and Benny couldn’t recall a single time the usually quiet, relatively inexpressive Albert was so energized. “She’s got a better grasp on the language than I do, and—and a hell of a lot more, uh…”

“Eloquent?”

“Quite.”

“I believe you. And you think she’d want to?”

“Yes, yes I think she would. I’ve been talking about this to her and she’d love to be a part of the team. E—even knowing what the pay situation would be.”

“It’s quite a risk you two would be taking,” Benny reminded him.

“I know.” Albert gnawed at his pipe, agitated. “But it’s been hard for her to find work.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She’s so bloody smart, Benny. And kind, and clever, and she’s so talented, my Keiko.” Ah. Keiko. Several things made more sense, then. “It’s just the kind of places that would hire her, they’re not…she deserves better. She can do better. And this thing we’re doing, it’s about that sort of thing, isn’t it? Giving people chances? Letting them show just what they’re capable of?”

Benny smiled. “Yes. It’s that exactly. I’d love to talk to Keiko,” he said, and meant it.

“Yeah?” Relief washed over Albert’s features and he sank back down into his seat, his normal self again. “Thank you, I—thank you. Thank you.”

“Albert. It’s no trouble at all.” That, too, he meant. “I read your book, by the way.”

“Yeah?” A small smile crossed Albert’s lips. “What’d you think?”

“Mm. It was brilliant. A robot in love with a human woman.” Benny raised a brow at him, leadingly.

“Well, you know me and robots.”

“I do,” Benny confirmed. Then, “Your heroine was from California if I remember correctly.”

“Was she?” Albert puffed on his pipe. “Ah. Funny that.” Herbert’s voice carried as he made his way back to the table, laden with multicolored glasses with fruits erupting out of them. Kay said something, and Darlene laughed.

Benny just shook his head. “Funny that.”

Notes:

Fellas I have done a stupid amount of research for this fic so I’ll be dropping additional historical context down here for those who are interested.

Wow it sure seems like everyone is smoking all the time in this! Yeah, that’s era accurate. It will continue. Did you know in ‘Casino Royale,’ like, the book, in the first chapter there’s a line like “Bond smoked his 70th cigarette of the day?” That’s simply too many. No one'll be smoking that much but people will be smoking a lot on this.

Both England and New York didn’t have any anti-miscegenation laws on the books, so an interracial marriage like Julius and Kays is, in fact, possible. Now, does that mean people were super jazzed about that? No, and they would have faced a lot of discrimination. On a similar note, while the North was never as bad about segregation as the Jim Crow South, it was still very racist, and so there would have still been segregation up there, if not as prevalent. Mostly it would have been primarily divided by class, and because of how institutional racism works, people of color tend on average to be poorer than White people.

SoHo in New York would later become a major artist’s enclave, but in the 50s it was a run-down former industrial center. There were factories and a lot of abandoned buildings. Gramlich here is getting in on the ground floor and has what will become very valuable real estate. Just not yet. Speaking of Gramlich, to my mind his more personal art is German Expressionist, though I can also see him being influenced by artists like Modigliani. I also feel I should clarify how that’s pronounced—in German, the “ch” is pronounced like a “ck” more or less. It’s roughly “Gr-ah-m-lick.” Anyone who speaks German feel free to correct me.

Did you know on the Internet Archive you can read classic pulp novels and magazines? They’re worth looking through for the covers alone. If anyone wants to make any ‘Defiant’ covers…

Now there will be a number of characters from the show in this that weren’t in the episode, and while I figure the major players will be pretty easy to spot, I’ll still add the smaller cameos at the bottom here.

Chapter 2: March 1950: Into the Artificial Sunlight

The leadup to the printing of Defiant’s first edition was a hectic one. Kay hadn’t felt this alive in years.

It didn’t have to be perfect, but didn’t it? This was the start of the rest of their lives, and no one wanted to be the one to fuck it up. Darlene had decided to take double duty and work on getting sponsors and promotions for the magazine. “It’s not like you all are getting much in the way of phone calls at the moment,” she’d said with a smile. 

And Darlene wasn’t the only one going the extra mile. Albert’s wife Keiko and Gramlich (why did they have to hire him again?) had started mapping the layout of the magazine alongside their other responsibilities. 

It had been decided that Benny’s piece would get the cover this month. Surprising everyone, Benny had elected to not start the magazine off with one of his Sisko stories, but rather a new piece he was working on, a stand alone about a boy whose father had disappeared in front of him leading to his desperate attempts to bring the father back as he grew up without him. The Visitor was brilliant and heartbreaking, and it’d had Keiko crying as she read through it. Going through Benny’s draft, Kay had gotten a little misty eyed herself.

Gramlich’s frontispiece for Benny’s story was heartrending too, loath as Kay was to admit it. When Kay had told him about her own story for the issue, Battle Lines, he’d been infuriatingly inquisitive and receptive. And, to make matters worse, the sketch he’d given her for approval of her frontispiece was perfect. The planet’s scarred surface, Kai Opaka’s gentle determination—it was all exactly how she’d pictured it, rendered in striking black and white. Kay had grumbled something to him about getting the immortal warring sides on the piece somewhere, but it was maddeningly without fault.

At least Herb’s story about a mysterious barfly with a second stomach filled with gold was throwing him. Gramlich was four draft sketches in before Herb was happy, and even then he still wanted little tweaks; the barfly’s former lover’s figure a little more voluptuous, the laser guns more frightening, the fake funeral filled with more mourners. It was a small, petty comfort, but Kay would take it.

Gramlich aside, the office was comfortable. Kay had been worried that without Pabst cracking the whip the team would descend into bickering and squabbling and be completely off track. But even without his watchful eye, everyone was on top of things, driven in a way they hadn’t been before. And now, too, it seemed the office was full again. Benny’s absence in the previous six months had been like a black hole, and the addition of Keiko felt right in a way that Kay hadn’t expected. She’d worried before about Albert getting distracted by his wife, but if anything, he seemed to work harder, and he was far more open than he’d been before.

The office wasn’t balanced gender-wise, but it was closer than it ever had been, and Kay adored not being the only woman anymore. Not that she didn’t like Julius and Benny and the others, but getting to talk to Keiko between coffee breaks and to let Darlene gossip at her (because Kay never gossiped) as she typed away was different. Nice. Maybe not that much of a shift, but enough of one.

Kay’s fingers flew across the keyboard of her typewriter, and she smiled, content.

---

Julius was glaring at his typewriter. 

The office was empty, and as quiet as anything in New York could be, and that should have been a boon to his writing, not a detractor. And yet…

Resisting the urge to light another cigarette (chain smoking was sure to be hell on his nerves) Julius gnawed his lip. He was behind, he knew, and the deadline for this print cycle was fast approaching. This print cycle—the first print cycle and Julius might not even be in it at this rate. His fingers twitched towards his cigarette holder. 

“Do you ever eat?” A high, clear voice shook him from his reverie. Julius looked up to see Gramlich leaning in the doorway of the closet they’d made his studio. He was dressed to leave, mouton-collared trench coat draped elegantly from his shoulders and hat already on, hands casually in his pockets. 

Even if Gramlich always kept the door open and had been there every day Julius had been, the two of them hadn’t spoken much. Gramlich didn’t speak to anyone, really. But here he was, that enigmatic grin of his firmly in place, talking to Julius. 

“What?” Not exactly the cleverest response, but Julius was at a loss. Gramlich shifted his weight. 

“Well, your compatriots all do. I’ve never seen Mr. Rossoff without a stack of donuts, and your lovely wife and Ms. Kursky always go to lunch at 1330 on the dot. Mr. Russell and the Maclins are much the same. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, they’ve all headed out for lunch for the day.” Gramlich’s eyes met Julius’s own, and he had to repress a shudder. “Except for you.”

“I eat.”

“I have yet to see proof of that.”

“I’m just working through lunch today,” Julius said defensively. 

“And the day before, and the day before that.”

“Yes, well.” Julius shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the weight of Gramlich’s gaze. “So what if I have? I want my piece to be ready for printing.”

“You have an interesting strategy for writing, Mr. Eaton,” Gramlich said in almost a purr. He made his way to Julius’s desk lackadaisically. “Maybe it’s because it’s not my vocation, but I’ve never seen someone write by staring at their typewriter before.” Gramlich perched himself on the corner of Julius’s desk. “Tell me, if you stare at it hard enough does it begin to work on its own?”

Julius’s mouth felt dry. “I have writer’s block.”

“Ah. Most unfortunate.”

“Especially with the deadline fast approaching. The Quickening is only halfway done while Kay and Benny’s pieces are already on their second round of edits. Albert’s on his third.”

“Mm.” Gramlich studied Julius for a moment, then rose and made his way to the coat rack. He picked up Julius’s hat. “Put this on.”

“What?” His own hat smacked him on the nose. “Hey!” Julius didn’t have much time to simmer in confusion or irritation as Gramlich was already swanning out the door. 

“Come along, Mr. Eaton,” he said, and Julius scrambled to follow him into the hall. 

“Where?”

“We’re going to get lunch,” Gramlich informed him, descending the stairs to the ground floor. 

“What?”

“You simply cannot beat writer’s block on an empty stomach cooped up in the office. Come along.”

“So where exactly are we going?” Julius asked as they exited the building. The sudden chill was bracing, and Julius was glad he’d managed to snag his mackinaw on their way out. 

Wherever they were going, it seemed like they’d be walking there. It was unsurprising Gramlich didn’t have a car (who did in the city), or that he didn’t hail a cab, but, Julius mused as they hurried along a crosswalk, it was still rather cold. And the wind kept threatening to steal his hat. 

“A lovely little deli I’ve been meaning to drop by again.” Seeming to notice Julius’s discomfort, Gramlich added, “It’s not too far. You don’t have any dietary restrictions, do you?”

“No.”

“Wonderful. That makes things far easier.”

The deli truly wasn’t that far, and as the two men entered, Julius let out a sigh of relief. It was nice, if fairly standard as far as delis went. There was a pleasantly inviting atmosphere as warm as the heating. 

Taking off his hat politely, Gramlich turned to Julius again. “Have you ever been here before?”

He shook his head. “I can’t say that I have.”

“That, my dear, is simply a crime. I came here within my first week in New York and have been sure to patronize this fine establishment at least once a month for the six years I’ve lived here. And you’ve been here for how long now?”

“Three years, give or take.”

“Three years and yet you’ve never been.” Gramlich shook his head theatrically. “Well, I won’t tell if you don’t. If you’ll excuse me.” 

Opening his heavy coat just a touch in deference to the heat of the deli, Gramlich approached the counter and began talking to the heavyset man who was working it. They were speaking so fast that it took Julius a moment to realize they weren’t speaking in English. 

A few moments later, the conversation he’d been having seemingly done, Gramlich returned to his place next to Julius. 

“What language was that?” Julius asked, bubbling with curiosity and excitement. “German?”

Gramlich huffed a laugh. “Goodness no. Polish, my dear.”

Julius blinked. “You speak Polish?”

“Oh, just a little here and there,” Gramlich said, waving his hand dismissively. The man at the counter said something in their direction, and Gramlich nodded. “Ah, here we are.” He then proceeded to talk to the man for a few more minutes, which seemed, humbly, to Julius, like a damn sight more than “just a little here or there.”

Gramlich was German, clearly, and even if he had lived in New York like he’d said for the past six years, he still spoke English with a perfect American accent. Too perfect, almost, like he was Cary Grant or Gregory Peck. And while Julius admittedly didn’t know a thing about Polish, it seemed like Gramlich didn’t speak it with much of an accent either. If he had to make a guess, he’d bet money on Gramlich speaking several more languages still. 

Julius recalled a conversation he’d had with Kay a week or so back. She’d been grousing about Gramlich, speculating on what exactly he was doing in New York. Julius had pointed out that there were German Americans, and perfectly innocent German immigrants, but she’d brushed him off. 

He’s too perfect, she’d said. And Herbert called him shady. Herbert. No, he’s up to something. I know he is. I think he’s a spy. 

Julius had humored her then while gently attempting to cool her down, but now? Now he thought maybe Kay might have been on to something. The idea he was cavorting with a spy, former or otherwise, should have unnerved him. The War had disabused him of his more romantic naïveté. But another part of him thrilled at the idea.

Gramlich was back from his conversation, and offered Julius a parchment paper wrapped sandwich. “You’ll forgive me for taking the liberty of ordering for you. I assumed, correctly, it would seem, you don’t speak Polish, and as lovely as the staff here are, they don’t speak anything else.”

“It’s alright,” Julius said, taking it as Gramlich started leading them back to the office. “Though I don’t see what this little sojourn has to do with defeating my writer’s block.”

Gramlich clicked his tongue. “You don’t think Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein with her stomach rumbling, do you? Or Jules Verne The Time Machine while he was trapped in a dull little office?” They paused at a light and Gramlich flashed Julius a dangerous grin. “You have to live life to write it, Mr. Eaton, and that means eating and venturing out into the world.”

Julius opened and closed his mouth several times. All he managed to get out was, “You’ve read Frankenstein and The Time Machine? ”

“I figured if I was to be working at a science fiction magazine I should familiarize myself with the genre.” Understandable, Julius mused, if appreciated. 

“Kay will be pleased you included Shelley in that. People tend to leave her out when discussing science fiction’s origins.”

“Their loss. I found Frankenstein a touch proselytizing, but definitely still worth reading.” Julius blinked, pausing for a moment on their building’s stoop to give Gramlich a befuddled look. 

“Proselytizing?”

“Quite. To ask the reader to sympathize with the Creature after it pettily kills a child and burns down a house was simply too much for me. It can complain of abandonment by society, but I find that a rather poor excuse.”

“The whole point of the book is sympathy for the Creature!” Julius barely noticed the stairs as they ascended them. “If it had been loved as it should have been instead of rejected by Victor, if people had looked beyond its appearance to see its character, it would have turned out differently.”

“As it is a character in a book I am unimpeded in my judgement by its appearance, and I still find its character lacking.” Gramlich’s eyes, those brilliant fascinating blues, were alight. Julius was sure if he was to look into a mirror he’d look much the same. “Then again, I do find three murders tend to put a damper on my estimation of someone, especially when the murders seem to have no point but petulance.”

“So if the Creature had killed for a better reason you’d sympathize with him more?”

“Certainly. As it stands, however, I found it to be rather childish.”

“That’s exactly the point though, Gramlich! The Creature is effectively a very large, very strong child who hasn’t had anyone show him a speck of kindness. His actions are the fault of Victor and society at large for treating him so poorly, for showing him nothing but cruelty. Of course he turns out cruel in turn. How children turn out is the responsibility of the society they’re in—that’s it!”

Part of the way through removing his coat and putting it onto the rack, Gramlich paused, looking genuinely confused. “I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Julius just shook his head, grinning like a madman. “Gramlich, you’re brilliant.”

“You flatter me,” Gramlich replied, brow still furrowed. 

“I’ve got it,” Julius repeated. “My story, for The Quickening, I know what I’ve been missing!” He practically threw his hat and coat off and made a beeline to his typewriter. 

“Oh?”

“I was caught up before in how to cure the disease, but every solution I found felt like a cop out. If the doctor starts the story sure without a doubt he can cure it and ends up curing the Quickening disease, what really has changed? What has been learned? But if he doesn’t succeed all the way, if he just cures it in children, if he just creates a vaccine and can’t save everyone—it’s perfect!” Julius paused for a breath and looked at Gramlich, leaning, once again, in his doorway. He seemed pleased. “Thank you.”

“Of course, my dear. It was my pleasure.” Gramlich turned to reenter his studio, then paused for a moment. He smiled. “And don’t forget to eat.”

---

They’d sent the manuscript to the printer’s that day and then solidly hadn’t known what to do with themselves. Benny offered a celebratory dinner at his place without even thinking about it really, but the idea grew on him. And the excitement from the other’s hadn’t hurt either. 

Keiko and Albert had insisted on bringing a desert, which meant Kay and Julius had offered to bring an appetizer, Herbert to bring a selection of cocktails, Darlene some sides, and even Gramlich, who looked largely uncomfortable with the prospect of the dinner, had offered a wine pairing under the (likely well founded) guess Herb’s cocktails wouldn’t match whatever it was Benny was planning.

So here Benny was, an hour and a half before everyone was set to arrive, cooking what he hoped would be enough gumbo for the group. He’d originally planned on jambalaya but figured gumbo would serve more people. He flicked the radio on, letting the bright sounds of jazz fill the kitchen like the smell of the gumbo itself.

Cassie was fretting at their dinner table. Not nearly large enough, she’d dragged in Benny’s desk and a card table from one of their neighbors. They didn’t have enough chairs either, and so their dining room set was matching two armchairs, the stool from Cassie’ vanity, a few fold out chairs from the same neighbor they’d gotten the card table from, and some unlucky person would be sitting on a decidedly un-ergonomic end table.

“Don’t you think it’ll be too many people?” asked Cassie, entering the kitchen and shooting a resigned look at the seating area they’d managed to build.

“There’s not that many people in the office.”

“Yeah, but we don’t exactly live in Versailles, Benny. Even three people in here and it starts to feel crowded.” That was true enough. Once, when Cassie’s parents visited them from Ohio for a weekend they’d barely managed three hours before opting to rent a hotel room. It had been tight enough Benny had been more than happy to front them the money.

“I know,” sighed Benny. “But we just sent our first issue off for printing! I feel like that calls for a celebration. More so than just drinks at The Promenade.”

Cassie smiled and wrapped her arms around his middle. “I know, baby, and I’m proud of you. I’m glad you’re excited about this. I know the past six months have been hard—more than six months really.”

“It’s nothing.” Benny knew she could feel him tense, close as she was. He hated making her worry. He hated knowing she’d spent those six months worrying, and that she had done so for good reason. The hospital had threatened to break him, break him worse than Jimmy’s murder and the visions of a better future that haunted him. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he was still there—Deep Space Nine, the hospital, either. Both were a part of him now. Cassie pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“It’s not nothing,” she said, and Cassie let go of him briefly to turn and face him. She clutched his face in firm, gentle hands. “I won’t pretend to know everything that happened at the damned hospital, but I know you, and I know it hurt you. But here you are, still writing, still publishing. Doing better than ever. You’re a strong man, Benny Russell.”

Benny couldn’t help but smile. “And you are a kind, lovely woman, Cassie Yates.”

“Damn right I am.” She pulled him down into a kiss, and how had Benny gotten so lucky? It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered that. He thought about it every time they kissed like this. When they broke apart, Cassie pressed a quick peck to his cheek and shot him a grin. “Now come on. We’ve got a dinner to make for all those employees of yours.”

“Coworkers,” Benny corrected.

Cassie snorted. “Come on, you and I both know you’re the one in charge even if not officially.” He couldn’t argue with that. 

“Maybe.”

“Mmhmm, that’s what I thought.” Cassie looked at the pot on the stove and frowned minutely. “What am I supposed to do with the gumbo?”

Nothing, ideally. As much as he loved her, Cassie wasn’t much of a cook. But he still adored her cooking with him, even if she was more of a hindrance than a help. “Stir it, but not too much. You don’t want to overwork it.”

Cassie nodded. It was silent for a moment, then Cassie let out a thoughtful hum. “You’ve never invited your coworkers over before.”

“They hadn’t taken a risk on a dream of mine before. This is the least I can do for them.” Benny wished he could do more. He knew exactly what the others were giving up for this, and even if they did believe in it, he was sure when the times got lean, as they were sure to, they’d remember. How much was a dream and a hope compared to the reassurance of a steady paycheck? Especially for the couples, with both of them putting everything on the line. 

“All this cooking isn’t exactly ‘the least,’” Cassie said, raising a brow.

“Maybe not,” admitted Benny, “but it is a show of my appreciation.”

Cassie smiled at him. “Mm. I doubt there’s a person alive who can have your cooking and not feel appreciated.” Benny glanced down at the stove to lower the heat of the burner and felt Cassie’s hands once again on his waist. “I know I certainly do.”

“Good.” Content with the heat, he kissed her jaw just under her ear. “Because I appreciate the hell out of you.”

Hands wandered higher to his chest, then lower, lower. “You’d better.” She pushed him back, fire in her eyes, mouth on his. However he’d gotten so lucky, he hoped his luck never ran dry. The things this beautiful, brilliant woman could do with her tongue. 

Benny had loosened his tie when he’d gotten home and started cooking, and Cassie was beginning to tug at it incessantly, pulling him close as she pushed him farther into the counter. 

He bumped something hot and jerked away. “Woah! Careful of the pot!” Benny checked to make sure none of the gumbo had sloshed out and breathed a sigh of relief. Cassie watched him with some amusement.

“This just needs to be left alone, you said?” she asked. Her hand was still wrapped in his tie. 

“With the occasional stir.” Cassie was looking at him with enough intensity to melt the ice caps, her grin was toothy and sharp. She gave his tie a hard yank. “But I think it can sit for a few minutes,” Benny added.

“Like you said, we don’t want to overwork it.”

And if the gumbo could have stood for a few more stirs, for a touch more attention, well, Benny was sure his coworkers wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. 

-

How, exactly, Darlene had managed to organize a launch party for their first issue no one was exactly certain, but organize it she did, and at Cassie’s diner so less. While Benny had never seen it without at least one patron in it, and usually far more at this time of day, the sheer dearth of people took his breath away. And as much as he liked the diner’s fare, their pancakes weren’t good enough to explain just how many people had shown up.

Which meant they were there for Defiant. Benny was so giddy he could sing.

The rest of the Defiant team were milling about, or at least, had made an appearance. The Maclins had only dropped by for an hour or so, but Darlene and the Eatons were camped out in a booth talking to a diner regular (Norm, Benny thought his name was, who was sweet as he was overly gregarious), and Herbert had even brought his brother and sister-in-law despite volunteering to be the one to vend.

But it was other people too, familiar faces from Harlem. The barber who’d despaired when Benny had decided to go bald, his and Cassie’s neighbor who always was nudging them about finally tying the knot, even the engineer Benny knew had moved uptown several years ago and had thought he wouldn’t see again. Once, Benny even thought he saw the preacher out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t be sure, and he wasn't going to bother Cassie about it. No reason to bring the mood down.

For what seemed like the thousandth time that day, the bell over the diner door chimed. Benny beamed when he saw who walked through it, waving him over to the counter he was perched at.

“Willie! You made it!”

“‘Course I did,” said Willie, slanting grin sliding into place. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Half the neighborhood’s turned out, I can’t be seen not doing my part.”

Cassie met them at the counter, smiling at the two of them. She hadn’t been able to request off for the party, but that apparently had been part of the reason Darlene had arranged for it to be here. Benny hadn’t known when the two started talking, but he certainly wasn't going to complain about the results. “Half the neighborhood’s turned out because someone let slip to the papers a famous ball player would be coming.” 

“I wonder who,” said Willie innocently, leaning against the countertop. “Hey, Cassie, nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you too, Willie.”

“And besides,” Willie added, “I’ve got to support your man on this crazy endeavor of his or who’s going to provide for you?”

“Usually you’d say that you would,” laughed Cassie.

“Of course I would! But if I’m going to steal you away it’s not going to be because of some financial thing, it’s going to be my irresistible charm.”

“Very magnanimous.”

“I thought so.” Shooting Cassie a wink, Willie turned his attention back to Benny. He straightened somewhat from his lean against the counter. “Now where is this book of yours, Benny, I want to buy a copy!”

“It’s not my book, it was a group effort,” Benny corrected. Willie just rolled his eyes.

“Oh yes, and I’m sure you were leading the charge. You can take the man out of the Navy, but you can’t take the Navy out of the man. I remember you back then, ordering us around even when we were all seaman recruits.”

“Cassie said about the same last night,” said Benny, smiling fondly.

“And she didn’t even have to serve under you!” He gave Cassie a conspiratorial glance. “And notice how he didn’t deny it.”

Benny grinned. “You know I try not to lie if I can help it.”

“Like I said. Now come on, the book.”

Cassie reached under the counter and pulled one out, handing it to him. “I saved you a copy.” She likely hadn’t needed to, despite how well it seemed sales were going, but she’d insisted. 

“Why, thank you Cassie.” Willie looked down at the book in his hands and let out a low whistle. “It really is a real magazine.”

“What, did you think it wouldn’t be?” Benny snorted.

“Well, I was picturing something closer to something like a newspaper paper, but this looks better than Galaxy !” That it did. The cover was glossy and sharp. The colors were rich and eye-catching, and that was to say nothing of the magazine’s title embellished in a bold, golden type. When he’d picked them up from the printers, Benny had nearly wept then and there. It was real. 

The others had voted his The Visitor as the cover story, and Gramlich’s rendering of the boy hero and his father seemed so lifelike they could have stepped off the page. The father in his uniform, disappearing in a sudden burst of light, the boy in front of him, mouth agape, hand outstretched. And both undeniably Black.

Cassie seemed to read his mind. “And it's us.”

“That it is,” Willie agreed. He paused, brow furrowing, looking closer at the image of the boy. “Is this supposed to be—”

“Jimmy,” Cassie finished, voice quiet. “I thought the same thing.”

It was silent for a beat. Even looking at the cover of Willie’s book from in front of him, the image upside down from his position, the familiar face he’d asked Gramlich to draw painstakingly without a photo for a reference was unmistakable. He’d spent hours in Gramlich’s office, describing the late young man’s face in as much detail as he could until Gramlich’s sketch had been just right. Benny swallowed the emotion that was threatening to burst out of him. “They wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.”

“It wasn’t much of one.” Willie shook his head, normally jovial face turned hard and bitter. “You know he didn’t really have anybody, not since his momma passed. You probably would have just been angrier. I certainly was.”

“Still. I should have been there.” 

Cassie squeezed his arm. “I know, baby.”

Benny just shook his head. “But this? This story, it’s what I can offer by way of a eulogy. He was skeptical about these stories, but I remember, he seemed so excited to see my first Sisko story in print, to see us up in space for once. To see we could. It was that night he—”

“Benny…”

“I wanted to give him immortality in the stars, or at least, the chance to grow old. Even if just in here.” Despite his flaws, his posturing, his poor decisions, he’d deserved that, if nothing else.

Willie hummed. “I’m sure he would have liked it. He was always a bit of a narcissist.”

“He was,” Benny agreed, ghost of a smile on his lips. “And he had every right to be, he was so clever. Stupid in that way all young men are, but clever.” 

“He had such a mind for figures, I’ll never understand how he could keep it all straight,” added Cassie. “You know he’d lean over customers sometimes and tell them they weren’t calculating their tip for me right?” 

Willie managed a laugh at that. “That sounds like Jimmy alright.”

“He’s been the reason we’ve managed to pay rent a dozen times over.” Cassie shook her head. “Poor, sweet boy.”

And he was just a boy, wasn’t he? Barely nineteen, even if his stupid mustache made him look older. He tried to look older, Benny knew, and now Jimmy never would be. He dig his nails into his palms. “I should have done something more, I should have—”

“He was dead before he hit the ground, baby,” said Cassie softly. Her hand was on his arm again. “We were there when it happened, I know you know that.”

“Still. I wish there was something more I could have done.“

“I would have just left you dead right beside him,” said Willie, and for a second, Benny hated him for being right.

Cassie nodded. “You almost were. This is something. It won’t bring him back, but it’ll keep him alive. To you, to me, to everyone who reads it.”

“Sign my copy?”

Benny blinked at the non sequitur. “What?” He looked over at Willie, who was holding out his copy of Defiant, smiling just a little. 

“You know how many autographs I give out in this diner? I know there’s got to be a pen here somewhere. I figure I want this first edition Benny Russell original signed by the author before he starts charging.” 

The diner was alive all around them. The barber, the neighbor, the Defiant crew. People Benny knew in passing and those he’d never seen before. Cassie placed her pen for taking orders on the counter, and Benny let out a breath and almost a laugh, and he reached for Willie’s book.

Notes:

You can tell how hungry I am while writing each chapter. Man, I want a reuben.

Yes, I looked into men’s coats in the late 1940s. Here's an easy guide if you want to get an image of what the gang would have been wearing. Naturally when writing the first of the Gramlich and Julius’s literary debates I had to start with the classics. There will be a lot more of these (also naturally), and they’re going to be all over the place.

Wow, is this one short. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Cameos: Morn (Norm). You guys ever think about how Morn is a Cheers reference. Do the children know Cheers. Am I allowed to say ‘the children’ when I’m 21 and fall into the demographic of people who shouldn’t know about Cheers.

Chapter 3: April and May 1950: All of the Wonders and Greatness of Earth

They were in Gramlich’s office. Alfred, it had been decided, was getting the cover this month, but that didn’t mean Gramlich wasn’t insistent on making sure everyone’s frontispieces were of equal quality, even if rendered in black and white. And he was just as insistent on each of the authors’ direct involvement in the process, and so here Julius was, leaning against Gramlich’s door frame, blushing through an explanation of his story.

It wasn’t that Julius thought it was bad. It wasn’t—in fact, Julius thought Melora was one of his better works, but it also wasn’t one of his more serious ones. The Quickening had been a tense medical drama, and besides that all the others, with the exception of Herb, always published such contemplative and moving pieces. Kay with her tense war stories, Benny with his thoughtful dramas, Alfred with his technically brilliant robots. 

Julius, on the other hand, tended towards the lighter side of things more often than not. Like with Melora—sweet alien romances were fun to write and fun to read. They added levity to a dark issue, and, Julius hoped, to the reader’s day. He wasn’t ashamed of them. He wasn’t ashamed of Melora. But there was something about Gramlich that made Julius want to impress him.

Maybe it was the intensity of his gaze, or his mysterious past. Maybe it was their lunch conversations, an invigorating development. Gramlich was so spellbindingly erudite, better read than anyone Julius had ever met before. His impassioned literary arguments, while wrong, were a delight to dissect. Conversations with him were like a tense dance, or like a swordfight.

So here, talking about the frontispiece, Julius couldn’t help but flush under that gaze of his, to fiddle with a loose thread on his jacket sleeve, to chew nervously on his cigarette holder.

“The frontispiece should be the most exciting moment,” Gramlich was saying, laying out a sheet of draft paper on his desk. “It’s not too dissimilar to baroque art in that, if with a more limited color palette. From what I’ve seen of your outline and what you have of your draft, I was thinking of the scene when Melora flies.”

Ah, yes. Melora, an alien who’s species’ planet had less gravity than Earth’s was confined to a wheelchair when on his hero’s starship. But when he rigged her room’s artificial gravity to be reduced, Melora flew. If Julius’s hero hadn’t been falling in love with her wit and passion before, seeing her soar through her temporary quarters would have done it. The scene had been Julius’s favorite to write. He smiled thinking about it. 

“Yes, I was thinking the same,” Julius admitted.

“For the image itself, the focus should be Melora.” Gramlich was thumbing through pencils now. Grabbing one, he smoothed out the paper in front of him. “She’d be in the air, here, taking up the majority of the image. The hero would be on the ground, looking up at her.”

Julius nodded. “You should be able to see some of her face, I think, not just his. Her elation.”

“Is that why you named her species that?”

“The Elasians? It played a part. I was also thinking of the word ‘elevation.’”

“Makes sense,” said Gramlich, beginning to sketch as they talked. “I liked what you’d written so far.”

“You did?” Relief flooded him, far more intensely than it should. 

“Certainly. One of the best pieces in the edition if your draft is anything to go by.”

“You didn’t think it was too fluffy? Silly?” Julius couldn’t help but ask.

“It was undeniably both of those things. But that’s part of the appeal, is it not? Besides, your writing style is strong enough to carry it through.”

“Really?” Usually Julius was more confident than this. Gramlich just had a way of making him feel delightfully wrongfooted. 

Gramlich hummed his assent, not looking up from his drawing. “Though if I was your editor I’d tell you to shorten your sentences a bit. You get flowery and let the romanticism get away with you. It’s like a prose Keats.”

That startled a laugh out of Julius. “Not a fan of Keats, I take it?”

“Heavens no.” Gramlich wrinkled his nose. “Of all the Romantic drivel, he’s by far the most egregious.”

“That’s what Romanticism is all about, the indulgence of beautiful things.”

“And I’m all for that, my dear, but there are limits to how much indulgence one can take, and the limit is Ode to a Nightingale. Or, God forbid, Endymion.” Gramlich shuddered theatrically.

Almost unconsciously, Julius took a step into the office. “So you think my writing should be less Romantic, is that it?”

“Not necessarily. I think you should indulge in the beautiful things, in the wonder of Melora soaring through the air and her firebrand passion from on the ground. I simply think you’re missing the power of moderation. Let the moments sing on their own, my dear, don’t drown them out with a cacophony of other voices.”

“Mm. So you’re thinking more along the lines of When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be, then?”

“The length of that damnable title alone should tell you all you need to know.” Gramlich put his pencil down and let out a sigh. Finally, he looked up and over to Julius. “How’s this?”

Julius couldn’t help but gasp. It was just a sketch, but like the other art of Gramlich’s Julius had seen before, the life and vivacity of it took his breath away. Melora looked real, stunningly real, the lightness of her expression and freeness of her limbs made Julius feel weightless in turn. 

“It’s beautiful,” murmured Julius, fingers reaching out to trace the lines of the image.

“Careful, Mr. Eaton, pencil smudges,” said Gramlich, voice soft. Julius looked up from the drawing to see Gramlich’s eyes and smile gentle, their usual sharpness, for the moment, dulled. “And thank you, though I think you’ll find the credit belongs in no small part with you. It’s your words that gave it shape, after all. I merely interpreted.”

“I could have never created something like this,” said Julius, hands hovering over the page.

Gramlich shook his head. “But you already did, my dear. What is this if not your flowery Romanticism on the page?”

Julius clicked his tongue. “The Romanticism here is all your own.”

“Well, I always did prefer Romanticism as a visual movement to its poetic sister.”

Julius grinned. “A concession to my point, Mr. Gramlich? My, what is the world coming to?”

“Hardly a concession, Mr. Eaton.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“I make it a point to do so with the truth, you’ll find.”

“I’m sure.”

“Do I detect a note of skepticism, Mr. Eaton?”

“More than a note.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Which only proves my point. You’ve proven yourself to have a very active imagination.”

“High praise,” said Gramlich, “coming from literary talent such as yourself.”

“Given the rest of what you’ve said over the course of this conversation, I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be flattery or an insult.”

“I find the best way to dish out the ladder is to hide it in the former. In this case, however, I’ll leave it up to you to parse my meaning.”

“How gracious of you. And I’m sure that little speech of yours wasn’t just some way of couching any real praise behind a veneer of plausible deniability?”

“Certainly not.”

“Certainly not,” Julius parroted, grinning. He glanced at his watch and let out a hiss. “I’d better get back to work.”

“Ah, but this is work,” argued Gramlich. “A collaborative bit of it, maybe, but certainly still work. We’re working on your frontispiece after all.”

“I fail to see how bickering counts at us working on the frontispiece.”

“We’re working on a romantic scene, my dear,” Gramlich said, leaning towards Julius ever so slightly. “When drawing a romantic scene, one must infuse it with all the tension one can. You’ve been assisting me in that beautifully.”

“It’s not meant to be a tense scene.”

“Maybe not on the surface, but look how the hero looks at Melora, and Melora looks at him.” Gramlich’s fingers ghosted above his graphite figures. “The tension is in their mounting desire and not being able to do something about it. Not yet for them, until several pages later, if I recall.”

Julius found himself breathless once again. “And our bickering has helped you capture all that?” he asked. 

“Bickering is the only way to capture it,” Gramlich replied. “It’s all about being in the right headspace.” Julius was about to do something dreadfully foolish like he hadn’t learned his lesson about that sort of thing back in England, like he didn’t know better, when blessedly, he was interrupted by a shout from Kay.

“Julius! Come over here a sec, I’ve got to prove something to Herbert here.”

“Be there in a moment, darling!” he called back. “I’m sorry Gramlich, I’ve—”

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Eaton. Go to your wife.” Whatever moment there had been had passed, it seemed. The subtle warmth from Gramlich’s smile had fled, replaced with the plastic one he wore more often than not. “I was just about done with the sketch anyway.” As if to prove his point, Gramlich replaced the pencil he’d been using back in its case and removed another one, turning his attention back on the paper.

Frowning, Julius retreated back to the doorway. Kay shouted for him again, but he lingered a moment. Gramlich glanced up at him, raising a questioning brow. 

“Was there something else you needed?”

Julius shook his head. “Just…it really does look lovely, you know.” Gramlich blinked at him, something unreadable on his face, and Julius fled to the main room where Kay was waiting.

---

They called New York the city that never slept for a reason, and the walls of Benny’s apartment were thin as anything, but the sounds of the city had never bothered him much. He liked how alive it all felt, how intoxicatingly alive. As his fingers raced across his typewriter, he could feel every footstep, ever rumbling car, every laugh from outside the windows. It was like he was a part of a great orchestra, the tapping percussion keeping the beat.

He loved nights like this. He’d missed them.

Sisko’s skin was blistered from the heat of the hotbox. He was unsteady on his feet, cramped from disuse and the position they’d been forced into. He could feel the eyes of the settlers on him, tracing the dust that stained the clothes they’d forced upon him, the cracked ash of his lips. He could see the blooming concern, the terror at his appearance—good. They needed to be woken up. He was glad to do it. 

Sisko’s legs shook, the sun beamed down boiling him, and he was thirstier than he’d ever been before. But more than that: he was defiant. When he looked at his damnable jailer, his eyes were clear, and his voice more so. He would not give in.

“Benny?” The floor behind him creaked, and Cassie’s voice came, croaky from sleep. Benny paused his typing as she padded over to him and perched herself on his desk. “What are you doing up? It’s two am.”

Benny shrugged. “Inspiration struck.” He squeezed her leg. “You can go back to bed, it’s alright. I know you’re opening tomorrow.”

“Today, now.”

“I didn’t wake you did I?”

“No, I just got up for some water.” Cassie yawned but made no motion to move. “What are you writing? I thought you said they were publishing your first Sisko story this month.”

“They are,” Benny agreed. “But I got an idea for another installment. 

“And it couldn’t wait until a normal human hour?”

“Probably. I didn’t want to forget it though.”

“Mm.” Cassie shifted on the desktop to get a better look at the typewriter. “So what’s this one about?”

Benny couldn’t help but smile. “It’s called Paradise.”

“Ooh, dramatic. I like it already.”

“Sisko and his chief of engineering get stranded on a planet without technology populated by a small colony of humans who did the same.”

“Humans? Not aliens?”

He shook his head. “Not this time.”

“So what happens next?”

“The leader of the colony tries to make Sisko and the Chief join them full time and stop trying to return to their families.”

“I take it Sisko doesn’t like that,” said Cassie.

“No. He fights her bitterly. Even under torture.” Cassie stilled. He couldn’t blame her. She was too canny. It’s what he loved about her, but at times…

Cassie put a hand on Benny’s shoulder. “Baby…”

He covered her hand with his own. “It’s alright, Cass. It’s just a story.”

“I know.”

“But you want to know if I do,” Benny surmised. Cassie, at least, didn’t look sheepish about it. 

“Maybe. You can’t blame me for being worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“If you’re sure.” She didn’t seem to agree, but she didn’t argue. Cassie stretched and hopped off the desktop. “I’m going to head back to bed. You going to join me?

“In a few minutes,” Benny said.

---

“What do you mean you’ve never been out dancing?” Darlene and Kay were supposed to be getting lunch, but, as per usual, Darlene had gotten sidetracked. Kay just rolled her eyes.

“I mean I’m not really the dancing type,” she said. “You’ve met me, Darlene, you know I don’t really go in for that sort of thing.” It seemed a perfectly reasonable explanation to Kay, but Darlene just continued looking gobsmacked. 

“So Julius never took you dancing?”

Kay snorted. “He asked when we were dating but I always told him no.” Actually she’d said are you out of your damned mind and several other things of a similar sentiment. He hadn’t asked again.

“What did you do for your wedding?” Darlene asked. 

“Well,” Kay conceded, “I mean, we danced then.”

“And?”

“And what? It was a dance and then it was over. We ate a lot of cake and got shitfaced on champagne. Normal wedding stuff.” Well. Normal enough given the circumstances. Their wedding had been a bit of a nightmare in truth. It was the first and only time Kay’d had the misfortune of meeting Julius’s parents, and they had spent the entire ceremony making highly conspicuous comments about their boy finally settling down with a nice young lady and how wonderful it was Julius was beyond his past dalliances.

Not to mention it had been hell finding a church to marry them. Even if there were no laws against it in England technically, that didn’t mean a lot of priests were jumping at the opportunity. And Kay’s parents had both been killed during the occupation, meaning it had been a misery figuring out who, exactly, would be walking her down the aisle. 

In the end, it had been Silmond, the leader of the resistance cell she’d been a part of…up until he decided a few days before the wedding was the best time to tell her he was apparently in love with her. It had been a mad scramble, but finally, (after telling Mr. Eaton no several times with decreasing levels of politeness), they’d decided to have another member of the cell, the jocular one-armed Foreier, walk her down. And all for a farce of a wedding. At least Foreier and Lépicier had found it all amusing.

She and Julius had danced. It was nice enough. It had been one slow dance, and then back to their table and that was that. Like their kiss at the ceremony, all a performance. Not unenjoyable, but nothing real. But it wasn’t like Kay could tell Darlene any of that. As far as she knew, Kay and Julius were a model couple, a picture of wedded bliss out of a magazine.

“I can’t believe this,” said Darlene, throwing her hands up in the air. “Really, no dancing at all?”

“No, not really.” Kay shrugged and lit a cigarette. “What’s the big deal? It’s just dancing. I do other stuff.” Was it not normal to dance? Should she have lied? But no, she didn’t like lying, and certainly not to Darlene. 

“Kay, you’ve got to live a little,” Darlene insisted. 

“Hey!”

“Look, before you met me you used to sit around all day with your husband writing. Before that, you did the same alone.” Well, that was true at least. “How do you know you don’t like dancing if you haven’t tried it?”

“I just know, okay?”

“Like you ‘just knew’ you didn’t like theatre?” Darlene asked, hands on her hips. “Or stand up? Or chili dogs?”

“I don’t like chilli dogs.” 

“Yes, but you had the experience is the point! And now when someone asks if you want one you can say, ‘no, I hate them, here’s a fun story about the time my brilliant and beautiful friend Darlene made me eat one at a carnival and I got into a fight with a clown.’” It hadn’t been much of a fight. Clowns were very easy to physically overpower. Kay took a drag from her cigarette.

“I guess.”

“And if you do end up hating it you can bring it up next time I try and make you have fun.”

Fuck it. “Alright,” Kay sighed. 

“Alright?” A wide, brilliant smile overtook Darlene’s face.

“Alright! Fine! Sure. Let’s go dancing.”

“Yes!” whooped Darlene, punching her fist in the air. “Oh, Kay, you’re going to have a blast, I promise you.” Kay had her doubts, but said nothing.

---

It was less of a VE Day celebration and more of a wake. 

It had been like this at Incredible Tales too, and even Pabst, to Benny’s never ending surprise, had joined them for drinking on the floor and sharing old war stories. No one had left the War untouched, but the crew of the Defiant was more touched than most. And so they had their wakes: Albert would bring several bottles of good, Irish whisky and whatever else the rest of them could get their hands on, and they’d drink to remember. 

Darlene, Keiko, and Gramlich hadn’t been around before for one of these, but they’d been taking to it well enough. Darlene was listening raptly as Herb spun an improbable tale, Keiko amiably chatting to Julius about some edits for this month’s issue, and Gramlich silent as the grave in the corner, eyes uncharacteristically far away.

“You know,” Herb was saying, his drink sloshing around dangerously, “you’d really think joining the signal corps would mean a quiet job, mostly desks and listening to the radio, but I swear I spent more time hunched over that thing in the mountains trying to duck bullets than trying to pick up a damn signal.” 

“So what is it exactly you were doing?” asked Darlene.

“State secrets, I’m afraid,” Herbert said mysteriously, puffing up his chest. 

Kay scoffed and took a drag from her cigarette. “Which is to say, not much of anything.”

“I resent that!” Herb squawked, putting a hand over his heart theatrically. “I was doing quite a lot, I’ll have you know. Connecting disparate forces by radio is hard work! You ever heard the phrase, ‘don’t shoot the messenger?’ Yeah, well someone should have told the Jerrys that. I risked my neck making sure our boys kept in contact.”

Julius raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Weren’t you a part of the motion picture branch?”

“Well yeah, but only starting late in the war,” Herbert spluttered. “When all the good stuff was already filmed. They had me working with the D-tier, I tell you. No Clark Gable, all Ronald Reagan. Awful.”

“You know,” said Darlene conversationally, pausing before taking a sip from her tumbler of whisky, “they say Jimmy Stewart was out flying bombing missions.”

Herbert seemed to jump at the shift in conversation. “You ever run into Jimmy Stewart in the sky, Al?”

“Mm?” Albert blinked, seemingly surprised at being addressed. “No. Wrong, uh…”

“Theatre?”

“That’s it.”

Darlene sat up a little straighter. “You were a pilot?”

Albert flushed, embarrassed, but Keiko just beamed. “You’re looking at a hero of the Battle of Britain,” she said, pressing a kiss to her husband's cheek. Albert just flushed redder.

“Did you ever run into Julius?” asked Benny. “You would have been in London at the same time if I remember correctly.” Albert shook his head.

“It’s a big city,” Julius agreed. “Besides, I was back in medical school back then.”

Benny smiled. “I always forget you were in medical school.” For some reason the image amused him. Maybe it was something about Julius’s normal somewhat quixotic disposition that made the idea of the man as a refined doctor a little hard to imagine, but, at the very least, his bedside manner would be rather unforgettable. 

“I dropped out after the Blitz ended,” Julius was saying. “It wasn’t really for me. Besides, I wanted to help people then, not in some future date.” That sounded like the man Benny knew at least. Maybe he would have been a good doctor after all. 

“You were a medic?” gasped Darlene. “Was Kay your nurse? That would be so romantic—is that how you two met?” 

Kay took a drag from her cigarette and snorted. “I was French Resistance. The closest I ever got to nursing was amputating a friend’s arm in the woods.”

“Kay and I didn’t meet until the liberation of France,” said Julius. He grinned at her. “Besides, someone had to clean up the job you did on Foreier.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you do better with nothing but a machete and a bottle of merlot while the Milce are hunting you through the countryside.”

“I can’t believe you could have been making doctor money in Europe and are here instead writing space fluff for our salary,” grumbled Herbert. “And that Kay still married you!”

“The things we do for love,” Kay said dryly. “Though the salary would have been nice.”

“I, for one, and happy you decided to come and write for us,” said Benny. VE Day always made him feel more saccharine. As did two and half fingers of whisky. 

“I could take him or leave him.”

“Darling,” sighed Julius, “you say the sweetest things.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Herbert leaned over to Darlene and faux-whispered with a conspiratorial air, “You know Benny served with Willie Hawkins?”

“The baseball player?” Darlene’s brows shot up. “The one who was at the launch party?”

“The one and only,” confirmed Benny. 

“Oh, he was so sweet!” she gushed, clasping her hands in front of her chest and letting out a dreamy sigh. “And handsome too.”

Benny laughed. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. But me and Willie go back a while. We knew one another before the Navy, actually. He grew up with Cassie. It was a strange twist of fate that had him serving on the same boat.” One he was eternally grateful for. They’d been friendly before, sure, but he’d always been Cassie’s friend first and foremost. And largely distrustful of anyone hanging around her, brimming with unnecessary protectiveness. 

“What was he like to serve with?” Darlene asked. “I mean, he’s so talented on the field, just a wonderful team player, and the best arm in the league…”

“I take it you’re a baseball fan?”

“I am a New Yorker after all. God gave us three baseball teams for a reason!”

Benny let out another laugh. “Well, good as he is at baseball, he was a lousy sailor. Insubordinate as anything unless we were actively in danger.” And prone to seasickness every now and then, but none of them needed to know that.

“My fiancé was like that too, at least according to his letters,” said Darlene, getting a far off look in her eye. “We grew up together, so I believed him, that’s certainly how he always was.” Quite frankly that’s how Darlene seemed to be as well, not that they’d been in danger yet. But she took to promoting Defiant better than anyone he’d ever met, and when they needed something, despite her usual more laissez faire approach to work, Darlene was always the first one to get it done. She did remind him of Willie in that way, Benny supposed. But there were more pressing things to address.

“I didn’t know you have a fiancé.”

Darlene smiled sadly. “I don’t, not anymore. He was killed during an escape attempt from an Italian POW camp in ‘43. Italy surrendered right after—if he had just waited another month or so…but that was Casimir.”

“I’m sorry,” Benny said. How did you offer a coworker comfort for something like that? He rested a hand on her shoulder, and she smiled at that.

“Oh, it’s alright. It was years ago now and, well. I loved him, but I wouldn’t be the me I am now without him, death and all.” She downed the rest of her tumbler and went to pour herself another finger or so.

“So what did you do during the war?” Herb asked her. “I know what Benny did, and Al, and Kay and Julius. But we’ve got newbies now. You do anything interesting? Riveting? Nursing?”

“Secretary school,” sighed Darlene. “Nothing too exciting.”

“Depends on what you did in secretary school.”

“Oh, just putting myself through it by hustling at poker,” she said casually, swirling her drink. She was grinning though.

“That’s more like it! You want to play sometime? I have a little poker night with some buddies of mine.”

Darlene laughed. “I’d be delighted to, though I don’t know if you’ll want to invite me back for a round two.”

“You’re not the only one who can hustle poker, Darlene,” scoffed Herbert, eyes shining with excitement.

“Oh? And I’m sure your poker buddies would love to know that.”

“Like they aren’t too. Though certainly not as well.” Tragically not just boasting, thought Benny, thinking of the time Harbert had dragged him to that poker night of his. Cassie hadn’t let him go another night after getting cleaned out so thoroughly, and he was sure Julius and Albert had fared about the same. Darlene seemed unperturbed. 

“In that case I wouldn’t miss poker night for the world. I love a challenge.”

“What about you Keiko?” asked Herbert, seemingly content with his little recruitment.

“Oh, I’m not one for poker.”

“No, I mean what did you do during the war?”

Keiko stilled minutely. “I didn’t do anything during the war.” Albert put a hand on her back.

“Really?” Herb asked, not seeming to notice. “You seem the socially conscious type.”

“I am,” Keiko agreed. “Before they sent me and my family to the internment camps, I was helping raise money for the war effort. But I spent my war in the desert behind a chain link fence.”

Herbert blanched. “Keiko, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” said Keiko firmly. “No harm done. Besides, I can see the silver linings. If not for all that I never would have left San Francisco and met Albert. Or any of the rest of you, for that matter.”

Benny smiled. “I’ll drink to that.” He lifted what was left of his tumbler to the center.

“Here here!” said Julius, clanking his glass to Benny’s, the other joining in. Whisky sloshed around in their glasses, and Benny settled back down into his place in the corner. Speaking of corners…

“I don’t suppose you’ll share any of your war experiences, Mr. Gramlich?” Benny asked. Gramlich had spent the night much as he was now, recalcitrant as always, if with a nervous edge to him. Even after three months Benny wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was talented, to be sure, but as those flinty blue eyes of his met Benny’s, it was all he could do to suppress a shiver.

Gramlich took a long drag from his cigarette and smiled, teeth glinting dangerously in the flickering light. “State secrets, I’m afraid.”

---

It would be easier if Kay was used to this sort of thing.

For the hundredth time that night, Kay smoothed her skirt in the mirror with a frown. It looked fine. Of course it looked fine. But it was supposed to be more than just “fine,” right? It was supposed to be pretty. It was pretty enough. (Right?)

She was supposed to go dancing with Darlene in an hour, and Kay felt panic starting to set in. Give her a rifle and a fascist to shoot and she was cool as a cucumber, but dressing for a dance? 

It was fine. She looked fine. The skirt was pretty, her blouse was freshly ironed, her earrings were nice, her makeup was done. She was done. It was fine. Kay sighed and smoothed her skirt again.

She glanced over at Julius from where he was perched on their bed. Most nights they just sat there companionably reading, and despite Kay’s newfound social calendar, it seemed Julius was not going to deviate from their usual plans. 

“So?” 

Julius looked up from his book. “So…?”

“So how do I look, Julius?”

He blinked, and then smiled. “You look lovely, darling.”

And he probably meant it too. He was a terrible liar. She liked that about him. Still, lovely wasn’t all she was going for. She could do normal lovely with the best of them. “Is it appropriate for dancing?”

“Certainly,” he said. Then he grinned, mischievous as ever. “And other things should it come to it.”

“You know it won’t,” Kay sighed. She smoothed her skirt again.

“Do I? Do you ? You’re a pessimist.”

“I’m a realist, Julius. Darlene isn’t some woman I met at a bar in the Village,” Kay reminded him. “She’s…she’s a professional acquaintance.”

Julius arched a sardonic brow. “Truly, darling, you have such a way with words.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.” A professional acquaintance, a growing friend, a coworker. A crush, maybe, if Kay was honest. She wouldn’t be out loud.

“I do.” His voice softened. “But I also know that you like her more than anyone you’ve met in a while.”

“Which is why I don’t want to scare her off. This is just a—a friends thing. It’s not a date.”

“Mm,” hummed Julius. “Of course.”

To hell with him anyway. Straightening her skirt one last time, Kay finally turned away from the mirror. She walked over to her dresser and grabbed her gloves. They matched her outfit well enough. It was going to be fine. She needed to stop thinking about this. 

Tugging her gloves on, she glanced up at Julius. “What are you reading anyway?”

“This?” Julius flushed suddenly. Curious. “Just some poetry.” 

“It’s what, Yeats? Keats?” He was hiding part of the cover with his hand, but the spine was still visible, if written on with rather small print in an illegible font.

“Keats,” Julius confirmed. “It doesn’t matter.” That was true, but Julius never shut up about books. It was a somewhat charming trait of his when Kay was in the mood for it. Curious again. Maybe she’d bug him about it later. But then again, maybe not. 

Gloves on, Kay snatched a hat from their rack and barely resisted smoothing her skirt again. “You sure I look fine?”

“Kay,” said Julius, horrifically earnest, “you look magnificent.”

Kay blushed against her will. “Right. Thanks. See you later tonight?

“Hopefully not!” Julius said cheerily, and Kay gave him the finger on her way out. 

---

Darlene’s directions had been remarkably oblique, and Kay found the dancehall after far, far too much time walking up and down the New York streets. 

It wasn’t a particularly beautiful building and the sign pointing her to the building proper’s basement also wasn’t terribly attractive. But as soon as she entered, she had to stifle a gasp. The room was filled with people, and colors, and the blaring sound of brilliant, unapologetic jazz. Whirling dresses, carrying laughs, the smell of cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke. It was almost too much.

“Kay!” A voice carried through the din, bright and cheery. Muscling her way through the crowd, Darlene appeared in front of Kay, smiling brilliantly. “You made it!”

“Barely, finding this place was a nightmare,” Kay grumbled. 

Darlene just laughed. “It was an old speakeasy in the Prohibition days apparently.”

“You can tell.”

Darlene was staring at Kay with bright, sparkling eyes. “You look fantastic, by the way! Gosh, you’re a regular Liz Taylor!” Kay resisted a blush. Good to know Julius wasn’t just saying things, then. Even still, her old skirt and blouse didn’t hold a candle to Darlene’s dress, black with a splash of spotted blue at the bodice. She looked like a vision with her hair shining in the light of the dancehall. Kay couldn’t help but grin. 

“And you, where did you even find that dress?” 

“This old thing?” said Darlene, winking. “A lady never tells! Come on, let’s get some drinks.” Tugging Kay along by the arm, Darlene wove the pair of them through the crowded dance hall towards the bar. For that, Kay was grateful. One, because if Darlene wasn’t actively holding her arm she was sure they’d get separated, the place was packed. And two…well they didn’t call it liquid courage for nothing. 

Despite the noise and the press of the people all around her, Kay had to admit she was enjoying herself. The atmosphere was electric, and Darlene was, as always, a delight. And, blessedly, Darlene seemed content to spend several songs chatting at the bar, nursing their drinks. Kay could feel her anxieties bleeding away with every joke of Darlene’s, every one of her own silly anecdotes. 

Her own silly anecdotes—Darlene made her feel like telling silly anecdotes. There was something about being around her that made Kay able to breathe like she hadn’t in…she wasn’t even sure when. She never laughed so much, not even with her friends in the Resistance. She’d never felt so young, so free, not in years. 

Darlene tapped her toe along with every song, humming a couple every now and then, but after about twenty minutes when the band starting playing something fast and jazzy Darlene let out a gasp. 

“Oh, I love this song!” she cooed, downing the rest of her drink and grabbing Kay’s hand. She started pulling her insistently towards the dance floor. “Come on Kay!” 

Of course. The moment she’d been dreading. Darlene had begun doing some swooshing kick thing Kay had never seen before that looked impressive. Kay could feel color blooming on her cheeks. “Darlene…”

“What is it?” Darlene asked, smiling. 

“I don’t know how to dance,” admitted Kay, standing stock still on the dance floor and feeling foolish. 

Darlene just shrugged. “Well, that’s alright.”

“I’m going to look like an idiot, D.”

“Look,” said Darlene, slowing her dance and smiling not unkindly at Kay, “you’re married. Happily. You’re here with a friend. You don’t need to impress anyone with your dancing. All you’ve got to do is feel the music and let it move you.”

“Right.” That sounded simple enough. Even still, Kay couldn’t make her body move. 

“Besides,” added Darlene, eyes sparkling, “you can’t look more like an idiot than me.” Kay was about to ask what on Earth she was talking about when Darlene stopped her smooth, fluid dancing and began swinging her arms around, shaking her body wildly along to the music. Gone was the skilled spins and elegant kicks, replaced with wild gesticulation that parted the crowd. 

“Darlene!” Kay gasped, but she couldn’t help but laugh. Darlene grinned at her, motioning for her to join. 

“Come on, Kay!” she crowed, spinning, hands in the air, head thrown back. “The night is young!”

Notes:

Is it truly a Jove Captloverboy fic if I don’t dunk on Keats? Not all of my own opinions will be Gramlich’s though, don’t worry. I just think he’d hate him too, as should all people.

VE Day is the day that celebrates the end of WWII in Europe. Herbert was a part of the Signal Corp, which yes, was really, and they did make propaganda. Reagan was a part of that, and that was the extent of his war service, though when he was president and his brain was mush he did claim to have done more stuff. Jimmy Stewart from ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ really did fly bombing missions. Apparently he was good at it.

They mention in FBTS that Benny was in the Navy and wrote stories then. Similarly, given the fact Miles is a soldier in the show and he and Julian play the Battle of Britain in the holosuites, I thought it was fitting to have that be Albert’s service. While those unfamiliar might think given the kind of deceptive name it was one battle, it was a long, continuous thing, just dogfight after dogfight after dogfight over London.

Julius and Kay’s history with the war will be explored later. The Milce were the French police force fighting the Resistance, or, you know, as they were called, the Maquis. Yeah, I have some mixed feelings about how DS9 uses that name.

And yeah, Japanese Internment Camps. Keiko is Japanese, that’s where she would have been sent. Star Trek’s own George Takei has spoken a lot about and has written a book on his own experiences in one of those camps if you want to learn more.

Gramlich…well you’ll just have to wait and see.

Cameos: Curzon Dax (Casimir). Keep an eye on this one. Shakaar Edon (Silmond), Lupaza (Lépicier), Forel (Foreier). Kira’s Resistance buddies!

Chapter 4: August 1950: Long Before I Was Made

Julius awoke to the sound of Kay getting changed. This, in and of itself, was not a noteworthy occurrence. Maybe Kay had spent four years learning to move around as quietly as possible to evade detection, but Julius had lived through the Blitz, meaning if he slept through an alarm he would have been dead. Julius glanced over at the clock on his nightstand and frowned. “You’re back early.” 

Kay’s back was turned as she tugged on a nightgown, but he could feel her rolling her eyes in the dark. “It’s one AM, Julius, if anything I’m back late.”

“Exactly, it’s only one! Usually you’re back closer to three on Fridays. Two at least!”

“Yes, well, I’m back at one tonight,” said Kay curtly, sliding into bed next to him. She was facing the wall, meaning she didn’t want to talk right now. Even still, Julius was worried.

“Did something happen?” he couldn’t help asking. 

Kay sighed. “Nothing happened. We got dinner, danced, that sort of thing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Kay asked, shifting to face him.

“That nothing happened.”

She rolled her eyes. “Julius…”

“I’m serious!” he said, sitting up a little. “You dance now, Kay! You used to hate dancing.” 

“I didn’t hate dancing. I just didn’t dance.”

“Exactly. Now you do. And you try new things! And you’re not even bothering to refute that you didn’t before.” Darlene was good for Kay. It annoyed Kay, he knew, that he probed into her life like this. Sometimes she found his chattiness irritating, especially late at night. But she was important to him. That’s what friends did, right?

“Darlene just likes doing that sort of thing,” Kay was saying. “And she invites me to go. It’s not exactly rocket science, Julius.”

“You know you can always talk to me,” he said.

Kay’s expression softened. “Yes, I know.”

“My advice got you a date with that belle femme blonde in Paris, if you recall.” That made her crack a smile, even as she crinkled her nose in disgust. 

“Your accent is still terrible. And your advice lost me one with that redhead.”

“Come on, it’s why we’re married!”

“Critique of your accent?”

“Looking out for one another.”

“I didn’t get married for my husband to wingman my lesbian sex.”

“What else is a husband for?” he asked, and Kay laughed into her pillow. Juilius grinned, triumphant, and let himself bask in the moment before asking, “Are you sure nothing happened?”

“Yes, Julius. We just called it a bit early.” 

“Alright.” It was probably true anyway. He lay back down. “Well then, good night, darling.”

“Good night.”

---

Darlene hadn’t been joking when she’d said she was a fan of baseball. And in an office surrounded by nonbelievers, having an ally in Darlene (and, surprisingly, Keiko, who’d played a bit in college though not, unsurprisingly, for the school), meant that they had a controlling vote for the radio.

Which meant that on Friday, the trio was locked onto the Giants game.

It was the fourth inning, and only the Giants had a run on the board. Otherwise, it had been a tense game, the Giants and the Phillies not giving up any ground, every runner caught just before they made it to home. It was the Giants at bat, and they had a man on third again. The anticipation was thick in the office, and Benny could practically see the tense line of the runner perched on the plate, his body taught like a rubber band about to snap.

“I’m telling you, this is our season,” he said, rubbing his hands together. It had been a surprisingly good one. And after the stinging disappointment of ‘49 (not that Benny had gotten to listen to most of it, he mused, then pushed the thought down), they could use a win, a real win.

“You say that but we’ve spent that last two in fifth place,” sighed Keiko. And they had been such otherwise promising seasons too. But when it came to baseball, Benny was an optimist. 

“That was then, this is now—let’s go!” Crack! And there it was, the ball was going, going, soaring into the outfield and the runner on third was going, going—two for the Giants. The cheers from the stands crackled over the radio, mirrored in Benny, Kay, and Keiko’s own celebrations. 

“Can you three keep it down?” groused Herbert from his desk in the corner. “Some of us are trying to work.”

Darlene sighed and shook her head at him. “Go to lunch like the rest of the office, Herb.”

“That's not a way to avoid all of this and you know it! Those damned games go on for far too long.”

“Which is all the more baseball to enjoy,” Benny said.

Herbert pinched the bridge of his nose, displacing his glasses. “Well, could you enjoy it a little quieter? I’ve been hearing Russ Hodges in my dreams.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” sighed Darlene dreamily.

Keiko laughed. “He’s got the most gorgeous voice.”

“Doesn’t he? It’s so expressive.”

“‘Pleasant’ isn’t his middle name for nothing,” Benny agreed, only half listening. 

“There’s no way that’s his real middle name,” said Keiko, laughing again.

“No, no, Benny’s right!” Darlene was grinning. “I read an interview with him a while back in the papers.” 

“It just feels so improbable—shit!” swore Keiko as the man himself Russ Hodges solemnly announced another strike from the Giants’ man at the plate.

Darlene groaned. “That’s the third out.”

“That’s alright, we’re two up now,” said Benny as the teams switched places. He smiled a little at Hodges’ mention of Willie jogging out to second. “I’m telling you, it’s our season.”

Keiko just shook her head. “At least it definitely isn’t the Dodger’s season.”

“Small mercies.”

“They’ve been all over the place,” Darlene agreed.

There was a dramatic sigh from Hebrert’s corner. “Don’t you all have work to do?”

“Work we’ll get back to after the lunch break,” said Benny, not even bothering to look over in the man’s direction.

“Besides,” added Keiko. “Benny’s only got another round of edits before he’s ready for publishing.”

“How many more do you have, Herb?” Darlene asked sweetly. 

Herbert threw his hand up in defeat as the Phillies hit the ball and the runners started off like racehorses, rounding second, third, then—no— “Alright, alright. I just mean—” 

“Shit!”

“Goddamn.”

“Fucking Phillies.”

Herbert just sighed. “Maybe I will take my lunch now.”

---

They were tucked comfortably into a hole-in-the-wall Italian place. It had been Julius’s discovery this time, and a personal favorite of his at that. The atmosphere was cozy, which was only partly a euphemism for cramped. Gramlich’s knees knocked against Julius’s own, and they’d had little choice but to split their lunch to make it fit on their table. But they were in the best seats in the house, right next to a large, round window on the second floor. It was one of Julius’s favorite places in the city. 

There were twenty or so minutes left of their lunch break, and while Julius had guzzled his half of the meal down with his usual gusto, Gramlich was still picking genteely at the breadsticks. 

“I’ve been thinking about spies of late,” said Julius, swirling his drink with his straw. That was true. And given his recent lunch companion, it was little wonder why. 

Gramlich hummed, unsurprised. “I had picked up on that reading your outline. Inquisition, was it? With the holomographic reality?”

“That’s the one.” Unlike the others, Julius tended to jump around in tone and parts of the genre. Moving from his latest streak of romances, Inquisition was the story about a man forced to doubt his own reality and perceptions and wonder if he was a traitor and a spy. 

“It was certainly interesting so far,” said Gramlich, and Julius preened. “I’m intrigued to see where you take it.”

“Me too,” admitted Julius. “I’ve got most of it in my head, but the ending still eludes me.”

“Need help working it out again?”

Julius sat up a little straighter. “Would you?” No one Julius had ever met knew as much about literature, an accomplishment given his coworkers. And, of course, his help would be invaluable if Kay was even passingly right in her suspicions of this enigmatic artist’s past. 

“Oh yes,” Gramlich agreed. His constant smile turned jocular. “I may just be a plain and simple artist, but I have read The Thirty-Nine Steps.”

The downplayment of the past profession Julius knew Gramlich suspected he suspected did little to dull Julius’s enthusiasm. He could play along. Affixing an open, hopefully naïve little smile, Julius focused in on the latter half of Gramlich’s claims. 

“Have you?” he asked. “Oh, I love Thirty-Nine Steps. And I thought the film was wonderful despite how different it was from the book.”

Gramlich made a face. “That’s Hitchcock for you. Did you see what he did to Rebecca?”

Julius frowned. “I quite liked Rebecca. And it won best picture that year at the Oscars, rightfully so.”

“Sometimes, I’m afraid, I despair of you, my dear,” sighed Gramlich, crunching on a breadstick. 

“Why didn’t you like Rebecca?”

“The ending, what else? They made a story about a man who murdered his wife into one whose wife just so happened to die accidentally. It’s utterly defanged.”

“But it’s not the story of a man who murdered his wife at all!” Julius leaned in ever so slightly. “It’s the story of a woman protecting herself and her husband. Whether or not Rebecca was murdered matters less than how the nameless heroine and Maxim react to it.”

Gramlich looked at him searchingly. Seemingly content with his meal, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and placed one between his lips. “I take it you see it as a love story?”

Julius watched as Gramlich attempted to light his cigarette with a little silver lighter. He reached into his own pockets and pulled out a matchbox, the one he kept around at least in part for Albert’s sake, and offered a match to his companion. 

“Maybe I do.”

Gramlich leaned in and in the flickering orange glow of the match head, the cigarette lazing off his lips, Julius could see his own face reflected in the other man’s eyes. He could feel Gramlich’s breath ghosting over his fingers. 

It wasn’t until Gramlich took a long drag from his cigarette, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, that Julius realized he hadn’t broken eye contact through the whole affair. Gramlich exhaled, and Julius had the passing recollection that Rebecca was the story of a young woman falling in love with a mysterious older man. 

The thought, combined with the match burning down to Julius’s fingers, shook him from his revery, and Julius shook out the match and flushed. 

“But none of this has anything to do with spies,” he said lamely. 

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Gramlich agreed. He took another long drag, smoke swirling around his words. “And, of course, it’s spies you want to talk about.”

“Well, I did say I had them on the mind.” Julius shifted in his seat and ran a hand through his hair, likely mussing it. “I’ve been reading The Mask of Dimitrios, well, really all of Ambler’s work.”

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Really? If you liked Thirty-Nine Steps you’ll love it, Ambler’s brilliant when it comes to spies, and The Mask is his best work.”

“I’ll have to check it out then.”

“I have a copy if you’d like to borrow it.” The words were out of Julius’s mouth before he even thought them through. This seemed an extra step from casual conversation about books over lunch. But, well, in for a penny as they said. 

“Didn’t you say you were still reading it, my dear?” asked Gramlich, not unkindly, ashing his cigarette with some amusement. 

“I finished it last night. I was up late, actually, well into the morning. It drove Kay mad. But you want to read it?”

“Of course.” He smiled. “If not just to see what, exactly, has you so enamoured.”

“I’m surprised at you, Gramlich. You seem not to share my same taste in just about anything literary.”

“Certainly not,” Gramlich sniffed. “But why should that stop me? I love a good argument, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and you argue with the best of them.”

“You should pick it up tonight!” Once again Julius’s mouth worked faster than his brain. 

Gramlich’s brow furrowed and he frowned. “Do you have it on you now?”

“No, it’s still where I left it on my nightstand. But you can come over for dinner and pick it up then.”

“Are you sure?”

And, Julius realized, he was. “It’s no imposition,” Julius said, “we always make too much to eat. And Darlene is always over for dinner anyway, it’s not like it’d be out of the ordinary having a sudden guest.”

“I’m not exactly the charming Ms. Kursky, Mr. Eaton.”

“No,” agreed Julius, “you aren’t. You’re the charming Mr. Garak. And if I wanted to invite Darlene over for dinner I’d have done so. I know where she works, you know, she’s not exactly hard to find.”

Gramlich chewed his cigarette for a moment and then abruptly put it out. “Alright.”

“Yeah?” Julius could help the grin that spread over his face at that. “You’ll come over?” 

Gramlich nodded. He was smiling, small and sincere. “How could I refuse?”

---

Kay had met Julius in September of 1944 when the world was ending.

It shouldn’t have been. France was newly liberated, the Vichy government replaced with a provisional one—Kay hadn’t been this free in years. Even walking the streets of Paris like she had as a girl visiting her grandparents seemed surreal. But Silmond was leaving them all behind to join the “real” French army, and all Kay could manage to feel was anger.

“I have to go, Kay,” he had said, looking more cleaned up in his new uniform than Kay had ever seen him. He leaned against his rifle, new and polished and so very different from the one he’d been lugging around since ‘43. “Just because France is free doesn’t mean the world is.”

“I know that!” snapped Kay. “And if they let me, I’d be joining you.” She, by contrast, was dressed just as she’d been for the past several years, in scavenged civvies, if a little cleaner now that she had access to real washboards and not just rocks and rivers.

“So what’s the problem?”

“They won’t let me join. Or Lépicier. Just because, what, we’re women? Now that we’re a proper country again we have to go back to the bullshit of the status quo?” Silmond had the decency to look uncomfortable at that, at least. Good, She hoped his stupid uniform itched.

“Me joining isn’t me endorsing that, Kay.” Silmond slung his rifle over his shoulder and straightened up, and Kay could see the self-styled Colonel in him again, even in a private’s uniform. “Germany is on the ropes. I can help finish the fight.”

“And why can’t I?”

“Kay…”

He was going to say something patronizing and placating. She scowled. “Don’t.”

“Look,” he said, “if you want to come with me, you know they’re always looking for nurses.”

“Oh, great,” said Kay, in disbelief. 

“Nurses are important.”

“I know they are! God knows I’ve had enough bullets picked out of me to appreciate them. But really, Edmé? Me? A nurse?”

“It was just a suggestion.” Silmond shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  “Look, I’ve got to head out.”

“Right.” Kay let out a sigh, the fight leaving her. Even if she was mad, that didn’t mean she wanted him to die. “Yeah. Good luck. Kill some fascists for me.”

Silmond shot her a toothy grin. “I’ll think of you with every gunshot.” And with that, he headed off. 

That had been three hours ago. It felt like a lifetime. Lépicier and Kay made their way through the winding streets of the village they were camped out in, the sun making it’s lazy dissent and lighting up the rooftops with sparkling orange.

“And that’s how he left it?” asked Lépicier 

“That’s how he left it.”

Lépicier scoffed. “He’s such a romantic,” she said sarcastically. 

Kay grimaced. “Romance had nothing to do with it. He’s like an older brother to me anyway.”

“And I’m sure he thinks of you like a little sister.”

“You know it’s not like that, Lépicier.”

“And I was sure it wasn’t like that when he was laying the charm on me too.” That was before Kay had joined, before even the war when Lépicier, Foreier, and Silmond were just farmers and Silmond had been the local dreamboat. Kay didn’t see it. “I’m just saying, that’s how Silmond operates.”

“How’s Foreier?” Kay asked, clearly changing the subject. Lépicier just sighed.

“His arm’s worse than before. Infected, if I had to guess.” It was why the two of them hadn’t seen Silmond off with Kay. Foreier had lost most of his arm in 1942 rescuing the rest of the cell from a Nazi holding facility. They’d done what they could for him, but at the end of the day, they hadn’t exactly been flush with medical supplies. Then, to make matters worse, Foreier had gotten shot in the stump just a week or so before they’d retaken the village they were currently camped in. It hadn't been pretty.

“Clearly it’s bad enough to make him actually go to one of these English popup hospital things,” said Kay, as they entered said popup hospital.

To call it that may have been an overstatement. It was more of a tent, if a clean and well supplied one, with a dozen or so beds, about half of which were occupied. Kay had never cared overmuch for hospitals, tents or proper buildings, and this one made her skin crawl just as much as any proper one.

They spotted Foreier chatting with a tall, lanky man in a white coat. He was laughing (and wasn’t Foreier always?), and despite the fresh bandage wrapped around what was left of his arm, he seemed well enough, if a touch peaky.

Foreier glanced up and noticed them, his stubbled face lighting up. He swung his arms open wide as if he was welcoming them to a great hall. “Ah, and there they are now, the women of the hour!”

The doctor smiled at them as they approved and offered a hand to shake. He seemed painfully young and naïve to Kay with his excitable, open face and wide, doe-like eyes. “You must be Ms. Lépicier and Ms. Hunter. Mr. Foreier has told me all about you two.

“All good things I hope,” said Lépicier, shaking the young doctor’s hand.

“Oh, mostly,” Foreier said, yawing. “Not about you, Kay, I had to tell him about you oh-so cruel hacking off my arm.”

“I could have let it rot on your body if you’d preferred,” snarked back Kay. “Besides, I’m not the one who let the Milce catch it in a door.”

“It was a perfectly serviceable amputation for amateur field medicine,” the doctor said. Kay wrinkled her nose at that.

“Wow,” she scoffed, “thanks.” 

The doctor blanched, his face telegraphing his embarrassment like a silent movie star. “I didn’t mean—”

“Is he free to go, doctor…?”

“Eaton, but Julius is fine,” the doctor, Eaton, said breezily, fidgeting with the clipboard in front of him nervously. “And yes, he’s been clear to go for the past fifteen minutes or so.” He turned to Foreier. “Just come back for a check up in few days or so, if you can. I’d like to make sure the antibiotics are working.”

“Right.” Lépicier nodded and offered an arm out to Foreier, who rose from his cot and took it. “Come on then, you old lump.”

“I’m wounded,” Foreier sniffed, “that means you have to be nice to me.”

“If I started being nice to you, you’d think I was replaced by a German spy.” The pair of them bickered as they left the medical tent. Kay shot another glance at Eaton, now checking the vitals of a middle aged man who looked like a corpse, and followed them.

Following the doctor’s advice, Kay and Foreier made their way back to the makeshift hospital that Wednesday. Lépicier wasn’t with them—she was out with the cleanup crews, fixing some buildings damaged in the liberation. Eaton wasn’t the only medical personnel on duty this time, it seemed, with a young woman in a nurse’s dress listening to him as he talked her through something that flew right over Kay’s head. 

“You’ll want to give her a vasopressor to narrow the blood vessels, Jarre,” he was saying, “it increases blood pressure. You identified the sepsis fast enough I think she should be fine with the intravenous and the antibiotics without surgery. Let me know if that changes?” The nurse—Jarre, it seemed—nodded and Eaton looked up. “Welcome back, Mr. Foreier! And Ms. Hunter!” He waved them over to a free cot, which Foreier plopped himself down on.

“Hello again, doctor!”  Foreier thrust what was left of his arm at the doctor, who started unwrapping the bandages. “You know, I think whatever it is you’re pumping me full of is making a difference, the stump hardly smells like death at all.”

Eaton hummed. “My, that is an improvement.” He did something to the arm and then began rewrapping it with fresh bandages. “And it looks like none of the tissue is necrotic so I don’t think I’ll have to cut anything else off.”

“That’s good, I don’t have much of an arm left for you to chop off!” Eaton laughed, and Foreier along with him.

“Here’s the rest of your course of antibiotics,” he said, handing Foreier a pill bottle. “Make sure you take all of them, but not all at once.” He smiled at Kay. “I’m sure Ms. Hunter can help keep you honest.”

“I’m not a nurse,” grumbled Kay.

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I—”

“It’s fine.” She folded her arms. “Is that it?”

“Yes, it should be.”

“Great.” With that, she and Foreier made their way back out again to meet with Lépicier. Kay didn’t set foot in or around the medical tent for almost two weeks after that. 

It was late afternoon, the sky just beginning to darken. Kay leaned up against a tentpole and tucked her book under her arm for the nth time to check her watch again. They were late. Of course they were late, even the Nazis hadn’t been able to keep Lépicier  and Foreier on time. She frowned and opened her book again, refinding her place. 

The Creature had just framed the maid for murder and theft when Eaton came out of his little tent, wiping his hands off on a rag. Noticing her, he smiled pleasantly. Internally, Kay groaned. She didn’t know why Eaton bothered, or was so insistent. She wishes he wasn’t—he was irksome, an overeager puppy. Kay wasn’t much of a dog person. 

“Are you here for Mr. Foreier?” he asked.

Kay squared her jaw. “Yup.” She didn’t have any particular desire to talk to the man. He just grated on her nerves. To be fair, most people did. But most people took the hint better than this gawky, boyish doctor.

“He left with Ms. Lépicier a half hour ago,” said Eaton, and Kay sighed. 

“Of course.” Proper coordination was also not something her dear comrades had ever particularly excelled at. Ah, well. They were probably back in their little apartment by now. Kay stuck a slip of paper in her book to mark her page and started to go when Eaton began speaking again. 

“If I may,” he said. “What are you reading?”

“Frankenstein,” Kay replied curtly. Eaton didn’t seem to take the hint, and his face lit up.

“Oh, I adore that one! Shelley’s prose is so evocative.”

“Lépicier found a stack of old Flash Gordons and is making me read it with her,” explained Kay. “I’m trying to read some proper science fiction to balance it out.”

“And you can’t get more proper than the original,” Eaton agreed. 

“My thoughts exactly.” Kay looked at him appraisingly. “Do you read much science fiction, Dr. Eaton?”

“Julius, please. And yes, I do!” Eaton bounced on the balls of his feet a little. “Obviously I can’t keep up with my magazine subscriptions, Incredible Tales and the like, but I’ve got an old issue I’ve toted around with me through the war I basically know by heart at this point. It’s a lovely escape.”

“I used to write it,” Kay said, surprising herself. 

“What, science fiction?”

“Yes. And other things too.”

The doctor cocked his head. “Why’d you stop?”

Kay raised a brow at him. “The Nazis invaded France. I had other things on my mind.” Eaton smiled sheepishly at that.

“Do you think you’d take it up again?”

Kay blinked. “I’m not sure. I’d like to, I think.”

“It’s like riding a bike, I imagine. I’m sure you’d be able to get back into it easily enough.”

“Do you write?”

“Oh! From time to time.” He grinned. “It’s…well it’s part of why I dropped out of medical school. Medical journals are all well and good, and medicine really is fascinating, but I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to other worlds. You know, thinking about alien anatomy while stuck reading about human.”

“Not doctor Eaton, then.”

“No,” he agreed. “Just Julius.”

“Right. Well, I’m going to head off and chew out my terrible friends for not letting me know our plans changed.”

He seemed a bit disappointed at that but didn’t try to hold her up. “Have a lovely evening, Ms. Hunter.”

“Just Kay’s fine, Julius.”

The look he gave her was so bright it could have lit up all of France. “Kay then.”

They kept talking after that about books and writing and the like. Even after Foreier’s infection was gone, Kay still found herself stopping by the tent as she passed. Julius was almost always there, both, it seemed, out of a lack of anyone with concrete medical experience and out of a devotion to the job. Kay could respect that.

Part of it, if Kay had to guess, was also a lack of anyone else to talk to. Outside of herself, Foreier, and Lépicier, Kay never saw him talking to anyone for any length of time outside of the nurse she’d seen before, Jarre. She also didn’t see him around the little village, really, just the tent and the local tavern where he got dinner now and then. His race didn’t help, Kay was sure, nor how strongly he came on to everyone. He’d managed to wear Kay down, and even grown on her a bit, but despite that, he still appeared rather lonely.

Several months had passed since she’d met Julius and since Silmond’s departure, and Kay was making her way to the medical tent to show Julius an old copy of Astounding she’d managed to talk an American soldier on leave out of. It was an issue from ‘41, and Asimov was in it, a man of whom Julius had regularly sung the praises of but that Kay had never gotten to read all that much of due to the war. She could see the look on his face already, and grinned at the image. 

She turned the last corner and parted the canvas flap that stood in for the door and then froze. There was Julius alright, but he wasn’t alone. There was another man with him, tall and broad, and in an American military uniform, albeit a fairly rumpled one. And Julius was wrapped bodily around him, kissing him furiously. 

Kay must have dropped the magazine in her shock, because one minute it was in her hand and the next it was on the ground, the sound of it enough to alert the two men to her presence. The second they heard it the pair scrambled away from one another. Kay knew the moment Julius recognized her, his large eyes blown to the size of dinner plates and filled with fear. For the first time since she’d known him, he stammered and seemed to be at a loss for what to say.

“Kay!” he finally managed. “I—”

“You don’t need to explain,” she said, and he looked stricken.

“I think I do, I mean this isn’t what it—Felix here was just—”

“Julius,” Kay said, trying to stop him. His mouth snapped shut. Felix seemed to be trying to make a French exit.

“Just please don’t tell anyone,” Julius begged, worrying his hands.

“Julius,” she repeated. “I won’t.”

“You won’t?” 

“No.” She made a split second decision. “It’s…it’d be hypocritical of me to.”

“Oh.” Then his eyes bugged again. “Oh!”

Kay was already regretting it. “Just don’t make a big deal of it.”

“I won’t, I just…it’s just a relief and I—” He was babbling. She held up a hand to silence him.

“Julius. This is you, making it a big deal.” He blushed, but a nervous smile flitted across his face. His shoulders sagged with relief. 

“Right. Yes. Just, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Kay.

He did later, of course, but Kay found she didn’t mind terribly. After that, he affixed himself deeper into Kay’s life, not that Foreier and Lépicier minded all that much either. Still excitable, still overly enthusiastic, and so very different from Silmond, but he fit comfortably into their little group all the same. It would be untrue to say he fit into Silmond’s role—that, at least, seemed to fall to Kay—but after a few months it was like he had always been there.

When Kay started writing again he devoured her stories with terrifying speed and with clear enjoyment, and she, in turn, read his. Julius would drink with Foreier and listen to his embellished war tales, got Lépicier a job at the clinic where she seemed to thrive, and more and more Kay found herself liking him. He was sweet. He became one of them. And when the war ended not too late after and Kay decided that it was finally time to head for home back in New York, she took Julius with her.

---

Dinner had been light and lovely, and altogether quite like their lunches had been before. But it was different, if ever so slightly, and not in a way Julius could really put into words. They were certainly not as physically close as they had been in the Italian place, or even Gramlich’s office leaning over a cover design or frontispiece. But something was different. Julius found he liked it.

Somewhere between finishing dinner and putting their dishes in the sink, the conversation had turned to A Tale of Two Cities, a book Julius had never personally cared for overmuch but that, he was surprised to learn, Gramlich seemed to have quite enjoyed. 

“I never took you for a fan of Dickens,” Julius said, settling comfortably onto his and Kay’s crappy little couch in their wretched little matchbox apartment. 

“Well, quite frankly, normally I’m not.” Gramlich was perched elegantly in an armchair that had been left over from the previous renters. He swirled his glass of wine thoughtfully. “There was just something about this one that moved me.”

“Let me guess: Dickens verbosity. You do love horrifically long and dull books.” There were little words for how dull Julius had found War and Peace, a book Gramlich purported was somehow his favorite. 

The man in question clicked his tongue. “No, not that. And you know I strongly believe in making the long pop by using the short. And I’ll be the first to admit Dickens does tend to let his point run away from him. I mean, when you craft one of the most iconic and beloved openings in all of literature, there’s no reason to belabor the point for an entire chapter of repetition.”

“I quite like the length of the opening,” said Julius, to be contrarian. 

“Of course you do, my dear.” Gramlich said it with a scoff, but his eyes seemed fond from over the lip of Julius’s wine glass. 

Julius stretched and luxuriated across the couch. “Was it the sacrifice, then, for you?”

“My, you are learning,” said Gramlich, looking inordinately pleased. “Yes, I thought Carton’s sacrifice was quite a remarkable sendoff for his character.” Julius groaned.

“I should have known. I don’t know why I’m surprised, you do have wretched taste.”

Gramlich made a little noise of offense. “And what do you have against Carton’s sacrifice?”

“The fact it wasn’t really a sacrifice at all, was it?”

“I think you’ve had too much of that lovely French wine we've been sipping, my dear,” said Gramlich, taking a pointed sip of his own. Julius rolled his eyes and put down his glass pointedly. 

“Think about it: Carton spends the book as a wastrel, throwing his life away until he meets Lucie and says that he’d die for her and her happiness.”

“And?”

“And then he does! He replaces her husband for execution so she can be happy even if it’s not with him.”

“That sounds like quite the sacrifice to me,” said Gramlich.

“But it isn’t, is it?” It was good Julius put his glass down with the wide sweep of his arms as he gesticulated more than he normally would have without the help of, as Gramlich put it, the lovely French wine. He didn’t care. He was pleasantly buzzed and in company far lovelier than the Bordeaux. “He spent the book, his whole life, wanting to die. And finally he gets the chance to do it. Where’s the character arc?”

“He has a cause now, a purpose,” Gramlich shot back.

“It’s not a sacrifice if it’s what he’s always wanted. He’s not giving up anything important to him. The real sacrifice would be for Carton to live for Lucie.”

“And let her husband die?”

Julius shook his head. “For her husband to refuse to let him die in his place.”

“I think you’re rathering missing the point of the whole story—”

“Julius, I’m home.” Kay’s voice overlapped Gramlich’s, and the creak of the door and the thump of her heels against the hard wood of the floor cracked through the apartment like canonfire. Footsteps rang out as Kay made her way over to the living room space. “I know it’s later than I said but I’m making some real headway on The Collaborator, and—” Kay entered and then froze upon seeing the two of them.

“Kay! Welcome back!” cried Julius, taking her silence as an opportunity to greet her. “Me and Gramlich left some Italian Wedding soup on the stove for you, there should be enough for you to have some tonight and for lunch tomorrow if you want.”

“Right.”

When she didn’t say anything else, Julius turned his attention back to Gramlich. “You were saying? 

But Gramlich had stood suddenly. “I should probably be heading out, Mr. Eaton.”

“What?” Julius frowned. “But Kay’s only just arrived.”

“Yes, I can see that, but I have an outside commission I have to work on, I’m afraid. Thank you for the invite and book.”

“Of course.” He was missing something. Fuck, he was always missing something. He wasn’t good at these sorts of layered interactions even without the help of a glass and a half of red. “See you Monday?”

“See you then.” Gramlich nodded at Julius and Kay stiffly. “Eatons.”

The second the door was firmly shut, Kay rounded on him. “What was he doing here?” Ah. Well, that made more sense.

“I invited him over for dinner,” said Julius, a little petulantly. 

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Why not?” Julius countered. “You invite Darlene over all the time.” He picked up his glass and Gramlich’s and went over to the kitchen to begin doing dishes. He hated not having something to do with his hands. Kay just followed him. 

“That’s different and you know it.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he’s a German spy, Julius, that’s why!” Kay exploded. A plate slid out of Julius’s soap-slick hands and clattered noisily to the bottom of the sink. He swore.

“Kay—”

“Don’t ‘Kay’ me, you let a German spy into our house!” she hissed.

“He’s not dangerous.”

“Come on, you know that’s not true.” That was fair. Whether Kay’s suspicions were true or not, there was something about Gramlich that hinted at great capacity for violence. Both of them had known their fair share of people like that to recognize it. Hell, Kay was one of those people. Julius sighed.

“He was just over for dinner and to pick up a book I’m loaning him. And it’s not exactly like we have state secrets we’re hiding in our kitchen cupboards.”

Kay let out a burst of mirthless laughter. “Oh yes, because the two of us don’t have any secrets.” Julius tensed. Low. That was low. He gripped the sponge in his hand a little tighter. 

“Why would he care about that?” Julius asked, voice far steadier sounding than he felt. 

“Need I remind you what, exactly, the Germans did to people like us?” said Kay. Finally, Julius whirled around, setting down the sponge with more force that was strictly called for.

“The Nazis, Kay, not the Germans as a whole. And you heard Herb, he fought for us!” Spy or not, German or not, if he was what Kay claimed, and Julius did believe it as he was sure most people in their office did, he wasn’t a Nazi spy. Spying on them, maybe, but certainly not for them.

Kay just scoffed. “And we trust Herbert now?”

“I do when it comes to things like this!” Julius snapped. “You and I both know he’s not the kind of man to ignore something like that.” Whatever else Herbert was, a traitor he was not.

“You should have asked me,” Kay seethed.

“I did tell you, remember? When you said you were coming home late?” Right after his lunch for Gramlich, in fact.

“You just said you were bringing ‘someone’ over for dinner. I thought you meant Albert for Christsake, not Gramlich!”

“And since when do I need permission from you to invite someone over? It’s my house too.”

“Exactly. It’s our house. And I don’t want any German spies in it!”

“I’m not a child, Kay,” he reminded her bitterly. “I can interact with whomever I please, and I certainly don’t need your approval before doing so.”

“If you don’t want me to treat you like a child, stop acting like one.”

Julius’s nostrils flared. “You act like just because you were French Resistance you’re so much worldlier than I am. I was in the war too, if you recall.”

“Oh yes, as a medic,” she said derisively.

“Yes, as a medic! I’ve seen just as much gore and violence and ugliness as you have. I’ve killed people too when the time came for it, with my hands, with a scalpel, with a gun. Just because I prioritize fixing people over breaking them doesn’t mean I’m weak or foolish.”

Kay was silent for a moment, and the silence was worse than her vocal anger. When she spoke, again, her voice was cool and clinical. “Is that what this is, then? You think you can, what, fix Gramlich? Like he’s another one of your projects?” Julius bristled at that.

“We’re just friends! We talk about books and art! He’s a fascinating man.”

“I’m sure he is,” Kay sneered. 

Julius squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and let out a breath. “I can’t talk to you. Just because you can’t see anything beyond your own narrow view of the world doesn’t mean the rest of us are saddled with the same limitation.”

Kay didn’t seem to know what to do with his sudden calm. Julius thought suddenly that she never really did. “The only reason we’re here is because of me,” she said. “I keep us safe.”

“Yes. And you’ve done a wonderful job of it,” he agreed truthfully. He’d probably be dead several times over without her, dead or worse. A shell of himself, a lonely husk, out of his mind, dead with a bullet in his back in France or beaten to death in some alley. He sighed and dried his hands. “But the war is over. And I can take care of myself. Goodnight, Kay.”

Notes:

Is it really a piece of Star Trek media if there’s not a ‘Tale of Two Cities’ mention? Also I had to read it in high school and I still remember it way too well so I had to make that count for something.

Okay, so this is pretty batshit. So you know how in old movies they’ll have couples in two beds? That is a real thing. People did actually do that from like the 1850s to the 1950s roughly, peaking in the ‘20s and ‘30s. I had always kind of just assumed it was just a movie and TV thing because of censorship. But that’s not the crazy part! Why did people do it? For health reasons. A doctor in 1961 said, “that those who fail [to sleep in separate beds], will in the end fail in health and strength of limb and brain, and will die while yet their days are not all told.” To quote an article from the Guardian you can find here, “Some doctors believed that sharing a bed would allow the stronger sleeper to rob the vitality of the weaker.” But by the late 40s into the ‘50s most people stopped believing that shit and assumed married couples sleeping in different beds just had a rocky marriage. So Julius and Kay share one.

That’s a real baseball game. You can figure out what day I set that bit of the story in if you figure out which one. That’s the final score. Just saying. Anyway, speaking of baseball, you know what sent me into a minor crisis? So in the episode FBTS they have Worf/Willie play for the New York Giants (inexplicably one of three baseball teams that NYC had at that point, but I digress), and they say in the episode that he’s the only black player on the team. This is not true, There were, in 1953, three black players on the Giants, (one of which who hits one of the runs in this game by the way), one of which was Willie Mays. You know, one of the greatest baseball players of all time? Or for you dorkass Trek fans, the guy on the baseball card that Nog and Jake are trying to get Sisko in ‘In the Cards.’ Which led me to the problem, which canon do I follow, the canon of real life or the canon of the episode? Do I supersede reality? Do I ignore the canon yet again?

You’ll note that it doesn’t come up.

Did you know French women didn’t get the vote until 1945, specifically because so many of them had been a part of the Resistance? That’s more than twenty years later than English, American, and German women.

In the continuation of me having catastrophically fucked up the date of the original episode, if I hadn’t I could have had Gramlich and Julius talk about “Casino Royale” (a book I have read!! Fuck!!) but as it stands, this fic is set too early. Still though, not only is “The Mask of Dimitrios” a popular at the time spy book, but Bond reads it in the book “From Russia With Love.”

Cameos: Nurse Jabara (Jarre), Felix (Felix). Yeah, I didn’t bother to come up with a new name for him, he’s in this so briefly. Also I really like how they named him after James Bond’s CIA friend. Hence why he’s American here.

Chapter 5: October 1950: Blue Robots

Mornings at the Defiant office tended to be mellow. Very few of their number, it seemed, were morning people by choice, and the smell of coffee hung heavily in the air. In deference to his rather strong donut opinions, it fell to Herbert to pick them up a dozen in the morning, and as such he tended to be the last in the door. 

Despite the season, it hadn’t quite cooled down yet, and Herbert was sweating after the accent to their third floor office.

“I’ve got to talk to that useless brother of mine about fixing that fucking elevator,” Herbert groused, depositing the somewhat squashed looking pink box on Darlene’s desk. “I don’t know how many more treks like that I have in me."

Benny smiled and grabbed a donut from over the shorter man’s shoulder. “Weren’t you in the army, Herb? I should think you’d be able to handle a couple of stairs.”

“A couple, yeah. But not a climb up Mount Kilimanjaro!”

Julius nabbed a beautifully iced Boston cream donut. “And you were transporting such heavy cargo.”

“You know I don’t have to buy these for everybody,” Herb reminded him, hands on his hips. “I can just get one for myself.”

“But then you wouldn’t be able to lord your generosity over all of us,” said Kay.

It was best to cut them off before the bickering derailed everything. “Alright, everybody gather ‘round.” Benny made his way to the center of the office, leaning back against his desk. The Eatons took their seats, as did a still-grumbling Herbert. Albert looked up from his typewriter. “You three as well,” Benny added, waving the Gramlich, Keiko, and Darlene over. 

“As I’m sure the writing staff remember,” began Benny, when everyone was settled, “back at Incredible, every Halloween we had ourselves a friendly horror contest for the stakes of free drinks for the rest of the year at Promenade and the cover of the issue.”

“It was less of a contest and more of a blowout,” sighed Hebert, looking pointedly over to where Albert was sitting. 

Albert made a small noise of protest. “It’s hardly my fault you all are—eh…”

“What, not as good?” Albert just shrugged, slightly pink. 

“This is exactly why I want to bring our little competition back,” said Benny. “One of us, surely, can oust our reigning champion.”

“I hope so,” said Kay. It seemed a thought occurred to her. “Who’s the judge this time around? It’s not like we’re going to call Pabst up and read him our stories over the phone.”

“I’m envisioning a trio of judges,” replied Benny, looking pointedly to the non-writer members of the Defiant staff. “If you three are amenable.”

“Sounds like a blast!” exclaimed Darlene. 

Keiko grinned. “I’d love to.”

“It would be an honor,” said Gramlich, face, as ever, in an enigmatically placid smile.

At that, Herbert held up a halting hand. “Hold on, that’s not exactly fair! Keiko and Al are married, and Darlene practically lives in the Eaton’s house!” He cast a nervous glance at Gramlich, clearly with some sort of protest for him as well, but kept his mouth shut. Benny couldn’t blame him.

Even still, he just nodded at Herb’s complaint. “Which brings us to my next point. I trust our judges to be impartial, which means I’m trusting all of you to not bribe them in any way. I’m looking at you, Herbert.”

“Why me?” said Herbert. The office just looked at him and he sighed. “Alright, that’s fair.”

“And I’m sure I can trust you three to judge the work on nothing but their own merits?” Benny said, arching a brow at the judges with a look Willie called his stern father expression.

“Of course, Benny,” said Keiko.

Gramlich nodded ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t dream of partiality.”

“You can count on us,” Darlene declared.

Keiko, at least, Benny trusted to be truly impartial. Darlene looked too mischievous to be believed, and Gramlich…well, Benny would just have to take his word for it. It was as good as he was going to get.

“Good.” Benny clapped his hands together. “With all of that out of the way, we’ll still keep to the normal schedule, so I expect you all to still get your concepts out to Keiko and Gramlich by this time next week at the latest.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Julius said, saluting with the remains of his donut. Benny smiled at that.

“Dismissed.”

---

“Were you serious back there?” Julius and Gramlich were at a diner—Cassie’s, in fact, though she didn’t seem to be on shift at the moment. The food was delicious though, and Julius tore through it with his usual enthusiasm. 

Gramlich, similarly, picked at his burger with all his typical primness. He took a sip of his drink—a strawberry milkshake of all things—and cocked his head quizzically at his lunch companion. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Back in the meeting. About impartiality.”

“Of course.” Gramlich’s eyes twinkled. “Goodness, you’re not trying to sway me in some way, are you?”

Julius flushed. “No!” he lied.

“Because that would be terribly unsportsmanlike of you, my dear.”

“I would never, Gramlich.” God, were his palms always this sweaty?

“Good. I thought so.” Gramlich stole a French fry off Julius’s plate. “And besides, I don’t know what you all are so worried about with Albert anyway. Robots aren’t exactly spine chilling.”

“It’s the only time a year he doesn’t write about robots,” said Julius miserably, sinking into the plush cushion of the booth seat.

Gramlich blinked. “Really? That’s a surprise.”

“We don’t know how he does it—he always comes up with the sort of things that give you nightmares for weeks. Normally he’s so unassuming and, well, normal but for the Halloween issue?” Julius shivered. 

“I’m afraid I have a hard time believing you.”

“I’ll lend you my copy of last year’s,” said Julius. “He wrote about a man who begins suddenly skipping around in time, harmlessly at first and then he sees his own dead body. Eventually, to save himself and his family, he has to take the place of a future now dead version of himself, living that version’s life as if nothing happened, telling no one.”

“Hm.” Gramlich looked unnerved, as much as one could glean something like that off his blandly pleasant usual mask. “I do see your point.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Has anyone checked up on Mr. Maclin to see if he’s doing alright?”

“We ask him every year!” Julius said, shaking his head. “He’s completely fine otherwise. But every year no matter what the rest of us write, he’s always got an ace up his sleeve that blows the rest of us out of the water.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors.”

Julius gave him a look. “You know what I’m saying.” 

“I do.”

“So?”

“So…?”

“So will you help me?” asked Julius, scooting a little closer to Gramlich and smiling hopefully.

“Oh, I’ll certainly help you,” Gramlich said, and Julius’s heart soared. “I can help you brainstorm and I can draw some things that might ignite your imagination. But I’m not going to help you cheat. But, of course, I know you’re not asking me that.”

“Of course,” Julius agreed.

“Of course.” There was a beat of silence and Gramlich continued picking at his burger. 

“Not even a little bit?” asked Julius. It was more of a beg. Gramlich just put down his lunch and sighed.

---

His radio was on, and the warbling voice of Billy Eckstine filled Benny’s apartment like smoke from a fire. He was humming along, fingers tapping a tune across the keys of his typewriter. The door creaked open and Benny smiled at the clatter of Cassie’s heels as she toed them off and the sweet floral smell of her perfume. She rested her head on his and gave his shoulders a squeeze.

“What’s got you so excited?” she asked.

“Baby, I’m going to do it this time.”

“Oh Lord, tell me this isn’t that spooky story writing contest again?”

“You know it is,” he laughed. “And I’m going to win this year.”

“That’s what you said last time with the one about that cult thing,” Cassie pointed out, and he winced a bit. Maybe not his best work. And of course he hadn’t written anything for last year’s contest.

“This is different,” he said.

“If you’re sure.” Cassie didn’t sound convinced but she pressed a kiss to his cheek anyway. Hopping up onto his desk, Cassie nodded over at his typewriter with it’s already half-filled page. “So what’s it this time?

“I’m going psychological.”

Cassie smiled. “Oh?”

“Mm. It’s a Sisko story.”

“What else?”

“He has to choose where a child goes.”

“A custody case?” she asked disbelievingly. “That doesn’t sound scary.”

“Maybe not at first,” he admitted. “But the boy’s a Cardassian, presumed dead by his family and so left behind after the end of the occupation. The boy loses his memory and is raised by a Bajoran family, the very people his people have been oppressing for 50 years. And they do their best, but they teach him to hate himself and his people. So what do you do with a boy like that, a boy in an otherwise happy home except for the fact that every day in a million ways tell him he’s wrong and a monster? Do you tear him away from everything he’s ever known? And if you’re that boy, how do you keep on living?”

Cassie hummed. “It sounds interesting. Not that scary, though, in a Halloween kinda way.”

“I’ve got an idea how to make it so.”

“Right, well I trust you.” She shrugged and hopped off the desk. “I can’t wait to read it.”

“I can’t wait for you to read it,” said Benny, meaning it. Cassie smiled at that.

“Good luck, baby.”

Benny leaned up to kiss her, properly this time. “Thank you. Hopefully I won’t need it.”

---

It was October. It didn’t feel like it. Benny could only watch the seasons through the barred windows of the hospital, the changing leaves, the smell of pecan pies and apple cider a distant memory. They’d be well in the swing of the writing contest by now over at Incredible Tales, mused Benny, and if he closed his eyes he was back at the office, smiling at Pabst and Herb’s antics, talking with Julius and Kay about their wildly conflicting yet always complementary angles, coaxing a conversation out of Al.

“Benny?” The voice jolted him from his musings. Of course, he wasn’t back at the Arthur Trill building. Instead, he was entombed in concrete and cinder block and thick, steel bars.

Resignedly, Benny opened his eyes, glowering at the intruder. “Hello, Dr. Wykoff.”

“The orderlies tell me you’ve been writing again.” Wykoff wasn’t a cruel man. Benny didn’t even hate him. But then, Benny had always tried not to hate people. And one didn’t need to be cruel to do harm.

“I’m a writer,” Benny replied. “It’s what I do.”

“Yes, but writing is what got you here,” Wykoff said. He was always so calm and polite. It was the sort of voice one used on a particularly stupid child or a dog. Benny wondered which he was to him. “Those science fiction stories of yours aren’t good for you. You know that, Benny.”

“So you say.”

“So I know. If you want to get better, you need to stop all of that. Live in the here and now.” Wykoff put his hands in the pockets of his stark, white coat. “Have you tried picking up a new hobby? Drawing is very popular with the other patients.”

“I don’t care for drawing,” said Benny. 

Wykoff must have sensed the irritation in Benny’s voice, or maybe it was just Benny’s blackness, oh so threatening, that made him take a step back and hold up his hands placatingly. “It doesn’t have to be drawing. Just so long as it isn’t writing, okay, Benny? Do you understand?”

Benny tried not to sound too bitter this time. “I understand perfectly well, Dr. Wykoff.” Better than Wykoff did, certainly. 

---

The tea house had been a bit of a swing, but from the expression on Darlene’s face, it seemed that Kay had been right on the money with this one.

“I can’t believe I’ve never been to this place before!” exclaimed Darlene. “It’s so darling.” They were seated at a shining dark wood table in wildly uncomfortable matching chairs with a stack of confectionery and comically little sandwiches in front of them. And, of course, a pot of tea. Doilies were everywhere. 

“I thought you would like it.” Kay was glad Darlene did because she’d never been comfortable with that sort of glamour and frippery. “Julius dragged me here one time—he really is a stereotype sometimes.” 

Darlene paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth and frowned. “How are things going with him after…”

“It’s been fine,” said Kay, setting her own cup down a little forcefully. It clinked warningly against the hard wood of the table.

“Kay—”

“It’s been fine, D.” Kay squared her jaw. “We both apologized. It’s fine.” Not that Kay should have had to apologize, but it was better than her idiot husband running off to stay at his pet fascist’s because she kicked him out. And they only had one bed, after all. Like she said, it was fine. Darlene didn’t seem to agree.

“Come on, it’s been over a month and you two barely talk to one another!”

“Would you rather we scream at each other?”

“There is an in-between you know,” said Darlene, nibbling something covered in dainty white frosting.

Kay consciously didn’t grit her teeth. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Alright, alright.” That was one of the things Kay liked about Darlene. She knew when not to push. The woman in question pointed at the mirror to the white frosting thing she’d just been eating. “Have you had these little cake things yet?”

“No. You know there’s an order you’re supposed to go through this thing? Julius was always on my ass about it.” And why was she following that order? She could have cake if she wanted to, fuck Julius’s English sensibilities. She grabbed the teacake and took an overlarge bite. As soon as it touched her tongue she let out a moan. Yes, she was right to ignore Julius on this one.

Darlene grinned. “Aren’t they divine?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Kay agreed, grabbing another one.

“So why’d you want to come here?” asked Darlene. She was adding a generous amount of sugar into her teacup. 

“I told you, I thought you’d like it.”

“And I do, don’t get me wrong, but normally it’s me pushing you into new experiences not the other way around.”

“I thought it’d be nice for you to get to try something new for a change.”

Darlene let out a bark of laughter. “Kay, you hate change.”

“Only mostly,” mumbled Kay, caught.

Resting her head against her hand, Darlene took a sip of tea. “This wouldn’t be about that whole writing contest, would it?”

“What? No. I just want to treat you, D.”

“Right.” Another sip. It felt accusatory.

Kay lasted all of about ten seconds before breaking. She hated lying. “Okay! Maybe a little bit.”

“I knew it!”

“But I’m serious about the whole treating you thing!” added Kay hastily. 

“And I’m sure you are,” said Darlene. “But threatening the sanctity of the competition like that? I thought better of you.”

“You’re right. I’m—I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” Darlene reached over for another one of the assorted pastries. As she did so, Kay caught a flash of silver adorning her wrist.

“Is that a new bracelet?” Kay asked. 

“Hm? Oh, this? Yes it is. Isn't it lovely?”

“Very.” Kay took a bite of a finger sandwich. “Not really your style though.”

“You really think so?”

“No. Though,” she said, mock-thoughtfully, “you know, it looks like the sort of thing Herbert gave his last girlfriend.” Natasha something, if she remembered correctly. Kay had liked her.

“What a coincidence.” Darlene buttered a scone, the picture of innocence.

“You’re price is higher than tea, isn’t it?”

“Much,” Darlene confirmed, not looking up from her task.

“Noted.”

---

Sisko looked at the boy, this ‘Rugal.’ He’d never seen a Cardassian child before, Sisko realized, just sharp and cruel military men. Was that, too, what Rugal's parents thought of when they looked at him, their son? 

Rugal didn’t shift nervously in his chair. Rather, he sat ramrod straight, looking past Sisko to the great window behind his desk. What was he looking at, Sisko wondered. Home, to Cardassia? Given the boy’s attitudes towards the other Cardassians he’d met, Sisko doubted it. If it was towards Cardassia the boy was searching the stars, it wasn’t consciously. 

The boy’s parents and former caretakers in the orphanage had said he had amnesia, that all memories of his former life, former family were washed away in the accident that separated them. But could someone really forget something like home?

---

Ron and Lisa Rossoff’s house remained the nicest building Benny had ever been in, and the experience never failed to feel surreal. It reminded him of the time he’d gone to the Congress building in his thirties. Though with significantly warmer reception.

“B—Benny!” Ron hadn’t changed in the month or change between Benny’s visits. He was just as strange and gawky and brilliantly kind as before, his snaggle-toothed grin inviting as his home was not.

“Hello, Ron. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” greeted Benny, meaning it.

“A—and you, Benny.” Ron blushed. “Me and Lisa have been reading the magazine you know.” 

“Have you?”

“Oh yes! You and your staff are really talented.”

“I’m glad you think so. We wouldn’t be able to write a thing without you.”

Ron looked embarrassed. “I—I’m sure you’d manage. That sort of skill has to come from something within you, a—a drive, a passion. It’s why I invent.”

“That’s a lovely way to put it.”

He flushed again, and worried his hands. “Bu—ut it’s about the magazine I wanted to talk to you about.”

Benny frowned. “Oh?”

“The magazine is selling well, but it’s u—uh…”

“What is it?” asked Benny, heart sinking and desperately holding onto his composure.

“I’ve been padding your paychecks!” burst Ron, looking wretched. 

“You’ve what?”

“I’ve been subsidizing your paychecks out of pocket,” Ron said miserably, eyes on the floor. “Otherwise between what it costs to print and distribute you all wouldn’t be making a living wage every month.”

Benny felt sick. “How long has this been going on?”

“N—not that long! And not every month, ju—ust a few.”

“And by a few you mean…?”

“Just May. And July. And September. And a little bit in June.”

“That’s most of the months we’ve been in operation,” said Benny.

“But not all of them!” Ron said, and Benny huffed a laugh despite everything.

“That is true. This month should be a stronger one,” he told him. “The Halloween issue always sells well. December also tends to be one of the better selling months because of the holiday season.” They would have to, it seemed.

Ron worried his lip between his teeth. “I hope so. You should hopefully be able to build up more of a reader base as it goes on longer but, uh…”

“In the meantime try and spend a little less?”

“Maybe.” Ron shrank in on himself at that. He looked up at Benny, eye wide and wet. “I do believe in the project!”

“I know you do.”

“And I want you all to succeed! But maybe work on promotion?” Benny wondered what it took for the ardent communist to suggest such a thing. That worried him too, as much as anything else. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He’d talk to Darlene about increasing their promotion efforts, she seemed to enjoy that sort of thing in the past, and to have a real talent for it. Benny smiled down at his host, hoping to dissipate some of the worry etched across his broad face. “Thank you, Ron. Take care.”

“Y—you too, Benny.”

---

The report was in front of him and Sisko must have read it a hundred times now. He’d sent Rugal to live with the O’Brians while he deliberated, and the report they’d sent back about his condition…

Sisko had known something was wrong when the boy had bitten Garak upon meeting him. Heavens knew Garak wasn’t exactly the most approachable man, but Rugal’s reaction had been a bit extreme, especially what he’d given as a reason for his attack on the tailor.

Rugal’s parents said they loved him. Sisko had met them—they seemed to truly do so as well. The way Rugal’s father held his son was fierce and passionate. The way Rugal spoke about his mother and father was with the utmost adoration. The boy touched his Bajoran earring with something akin to reverence. But that did not change the fact that Rugal was a Cardassian. Inescapably so. And no amount of earrings and loving Bajoran parents would change that.

And it seemed that his parents did want to change that. There was such unadulterated fear in Rugal of his fellow Cardassians, such hate and anger. The O’Brians had said that Rugal loathed the Cardassians, and maybe he was right for it. Sisko knew what Cardassia had done to Bajor, the atrocities, the violence. Before he’d taken this posting he’d been sure to research as much as he could so he could better understand the people he’d be working with. But this was not a healthy way to deal with it.

Rugal was just a boy, soft-faced, lanky, innocent in the atrocities of his people. He was a boy, a child, and no child deserved to hate himself so. And Rugal did hate himself. As much as his parents loved him, they hated Cardassians more. And as much as Sisko himself was a human, a chef, a Starfleet officer, a man of the Federation, Rugal was, and always would be, a Cardassian.

---

The deadline was fast approaching, but the lunch hour was approaching sooner, which meant the team was doing fuck all. Benny had already left for Cassie’s diner, and Keiko, Kay, and Darlene were due any minute from their sojourn to the shitty hotdog cart a block or so away. In the meantime, Herbert was boasting. 

“I don’t know why the rest of you are even bothering,” he said, shrugging on his gaudily patterned loafer coat. “We all know I’m taking the cover and the prize. Get your pocketbooks ready.”

Julius snorted, lighting a cigarette. “Why would I? I’ve read your draft, Herbert, and it wouldn’t even scare a schoolgirl.” Gramlich was out for the week for an outside commission, and with him and Kay in whatever strange place they were in, he’d taken to working through lunch again. It was easier that way. 

“How have you read my draft?” Herbert demanded and Julius just smiled mysteriously. 

“I have my ways.” Namely reading it off his desk when Herbert was out picking up lunch two days before, but Herb didn’t need to know that.

“It’s because you’re flirting with the judges, prettyboy.” Herbert put on his hat with more force than seemed necessary or advisable. “Does Albert know you’re flirting with his wife? Does Kay know you’re flirting with her best friend?”

Julius barely resisted the urge to laugh at that. “I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

Herb just shot him an disbelieving look. “What are you writing about, if your story’s so much spookier than mine?” 

“I’m so glad you asked! It’s called Life Support and it’s about a priest slowly sacrificing pieces of himself so he can finish settling a peace treaty until there’s no part of him that’s left at all.” Julius was rather proud of it. 

“Not bad,” said Herb. “I mean, not as good as mine of course, but a solid try. What about you, Kay?”

Kay, who had just reentered the office, paused while removing her jacket. “What am I writing for this issue?” she clarified.

“Exactly.”

“It’s about a freedom fighter,” she told him, tugging off her gloves, “who’s abducted by her old enemies and surgically made to look like one of them. They try to convince her that she’s been one of them the whole time until she’s doubting everything she’s ever known.”

“Do you ever write about anything other than women?” asked Herbert.

“Do you ever write about anything other than men?” she countered.

Herb scoffed. “All the time!”

Kay raised a brow. “That aren’t sex objects for your protagonists to leer at?”

“Well—”

“That’s what I thought.” She returned to her desk and crossed her arms. “What have you concocted for this time around?”

“It’s about a poor, put-upon man forced to play a game for the lives of his friends by an alien species.”

“Come now, Herb, you’re selling it short!” Julius laughed. “Are you not going to tell Kay about how your poor, put-upon protagonist is only in that situation because the aliens discover he’s been cheating them at his casino?” There was a striking resemblance between the protagonist and the man himself. There often was when it came to Herb.

“I was getting to that,” he muttered. 

Kay just rolled her eyes. “I’m sure.”

“How about you, Albert?” asked Julius. “You’ve been awfully quiet through all this.” Like Julius had been, Albert had taken to working through lunch. Though, he often did. He was nearly as much as a workaholic as Benny was, and that was saying something.

Albert blinked. “Me?”

“You are the reigning champion after all,” said Herb. “Afraid your new piece isn’t up to snuff?”

“I mean…I…it’s…” Albert stammered, and Julius held up a hand.

“You don’t have to share if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine if you’re scared,” added Herbert unhelpfully.

“Herb!” Kay glared at him.

“Sorry,” said Herb, not sounding it.

Albert just shook his head. “It’s…well, it’s about an engineer who gets falsely accused of a crime and spends fifty years in prison that turns out to just be in his mind. And, well, you know, him trying to cope with that as he returns to his old life and all that. And how he developed a fifty year friendship with a man he ended up killing in the end and how none of it was real, not the man, not the friendship, not the murder. Just the knowledge that he could be that type of man under those circumstances. So that’s, um…yeah. What I’m…”

For once, no one jumped to finish his sentence for him. Silence hung heavy in the air as Kay, Herbert, and Julius all just stared at their mild-mannered friend.

“Albert,” said Herb finally, “what the fuck.”

“None of us are winning this, are we?” moaned Kay, and Julius just shook his head.

“Fingers crossed for Benny, I suppose.”

---

It was getting harder to keep track of the days. It was still October, surely. Every moment in this place felt the same, like he was stuck repeating every hour, every day, every week, until nothing meant anything anymore.

They’d started taking his pencils. When he’d switched to the crayons they’d provided for drawing, they’d taken those too. An orderly had dropped a pen in the hallway, and Benny had managed to secret it away, and for paper he’d taken to writing on every scrap he could find, then, when they’d become scarce, the toilet paper. It would be the walls next, he was sure. It would make him look crazy, but there was no other way for him to keep sane in a place like this. 

“Oh, Benny, we’ve talked about this.” Benny hadn’t heard the footsteps. The blandly handsome face of Dr. Wykoff was before him, pitying and placating. 

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he said. Even still, Benny’s fingers tightened around the pen.

“You were writing again,” said Wykoff. “You know you’re not supposed to be writing.”

“And why not? Why can’t I? I’m a writer, Dr. Wykoff, as much as you are a doctor.”

Wykoff shook his head patronizingly. “We’ve been over this so many times. Writing made you sick.”

Benny couldn’t help but laugh. “It wasn’t the writing! Writing makes me free, don’t you see that?”

“Then what was it that set you off in September, hm?”

“What set me off—doctor, please!” Was the man truly so dense? “Look at where we are!”

“We’re in the Corey Dunmore Hospital—”

“For Mentally Unstable Coloreds,” Benny finished. Wykoff just stared blankly at him.

“And?”

“‘And?’” Benny laughed at that, hard and earnest, bitter and ugly. “The world we live in is not for me, Dr. Wykoff, is it? I’m here because I wrote a story about a better future, because I dared to dream of something better for myself and my people and rather than let that future be dreamed of they destroyed it. I’m here because a boy I’ve known since he was knee high was killed by the police, because I couldn’t stand to the side and keep my grief to myself those cops beat me half to death and because they’re still out there as we speak! 

“I’m here because even when I served my country I was called boy and not sir, because the people we were fighting based their system of racial oppression on our own and still that system stands!”

“Benny,” said Wykoff patiently, same as ever, same as ever. “You’re here because you had a breakdown in your former place of employment and because of your obsession with writing your ‘Sisko stories.’”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Benny asked. He sounded desperate. Maybe he was. “After all of that, if you lived as I have, and we have, wouldn't you as well?”

“We’re not here to talk about myself, Benny. Nor are we here to talk about politics. We’re here to talk about you getting better.” Nothing. No effect. No change in manner, much less mind, especially if it was still politics to him. Wykoff yanked the pen from Benny’s grasp and the slip of paper, and Benny nearly wept for it. “Now come along. It’s your turn for therapy.”

---

What had Rugal done to deserve this? To have his mind twisted, to be forced into a pawn in the game of a power hungry man—what crime had he committed? He wasn’t a boy to Dukat but a tool for ascension, and when his scheme failed he’d be nothing to him, forgotten like an old shoe like it wasn’t his life hanging in the balance. 

And what had he done to deserve his parents’ twisted form of love? To be made into a representation, into ‘one of the good ones,’ into living praxis against a system he had no real memory of? Was that love? Was that care? 

What had Rugal done? Because if it was nothing, and Sisko knew it was, then what was all of this for? What was all the pain, the self-loathing, the misery, what did it matter? Was he to be just another casualty of a 50-year occupation? Another ruined life?

Would any of the players of this grand chess game remember him when his fate was decided?

“Benny? Benny, baby, come back to me.” Someone was shaking him. 

“Cassie?” Looking away from the page, Benny blinked a few times and returned to reality. He was back home in his apartment with Cassie. It was late, the sun having long since set. How long had he been writing? Hours? It felt like days.

“You were crying baby.” Cassie’s hands shifted down to holding his own. She was crouching on the floor looking up at him in his writing chair. She looked beyond worried.

“I was?” Benny asked. He touched his cheek to find it wet. “Ah.” It explained why his eyes felt so raw, at least. He’d figured he’d just been staring too intently at the typewriter for too long. That likely hadn’t helped.

“Tell me what’s wrong?” Cassie asked, pulling him up from his chair and easing him over to the couch. Benny’s limbs were leaden, heavy and stiff. What was wrong. Where to begin?

“I…I don’t think I’m winning this,” he said finally, rubbing his chin and ruffling his beard. Cassie huffed a sigh.

“Benny.”

“That’s not it,” he amended, “I mean, I’m not. This piece turned out differently than I’d thought. You were right, I think, before. About the scare factor.”

“I’m always right.” Cassie squeezed his hand.

“Silly of me to forget.”

“Very.”

“But I was…I wanted to—for the emotions of this piece I wanted to draw on my own experiences.” He adjusted his glasses and looked away to the pilling lip of the couch. Cassie would know what he meant, even if he didn’t want to see the recognition his words would bring telegraphed on her face. “Make it mean something. Turn it into something beautiful.”

“But that didn’t end up happening,” she surmised.

“I don’t think I can yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. I can’t stop thinking about the hospital.” Benny picked at a pill on the couch and sighed, forcing his nervous hands to still. “They didn’t let me do anything, Cass. They just wanted me to sit still and be silent. And I did, in the end, to get out of there. I did what they wanted. But what was it all for?” Finally, he looked at her. Her brows her knitted together, eyes shining, lips pursed. 

“It wasn’t for anything,” she said like an apology. “Some things are just rotten.”

“I wanted it to be art.”

“Maybe it will be. Later. But it hasn’t even been a year, baby. It’s okay not to be over it yet. It’s okay not to ever get over it at all.”

“I know that,” said Benny. But still it all felt so pointless. If it wasn’t spun like hay to gold, where did that leave him? He exhaled sharply at the comparison: in Rumpelstiltskin, the daughter would have been killed if the hay remained hay. And the pain wasn’t turned to art, and great art at that, where did that leave Defiant? 

He hadn’t told any of the other’s about the money troubles. He hadn’t even told Cassie. It was no use in worrying them. He was sure they could turn it around. They had to and so they would. There was no other option.

“So you don’t think you’re winning this time around?” asked Cassie. It took Benny a minute to remember what she meant. 

“Mm, probably not,” he said. And that was true. He found he didn’t mind as much, everything else aside. He could live with hay. “It’s better than Herbert’s though. That counts for something.”

Cassie laughed at that. “It does. And, baby?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d rather have you here with me than have you trapped in your own head for the sake of art. It’s important to you, but you’re important to me. Remember that, okay?”

A smile ghosted across Benny’s lips. “Okay.”

“Come on, let’s get you away from the pull of that typewriter.” Once again Cassie was pulling Benny to his feet. This time though, she was grinning, all toothy and mischievous. 

“Where are we going?”

“You’re going to dance with me,” Cassie declared.

“We’re not exactly in our dance hall clothes.” Benny was halfway undressed from work, his tie discarded and his suspenders loose by his thighs. Cassie was still dressed in her diner clothes, strands of hair escaping its normal confiture and makeup slightly smudged.

“Who needs a dance hall?” asked Cassie. “We’ve got a kitchen, don’t we? And a radio.” She flicked it on to something light and jazzy. “And,” she said, her hands on Benny’s hips, “I’ve got a hell of a dance partner.”

“What a coincidence,” said Benny, draping his arms at her shoulders and beginning to sway. “So have I. She’s beautiful. A real jaw-dropper. And tough as nails. And clever as anything.”

“Sounds like my partner. You know, he’s a writer.”

Benny hummed. “Is he?”

“Oh, yeah. Dead talented. But he’s more that that. You know he’s a singer to rival Nat King Cole?”

“Goodness. He sounds like a real catch.”

“You have no idea. You should try his cooking—it’s better than anything you could get in a restaurant. I should know, I’m something of a restaurateur myself.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And he’s the bravest man I’ve ever met.” She smiled at him then. “And I love him something fierce.”

“Funny that,” Benny replied. “I love you too.”

---

The Promenade was as it always was: dingy, a touch overcrowded, and homey. Even the pervading, intertwining smell of cheap liquors and sweat were old friends in a place like this. Benny felt at home. The Promenade had put up some scant decorations for Halloween, the occasional spider web and jack o’ lantern, and, pervadingly, pumpkin cocktails and apple liquors.

The Defiant crew were at their usual spot and then some. They’d managed to convince Gramlich to finally come along, and despite his clear discomfort (the prim and well-dressed cosmopolitan German more than stood out), he hadn’t made a French exit and was even talking instead of sitting in dour silence. 

Cassie was there, and she was chatting animatedly to Keiko and Darlene about baseball, delighting them with tales of a young Willie Hawkins back when they’d grown up together in Loraine. A miserable looking Herb was with his brother and sister-in-law, who, like Gramlich seemed out of place, but unlike the team artist, they seemed delighted in the quirks of The Promenade.

After an hour or so of celebration, Benny extricated himself from the booth and a silence fell over the group.

“It has been one hell of a month, folks, but we’ve made it through,” said Benny. “Now, I commend our brilliant team of judges for being able to keep the winner of our little contest under wraps for as long as they have considering just how much work goes into the magazine. I know us writers certainly didn’t make it easy on you.” Gramlich leaned over to Julius to whisper something pointed. Julius just snickered. “It’s without further ado I pass the stage—well, front of the table—to our very own Ron Rossoff with this month’s issue. Ron?” 

There was applause from the others as Benny sat back down next to Cassie and Ron took his place at the head of the table. He clutched a fresh copy of the magazine tight to his chest to obstruct it from view.

“As always y—you all did magnificently,” Ron stammered. “I’m sure it was very hard to choose a winner. I mean, all of your pieces had me and Lisa shaking in our boots!”

“Get on with it, Ron,” snapped Herbert. 

“Sorry, brother!” Ron pinked and clutched the magazine closer to him. “Um…and the winner is…Albert Maclin with Hard Time!” He slapped the magazine down on the table and the sound was swallowed by myriad cheers, applause, and grumbling. Keiko pressed a kiss to her husband’s cheek. Albert was stammering something and looked remarkably pleased.

“Well, there’s always next year,” sighed Herb. Darlene laughed and nudged his arm consolingly, her own bracelet-laden arm jingling merrily with the movement. 

“Oh, the cover is so gorgeous, Gramlich!” Julius was saying, nursing a hard cider and grinning despite his recent loss. “He looks positively wretched.”

“You weren’t joking about Mr. Maclin’s talent for horror,” Gramlich said casually, though Benny could see the pride under the mask. “It was quite the surprise.”

“That should show you for not listening to me.”

Gramlich just hummed. “And I suppose I should have let you bribe me then too?”

“It did seem like a win-win. You saw what Darlene got from Herb and Kay.”

“It’s impossible not to,” Gramlich snorted. “But some of us can’t be bought, my dear.”

“I’ll find your price,” said Julius, but Gramlich just rolled his eyes.

“I’d work on improving your writing first.” Julius let out a squawk of indignation at that, but whatever his rebuttal was, Benny tuned it out. The Promenade always had a horrible pumpkin lager on tap during the fall Benny had missed terribly. Cassie had gotten up to get them both a refill of it and, having returned, she settled herself on his lap.

“Are you doing alright?” she asked, handing him his drink. Benny murmured his thanks and nodded.

“I’m doing just fine. The best man won, after all.” Albert was talking with Kay and Keiko about his writing process. Both women looked understandably horrified but utterly rapt. He smiled at that.

“I remember Al’s previous stories, I don't know if I want to read this one,” said Cassie. “The cover alone…” 

“The eyes really follow you, don’t they?” mused Benny, glancing over at the magazine, now being leafed through by Darlene. The twisted face of Albert’s protagonist, duplicated to represent the real and unreal world he lived in, was frozen in an expression of true, primal horror.

“And those teeth?” Cassie agreed, shuddering. “As always I’m worried about Al’s brain when he writes things like that, but maybe I should be worried for that artist of yours too.” She shook her head and took a sip of her drink, attention settling back on Benny. “You sure you’re doing okay?”

Benny inhaled, taking in the smell of Cassie’s perfume, of hops and pumpkin, of pungent cider and fresh ink. Darlene was laughing at something Kay was telling her and Lisa. The Rossoff brothers were in some sort of light argument they seemed to be enjoying. Gramlich and Julius were off in their own world, talking about Dracula, if Benny had to guess from body language alone. The Maclins were deep in conversation, voices quiet, expressions sweet. And Cassie was on his lap, kind and caring and lovely as ever, ready, he knew, to take on the world at a moment’s notice with the tenacity of a marine. He kissed her gently and rested his forehead on hers. Despite their fiscal troubles buzzing around his ears like a fly, despite the consistent knocking of his memories at Dunmore, for now, at least, he was content.

“Cassie,” he said, “I couldn’t be happier.”

Notes:

I think Miles should be able to profit from all of those episodes of suffering, even if it’s just an alternate version of him. Tragically though there’s not a lot of horror episodes of DS9 so no one else really ever stood a chance.

I wrote the sentence “it was a cold day,” and then went, well, was it? So uh, did you know October 1st 1950 in NYC had a high in the 80s?

Billy Eckstine was one of two Black musicians on the Top 100 in America in 1950. Nat King Cole was the other one.

Do you know how mad I am that they made the doctor Damar? That would have been a perfect Kai Winn! They’ve taken everything from me. And they gave him a name too, and it sucks ass. He’s Wykoff, if you couldn’t tell. I didn’t really write him as Damar. Ah, well. Truly I can’t imagine how horrific a mental institution in the 1950s would be for a Black man. They weren’t even good for White people. From what I do know, it wasn’t something I wanted to write explicitly.

Chapter 6: January 1951: Swept Through a Shining City

Julius was surprised when, in 1945, Lépicier, Foreier, and Kay invited him to join them in their trek to Paris to meet the returning Silmond. More so when the weeklong trip was one of the best of his life.

He wasn’t sure when, exactly, the group had decided to adopt him into it—maybe when Kay had walked in on him and Felix in his medical tent, maybe when he showed Lépicier the basics of medicine for future use on the farm she and Foreier always talked about going back to after the war. Or maybe it was that first day. Julius hoped so. It normally took people ever so long to warm up to him.

Regardless of when the friendship had started, Julius was glad for it. He had nothing back in England, not anymore, and he couldn’t have asked for a better start in France. The trio was genuinely kind behind their snark and understandable wariness, and Julius wasn’t sure what he’d do without them. And still, the invitation was a surprise.

Julius heard a lot of stories about the courageous Edmé Silmond, farmer turned hero of the resistance. Lépicier and Foreier had lived in the same farming community as him before the war broke out, and were among the first of his recruits. Kay he had met later, hiding in her family’s home in 1941 after a raid went wrong and had been unable to dissuade Kay or her father from leaving with him.

“He was furious,” laughed Kay one night over drinks recounting the event. “But despite the extra months to feed, I think he was glad to have us.”

The Silmond resistance cell had been among the first armed resistance movements in France. The eponymous cell leader seemed to Julius quite the man, a proper hero more fable than flesh and blood. Every story the three of them told about him was something out of an adventure pulp, always a daring rescue or grand stand for the people. He was someone who fit so well in the trio’s lives, a missing fourth whose seat Julius had felt more often than not like he was just keeping warm. But still, they’d wanted him to come with.

It was Julius’s second time in Paris, and from the jubilation of finally an end to the war, he found the Parisians to be far more inviting and open then they had been the first time around. He wasn’t sure which aspect of him they objected to more, his brownness or his Englishness. Certainly there had been a number of people on the trains who had been genial enough before he opened his mouth. 

Or maybe Lépicier was right and his accent truly was that atrocious. 

Regardless, Julius was enjoying himself. Always one for the heat over the cold, the June sun was comfortable and washed away unpleasant memories of dreary, gray England. And Paris was beautiful. The trio had arrived a few days before Silmond’s train was scheduled to pull in, and they had spent it sightseeing. 

Lépicier and Foreier hadn’t left their farms much before the war, but Kay’s family had come as often as they could from America to visit her grandparents in France and always made sure to stop in Paris. The city was different, he was sure, after the long years of the occupation, but Kay still seemed beyond giddy to be back. She took them around old haunts with a radiant smile Julius had never seen on her face before. A shame; it was a lovely smile. The years seemed to melt off her face in an instant, the hard living and hunger softened and calling back to a more carefree woman Julius had never met. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and even the stares that always seemed to dog Julius’s footsteps seemed far away.

The train station hummed with anticipation. Lépicier’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, and for once, she and Foreier were silent. Rather, it was Kay who was talking, nervously chatting to Julius seemingly against her will, compelled to by nerves. A shriek of steam, and before the train had even slowed to a stop three of them jumped to their feet and were racing up the opening doors, and Julius found himself pulled bodily along by Foreier’s good arm. Kay let out an exclamation and then there, it seemed, was Silmond.

“Edmé!” she exclaimed, and was swept into a massive hug.

Pulling back, the man, Silmond, was smiling. “Kay! How are you?”

“How am I? ” said Kay in disbelief. “I wasn’t the one off getting shot at for months! How are you?”

“Never better.” Silmond was a tall man, nearing Julius’s own height, but other than that, somewhat of a disappointment. He seemed more Foreier and Lépicier’s age than Kay and his. Dressed in the travel-rumpled uniform of a FLA private, his rugged mystique seemed diminished, the mystery made real. He looked happy, though, and maybe that was better. Grinning, Silmond looked around the busy train station appreciatively. “I can’t express to you how good it feels to be in Paris again.”

“What, was North Africa not to your liking?” Lépicier snarked, hand on her hip.

“Somehow it’s hotter than here. Foreier, Lépicier,” greeted Silmond.

“No hug for us?” asked Foreier in mock-offence, smiling nonetheless. At that, Silmond laughed again and pulled them into hugs of their own, holding them like he was surprised his hands didn’t pass through them like phantoms.

It was as he separated from the group that Silmond appeared to notice Julius, and given the fact he was staring just off to the side from the happy reunion and not going off to greet another returning serviceman, was there with them. Silmond’s brow twitched and he cocked his head to the side slightly. “And who’s this?”

“Eaton,” said Julius, offering a hand, “Julius Eaton. It’s a pleasure. Kay and the others have told me so much about you, I feel like I know you already.” 

“Right.” Silmond shook his hand politely but still seemed less than enthused by his presence. Not that Julius could blame him for that, what with his crashing of what should have been a personal moment.

Undeterred by the mild tension, Foreier elbowed Julius in the side and grinned at Silmond. “We picked him up where we left you. How do you like your replacement?”

“Handsome, isn’t he?” said Lépicier, throwing an arm around Julius’s shoulders. “And he’s a doctor.”

Julius winced. “Mostly,” he appended. 

“Mostly.”

“English?” asked Silmond, still stiff.

“Yes, I came over with the rest in Normandy and decided to stay and help the civilian population.” Lépicier gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Even if I’m not technically a doctor, I do still have some medical knowledge.”

“He saved the rest of Foreier’s arm,” Kay added. Julius blushed at that.

“It was nothing.”

“I disagree, I rather like having most of an arm!” Foreier exclaimed, gesturing at his stump.

“Other than hot, how was Africa?” Lépicier asked, releasing Julius with a sisterly ruffle of his hair. 

Silmond shifted his weight. His posture changed, and he appeared like a whole new man with the movement. Julius could see, then the storied hero as he straightened, the hint of danger in the hard angles of his face and body. “I didn’t exactly get to sightsee,” he said. “I was busy killing fascists. It wasn’t the same without you three.”

“Speaking of the heat,” said Foreier, “I vote we get out of it.”

Kay nodded in assent. “Let’s head over to La Barre.”

“Yes! That barmaid will give us our first round free because she’s got a crush on Julius.”

At that, Julius flushed. “I keep telling you, she doesn’t! She’s just interested in what it’s like in England.”

“No Frenchwoman is that interested in England, Julius,” scoffed Kay to sounds of agreement from Lépicier. “She’s interested in you.”

“Why do you think she keeps accidentally tripping and falling on you?” Lépicier asked him.

“She’s clumsy?”

“She does ballet when she’s not working at the bar. That’s why she chose to work there, the stupid name. There is no way she’s that clumsy.” 

In truth, Julius was aware of the lovely Ms. Delon’s affections. Poor as his ability to pick up on social cues was for the most part, they weren’t that bad. She was sweet though, and listened to Julius when he talked, regardless of her motives. And she was clever, utterly wasted in the bar she used to fund her ballet schooling. 

But there was always the worry when it came to turning down women, especially those as lovely as Delon, that his motives would be questioned. Better, then, to play dumb.

La Barre was thrumming with other patrons, many of whom had followed them from the train station. Sure enough, their first round was free and delivered with a wink from Delon as she dropped them off. The group wasted no time in starting their celebrations of Silmond’s return, and one round became two in short order.

Silmond barely loosened with the alcohol, that same tension from the train station following him and doubling every time he looked over at Julius. Able to pick up on flirtation or not, whatever the cause was beyond Julius’s abilities, especially while pleasantly tipsy.

The five of them were all crowded around a table, slightly tacky from poor cleaning and years of spilled drinks. Forieir and Lépicier were already draped over one another (what, exactly, their relationship was Julius still hadn’t yet been able to glean) and somewhere along the line they’d gotten on the topic of the future.

“So are you coming back to the farm now that you’re done scrubbing the world of fascists?” Lépicier asked Silmond between sips of wine.

“No, actually.” Silmond ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair. “I’ve thought about the farm ever since I left it but now…now I’d like to do more for France. We’ve got to rebuild. I’d like to help.”

“What are you thinking then?”

“Politics, I think,” he said. “We’ve got a government to reform.”

“Well,” declared Foreier, “you’ve got my vote.”

“And mine in spirit,” Lépicier added. She frowned and raised a brow at her friend. “Maybe do something about that with whatever new government you help make.”

“Though…” started Foreier, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “say, Silmond—what are you planning on doing with that farm of yours if you’re running off to reshape the nation?”

“You’re not, nor have you ever been subtle, Foreier.”

“You two can have it,” laughed Silmond. He shook his head. “If I lose the election, that is. I’ll need a fallback plan after all.”

While Foreier was crowing at the news, Lépicier turned to Kay. “What about you, hm? You thinking of staying in France or heading home to America?”

It was a simple question, but Kay stiffened noticeably. In lieu of a response, she stood abruptly, her chair scraping unpleasantly against the ground. “How about I get everyone some more drinks?”

“Kay—” started Silmond, rising to his feet, but she had already left.

“That is well past the bar,” Lépicier noted, brows knitted together in concern as they all watched her go.

“I’ll get her,” said Julius.

 Kay was, in fact, not at the bar, but instead out in the alley behind La Barre. She was smoking, looking like the only thing keeping her alive was the cigarette clutched desperately between her fingers. She wasn't shaking, but it was a near thing, the brick wall behind her keeping her upright and rigid. Kay watched as Julius approached her, tracking the movement with her eyes, but said nothing.

Silence hung between them like the curling cigarette smoke. Finally, Julius leaned back against the alley wall and sighed.

“I can’t go back to England.”

“What?” The non-sequitur surprised Kay, and she blinked, looking over at him with wide, baffled eyes.

“Back home? Not really an option for me anymore.” Julius chewed his lip. “I mean, I could, hypothetically, go back. But they’re not exactly the kindest towards people like us. And I did throw away a very lucrative and promising career. If I did go back I’d definitely have to move back in with my parents.” He made a face. Truly the nightmare scenario. “This is all to say, I don’t rightly know what I’m doing after all of this.”

Kay was silent again for a beat and then spoke. “My parents are dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My mother…she did what she could for us. She left to do God knows what so she could keep us fed and then one day the money stopped coming.” She took a long drag from her cigarette. “My father joined the resistance with me. He didn’t even die in my arms—I…I wasn’t with him. I should have been but I couldn’t—I raced off to avenge him before he was even dead and then when I came back he was gone. I think he was alone.”

Julius reached out to hold her hand. Kay, surprisingly, let him. She didn’t flinch back, just ashed her cigarette and stared at the wall in front of them, eyes far away.

“I have brothers, you know. Two of them. I was the baby of the family. One starved to death with my grandmother when the food started drying up back at the beginning of the occupation. That was when my mother left. My grandfather and last brother were killed a year later. Civilian reprisals. They hadn’t even done anything wrong. But it didn’t matter. So it’s just me now. Who do I have left?”

“You have Foreier and Lépicier. Silmond.” He squeezed her hand. “Me.”

But Kay just shook her head. “I don’t think I can stay in France. Everything reminds me of a time before the war or worse—the whole country’s filled with ghosts. And I wouldn’t dream of pulling those three from their land, or you from your fresh start.”

Julius nudged her shoulder with his own and released her hand. “I can start anywhere. America, for instance.”

Kay snorted disbelievingly. “You’ve never been to America, Julius.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you know me. I love a good adventure.”

“The hell would we even do there? I mean—what, am I supposed to go back to working as a makeup counter girl?” She looked nauseated. “Or what, become a secretary? Nurse? Teacher? Work at a factory? After everything I’m supposed to just go back to being a woman?” 

“I suppose,” said Julius, for lack of anything better to say. For all the overlap in experiences they did have, he could do nothing for her in this. Limited as his options were, in certain respects, Kay’s were more so. The limits on the future that loomed over both of them struck Julius suddenly, and he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. This, he thought, was why he wrote. Why Kay wrote too. For the escape. A thought occurred to him. 

“Though…K.C. Hunter isn’t necessarily a woman, are they?

“What?”

“Well,” Julius said, “they could be anyone. They’re just the name in a byline.”

Kay smiled ever so slightly. Even still: “Writing didn’t exactly pay the bills.”

“Back then. But you said you didn’t do it full time. And you’d have me.”

“Would you be writing too?” asked Kay, clearly pleased, putting out her cigarette on the heel of her shoe.

“I might. I’ve thought about it enough, certainly. And the name ‘Julius Eaton’ could be anyone too. Not necessarily…” Not necessarily someone like him. An escape indeed. He chewed his cigarette holder absently. 

“Marry me,” said Kay, and Julius choked. He whipped his head around to look at her to see a shit-eating grin on her face, but instead, she looked dead serious.

“What?” he spluttered. Kay just crossed her arms.

“Were you planning on getting married in the future?”

“Well, no, I mean—but that doesn’t necessarily—just how many drinks have you had?” asked Julius, legitimately worried that his friend had lost her mind.

“It would get you a green card, Julius,” she explained. “I’m an American citizen. If you married me, you would be able to live and work there. If you were serious about going to America with me.”

Julius stared at her. “I was,” he said finally. More than having nowhere else to go, no connections, no home or family worth returning to, he meant it. There were few people he trusted more than Kay. Before he’d even known it, his decision had already been made. “We may want to have this conversation a little more sober but—yes. Yes, I’ll marry you, Kay Hunter.” 

Kay smiled at him, that brilliant smile of hers that lit up her whole face, wrinkled her nose, and made her lovelier than any movie star Julius had ever seen. She brushed some hair out of her face. “We should probably head inside, yeah?”

“It is rather muggy,” Julius agreed, taking one last drag before putting out his cigarette.

“You know, if we tell the others the happy news they’ll probably insist on covering the rest of the round.”

He laughed. “Your plan all along, was it? Next you’ll be telling me you’re not deeply in love with me.”

“Perish the thought.” 

Julius offered his arm for his new fiancée to take, every bit the gentlemanly Englishman his parents had tried to make him. “Ready?” he asked, and Kay laughed as she looped her arm in his.

“As I’ll ever be. And Julius?” 

“Yes?”

Her beatific grin had faded into something smaller and more intimate. It was just as lovely. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

---

The man was…Bajoran. That was Sisko’s first thought.

He was Bajoran. Clearly. He had the ridged nose, the earring, the eyes. And he’d come from the Wormhole and the past. A legendary poet, he’d said, and Kira had agreed. All of the other Bajorans had. 

When he spoke of the Prophets, he did so with reverence, not Sisko’s own annoyance. He spoke in lovely metaphors where Sisko spoke in curt sentences. And he was Bajoran where Sisko was human. He claimed to be the Emissary, and how could Sisko argue with that? Wasn’t this the sort of man who should be? A believer, an artist, a Bajoran? Shouldn’t

“So what do you think happened?” Herb’s voice shattered Benny’s concentration like a rock to a window. He and Albert were eating lunch together in the office, as was known to happen every now and then, though Benny always found it weird. 

“It had to have been something big,” said Albert around a bite of hotdog. “I—I mean they…”

“They’re normally inseparable?”

“Right.”

“And now this.” Herb tossed a french fry into his mouth gracelessly. Ah, thought Benny. Kay and Julius. For the first time since any of them had known the pair, there seemed to be a wall between them. Conversations turned polite but icy, glances avoided, distances kept. Herbert was still talking. “It’s been months! So it’s got to have been something. My money’s on an affair.”

Shouldn’t it be someone other than him? Sisko certainly didn’t feel like an Emissary. He wasn’t sure if the Prophets were gods or aliens. He wasn’t

“With who? Neither of them really…”

“Leave the damn office?” Herbert finished. “You’re right about that. It’d have to be with someone here. Maybe Julius and Darlene.”

wasn’t anyone, really. Just Benjamin Sisko, Captain of Deep Space Nine. Proud of his accomplishments, sure, and good at his job, but still just

“Darlene and Kay are still…eh…”

“Joined at the hip?” Herb finished. Al nodded.

“Quite.”

“That is true…well it’s not like Kay’s having an affair with me. I doubt she’s having one with you or Benny, you two seem too content in your relationships. Who does that leave—Gramlich?” Albert snorted into his soft drink at that. “You’re right, I doubt it. I bet she’d rather cut off her own fingers. She practically reaches for her Sten Gun every time she's near him!”

“I don’t exactly, uh, well…”

a man. Just an ordinary Starfleet officer. He didn’t know what was best for Bajor, he didn’t know

“Blame her?”

“Mm.”

it’s history and then here was Akorem who was Bajoran history. Didn’t it make sense for him to be Bajor’s future?

“With the two of your service records I don’t doubt it. How about you, Benny?” Albert and Herb turned to him expectantly. “What do you think?”

“About Gramlich?”

Herbert frowned. “About Kay and Julius. You thinking an affair?”

“I’m not sure.”

“C’mon! You’re the boss around here. Pabst watched all of us with the eyes of a hawk, you’re telling me you don’t have theories? Besides, you’re here more than any of us.”

Benny hummed and fixed his glasses. “I agree with Albert. It doesn’t seem likely.”

“Well, do you have any theories?” 

“You were just talking about Kay’s…distaste for Mr. Gramlich,” said Benny diplomatically. “He and Julius are very close.”

“That’s not juicy at all!” cried Herbert, and Benny could see Albert’s snort at that.

“Like you were saying yourself, with Kay’s record, can you blame her? I imagine Julius’s friendship with him seems like a betrayal after everything she’s been through.” There were few among the group who’d had more direct trauma with the Nazis than Kay. And Benny wasn’t fool enough to think their mysterious German artist wasn’t in some way tied to them despite Herb’s stamp of approval. If they’d been able to find someone as talented as Gramlich for cheaper, Benny likely wouldn’t have hired him. 

That said, Benny didn’t begrudge Julius his friendship with the man. It was good for him, they all could see that. Or most of them anyway. And despite his murky background and general untrustworthiness, he hadn’t done anything explicitly worth dismissing him. Ultimately, Benny had work to do. Office drama had never been something he’d cared much about. The last few months had been in the black, but that wasn’t a promise for the future. And January was always a lean month. 

Herbert seemed unsatisfied. “I’m still holding for an affair!” he said. But Benny was back over his typewriter.

“You do that,” he replied, rereading what he’d written. 

---

They didn’t go to any place with enough regularity for it to become their spot. Restaurants were visited and then abandoned, park benches were cycled through, and even the parks themselves usually were only visited for a few consecutive weeks before Kay and Darlene switched it up again.

This was to say, it wasn’t their bench they were seated at, but it was close enough. 

It was probably too cold to be sitting still for long periods of time, but there was good food and better company, and Kay’s coat may not have been terribly on-trend, but it was cozy and comfortable. She barely felt the chill.

Darlene had unwrapped her rueben after a few minutes of fighting with her gloves and moaned around the bite. Kay knew herself well enough to know what the sound made her feel. She could blame her pinkening cheeks on the chill.

“I think you might be right,” said Darlene between mouthfuls, “this really is the best sandwich place in New York.”

“Especially for the price,” agreed Kay.

“The price certainly doesn’t hurt.” Darlene licked a dab of thousand-island from the side of her mouth and nudged Kay’s shoulder with her own. “You know, I like you taking charge recently in these little outings of ours.” There it was again, that feeling. The deep blue of Darlene’s coat made the red slash of her lipstick pop all the more, as well as the pink hint of her tongue. 

“I just thought it’d be nice to show you something new for a change,” Kay floundered. “Or, well, new-ish. It is just a sandwich shop. You’ve had sandwiches before.”

Darlene rolled her eyes. “Even still!” she laughed.

“And you’re still picking most of the time.”

“Kay,” said Darlene, cutting off Kay’s nervous spiraling (why was she spiraling? She never spiraled. She was rarely even nervous!). “I like what you pick.”

“Thanks, D.”

“I think you’re full of surprises, Mrs. Kay Eaton.” 

“It was just sandwiches,” muttered Kay into her own, pinkening again.

“The best.”

“Maybe.”

“And it’s more than sandwiches or whatever else,” said Darlene authoritatively. “You can’t show someone something without showing them yourself, you know?”

“Maybe?”

“Think about it this way—I take you dancing all the time, right?”

Kay nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, I learned to dance when I was a kid. There was this older boy named Bohdan who I was crazy about and in movies when people liked each other they’d dance together. So I spent every night for weeks teaching myself to dance from books and bugging everyone I knew who could teach me what they knew until I finally had it.”

“So what did the boy say?”

A mischievous look crossed Darlene’s face. “A lady never kisses and tells.”

“And the point of the story?”

“Well, every time I dance I’m twelve on Staten Island again with my nose in a book dreaming about a boy with hair so pale it’s nearly translucent. I’m back home and my neighbor is teaching me to Charleston, or Foxtrot, or Big Apple.” Sandwich done, Darlene crumpled up the paper wrapping of it and placed the packaging in her lap. “Does that make sense?”

“I think so.”

“So then, I wonder what, when you take me to sandwich shops, the best sandwich shops, even, where they take you. Where do you go?” she asked, still grinning dangerously. “What Kay do I get to meet?”

“You meet…well…I mean I don’t know.” Kay looked away. The sheer force of Darlene’s gaze was overwhelming, like a blizzard of furious curiosity. “I found this place when me and Julius got back from France. I was cheap. And good.” And integrated. Meaning they’d both been able to order from the counter.

“And?”

“And familiar, I guess.” Kay smoothed her coat with a gloved hand. “I think I might have had it before I left for France the last time? Before my family got stuck there and then…you know.” It seemed a lifetime ago now. It was. She shook her head and managed to look back at her companion. “I don’t know, it’s just a sandwich place. They’re all kind of the same.”

“But you didn’t take me to just any sandwich place,” said Darlene.

“No. I suppose not.”

“Regardless,” Darlene said, standing and brushing the crumbs off her coat and offering Kay, “I like the glimpses I get to see of you.” Kay took the proffered hand and rose to her feet as well.

“You see more than just glimpses of me,” she said. Especially now that her interactions with Julius held a blistering tension, she spent almost every waking moment with Darlene.

The woman in question grinned again and started walking towards the office. “And I like that too. But,” she said, “it’s the little things.”

---

Everything had gone wrong. 

The murder of the Vedek was still fresh in Sisko’s mind, the clearest example of the souring of things but the uproar of the castes suffused his thoughts as well. Kira and her flock of flightless birds, Shakaar and the presumed future loss of his position due to what—predetermined outcomes? The inability to move past his humble roots? The predestination of the lives of an entire planet? Sisko couldn’t stand it.

So here they were, Sisko and Akorem, standing in the runabout on their way to the Wormhole. The Celestial Temple. To whatever it was. Even just a week ago Sisko would have jumped at the chance to give up the title of Emissary. But if he was to do so, it certainly wouldn’t be to this man. The past was past. Some things had no place in the future.

“What are you still doing here?” Darlene’s familiar voice filled the otherwise empty office. Benny looked up from the page in front of him and turned to see her, dressed to head home, hat and all. Benny wasn’t sure how he missed it. He hadn’t even heard her footsteps, the click of her heels on the tiling.

“I could ask the same of you.”

“I’ve been on the phone with a distributor,” said Darlene. “I’m hoping to have us in more newsstands by at least February.”

Benny nodded. “That’s good. Good work.”

“Thank you, I know it is. That doesn’t explain what you’re still doing here.”

“Just finishing up on things,” he explained, taking off his glasses for a moment to rub his eyes. “I’m in the final act now, and I don’t want to lose my momentum.”

“Didn’t you have plans with Cassie tonight?” she asked. “Something something fancy restaurant in Queens? Makeup for missing last week?”

“Those are for Wednesday.”

“It is Wednesday.”

“Is it?” asked Benny, almost dropping his glasses in his haste to get them back on.

“That’s what is says on the calendar.”

“Damn!” In a second he was on his feet and tugging on his suit jacket, then making beeline to the coat rack. “I didn’t—damn!”

“You’d better book it, Benny,” said Darlene, offering him his hat. He dropped it akimbo on his head.

“Way ahead of you,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “Thanks, Darlene.”

“Don’t thank me,” she laughed, shooing him. “just run! Go!” Benny didn’t need to be told twice. 

---

“Did I ever tell you how much I love your studio?” It was a Saturday, and Julius was spending it with Gramlich. What with the Eaton apartment unanimously elected off limits after August, outside of work hours, Gramlich’s studio had been their primary haunt. His own apartment was as enticingly oblique as its owner, but Julius was more than content to be sequestered here for the time being. 

Gramlich was mixing paints with a cigarette lazing off his lips. He smiled. “Once or twice, my dear.”

“I love it,” repeated Julius. He was splayed out on a Victorian fainting couch that seemed so very Gramlich and starting over at a few dangling, half-finished canvases. “Not that I don’t enjoy the art you do for Defiant—it’s gorgeous! But your personal stuff…”

“It’s all my, as you say, ‘personal stuff.’”

“You know what I mean.”

Gramlich just hummed. “Maybe.” That was as much of an acquiescence as Julius was likely to get. He counted it as a win.

“So what are you working on now?” he asked, shifting on the couch to face Gramlich a little more comfortably.

“Portraiture,” Gramlich replied, seemingly happy with the paints on his palette and moving over to take his place at his easel. The sleeves of his starched white button up were rolled up, just like the first time Julius had seen him. Most of the time he barely took off his suit jacket, but in his studio, it was the closest he came to proverbially letting his hair down.

“That’s a change,” noted Julius. “Usually it’s crowd shots.” Though the phrase hardly did Gramlich’s preferred style justice—when not commissioned otherwise he painted rich, expressive, dynamic scenes of life. Not that he’d ever been, but if Julius had to take a guess, he’d say Gramlich was painting Germany.

Gramlich just hummed again, dabbing his brush with a vibrant red. “Inspiration struck,” he said simply. “I’ve found a muse.”

“Have you?” That surprised him. To be frank, Julius hadn’t thought Gramlich spent time with anyone other than him, and certainly not enough to be painting them. It seemed an intimate process to Julius. Irrationally, he felt a spark of jealousy flare up in him before furiously tamping to back down again. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“No one you’d know,” replied Gramlich.”

Julius wasn’t sure what he expected. “That’s not exactly hard given your whole mysterious stranger thing.”

Gramlich clicked his tongue and looked up from the easel. “I’m hardly a stranger to you now, my dear.” His brilliant eyes pinned Julius like a butterfly to a display.

“You are in many ways,” Julius managed to stammer out, looking away. “I know your opinions on Milton and Poe, but not where you were born.”

“I’ve told you a number of times where I’m from.”

“Oh yes!” Julius laughed at that and sat up. “In July it was Frankfurt than Leipzig in August.”

“And Berlin itself in September.”

“How could I forget?”

Gramlich shook his head and returned his gaze to his pallet, dabbing up a swipe of blue. “I don’t understand your preoccupation with things like that. I’d think my opinions on Milton are far more revealing of my true character than something so banal as the city I was born. Besides, would you believe me if I told you again?”

“Probably not,” Julius admitted. “That’s why we all think you’re a spy, you know.”

Gramlich sighed. “A preposterous rumor. I’m a plain and simple artist as you well know.”

“A plain and simple artist from nowhere?”

“A plain and simple artist who thinks Milton is a clown and fool barely able to string two sentences together.” He reached for a palette knife. “Isn’t that a far more elucidating descriptor?”

Julius relaxed back down onto the fainting couch. “I’m originally from Bristol, then London shortly after I turned six. If you were wondering.”

“And your opinions on Milton are abominable.”

“You are impossible sometimes,” replied Julius, laughing.

“No more than you are, my dear.”

---

It was a cold walk to the movie theatre, and Kay’s hands were firmly entrenched in her pockets, and her face was as covered by the neck of her coat as it was possible to be. Every now and then, Darlene would drag Kay to the movies. Somehow, it seemed, despite working full time and the sheer amount of hours she spent in Kay’s presence Darlene still found the time to watch every movie ever. And since its release in October, Darlene had been single minded in poking and prodding Kay into watching All About Eve.

“I’d just never gotten around to seeing it,” said Kay, voice muffled by the coat in response to yet another exclamation from her friend. “I’m not really a movie person.”

“It’s not just any movie, Kay,” Darlene huffed, miraculously unaffected by the chill as she often seemed to be. “It’s the best movie I’ve seen since…I don’t even know when! Gentlemen’s Agreement ?” Which she likely would have dragged Kay to as well if they’d known one another at the time. She’d actually seen it, though, and had rather liked it. But she didn’t say any of that, just shivered deeper into her coat.

“You may be overselling it.”

“I promise I’m not. You’re going to love Bette Davis in it—she’s just divine. It’s the best performance of her career, easy!”

“That’s not exactly a high bar. She’s not really known for her sensitive dramas.” Not that she was horrible or anything, but, well. There was a reason Kay wasn’t a movie person.

“Trust me, Kay,” said Darlene, undeterred as ever by Kay’s pessimism and wariness, “you’re going to love it.” 

“You say that about everything.”

“And you love most of them!” But Kay wasn’t listening anymore.

“Is that—oh God.” Of course they would be here today of all days.

“What is it?” asked Darlene, frowning at the sudden shift.

“That’s Julius and Gramlich,” Kay replied, nodding in their general direction. The pair were just on the other side of the street, and (blessedly) seemingly unaware of Kay and Darlene because of how (not blessedly, decidedly the opposite) wrapped up in one another they were. 

“Is it really?” Darlene whipped her head around, obvious as a macaw in a blizzard.

“Would I lie about that?” Kay hissed, tugging at Darlene’s coat sleeve to keep her from drawing more attention to them. Gramlich seemed to be suffering as much as Kay in the cold (ha!) and so wrapped up as he was, was less easy to identify. But Julius’s horrible plaid coat was unmistakable.

“We should say hi,” Darlene declared, because she hated Kay.

“We should not say hi—Darlene!” But she was already crossing the street, and Kay could do nothing but follow her.

“Funny seeing you two here!” greeted Darlene pleasantly. 

“Darlene!” exclaimed Julius, and upon noticing his far less pleasant looking wife, “And Kay! What are you two doing here?”

Kay scowled. “It’s a movie theatre. We’re here to watch a movie. Were you two heading out?”

“Heading in, actually.” Because of course they were.

“What are you watching?”

“All About Eve,” replied Gramlich, dashing Kay’s final hope. “Mr. Eaton here has been singing its praises for weeks now and we were both finally free.”

“See? Julius likes it.” Darlene smiled brightly at Kay before turning back to Julius. “Isn’t Bette Davis divine in it?”

“Utterly electrifying!” Julius agreed. “And the script is so clever I just had to take Gramlich to see it.”

Darlene nodded. “That’s why I brought Kay. Do you think we should sit together?”

Kay was about to say something, but Gramlich shook his head and held up two gloved hands placatingly. They looked like alligator leather and made him look even more like the snake he was. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I don’t want you to impose either,” Kay agreed. “D, shall we?”

Julius let out a sound of righteous indignation. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“What do you think it means, Julius?” Kay hissed.

“I’m sure Ms. Hunter simply wishes to enjoy her evening with Ms. Kursky apart from her husband,” said Gramlich, diplomatically. “A—what’s the phrase?—girl’s night, as it were.” He turned to Julius. “Shall we?”

Julius stared at Kay, brow furrowed, for another moment before nodding. “Right. Yup. Lead the way.” 

As soon as Julius and Gramlich had gone, Kay rounded on Darlene, seething. “Why the hell did you invite them to sit with us?”

“One of them is your husband and my friend and the other is our coworker. Why not?”

“Why not? Because our coworker is a German spy! We all know that.”

Darlene didn’t even try and deny it. “He hasn’t done anything.”

“Not yet.”

“Besides, it was more for Julius,” said Darlene smoothly, sidestepping Kay’s point. Meaning, of course, she knew Kay had one.

“I don’t want to talk to Julius when he’s with that man. He knows how I feel about Gramlich and still he’s here with him.”

Darlene didn’t even have the decency to look angrily at her, like Julius would have. She just looked sad. “He’s not doing it to spite you. And you’ve said to me he needs more friends.”

“I was talking about you and Albert, maybe someone nice he meets at the library or a bar or whatever not him! ”

“Kay,” sighed Darlene. “He’s a grown man. He can make his own mistakes.”

The fight drained from Kay suddenly. She felt tired. “Maybe. But I don’t have to be happy about it.”

Darlene squeezed Kay’s shoulder and nodded at the theatre. “Let’s just watch the movie, yeah?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Kay’s mood improved as they entered the theater. Maybe it was the heat, or the popcorn, or the company, or the movie itself, but Kay felt her spirits rising a bit. In the dark of the theatre, she couldn’t see any of the other patrons, spies, husbands, or otherwise, and the movie really was fantastic. The snake of a lead villain was, as breathlessly extolled by Julius and Darlene, fantastically written and the sniveling journalist that dogged her and the rest of the ensemble bore a remarkable resemblance to a certain German someone. But more than anything, Kay was wrapped up in the movie, and leaving the theater, all thoughts of anything other than Hollywood glamor and Broadway starlets were driven from her mind.

“So?” asked Darlene as they crossed the threshold of the building and into the night. She was smiling, beatific and smug, and Kay rolled her eyes fondly.

“You were right,” she said.

“I’m always right.”

“You’re right maybe 50 percent of the time, max.”

“Basically always.”

“You’re absurd,” sighed Kay, and Darlene just laughed. She had a ridiculous laugh, not elegant serene like its owner but brash and braying. Kay adored it. She smiled and was about to say something she hoped was witty when she caught a glimpse of a familiarly horrendous jacket. “Fuck.”

Darlene didn’t even need to ask. “We can just ignore them, it’s okay.” But Kay shook her head, eyes still locked in their direction.

“They’re arguing,” she said.

“They’re always arguing.”

“They’re always bickering, this looks heated.” It really did, the way Gramlich somehow leered over Julius despite the difference in height made Kay’s skin crawl and her hackles raise.

“Kay,” said Darlene firmly. “They’re doing what they always do. You’re jumping at shadows.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Kay—”

But Kay had already dashed off to intervene. 

“That’s exactly the kind of ridiculous trite I’ve come to expect for you to say,” Gramlich was saying, grinning dangerously at Julius. He looked as crocodilian as his gloves, ready to bite a chunk out of her friend. Julius just laughed.

“Oh come on, you liked it! You enjoyed yourself.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” sniffed Gramlich, and just like that the fire fled from Kay. His reptilian menace seemed replaced with the fussiness of a prize hen, and just as dangerous.

“You’re being contrarian to be contrarian.”

“Me? Never.”

It was then Julius seemed to notice Kay’s presence, frozen as a deer in headlights and feeling foolish. “Kay?”

“Julius!” Her mouth opened and closed several times. “I…sorry. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Fine. Better than fine, actually, I’m having a nice night.” He seemed confused. She couldn’t blame him. “You?”

“Fine, fine, yeah.”

“Because you did charge over here.”

“Just…getting some exercise. Power-walking and all that.”

“Smart,” said Gramlich, amusement writ large across his oily features.

“I didn’t ask you,” she snapped reflexively before shrinking back again. “I, um. Well, I’ll be heading off now. See you at home?”

Julius still seemed confused. “See you then.”

Kay couldn’t have run back to Darlene faster.

“So?” prompted Darlene.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It was just bickering again,” Darlene surmised.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

Darlene let out a sigh. “I know you’re protective of the people you care about, Kay. It’s one of my favorite qualities of yours. But you—”

“D, I don’t want to hear it. Let’s just go, okay?”

Darlene pursed her lips but didn’t say anything. She nodded once. “Okay.”

Kay knew there was something wrong with her. That most normal people didn’t feel this burningly angry all the time, women especially. For a long time she’d known she was abnormal. But she couldn’t help it. She knew she should leave Julius to, as Darlene had so aptly put it, make his own mistakes. But what was friendship for if not protecting one another? 

She’d lost too many people to charming, cruel people to let it happen to him. She’d lost too many people to Germans. It was paranoia, plain and simple, and she knew that Benny or Keiko or Herb or, clearly Julius, didn’t hold the same flame of righteous anger that she did towards the Germans. But she couldn’t help it. Because something was wrong with her.

The night was a cold one, and growing colder. Kay dug her hands farther into her pockets and walked the long way home anyway.

Notes:

The things that happened to Kay’s family are all real things that happened in the Occupation of France. People starved to death because of food shortages, women, by choice or otherwise, turned to sex work to support their families (they were called horizontal collaborators and after the war they were not treated well regardless of the consensually of what happened), and the Nazis and Milce did do reprisal killings of civilians, 100 or so for every higher up Nazi who the Resistance killed.

Green cards existed back then! And they were literally green! I’ve gone to some dark places to fact check this fic, you guys. The website I had to check for the green card information was put out by the government and was a little too comfortable using the word aliens. And when I checked to see what weapons the French Resistance used, tragically the best resource was the NRA, and I knew the guy who wrote it knew what they were talking about, because they had fired the guns they were talking about! And about halfway through the history lesson on firearms it turned into an anti-Communist screed. But anything for you all.

So back in the day before home video or even really licensing movies for TV they used to just sort of run movies until people stopped seeing them. “All About Eve” (which came out in October, guess which chapter this scene was initially planned for) is a movie that even to this day is fantastic, so it too ran for ages. Also back in the day they used to not really do hard and fast start or end times you’d just sort of show up and watch whatever was on and then the cartoons and the news and if you’d come in the middle of a movie it’d just start again and you could watch up until you got there and keep going if you so desired. Also a lot of people would just spend the day in the theatres watching the same movie on loop because there was AC. The reason we don’t do that anymore is Hitchcock. It’ll give him the win on that, the previous system was bad.

There are some truly lovely Expressionist works out there. I talked a bit before about how that’s what Gramlich does, but if you want to look more into some works to see what generally he’s doing, take a look at George Grosz’s “Explosion,” Hans Baluschek’s “Working-Class City,” Otto Dix generally but specifically from him “Metropolis” and “War Cripples (45% Fit For Service)” and everything by Käthe Kollwitz. And, of course, my beloved Egon Schiele.

Cameos: Palis Delon (Ms. Delon). Once again I didn’t change the name, she’s already French. Captain Boday (Bohdan).

Chapter 7: March 1951: We Have Labored Long and Hard

January was always rough. Benny knew that. February tended to have a bit of a downswing too. But it was March. More than just March—the first anniversary of Defiant, and it was March, and despite the downswing and the never ending thrum of Ron’s warning in his ears, Benny was doing fine. He was fine.

It would have been easy to say he’d learned it in the Navy, but Benny had always been the type of man to compartmentalize and take charge of the task at hand. There was a magazine to be run, and to be filled with quality stories, and edited, illustrated, and sold. There were writers to employ along with an artist, editor, and secretary/promoter. And so despite the buzzing of Ron’s words, always buzzing, Benny kept moving.

March. The anniversary. It had been his idea to have an anniversary party at his and Cassie’s apartment, a small thing but something nice nonetheless to keep morale high and to mark the occasion. 

(He hadn’t told them. In case of a fire, one wasn’t supposed to shout and cause a panic. Especially when the fire could be put out. Which Benny intended to.)

It was the anniversary, and Benny and Cassie had set up their apartment to be as comfortable and spacious as they could manage. Benny had cooked a homestyle buffet of the group's hodgepodge favorites. Music was trickling in from the radio, Armstrong and Holiday filling the apartment and winding around the guests like a summer breeze.

Willie would be coming later, but his other non-employee guests, Lisa and Ron, were making conversation with the Maclin couple. Darlene and Kay were chatting with Herb about what seemed to be some big MGM musical Kay seemed to have loathed. Gramlich, allegedly, was going to be there, though he’d said it would be a fashionably late arrival, as was his wont. And Cassie, luminous in a coral-colored party dress, was attempting to show Julius how to properly dance.

The apartment was thrumming with life and music and conversation. It smelled like cheap wine and rich spices, mingling combining colognes and perfumes, and permeating city air from the window Benny had propped open. Stirring his sauce, taking it all in, Benny didn’t think of money.

Not even once.

---

He met them at 28 in Harlem when the world was falling apart.

It was the Depression, but at least bars were open again. Now that they were, it seemed the only safe bets were them and the military, and as a member of the ladder, Benny was doing his part to support the former.

Tonight was lively, the band giving it their all and the crowd returning the favor. He and Cal were there to mingle while they could, taking full advantage of their shore leave, though, if Benny had to guess, Cal was taking more advantage than he was given the length of time that had passed between now and when Benny’d seen him last. Ah well, at least the atmosphere of the bar was comfortable even if the outside world was in shambles and even if Benny’s friend had abandoned him for a girl. 

“Is this seat taken?” Benny looked up from his drink to see a young woman with a round, rosy smile staring at him expectantly. She was done up for dancing and from the sheen on her brow, she had been.

A man was with her, tall and broad, and he looked at Benny suspiciously. “Cass, come on.” He put a protective hand the woman’s shoulder, but she rolled her eyes and shrugged it off. 

“Is it taken?” she asked again. “It’s just, I hadn’t broken these shoes in yet and they may be pretty but they pinch like the dickens.”

That got a laugh out of Benny. “No, it’s wide open,” he said, gesturing towards it. “As is the one next to it for your friend over there.”

“Thanks,” the woman said thankfully, sinking into the seat with a relieved oof. The man she was with sat down too, but with far less enthusiasm. “You here with anyone?”

“Yes, allegedly with one of my shipmates,” Benny replied, “though I think he’s run out on me.”

“Are you a sailor, then?”

“Navy.”

“Right,” said the woman. She hummed, then, “I’m Cassandra, by the way, Cassandra Yates. You can call me Cassie.”

“Benjamin Russel. You can call me Benny.”

“Well, Benny, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, resting her head on her hand and her arm on the counter.

“And you, Cassie,” said Benny, meaning it.

“This is Willie,” the woman added, tossing a thumb behind her at her silent companion. “Well, William. William Hawkins. He’s going to be the first Negro player to cross the color line.” There was obvious pride in her voice.

“You play baseball?” Benny asked, and for the first time that night, Willie’s face softened.

He nodded. “For the Blue Birds.” From one of the Negro Leagues, of course, but a ball player was a ball player, and Benny had never met one before for all his love of the game. He looked at the two of them appraisingly. 

“I take it the two of you are from Columbus then.”

Cassie shook her head. “Close-ish. Loraine.”

“It’s a long way from Ohio,” Benny replied, letting out a low whistle.

“For the best,” Willie sighed, “I like New York better.”

Laughing, Benny pushed his drink aside. “You should try getting traded to the Royal Giants. Then, at least, I could root for you.”

“I take it you’re a baseball fan?”

“The biggest.”

“Oh no,” said Willie. “That honor, I’m afraid, goes to Cassie here. If they let women in the League there’d be no finer player. Certainly no more fanatical one.” 

Cassie let out a scoff at that, putting her hands on her hips. “I didn’t see you complaining about fanaticism when I brought my Delta Sigma Theta sisters to your last game,” she shot back. 

“Hey, fanaticism certainly isn’t a bad thing. It’s a good thing, really. A really good thing.” He grinned mischievously at Benny. “Especially when it’s contagious.”

“That’s what I thought.” Cassie waved the barman over and ordered drinks for herself and for Willie, then turned back to Benny with a smile. “So where is it that you’re from, Benny?”

“New Orleans originally, but I’ve lived right here in Harlem for years now,” he replied. “Though for the moment I’m here on leave.”

“Visiting family?”

Benny shook his head. “I would if I could.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cassie, but Benny waved her off. 

“It’s alright. It frees me up to spend time here and meet fine people like yourselves.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to have met you, Benny Russell.” Her eyes shone. I could get lost in those eyes, Benny thought.

Standing and stretching, Willie put his hand on Cassie’s shoulder again. “Alright, I’ll see you later, Cass. There’s a woman in a blue dress I’m going to go introduce myself to.”

“Good luck with that, Willie, she seems more than content to talk to that man over there and his dirty old hat.”

“I won’t need luck,” declared Willie, and Cassie rolled her eyes. “Hope to see you around, Benny. It’s always good to meet a soon-to-be fan.”

“It’s always good to meet someone I’m soon to be a fan of,” Benny replied. Willie laughed and headed off into the crowd. Benny watched him go, then turned back to Cassie. She hadn’t turned to watch her friend leave. Benny grinned. “And it’s especially good to meet a fine lady such as yourself.”

“Aren’t you the charmer,” Cassie purred.

“It’s been said before.”

She arched a brow. “Hard to believe a man such as yourself is unattached.”

“Perils of the job. And I could say the same about you unless you and the talented Mr. Hawkins are together.”

“Childhood friends, nothing more.” She took a sip of her drink. “But we are a package deal. You aren’t the type to demand his girlfriend not have any male friends are you?”

“And lose out on knowing the man who’s going to break the color line? Perish the thought.” That made Cassie laugh. “Girlfriend, you said?”

She grinned unabashedly and leaned in. “That is, if you want to meet me for dinner tomorrow night at say, seven o’clock after seeing a picture at that fine looking theatre?”

Nothing short of the apocalypse could keep him away. “It would be my pleasure,” he told her.

“Mine as well.”

---

The apartment was thrumming as the party continued. Benny might not have known his mother for long, but he remembered her instance on being a consummate host and made sure to loop through the party, checking on his guests. Herbert was pawing through the cabinets to make cocktails. Julius and Albert were prosecuting the Alamo over the hors d'oeuvres. Over in the living room, Ron and Keiko were talking about…trees? Perched on the couch were Lisa and Kay talking about women’s rights. Which brought Benny over to Gramlich, who had managed to slip in without being seen (unsurprisingly), sitting in Benny’s swivel chair with (surprisingly) Cassie sitting on his writing desk. 

“Does this pose work?” Cassie asked, shifting her legs minutely. 

Gramlich, who had either brought paper to the party or had taken some from off the desk, hummed in approval, though his eyes remained on the page. “Whatever is comfortable for you, Ms. Yates.”

“I just—well, I’ve never posed for a portrait before!”

“I find that hard to believe.” Gramlich’s pencil stilled and looked up for a moment from his work, harsh blue eyes softening. “If Da Vinci had seen your smile, he wouldn’t have bothered with the small, enigmatic thing he gave the Mona Lisa.”

Cassie giggled at that. “Benny!” she said, noticing him off in the corner and waving him over. “Come here, your Mr. Gramlich is drawing a portrait of me.” Benny closed the short distance between them and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“I’m always in need of strong women for Ms. Hunter’s stories,” explained Gramlich. “Your lovely wife fits the bill and more.”

“Oh, we’re not married,” said Cassie.

“You’re not?” Gramlich’s hands froze for a moment and he seemed surprised, though with him who could really say. 

Cassie squeezed Benny’s arm and gave him a sweet if long-suffering look. “Benny wants to wait until we’re doing better for a big, swanky wedding.” It was the biggest point of contention between the two of them, not that Gramlich had any way of knowing that. But Cassie was right—he did want to wait. She deserved something big and wonderful, not whatever small thing he could scrape together on his current salary. It always came back to money in the end, and there just never seemed to be enough.

Despite Benny’s silence, the conversation continued. “And how about you, Ms. Yates?” Gramlich asked, question punctuated by the scratch of his pencil.

“I just want to marry him,” she said. Which made it worse, really. All the more reason to give her something lovely—didn’t a woman like that deserve it? So much of their lives were spent scraping things together, or giving something up. Living in a cramped apartment, settling for half as much for twice the work, for Cassie working jobs that were crushing and beneath a woman of her talents. She’d always been supportive of him—more than—and so a wedding, a beautiful dream wedding, was something he could give her in return. She shouldn’t have to settle. Not again, not on this. 

Cassie brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and squeezed Benny’s arm again. “But then again, we’ve been living like we’re married since the War’s end. Have you ever been married, Mr. Gramlich?”

Gramlich hummed. “No, I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“That seems hard to believe, a smooth-talker like you,” she teased.

“My work precludes me from ever getting the chance, I’m afraid.” Benny smiled a little at that, at the echo of his own similar response from long ago. Cassie grinned all the more. He didn’t doubt she hadn’t caught it too.

“And I would have thought women went crazy for an artist.”

“A wealthy one, maybe,” said Gramlich melodramatically, shaking his head. “And if not, I’ve found they tend to look for artists far more talented than I.”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

“And yet I hear none forthcoming.” Cassie laughed at that, and Gramlich’s ever-present plastic smile twitched towards the genuine. “Ah, I seem to have run into a problem.”

“What is it?” asked Cassie, frowning.

“No, this won’t do at all!” He placed the drawing down in front of her and shook his head. It was flawless as far as Benny could tell, though he admittedly wasn’t an artist. And Gramlich was, despite his, well, everything, quite the artist. “The black and white of this sketch just isn’t enough to capture you, madam. No, this will simply will have to be a cover if I want to do you justice.”

At that, Cassie froze. “The cover?” she said, voice barely a whisper. “Me?”

He rested his chin on his hand and nodded minutely. “Who else?”

“Did you hear that, Benny?” she cried. Her hands wouldn’t stop moving—first covering her face, then clutching the sketch of her, then grabbing Benny’s hand like a lifeline. “Me, on the cover!”

Benny kissed her and rested his forehead on hers, stilling her. “I can’t think of a better place for you, baby.”

---

It was official. America was at war. He’d known it had been coming for years, ever since 1939 when Europe was first catching fire, but it had been a long two years of waiting. Somehow, it didn’t seem real. 

It was a quiet night, unusual for the city, but it seemed all of New York was laying in wait now that the other shoe had dropped. There was little doubt in Benny’s mind that there were countless others just like him, sitting one last time, maybe forever, in their New York shoebox. 

A knock at the door shook him from his thoughts. He wasn’t surprised when he opened it.

“Tell me it isn’t really your last night here, Benny.” Cassie Yates stood in the doorway of Benny’s terrible apartment, eyes red. He wasn’t sure how she knew, but he wasn’t surprised. 

“I would if I could,” he said, letting her in. “The orders came in yesterday.” The two of them barely made it to the couch before Cassie pulled Benny into a tight hug.

“I know you have to,” Cassie whispered. “I’d never tell you not to do your duty—especially now, especially in this war. But there’s a part of me that…God I just—”

“I know,” he said, pulling away but not letting go of her. “Me too. I don’t want to leave you either.”

“I just can’t stop thinking about the attack. I mean, you’re navy!” Her hands were shaking. She was shaking. “It could have been you on those ships!” Not that he would have been stationed in Hawai’i, but the thought had crossed his mind as well as he read newspaper after newspaper covering Pearl Harbor, the sight of the ships in flames bringing back memories he’d rather forget.

“Cass…” he said, reaching for her hand, but she pulled it away.

“I’m not some irrational stereotype, alright? I’m not going to sit here and be hysterical or try and stop you. I’m serious.” Her lip trembled. “I’m just going to miss the hell out of you, Benny.”

“I’m going to miss you too, baby.” She pulled him again into a fierce hug, and Benny could feel himself shaking as well. He’d known this would happen. He kept up on the news, on the politicians’ thoughts on breaking their isolationism, on the creep of interventionist sentiment rising slowly. But it was all happening so fast now, and suddenly it was real. America was at war with the world again and this time he wasn’t too young to not be a part of it.

Finally, Cassie pulled away, but she kept a hand in his. “Do you know how long you’re going to be deployed?”

“Unless something happens to me, as long as the war rages.”

“Right. I figured. God. It’s been hard with you being off with the Navy when you’re not actively fighting.” Benny stared at her for a moment searchingly. She was as lovely as the first moment he’d seen her, strong and proud. He’d never met a woman quite like her before. It seemed unlikely he’d meet one after. Cassie Yates was the most brilliant, enrapturing person Benny had ever had the pleasure of meeting, and here she was, trembling at the thought of his departure. 

There had been an idea percolating in his mind for a while, and now it seemed to metastasize and become real. It was in his pocket after all. He’d bought it weeks ago for a moment just like this. Or, no, for some brighter moment. But that seemed unlikely to come now, and now that the thought was real as anything he couldn’t stand to wait another moment.

“Cassie—can I tell you something?” he asked.

She looked confusedly at him but nodded. “Always.”

“I love you.”

Cassie smiled at him, eyes watery. “I love you too.”

“I love you,” he repeated, sinking down on one knee though keeping her hand firmly in his own, “and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

“Benny…?” Her voice was light and quavering like a high note on a harp.

“When I get back, when the war is over, when I have the money to give you the wedding and the life you deserve, Cassandra Yates,” Benny smiled and pulled the ring from his pocket, “would you do me the honor of being my wife?”

“Oh, Benny! Oh, yes, yes, yes, I would!” She was on her knees in an instant, and he was putting the ring on her finger as soon as he was able. It glittered like her eyes. “God, Benny, yes!” They were kissing, then, all searching hands and eager tongues and fire, fire, fire.

Surfacing for air, Benny rested his head on Cassie’s. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you said no,” he told her.

She laughed at that, stealing another kiss. “I wouldn’t have. And now you really better come back, Benny Russell, or so help me—”

“As if I could stand to spend much time away from you, baby.” Another languid kiss, and then: “I’m going to miss you.” The feeling burbled in his chest with an intensity that terrified him.

“I’m going to miss you too,” Cassie replied. “I want to tell you to be safe but…” She shuddered and held him tighter.

“I’ll try,” promised Benny, and hoped it would be enough.

---

Ron and Lisa had headed home, and Kay and Cassie were chatting over in the living room, but the rest of the group was tucked into the dining room. Darlene and Herbert had split a deck of playing cards Benny hadn’t known he even had between them and were shuffling it again and again for five-card draw poker.

“Where did you even find those cards?” Benny asked, easing into a chair.

Herb shrugged. “Tucked in with the margarita mix.” Frankly Benny hadn’t known he’d had that either. 

“You joining?” asked Darlene. “It’s a thirty dollar buy in.” Well, that explained the pile of cash on the table. Benny wasn’t half bad at poker though it wasn’t exactly his game of choice. But a thirty dollar buy-in was steep, and—well it was best not to think about money, or how much he was sure to lose if the expressions on Herb and Darlene’s faces were anything to go by.

“No,” he said finally, “though I’d be happy to deal.”

“Alright.” Herb nodded, seemingly content with that. He handed the cards he’d bene shuffling to Benny, and Darlene did the same. “That leaves me, Darlene, Julius, and Al…?” He eyed the man in question hopefully.

“No it does not,” said Keiko firmly. “He’s terrible at this sort of thing and I’d rather not lose the money.” Albert looked like he was going to say something, but then just nodded and shrugged. 

“The three of us, then. That’s fine by me,” said Herb. He lazed back in his chair and grinned. Darlene lit a cigarette, and Julius was already puffing away on one of his own. Smoke filled the room in a gentle haze. 

Julius looked nervously at his competition. “There's a very ominous grin you have on your face, Darlene.”

The grin, if anything, widened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yes, Benny was definitely right to be wary, same with Keiko and Al. Herb and Darlene played one another regularly, and from what he’d heard, they were far better than they ought to be. And, somehow, they still didn’t know one another’s tells. The whole exercise worried him, to be frank, especially knowing what everyone at the table made. They could hardly afford to be so willy-nilly with their winnings, but it wasn’t like Benny was their dad. Their choices were their own, and they seemed happy.

“Benny?” Julius was eyeing him and Benny realized he’d been staring off into space while the trio was waiting for him to start the game.

“Hm? Right. Here you all are.” He dealt out five cards, and the players examined their hands. After a dollar ante, the real betting began.

Herbert scratched his chin idly and tossed some money in the middle of the table. “Alright, I’m putting down two fifty.”

“I’ll raise to three,” said Darlene, and Herb slid the difference into the middle as well.

Julius just nodded, doing the same. “Match.”

Then it was time for the discard and exchange of cards. “Benny, I’ll give you two,” Herb said, offering the two in question for Benny to take.

The cards exchanged, Benny looked to the other players. “Darlene?”

She smiled mercurially. “Oh, I’m happy with my hand.”

“Julius?”

“Just the one.”

“Bets?”

Darlene looked as placidly content as ever. “Raise to three fifty,” she said, sliding the money into the pot. Julius gave her a long look before sighing and ashing his cigarette.

“Fold,” he muttered.

Undeterred, Herbert just raised a brow. “Match.” Then, for his card exchange, to Benny, “Here’s one.” Benny nodded and switched the cards. 

“Darlene? Still happy with your hand?” he asked. 

“Perfectly.”

Herb looked flummoxed. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” she confirmed. Herbert frowned at that, looking at her for a moment then his own cards.

“Raise to four.”

“Raise to five,” countered Darlene. She took a lackadaisical drag from her cigarette as she pushed the bills into the pot. She looked cool as a cucumber while Herbert had started to sweat, visibly confused. 

“On the first hand?”

“Unless I’ve missed something.”

Fighting a smile, Benny nodded to Herbert. “Herb, will you match?”

“No, damn, I’ll fold,” he grumbled, and Benny collected his cards to shuffle them back into the deck. “Either you’ve got an Earth shattering hand or you’re bad at poker, but regardless, I don’t trust that look in your eye.” Which seemed a clever enough move to Benny until Darlene lay her cards down, calmly amused expression unchanging.

“I don’t have a damn thing,” she said sweetly as Herbert purpled. 

“A pair of threes?” The words came out like a cat’s hairball.

“I’ll be taking this, gentlemen,” said Darlene, collecting the pot. “Benny?”

Benny laughed as he dealt out the next hand. “What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Two dollars,” Herb grumbled even as his game face returned. 

Julius slid a pair of bills into the middle of the table. “Match.”

“Match,” repeated Darlene, doing the same. The hand settled into a rhythm from there.

“Exchange for three.”

“One for me.”

“Two for me.”

“Three fifty.”

“Match.”

“Four.”

“Just one, Benny.”

“Two.”

“I’m fine where I am,” said Darlene, in an eerie mirror of the last game. 

Glancing from his own hand to Darlene’s immovable smile, Herbert shook his head. “She wouldn’t pull the same trick twice. Fold.”

Julius, on the other hand, clicked his tongue. “I think she would,” he said, ashing his cigarette before replacing the long ling of his cigarette holder between his lips. “Raise to six fifty.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Julius,” Darlene sing-songed.

“Maybe.”

Darlene’s smile widened a fraction. “Match.”

Benny nodded at the two of them, a subtle sense of foreboding for Julius’s wallet washing over him. “Your hands?”

Julius slapped his cards down with abandon. “Two pair; jacks and twos.”

“Full house,” said Darlene sweetly. “Three sevens and two queens.”

Finally putting out his cigarette, Julius let out a groan. “Damn!”

“You’re not very good at this game,” came a voice from the peanut gallery. Gramlich, perched just behind Julius, looked just as delighted as Darlene did as she pulled in her pot of winnings. Julius scowled at him.

“Do you want to try?”

“And lose my paltry salary to Ms. Kursky?” Gramlich scoffed. “I think I’m quite happy with where I am now.” Julius rolled his eyes at that and appeared to wind up for a rejoinder when Herbert cut him off.

“Benny? Next hand?”

“Here you are.”

“Dollar seventy-five,” Herb said, putting his money down.

Darlene hummed. “Two.” 

“Match,” said Julius, which was immediately followed by a tutting from behind him.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Gramlich asked. In lieu of response, Julius just shot him a withering look. “Then again, it’s your money,” sighed Gramlich, throwing his hands up in theatrical mock-defeat.

Herb rolled his eyes. “I’ll swap these two.”

“Two for me as well.”

“Three for me.”

“Raise to four.”

“Fold,” said Darlene, putting down her cards. The others stared at her agape.

“Really?” gawped Julius. She just shrugged.

“I know my hand.”

“Alright.” Julius shifted in his seat a little and slid a few dollars into the pot. “Match.”

Herbert recovered from whatever shock he felt quickly, handing over a card to Benny for exchange. “Here’s one.”

“Two.”

“Raise to five.”

“Raise to five fifty.”

“Match.”

“Gentleman,” said Benny, “your hands?”

Herbert grinned, all teeth, and revealed his cards agonizingly slowly. “Four of a kind—eights.”

“Shit!” Julius’s reveal was far less dramatic. “Full house, two kings, three twos.”

“You’re very rapidly losing money, Mr. Eaton,” noted Gramlich.

“I’m aware of that,” said Julius wearily. 

Resting his hands behind his head, Herbert likely would have kicked his feet up too if the space allowed for it. “Gramlich’s right—you may want to stop playing if you want to stay married.” It was likely for the best Kay wasn’t watching the game for Julius’s sake, thought Benny. Rare an occurrence as it was, Herbert had a point.

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Julius. “Fine, I’m out.”

“That means it’s just you and me, Darlene.”

“What a treat.” There was a dangerous glint in Darlene’s eye. But then again, there was one in Herbert’s too.

“Mm. I’ll say three dollars to start.”

“A bold move.” Darlene put out her cigarette with terrifying finality. “I’ll match.” The game began in earnest then, dollars and cards and moving quicker than they had before, the players eyes flitting from one another’s faces to their own hands and back again, over and over.

“Gimme, two, Benny.”

“And for me.”

“Five.”

“Five fifty.”

“Just one.”

“Another two, please.”

“All in.”

“Match.” It was dizzying, the dance of theirs, and their faces gave nothing, a hard door of steel facing its double, each giving away nothing. There was no twitching, no quirk of a lip or a brow. Calculating the amount on the table made Benny’s head spin.

“Benny?” Ah. It was time. He nodded at the two of them.

“Your hands?”

Herb lay out his cards triumphantly. “Straight.” Queen, jack, ten, nine, eight, all in a line, a blur of hearts and spades and clubs.

Darlene nodded once, then she flipped her hand. It was glittering with nothing but diamonds. “Flush.”

Herbert just sat there for a minute, but Darlene wasted no time in drawing in her winnings towards her, sorting through the bills and coins just as neutrally as she’d played the game, eyes glimmering. “Well, gentlemen,” she said, finally slotting the money into her purse, “it’s been quite the pleasure.”

Shaking from his stupefaction, Herb grinned, once again all teeth. “We’re going to have to do this again sometime.”

---

War was mostly waiting, Benny had found. Waiting punctuated by terror and death, but mostly waiting nonetheless. 1943 was passing much in the same was as 1942 had, and 1941 before it. Waiting, waiting, and so one had to fill the time. 

It wasn’t a great leap from his typical pastime, reading, to writing something of his own. It wasn’t hard to read through the sum total of books Benny himself and the rest of the crew had brought. And they didn’t touch land often enough to resupply all that often. Some of the men had taken to sketching, but that had never been a skill of Benny’s, and writing seemed far more fiscally sensible than the most popular pastime aboard: betting on any and everything. So on each scrap of paper he could scrounge up, write he did.

“Benny?” Benny felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up.

“Mm?” It was Willie. A surprise and a comfort through these long years of war and waiting. Aiming to beat the draft to the jump and filled with a genuine sense of duty and honor, Willie had enlisted as the war began. And through a strange twist of fate, assigned to Benny’s boat. Despite knowing him for years, Benny had never spent so much time with the man, nor gotten to know him half as well as now where there was little to do other than talk between missions.

Willie sat down next to Benny on his bunk and peered indiscreetly over Benny’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Writing,” Benny replied. “It helps me relax.”

“Writing, huh?” Willie dangled an arm across Benny’s shoulder familiarly. “Like a letter to Cassie?”

“No, I just finished that.” Most of what he wrote, all told, was letters to her. He missed her terribly. At least he knew the same was true for Willie as well. “This is a story,” he said.

“Is it any good?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“What kind of story is it?” Willie was all questions today. That was a good thing. Some days he fell into a bitter recalcitrance that Benny did his best to coax him out of with middling success. It had not been a kind war for his friend. Wars tended not to be.

Maybe it was elation that it seemed to be a good day for Willie that coaxed an honest answer from Benny’s lips. “Science fiction.”

“Science fiction?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why?” There was no judgement in the question, but Benny bristled a little all the same.

He sighed, and set his notepad to the side. “Don’t you ever dream of a better world?” he asked. 

“I certainly do,” said Willie. “But I prefer to fight for it on the ground, not in the stars.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.” Benny drummed his fingers against the spine of his notebook. “I write to…to imagine what it could be like in the future. For people like us and not, for a future where we don’t have to be on this boat because there are no Nazis to kill and no need for boats like this.”

“Strange sentiment for a career soldier.”

“Probably. And maybe it’s all fantastical and impossible, but I like to imagine otherwise. And if I write it, when you can read it and hold it in your hands, that future becomes a little more possible.” When the tense pressure of reality got too much, Benny’s eye had long lingered on the stars. This seemed like a natural extension of that. He was a hopeful man, even if he was a realist about their situation, both on the boat and off. The two of them lapsed into silence.

“Can I read it?” asked Willie, surprising him.

“When it’s done, I’d be honored,” Benny said. No one, not even Cassie had read his stories before. But if someone was going to, he was glad it was Willie. Sensing the sentiment, Willie smiled.

“No more than me, man.”

---

Things were winding down now. The Maclins had long since departed, and at some point Gramlich had vanished just as suddenly as he’d appeared. Julius seemed half asleep on the couch while his wife, Darlene, and Cassie talked around him. Benny was doing dishes and whistling to himself when he glanced up to check the time and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Willie Hawkins in the flesh.

“You made it!” he exclaimed, face lighting up. He set aside the sponge in his hand to clap him on the back.

“Benny,” Willie said, laughing a little, “I’ve been here for almost two hours.”

“Ah.” How had he missed that? He hadn’t been in his own head that much. No, he’d been sucked into a conversation with Darlene about cooking which had merged into a conversation with her and Cassie about baseball which had sucked in Keiko as well which had become a farewell to her and Albert and Herb as well at some point…and, well, he’d been in his own head a bit then too. On and off. “Well. Still, good to see you.” 

“It’s good to see you too.” Willie leaned back against the countertop and handed Benny a dirty wine glass. “I take it the party’s been going well?”

“Yes, it’s been nice to see everyone letting loose,” said Benny, taking the glass and continuing his washing. “They’ve earned it with all the hard work they’ve been putting in.”

“And you.”

“Hm?”

“Well, the way Cassie tells it—and the others I’ve been talking to—you’ve been burning the candle at both ends for your magazine. No one deserves to relax more than you.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” The rational part of him agreed, though another, less rational part screamed that he hadn’t earned it yet, not until they were solidly, truly in the black.

“Well, I’m not just saying it for you,” said Willie, grabbing a towel and beginning to dry dishes, “though I know how you get when you get dedicated to something. I’m worried.”

Benny paused in the middle of scrubbing a particularly stubbornly stained dish. “About?”

“You, like I said, but Cass too.”

He frowned. “What about her?”

“I’ve known Cassie since we were kids,” said Willie with a sigh, slowly drying off a plate. “We grew up together, went to Wilberforce together, moved out here together—everything. You know I’d do anything for her.”

“I do.”

“And you know I’m your friend too.”

“I do.”

“So listen to me carefully,” he said, voice stern as Benny had ever heard it. “It’s got to stop, Benny.”

His mouth was dry. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t keep going like this. I mean, you’re running yourself into the ground! Cassie said she hasn’t seen you this way since before your breakdown, and you know she wouldn’t throw that around lightly.” Benny certainly did. He squeezed the sponge in his hand minutely.

“I simply want this to work, Will,” he said. “I have people counting on me—my workers, our readers. It’s not just me.”

“But it’s still your life, Benny, and you’re lighting it on fire. When’s the last time you went on a date night with Cassie? Or came out to see one of my games? Or took some time for you that wasn’t focused on writing or something else for Defiant?” Benny squared his jaw and looked back into the sink.

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You said it’s not just you, and it isn’t! It’s me and Cassie, it’s your friends at work who you have here in your home. We’re all worried about you.” Benny empathized with that, he really did. But there were two problems: one, that none of them knew the reason for his sudden intensity when it came to work. And two, omnipresent, none of them, he knew, fully trusted him after…well. They were all just waiting for him to break again. But there had been hell of extenuating circumstances back then, and Benny was not a weak man.

“Willie,” said Benny firmly, “I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not fine.”

“I’m an adult,” he reminded him. “I’m 45 years old. I’ve spent more time in the Navy than not. I’m more than capable of knowing my limits and quite frankly, I don’t appreciate being treated like I’m made of glass. I know myself.” Willie just looked sadly at him at that.

“If not for you, then for the rest of us. I deserve better than seeing my friend wither away. Cassie deserves to be taken out around the town! C’mon man, how long have we known each other? You can lie to yourself but you can’t lie to me. I know you’re fraying at the edges. And you’re getting the rest of us caught in the crossfire. I’m mixing my metaphors—the point is, the magazine will be fine if you let yourself relax a little. Take some time for yourself, Benny. Yourself, myself, Cassie, whoever else. It’s okay.”

It was all for the right reasons, Benny reminded himself. He was trying to be kind. He just didn’t know the full picture. Forcing himself to release the white-knuckle grip he’d formed around the sponge, he let out a sigh as well, closing his eyes for a moment and rubbing them then repositioning his glasses.

“Right,” he managed finally, still stiffer than it likely should have been to sell it. Even still, it seemed to be a enough for Willie.

“It’s getting late and I’ve got a game tomorrow, but really think about it, Benny, okay?” Willie dropped the dishrag he’d been using unceremoniously onto the counter in the pile.

“I will,” Benny said, and maybe he would. Then again, maybe not.

Willie patted Benny’s shoulder and likely felt the stiffness in it, but said nothing of it. Instead, he just said, “Have a good night, Benny.”

“You too,” replied Benny. “See you around.”

Notes:

I need you all to look up an inflation calculator to see just how much money Julius lost/Darlene earned. I’m not sure how prevalent five card draw was at the time and was originally going to do baccarat, but despite having read ‘Casino Royale,’ a book that spends a chapter teaching you the rules to that game, I still don’t really get it. And I’ve been playing a lot of Balatro, so.

Willie and Cassie come from Loraine, Ohio. Ohio was a popular destination for Black families moving in the Great Migration, and Loraine was a Black enclave. Actually, it’s where Toni Morrison is from. Wilberforce is an HBCU, and Cassie mentions being part of the sorority Delta Sigma Theta, which is one of the Divine Nine, a collection of historically Black fraternities and sororities.

Once again I have frankly done too much research into baseball. Damn Sisko for being obsessed with it! Anyway, those of you who know about Jackie Robinson might be familiar with the concept of the Negro Leagues, which were the only way for Black baseball players to play baseball until Robinson broke the color line and opened up the game for Black players. The Leagues were just that—more than one league, and there were a lot of them over the years! One of the early ones was home to the Cuban Giants. Not that any of the players were Cuban, but they figured since at the time the US had pretty good relations with Cuba, White people would be less aggressive towards them. The Cuban Giants set the tone in naming conventions, many subsequent teams having ‘Cuban’ in the name for similar reasons (my favorite derivation being the Cuban X-Giants, a splinter from the OG), and there being just so so so many teams called the Giants. For example: one of the first real leagues, the Negro National League, had two teams called the Stars and THREE called the Giants.

It could always be worse! One of the pre-Leagues was composed of such teams as the Baltimore Lord Baltimores, the Boston Resolutes, Louisville Fall Citys, New York Gorhams, Philadelphia Pythians, and Pittsburgh Keystones. There was another one, the Washington Capital Citys, but they didn't actually play. Tag yourself everybody.

Cameos: Calvin Hudson (Cal). Who is Calvin Hudson you ask? He served with Sisko for ages in Starfleet before joining the Maquis in one of the Maquis episodes.

Chapter 8: May 1951: From the Night Sky

Darlene’s apartment was small but cozy, much in the same way Cassie and the tragically flu-ridden Benny’s was. VE Day had come again and yet instead of the office, Kay and Darlene were here. It seemed with Benny at home sick, no one had wanted to stick around past closing.

Kay had been to Darlene’s before, of course, but there was always something new to see there. She had a habit of picking things up as she went, bits and bobs to remember the people and places she encountered. Never enough to be a proper hoarder, she cycled things out regularly, but enough the space was comfortable and distinctly Darlene.

And that was to say nothing of the elephant in the room.

“You have an absurd number of pictures,” said Kay. She was nestled into Darlene’s plush purple loveseat, looking around. Darlene grabbing some snacks from the kitchen, Kay could hear her bustling about behind her. It was heart-clenching domestic.

“I have a normal number of pictures for someone with a camera.” There was the sound cabinet opening then closing again.

“Two or three is normal. I’d even say four or five. But this? This is ridiculous.” Apparently content with her snack spread, Darlene finally entered the little living room and, depositing the food on her coffee table, joined Kay on the loveseat. She smiled.

“I like remembering the people who touch my life.”

“I’ll say.”

“And,” said Darlene primly, nibbling on a cracker from the tray, “I didn’t see you complaining when I gave you a copy of that one of us at that circus from a few months back.” Kay looked away for a moment, playing it off by grabbing a little cube of cheese. The picture was on her nightstand, and dearer to her than she could express. 

“I’m not complaining. Just…noting.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You don’t have any of Casimir,” said Kay. The words were out of her mouth before she even processed them. She blanched. “Oh God, no, that was tactless, I mean—”

“No, it’s alright,” soothed Darlene, though she was frowning. “I don’t.”

In for a penny. “Is there a reason why, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s just, you have so many photos of just about everyone you’ve ever met and I mean you two were engaged—” God, she was babbling. Darlene held up a hand and she fell silent.

“I just don’t have any.” Her voice was uncharacteristically dull, face unreadable. “Nothing special.”

“I’m sorry.”

Darlene shook her head. “Oh, it’s alright. I think it’d be too painful to see his face around here anyway.”

“We can change the subject now,” said Kay hurriedly. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

Darlene at least smiled a little at that, and grabbed another nibble. “You were thinking out loud. It’s alright, today’s all about remembrance, right?”

“It’s supposed to be.” Kay sighed, rubbing the space between her eyes. “It’s weird not being at the office.”

“Oh yeah, right this is your first time not spending VE Day with the others since…?”

“Since me and Julius joined Incredible Tales four years ago,” Kay confirmed.

“What did the two of you do before that?”

“Well, for actual VE Day we were in Europe.” There had been nothing like it. Kay had never been happier before or since. She may have cried. It was all a joyous blur. “Then the year after we went to one of those big parties they’re always throwing. Or I guess, used to throw. They don’t do them so much now. Then we got hired in April, so in May of 1947 it was business as usual.” Mostly. The first year they’d joined was when Pabst had still been married to his utter opposite, and the boisterous Lexandra had ended the night with a rager. She and Julius had gotten so drunk they’d made out, and thoroughly regretted it in the morning. 

“Do you miss it?” asked Darlene.

“Miss what?”

“The parties,” she clarified, putting bits of cheese on a little slice of bread. “I mean, that’s what I was doing before I started here.”

“Not really.” Kay wrinkled her nose. “I think people just like to use it as an excuse to get drunk and hook up.”

“And you were married by then.”

“Yeah. Right.” Yes, happily married. Very happily married. Kay pivoted tactically. “It just didn’t feel respectful. Like before we were celebrating finally being free from the boot of the fascists! We were celebrating the life that they tried to strip from us, an end to the death.”

“And it’s not like that anymore?”

“No.” She frowned. “If they had learned anything we wouldn’t be off fighting again. And for what? What purpose is there in this? Why are we in Korea? Certainly not as liberators. Not as any sort of true positive force.” She was crushing a cracker in her hand, she realized. She didn’t know what to do with the crumbs. “We’re just fighting again because we’ve forgotten the cost. Either they can’t go back to living a life without violence again or they never truly learned what war was.” 

Darlene held out a little dish. “Which is?”

“Death.” Kay’s voice was quiet as the crumbs fell to the proffered plate. “Hunger and death. I’ve seen things you can’t imagine. I’m glad you never had to experience it, I don’t—I know I’m an angry person, that I can be irrational with it. But I wouldn’t wish some of the things I’ve seen on my worst enemy.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you know that in France the Nazis sent more French dissidents to the camps than they did Jews?”

“Oh, Kay…” Darlene took Kay’s hands in hers, and when had Kay clenched hers into fists? When had she started shaking? She made herself still, and her fingers, relax.

“We—I’m really derailing tonight, aren’t I?”

“There’s not a set path.”

“This is why it was better with the others.” She removed her hands from Darlene’s gentle grasp. “They understood.”

“I’m sorry I don’t.”

“And I truly am glad you don’t!” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s…fuck, how could they forget, D?”

“Forget?”

“It was years ago now and still I don’t think I’ll ever forget what it’s like to be hungry, or to be shot or to be on the run. Sometimes I sleep on the floor because the bed is too soft and I got too used to hard-packed dirt and tree roots.” She opened her eyes and let them settle on the ground. “You know, I still sleep with a knife?” 

“That seems dangerous.”

“Probably. But I can’t wake up unawares again. I’ve learned that lesson. And yet they’ve forgotten.”

“They?”

“The people! They go off and they drink and they party but do they remember what it was like out there? Do they know what it was like to see their neighbors taken away and their family to starve? To hear of the civilian reprisal killings, the sick machinery of death at a scale unfathomable? And ‘they’ as in the politicians.” She was standing and starting to pace. “Every day I read the papers and my blood boils reading about Korea. And it’s worse when they don’t talk about it at all, like war is some forgettable thing way off yonder. Is that what it was like here? Was that how Americans viewed the war?”

“Yes,” said Darlene sadly. “For most of us it didn’t cross our shores until Pearl Harbor, and even then that was the only time.”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

“You’re an American too, Kay.”

“I suppose I am.” The anger fled her, and she slumped back into her seat. “I know I am. But I guess I just don’t know what that means. I mean, I’ve lived here all my life but…but sometimes it feels like another planet to me.”

Darlene smiled softly. “That’d be a good story if you wanted to write it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it would. You know we don’t have to talk about work. We’re not there.”

“It feels like a good neutral ground.”

Kay really did smile at that. “Clever.”

“I am, thank you for noticing,” Darlene preened. She luxuriated on the loveseat, grabbing a little piece of bread.

“What about work, then, do you want to talk about? What I’m writing for this month?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

“I don’t know if I want to talk.” Her throat was hoarse and she felt like a wrung-out washcloth. “Could…could you?”

“Talk?”

“Yeah. Distract me?”

“Definitely.” She handed Kay a little sandwich made of the snacks, which Kay took gratefully. “You know, I’ve been told I’m very distracting.”

“That you are. It’s a wonder anyone in the office can get anything done with all the gossiping you do.”

“You like it.” Darlene’s voice was teasing, her expression playful. Kay ducked her head.

“Sometimes.”

“Mmhmm. I’m sure.”

“Sometimes!” Kay brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and went for the little meats on the snack tray. “Other times I’m trying to work.”

“So you don’t want me to tell you any gossip I’ve heard?”

“Well. I didn’t say that.”

Darlene hummed. “That’s what I thought.”

“I just like to be informed!”

“It’s alright, no judgement here. Pass me a pastrami? Thank you. Alright, so you know Herb’s ex-wife?”

“Natasha? No, Natalia, right?”

“Natalia, and they were just together for a while,” said Darlene, shaking her head. “I mean his ex-wife Greta, the tall, yoked one with the curly brown hair and the scary eyes. He served with her first husband then accidentally killed him in a training accident.”

Kay nearly choked on her cracker. “He what?”

“Yeah, but it turns out she didn’t like her old husband that much. They got married for something to do with taxes?” She shrugged, nonplussed. “And then divorced when their tax thing was done. Pure marriage of convenience but he really helped her out!”

“Uncharacteristically nice of Herb.”

“Do you remember how strong she was? I bet she could juggle our typewriters! And she was about a foot taller than him.”

“That makes more sense. He was probably afraid she’d rip him in half”

“Anyway,” said Darlene, “she came back into town a few days ago and they met up again for old times sake and apparently things went pretty well.”

“Oh. Oh!” Kay made a face. That was an image in her head forever now. “Oh my God. Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Herb helped her out, he really helped her out. Who’s to say?”

“How do you even know all this?” 

“Aside from the fact Herb’s been limping the past few days?”

“He’s the one limping?” And he’d had some suspiciously mouth shaped bruises on him for the past couple of days… Kay made another face. “God, I just thought that was just because he was getting old!” 

“Nope! Crazy reunion sex with his ex-wife. They probably won’t get back together for real or anything, but it seems like they’re enjoying themselves while they’re both in the same place.”

“Gross, D.”

“Well,” said Darlene pleasantly, “you’re distracted now, aren’t you?”

Kay blinked, then laughed. “But at what cost!” She took a breath and shook her head, smiling. “Thanks.” Kay reached out and took Darlene’s hand, squeezing it.

“Anytime.” Darlene’s hands were soft. And warm. And her eyes were deep and rich. And she smelled like flowers.

“Hey, is there anything you want to talk about?” asked Kay quickly, removing her hand again and grabbing a snack.

“What do you mean?”

Mouth full, Kay rushed to chew and swallow. “War stuff,” she said eruditely. Truly a career writer. “We all lived through it one way or another. It is VE Day after all.”

“I’m…” Darlene swallowed and started again. “I try not to live in the past. We’ve all been so many other people throughout our lives. It feels sometimes that it’s not me who went through everything. I’m sure if the me from then met the me from now they wouldn’t recognize who they saw.”

“I don’t know if I could do that, divorce myself from the past like that.”

“You get stuck,” said Darlene. 

“Yeah.” She did, after all.

“You and Benny both. And that’s alright sometimes. We’re made from who we were in the past, after all. But you’ve got to be a person now too.”

“Sometimes I think I don’t know how,” Kay admitted.

Darlene hummed again and took the last of the crackers. “By trying new things,” she said simply. “Living your own life. You’re not the same person you were either. You become more yourself everyday.”

---

It was late into the night now, and the stars glittered through the large overhead windows of Gramlich’s studio. Julius was helping Gramlich sort through his paintings, holding the ones he handed to him. It was VE Day, but still they were collecting the roughs and abandoned drafts from various old commissions. Allegedly to discard, but Julius thought Gramlich was probably going to collage them together. He didn’t like waste.

Julius shifted his hold on the pile. “I think you’re lying about the muse thing.” 

“My dear Mr. Eaton!” cried Gramlich, clutching the painting he’d been holding to his chest. “Would I lie to you?”

Julius snorted. “Yes.”

“Such cruel accusations.” Gramlich shook his head, depositing the painting into Julius’s arms and swanning over to the next pile of canvases. Julius scrambled to follow him.

“Come on, you’ve never been shy about showing off, and now for the past several months you won’t show me anything but your professional art?” Not that Julius didn’t enjoy that, but there was just something else about Gramlich’s personal things. Maybe it was how truthful they seemed from the dishonest man.

Gramlish plucked a painting from the pile and studied it. “So what’s your theory then?”

“What?”

“About what I could be hiding?” He gave Julius the paper before selecting another one. “That is what you’re implying, isn’t it?

“Maybe it’s all bad and you’re just embarrassed,” said Julius, to get a reaction.

Gramlich scoffed. “Please.” He even deigned to look up from the poster he was examining to shoot Julius an unimpressed look.

“I didn’t say it’s what I thought was the case.”

His eyes were back on the poster. “I repeat my question then.”

“I think you’re painting something that’s embarrassing in some way—revealing, if I had to guess. Something that made you vulnerable.” Julius adjusted his hold on the stack of sketches and paintings. “Home, maybe? But you paint that all the time.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a guess. But if you’re hiding it from me, and, well, if you do have a muse, it’s someone we know.” Not that Julius could imagine who. Gramlich didn’t talk much to anyone other than himself and Keiko. Maybe that was who it was. It would certainly warrant hiding the paintings, Albert would have skinned him alive. “That’s why you wouldn’t want to show me.”

“Well reasoned, Mr. Eaton.” Gramlich still sounded a little condescending. Then again, he always did. “That should be enough for now.” He lifted the stack from Julius’s arms and placed them by the door to the backroom. “Thank you for your help, my dear.”

“Of course.” Julius shrugged. “It’s no problem at all.” Their task complete, Julius let himself curl up on Gramlich’s ridiculous studio fainting couch. For posing models when needed, the man in question had said, but personally Julius just thought he liked it. “You wouldn’t tell me if I was right,” he said accusingly.

“What’s the fun in that?” asked Gramlich, easing into a matching gaudy armchair, also ostensibly for posing models. His eyes twinkled with mirth. It was the response Julius had been expecting, and it didn’t bother him. He knew the sort of man his friend was. Every conversation with Gramlich was like a game, or a puzzle, Oedipus befriending the Sphinx. No one he’d ever known talked like Gramlich, all twists and obfuscations, or was even half as engaging or witty. It was intoxicating.

“I have a proposition for a game,” said Julius, inspired by his previous thought.

“That’s quite the non-sequitur.” Gramlich looked amused. He often did.

“No, hear me out. It’s a truth game.”

“A truth game,” repeated Gramlich dully, arching a brow.

“We exchange questions about one another. And the person being asked can answer with as much or as little detail as they want.” Julius smiled demurely. “It just has to be the truth.”

The amusement was back in an instant. “That is an interesting proposition.”

“You can even ask first, if you want.”

“Is there a punishment for lying?” asked Gramlich. Julius shook his head.

“I don’t think you’d lie, Mr. Gramlich, not with this. It would be an admittance of defeat, of not being able to sculpt the truth properly. And you’re better than that.”

Gramlich’s grin was heavy with something, eyes alight. He leaned towards Julius in his chair, face propped up by his fist, elbow on the chair arm. “Alright. Why did you leave medical school?”

It was a big question right out of the bat, not that Julius had assumed anything else. Why had he left medical school? A myriad of reasons, but it could be boiled down to one day. A fellow medical student who Julius had been friendly with had dropped out suddenly. When he’d seen him a few months later, he’d been a shell of a man. Stilboestrol, he’d said in a hollow voice. Chemical castration. Julius had seen him in the obits just four months later. He had loved medicine, loved helping people. But this was medicine too. Julius couldn’t be a part of it.

“I couldn't stomach the reality of it,” he said. The ambiguity of the response seemed to delight Gramlich.

“Very interesting! I’ll admit, I did think you’d be more open in your own answers, Mr. Eaton. But this is far more delightful.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a game if only one of us was playing,” said Julius, shrugging.

“No,” agreed Gramlich slowly, “it certainly wouldn’t be. I believe it’s your turn.” And, hell, if Gramlich was going to kick things off with a bang, so would Julius.

“Were you a spy?” It wasn’t like there was ever going to be a better time to ask.

“I’ve been a great many things,” said Gramlich brightly. “I’m an artist now, but I’ve been a soldier before too, and a photographer. Once, I was even a gardener in the court of Victor Emmanuel.”

“I suppose I should have guessed that would be your answer,” sighed Julius, not all that put out. 

“It’s the truth.”

“It’s not a no.”

Gramlich’s eyes were sparkling. “Why did you marry Ms. Hunter?

“Why does anyone get married? We have a lot in common.” Like being gayer than Christmas. “Did you really dislike The Prince?”

Gramlich laughed at that, a true, belly laugh. “I don’t think if Machiavelli intended to create a satire he was successful in that given the reception of his work both at the time and now.”

Again, not a no. “I knew it! You just like to argue, don’t you?” Not that Julius minded. He did too. And no one could argue like Gramlich could, no one seemed so engaged. He shifted closer in his seat to his companion.

Gramlich tisked at him. “It’s not your question, my dear.”

“Of course. Apologies. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Gramlich brushed a dark lock of his hair behind his ear. “Why are you here?”

That took Julius aback. “What do you mean? Like, in New York? America? Your studio?”

“We did just go over this,” replied Gramlich.

“You’re being difficult on purpose.” Was he ever anything else?

Gramlich sniffed. “I’m just trying to adhere to your rules.”

Julius gave a look but thought the question over regardless. If Gramlich wasn’t going to clarify what the fuck his question meant, he’d get what ever answer Julius was going to give. He was in America because he couldn’t stomach England any longer, in New York because that’s where Kay was from, and in Gramlich’s studio because…

Why was he here? He liked it, for one, with its odd architecture and eclectic collection of paintings. Today he was here because no one had wanted to stay at the office this time around for VE Day, and it was second nature to come here with Gramlich. It seemed unlikely that the man lived here (he was too finicky for that), but to Julius it was as close to Gramlich’s home as he was likely to find.

And, well, he liked Gramlich. He was clever, talented, the most brilliant conversationalist Julius had ever met. Julius had been a lonely child, and he’d grown into a lonely man. It was only when he met Kay that he’d had any sort of lasting friendship, but even with her it seemed their closeness was a necessity born out of a shared secret and proximity. As much as he cared for her, she, like everyone else he’d met, had loathed him upon first meeting and he’d had to wear her down. But Gramlich?

There was really nobody like him. He’d been cordial when they first met, cordial and more. He’d enthused with him about books and art and poetry, about everything else when it came up. Often, their conversations would twist into something deeper, and Julius cherished those moments. On occasion, they’d spend late nights in Gramlich’s studio, a hideaway from the rest of the world, and Julius would head home with his head held high. He’d never felt like this before with anyone. 

Why was he here?

Because there was nowhere he’d rather be than here with Gramlich on his ridiculous fainting couch, trading secrets and secrets as possible. Gramlich smelled like paint. His hair was slicked back as ever but the bottoms were curling slightly, rebelling from the pomade. His eyes shone, brilliant blue, and he looked lovely in the lamplight. 

Lovely. Oh, and Julius knew what was happening then, should have known months ago. But how could it not be with a man who looked at him like this, like no one else did? Who hung off his every word, who challenged him, cared for him, treated him not as a taste to acquire but as someone, from the beginning, to savor?

Why was he here?

“Because I want to be,” said Julius simply.

“A very good answer, my dear.” Whatever it was Gramlich had been asking, then, he seemed content with what he’d received. Good. “I believe now you may ask your question.”

“Why do you paint?” Maybe not the most exciting question, but with Gramlich, one never knew.

“Photography never says what I wanted it to,” replied Gramlich. That did make sense. For a man who so adored making his own truth, the cold reality of a photograph likely didn’t have the same appeal as a canvas and brush.

Even still: “I’d love to see your photographs someday.”

“They’re really not all that interesting.” That seemed unlikely. “There is, as I’ve said, a reason I paint.” Gramlich shrugged. “Would you ever go back to medicine?”

“If that’s where I thought I could help the most,” said Julius.

“Hm.”

“Were you hoping for something more oblique?”

“Not at all,” Gramlich said, and Julius, nonsensically, believed him. “I think it says quite a lot, certainly in regards to your previous answers as well. It’s your go.”

“Would you ever go back to who you were before the war if you could?”

Gramlich was silent for a moment. “That’s quite the question, my dear,” he said finally. He ran a hand through his hair. “No,” he said finally. The simplicity was jarring.

“Just…no?”

“Just no,” he agreed. “Do you miss England?”

Did he? It had never really felt much like home. “No,” he decided. “I don’t think I do. Do you miss Germany?”

Julius knew he’d fucked up as soon as he’d asked it. Gramlich, normally so hard to read, froze. Then, shakily, “I’ve missed her every day since 1933.” He stood abruptly.

“Gramlich?”

“I’m going to get some air.” Julius watched him walk quickly to the fire escape. Should he follow him? Would that help? It was hard to tell with Gramlich. Ultimately though, he wasn’t going to let him go through whatever it was he was going through alone. That just wasn’t the kind of man Julius was.

He found Gramlich resting against the fire escape, his typically loose body language taught as a bowstring despite the fact he was draped languidly over the fire escape’s ledge. He was smoking idly, and staring intently up at the moon. Julius approached him cautiously, as if he was due to bolt any minute.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“It is VE Day after all.” Gramlich let out a breath of smoke, the white trail illuminated in the moonlight. “A celebration.”

“Your country lost.”

“No,” spit out Gramlich, “the Nazis did. My country lost long before that in a thousand ways large and small. It is a celebration.”

“But…?”

“Have you read any Medieval Chinese poetry, Mr. Eaton?”

Julius blinked at the change of topic. “I can’t say that I have,” he said, floundering.

“One of the most beloved of his day and even now is Li Bo. He lived life hedonistically, travelling far and wide, meeting new people. A lot of his poems are about being drunk.” Gramlich let out a little hum. “It’s odd, then, that one of his closest friends was the young Confusionist poet Du Fu, his opposite in nearly every way.”

“I haven’t read either of them,” Julius admitted.

“As is often the case in Chinese history, there was a terrible rebellion. Millions died, millions and millions. Li Bo chose sides poorly. He was exiled.” Gramlich took a long drag from his cigarette, eyes locked on the sky. “He wrote often of the moon. He was really quite enamoured with it. Once, he wrote about the moon as a drinking companion for a solitary man. Again, of looking at the moon knowing his wife at the time, far away in his beloved Chang'an was doing the same.”

Julius didn’t say anything, just watched the lines of Gramlich’s fingers idle across the length of his cigarette.

“You know it’s impossible to properly translate a poem? I think I’ve read half a dozen versions of ‘Quiet Night Throughout.’ It’s unique among Bo’s poems for its respective vaguity and lack of personal details.” Another drag. “‘I wake and my bed is gleaming with moonlight/Frozen into the dazzling whiteness I look up/To the moon herself/And lie thinking of home.’” 

“You can’t go back,” said Julius quietly.

“What would I be going back to? Nothing I would recognize, the ruins of a country split down the middle. No, my Germany is lost to me. We were the land of Einstein, of Freud, Strauss, Murnau, the brothers Mann! Picasso said once that if he had a son who wanted to be an artist he could have sent him to Munich, not Paris. But we have expelled our great minds or we have killed them. Now, what is left?” he asked bitterly. “My Germany gave up being the land of poets and thinkers to be a land of blood and honor, and now she is nothing but ash.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was what we asked for.”

“Even you?”

“No.” Julius let out a little breath of relief. “But it was the kind of place a man like me was molded for. I am not a good man, Julius Eaton,” said Gramlich, glancing over his shoulder at him. “Save your apologies for those who deserve them.”

And that was probably true. The game was over, but there was something in the air tonight. Julius knew, maybe only in the broad strokes, what kind of a person the man beside him was. He’d known for a while. But not being a good man didn’t make you a bad one. “Herbert said you worked for us, for the Allies. I know you opposed the Nazis.”

“I joined the Abwher in 1920. My opposition was formalized in 1937,” said Gramlich, and wasn’t that horrifically blunt for a man like him?

“You were a double agent,” Julius surmised.

Gramlich scoffed, and rubbed his eyes. “After how long? And even before the Nazis came to power, I did things that would make your skin crawl, and I did them well. For years. With gusto,” he spat.

“But you don’t anymore.”

“I’m a plain and simple artist,” he said contemptuously. 

“Eli—I—” No, even in the raw intimacy of whatever was happening tonight that was too much, “Gramlich—”

“Why are you here?” Gramlich asked, cutting him off. He straightened, and looked at Julius then, dead on, cigarette hanging from his lips, chilling blue eyes wide and crazed.

“I told you before,” said Julius. “Because I want to be. You’re my friend.”

His fingers twitched. “You don’t know what I am.”

But that wasn’t true, was it? “You’re my friend,” Julius repeated. “I’m not naïve, Gramlich.” He received a look that clearly disagreed and frowned. “I’m not! Look, I’ll likely never know all that you’ve done but I do have an idea of it.”

“A hopelessly naïve one.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I know you’ve done good things too. I know you didn’t do any of it with as much ‘gusto’ as you claim. I know you.”

“You don’t.”

“I know enough.”

“I don’t deserve your friendship.”

“I don’t care!” cried Julius, frustration fraying his patience. “Look, do you want to be my friend?”

There was an achingly long moment, then, “Yes.”

“Then that’s that,” Julius said. He leaned against the railing of the fire escape.

Gramlich floundered at that, wrongfooted, properly wrongfooted for the first time since Julius had known him. “How can it be?” 

“Because I forgive you. For whatever it is you’ve done.”

Gramlich let out a wounded little noise a that. “You can’t say that.”

“I did,” said Julius, “and I do.”

Closing his eyes for a long moment and breathing deeply, Gramlich visibly tried to regain what little composure he had left. Then he spoke. “You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” 

“Maybe.” He couldn’t argue with that. “What happened to Li Bo?”

“What?”

“The poet? Did he ever go back home?”

Gramlich frowned. “It’s said he drunkenly drowned in a lake, reaching for the moon.” He moved to take another drag from his cigarette, but it had burned down almost to the filter. Silently, he put it out with no small amount of finality. 

“And Du Fu?” Julius pressed. “You said they were friends.”

“Dear friends,” he agreed. “They traded letters and poems throughout their lives despite only having met once or twice.”

“So what happened to him?”

“Nothing happened to him. He didn’t make the same mistakes as his older companion. He…” Again, Gramlich looked wrongfooted. Clearly it wasn’t the note he’d wanted to end on. He had wanted to be maudlin, most likely, thinking of drowned poets and connections with home and moon. But like hell was Julius going to leave it at that. Gramlich brushed another lock of hair behind his ear, no longer as neat as it had previously been. He smiled ever so slightly, like he was remembering something pleasant he’d forgotten. “He wrote ‘Thinking of Li Bo from One End of the Sky.’ I don’t have that one memorized, I’m afraid.”

“But do you have the poem?” Julius asked. “I’d like to read it.”

Gramlich looked at him strangely, then nodded. “I think I have a copy inside.”

Notes:

Okay so listen. I wasn’t being cheeky when I had Gramlich say there’s no way to translate a poem, especially when the poem is written in an entirely different language system and is over a thousand years old. For instance, ‘Li Bo’ is just one translation of his name. I’ve also seen Li Bai, Li Po, Li Pai, and that’s not even taking into account his nicknames and professional name, etc. etc. Li Bo is actually one of the less common versions, it’s just the one I came across first and have thusly stuck to. Du Fu is the typical Latinized spelling and has far less versions, but I’ve also seen Tu Fu. And that’s just names. If you want to read other versions of ‘Quiet Night Thought,’ here is an excellent resource. To read the Du Fu poem I was talking about (and you really should, it’s longer than the Li Bo so I didn’t want to type it all out, but seriously it’s fantastic and will add a lot to the chapter wink wink nudge nudge), you can find it here.

Also if you were wondering, the moon on May 8, 1951 was a waxing crescent.

I’m sure all you gay people noticed that this was clearly a The Wire moment nestled in here, but are wondering about the wire itself. What’s the equivalent? Well, for one Weimar Berlin had a fantastic drug culture and people thought cocaine was medicinal. I’m sure he was doing miscellaneous spy shit in the 20s while doing hella drugs (read: self medicating) and having a blast (read: not at all having a blast). Classic Garak. Alternatively, the secret of the Blitzkrieg (not just the bombing of London, but the tactic of the war), what made the lighting war so fast, was the fact that the Nazis gave their soldiers meth amphetamines. Want to make a man fight harder, march for longer, and not need sleep? Try meth! More like Blitzedkrieg am I right? Shoutout to theattractiveshrub for echoing my thoughts on this all the way back in chapter four! Me and my beta were surprised and excited. Anyway, take your pick by way of explanation. Consider both. Up to you.

One of my special interests is the rise of fascism and the fall of the Weimar Republic so everyone should be so proud of me for not just infodumping here and in the chapter. Be glad that I don’t think Gramlich/Garak would do that. I have a very extensive backstory written for him (and all of my major characters to be fair!) and I don’t even know if I’m going to use it all.

Cameras for personal use still aren’t as popular as they’re going to be, but it’s not crazy for someone to have one. Developing the photos also wouldn’t be that hard if you knew someone with a dark room, and frankly, tell me that’s not the sort of random shit Jadzia would have.

Cameos for this chapter: Natima Lang (Natalia) and Grilka (Greta). Hashtag Quark gets pegged. Lwaxana Troi (Lexandra). I know it has its legitimate criticisms but I find the “Lwaxana makes everyone horny” episode really funny. I also think it’s really funny that Odo and Lwaxana canonically got married.

Chapter 9: July 1951: It Roared Towards Glorious Earth

Notes:

Hey everyone! Content warnings! This chapter and the next are going to be getting content warnings. Nothing not mentioned in the one at the opening of the fic, but I just want you to pay special attention to them.

This chapter is going to see an attempted hate crime. There will be homophobic slurs. Again, nothing is going to be as bad, at least to my mind, as the episode itself, but just a heads up. The next chapter will be dealing with the aftermath of that, and is a bit heavier because of it. So take care of yourself!

It didn’t hit him until later just what the revelations of May really meant. Which is to say, he probably should have been having this crisis a month ago at least, but he’d been swept up in the intimacy and, frankly, work. He just hadn’t thought about it.

In his defense, emotional intelligence had never been one of Julius’s gifts. Even when it came to himself.

They’d kept up their normal routines of course, lunches and late nights, time in the studio or sometimes walking long loops in Central Park. But something had shifted. Maybe it was just that Julius was suddenly more aware of his proximity to the man, to the slope of his nose and the slight curl of his hair. Certainly Julius was more aware of his own body and its inadequacies, his scrawny arms and his inability to shut up.

But it was something else too. Gramlich seemed different somehow, more honest ever so slightly. Maybe not in a way that most people would recognize, but Julius had known him long enough he could tell. He smiled more, and more earnestly. He made little comments about his past—nothing major of course, but just a little hint here and there about his home in Berlin as a younger man or him missing the taste of a treat he’d had in Belgium. 

It was intoxicating. Gramlich always had been before, but now, the flash of his red lips, the glint of his blue eyes, the sheen of his raven-black hair, was enough to make Julius’s heart flutter. There had always been a pull to him, and now that Julius was more aware of its shape, he was pulled effortlessly into him. And Gramlich seemed happy enough to shower Julius with his attention, as eager for Julius’s gaze as he was in turn.

Then there was the poem. Julius had read it by now of course, read it the same night in fact, but now there was hardly a minute Du Fu’s words didn’t swirl about in his mind. Gramlich would stare at him just a little too long over chicken teriyaki and Julius would think, My friend I cannot vouch for your intent. When Gramlich’s mien would twinge maudlin over a canvas skyline of Germany, Julius would frown to the tune of The demons of this world/Their gargoyle faces/Are made glad/Whenever men of talent hobble. And now, certainly, sitting over his typewriter at home, cigarette burning out, he could not help but think, Good writing/Resents happy circumstances.

He was stuck in a holding pattern. A familiar one, maybe, but no less annoying for it. He couldn’t think of any words but Du Fu’s, and the page in front of him was an empty, accusatory white. Did Gramlich feel similarly stuck while staring at a void-white canvas? But then, no, he would yellow the canvas first before painting it so the colors would be properly visible. He never looked at a blank white canvas for long.

Julius needed to do something about all of this ( One ought to have a chat/With poets of the land/Purported to have/Drowned). Thoughts of Gramlich consumed him, his brilliant mind, his glimmering eyes, his talented hands fingering a paintbrush or cigarette. Emotions, ever a weakness of Julius’s as his father had been eager to inform him, broiled inside him like boiling water threatening to escape the pot. It would be easier if there was no fear to this, no worry of retribution in some way. 

Worry, fear, and suddenly Julius was back in England, fifteen again, standing quivering in front of his father, brown skin puce with rage. Fifteen and told in excruciating detail how men like him were dealt with, and did Julius want to shame the family like that, to throw away the education and care his parents had given him?

Did love always have to be tinged with worry and fear?

Julius’s cigarette was ash in the holder. He was trapped in his own head. He often was, but this was different. Never before had the feeling wanted to explode out of him so acutely. He felt sick—heartsick, lovesick, physically ill, everything all jumbled into one great mess. Mostly, he felt alone. And it had been a good long time since last Julius had felt alone.

He wasn’t getting any work done tonight, that much was clear. Pushing aside the scant pages of Distant Voices he had managed to write, Julius padded his way over to his and Kay’s bedroom.

There wasn’t another bed in their apartment, and their couch was best described as a collection of loose springs and hard wood, so their disagreements hadn’t kept them from sleeping in the same bed each night, just as they had done for going on five years now. But that didn’t mean that outside of that, he and Kay had interacted in any meaningful way in an age. Questions about dinner, requests to turn out the lights, little things, sure. But a real conversation? Julius’s heart ached for the loss.

Kay was on the bed now, thumbing through a draft of her story Keiko had marked up with edits, making little notes in the margins with a black pen. Julius lingered in the doorway, suddenly nervous.

“Are we still fighting?” he asked.

Kay looked up and blinked at him owlishly. “We’re not fighting.”

“Our Cold War then.”

“We don’t have a Cold War either.”

“Whatever it is, you’ve been furious at me for months,” he said. His anger had subsided relatively quickly, but he also had never been one for grudges. Kay, on the other hand, had only been able to survive the War from the sheer force of hers.

“I was furious for a month,” she said finally. “Then mad for another two. Then uncomfortable for the rest. And a little mad.”

Julius shifted his weight. “Has that subsided?”

“Why?”

“Because I need someone to talk to,” he blurted out suddenly, no longer able to contain it anymore. “And we both know that when it comes to certain things you’re the only one I can.”

“Oh.” Kay set her paper and pen down on the nightstand and set her jaw. “This is about that, then.” Worry and fear. Even in the privacy of their own home it still felt like too much to say.

Julius nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay,” said Kay.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” She scooted over on the bed and gestured for him to join her there, out, at least, of the insecurity of the doorway. “I’m here for you. You know that.” 

“I wasn’t sure,” he admitted, joining her. She seemed genuinely saddened by that.

“Look,” she started, fiddling with her nails and looking away from him, “I’m not thrilled at your…friendship with that man, but it’s like you said. You’re an adult. And at the end of the day, the Germans have taken so much from me, I’m not going to let them take you too one way or another.” She smiled at him, then, and a pit opened in Julius’s stomach. 

A desire to flee the room or possibly the state filled Julius. Maybe this was a bad idea. Under any other circumstances Kay would have been the last person in the world he’d want to bring this to. She had never cared much for gossip or his romantic foibles, even when she wasn’t filled with displaced rage and trauma surrounding the subject of it. If she had her way, neither of them would talk about their love lives ever. But as things were, they didn’t have much of a choice. 

Julius’s nerves must have shown in his face because Kay looked at him with concern. “What is it?”

“I…can you tolerate him?”

“What?”

“Gramlich,” he said. “I know you’ll never like him, and that’s fine and all, I can live with that as long as you don’t loathe him. He’s not like you think, you know. Honest.”

Kay frowned. “I suppose so.” The dots appeared to connect in her head because her expression curdled, nose wrinkling. “Wait. Oh my God, Julius, please don’t tell me—”

“I wish I could,” he said wretchedly. “I like him, Kay, I really do. More than I should.”

“Fuck, Julius!” Kay cried, standing suddenly and beginning to pace. “Him? Really?”

“Him.”

“Why couldn’t it have been someone nice?”

“He is nice,” said Julius defensively, though it was more like kind, a distinction Julius hadn’t needed to make before. Gramlich was still a dick after all, charmingly so on occasion, less so other times. But Julius had a sneaking suspicion Kay wouldn’t care much about the semantic difference at the moment.

“Someone not sketchy as all hell, then,” she amended, and that he had to give her.

“Look, it’s not like I can do anything about it anyway!” he cried. “I didn’t choose it, and I can’t tell him how I feel or—or kiss him or anything like that. You know I can’t. You know how it is.”

Kay deflated at that. She smiled sadly and let out a huff of mirthless laughter. “I do,” she said, flopping down back onto the bed. “I really do.” He’d forgotten the other way Kay had managed to survive the war, sheer force of love for those around her. She was a lot like Gramlich in that, not that Julius would ever tell her, in her kindness behind her barbed exterior.

“How are things with Darlene, anyway?” Julius asked. She shook her head.

“Where they’ve always been.”

“Sorry about that.”

Kay just hummed. “It’s like you said, it’s not like we can do anything about it.”

“It’s so much easier when it’s just cruising in the Village, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never felt this way about someone from the Village,” Kay admitted. She didn’t meet his eyes, but she didn’t have to.

“Me neither.” They were quiet for a bit, stewing. Julius had only been grappling with his feelings for a month or so, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for Kay. She’d been taken with Darlene since almost the moment they’d met back at Incredible Tales. Loathe as she always was to confide that sort of thing with Julius (yet another similarity to Gramlich, a deep hatred of sharing emotions and showing perceived weakness), she had gushed about her to him that first night. It had been nice, felt so normal in a way they never got to feel about love, all nervous excitement and flushed cheeks.

She was just as trapped as Julius was of course. But, “At least we’ll always have one another,” said Julius. Kay giggled at that.

“In sickness and in health.”

“'til death do us part.”

Kay clapped him on the shoulder, and he’d missed her. Fiercely. “Thank goodness for that.”

---

Benny had a headache, but that was fine because Sisko had one too, which meant he could use it. 

It was a tense scene: everything was going wrong in Sisko and his son’s little space craft. Too much was riding on it: it wasn’t just a father-son bonding experience now, it was political. It showed the worth of Bajor in an undeniable way, their brilliance and creativity. And so their craft had to make it to Cardassia. But everything was falling apart.

It was times like these Benny wished he smoked. Call it a quirk of his, but he’d never liked the taste much. But something to take the edge off would have been nice. Cassie was out with some friends for the night, which meant there was no better time to work on this draft, but for the headache. (What helped with headaches? Cassie knew.) But he could muscle through it.

It was a tense scene, but it was going to work out alright in the end. The Siskos would succeed, Bajor would be triumphant, Cardassia would have to accept their former subject’s mastery of something before them. No longer would they be able to scoff at the Bajorans as less than, as backwards and savage, not if they’d traversed the stars first. No longer could they ignore Bajoran excellence.

Keiko’s notes on the story had been largely positive. She was someone who thrived on positive reinforcement, which was a nice change from Pabst’s blunt slash marks even over a year out. She highlighted sections she liked, and add small reactions in the corners—surprise at a twist, excitement over a happy ending, swooning at romance. Her notes for Explorers were much in the same vein, mostly grammatical and flow notes. But her structural amendment had been a request for more time spent between the Siskos, more exploration of what it meant for father and son to be doing this.

She was right, of course. Audiences didn’t connect as much with high-minded political drama as they did with smaller stakes and interpersonal relationships. But where to add it? Benny wasn’t sure.

---

It was late, but that just meant that Coney Island was lit up like a Christmas tree. Like the city proper, it never slept, and the sounds of excited shouts and victory bells and mechanical whirring came in a constant clamor. 

“I can’t believe we’re here right now,” laughed Kay, cotton candy in hand. It was as overly sweet and she remembered, and she felt equal parts ridiculous and alive. “I mean, I haven’t been to this place since I was a kid!”

“Really?” Darlene was with her, of course, and was the architect behind this adventure as she often was. She grinned around a mouthful of popcorn. “I try to go at least once a year.”

“That seems fun.”

“It is!” Darlene enthused in that tone of voice of hers that implied a standing invitation. “Things are always changing around here, there’s always something new.”

“It doesn’t look at all how I remember,” agreed Kay. The Comet, a glittering coaster that had dazzled a younger Kay was gone, as was the great illuminated sign for Luna Park. There was a parachute jump now, and a carousel, and even a little train. 

Darlene looked around and hummed. “Well, it has burnt down a couple times.”

“That’ll do it,” laughed Kay.

“They’ve torn down a lot recently,” Darlene continued, crunching on another handful of popcorn. “There’s a hell of a lot of housing down here now, right on the ‘walk.”

“I can see that.” There was, some in various states of completion, though Kay wondered who, exactly, wanted to live next to a place like this, packed with people and loud noises and trashy fun.

“I’d love a place like that,” said Darlene, and Kay sighed, not even surprised. 

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” She ginned and offered Kay a few pieces from her popcorn. “Lovely views, lovely beaches. A Nathans any time I want.”

Kay made a face. “Gross, D.”

“You like hot dogs!”

“I tolerate hot dogs.”

“You like them!”

“Saying it isn’t going to make it true.”

“I’ll wear you down.”

Kay sighed at that. “Probably.” The sugar from her cotton candy was starting to hurt her teeth and she binned it in the closest trash can. “So what is there to do here now?” she asked, brushing off her hands.

“There’s rides, of course, with some great coasters I’ve got to take you on. There’s the slide, the games—I’m a dab hand at skee-ball if you were wondering.” Darlene shot her a confident grin. “There’s even a pool over in Steeplechase which seems silly to me, I mean the beach is right there and that’s not segregated.”

There was a lot, then. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Kay shook her head. “What do you want to do first?”

“I’ve been here loads of times, you pick.” 

“I suppose we can start at the games?” she offered.

“Perfect, I can show off my skee-ball talents,” said Darlene, tossing her empty popcorn bag with the sort of skills that made Kay question her self-proclaimed skee-ball abilities.

“I’ve never been that good at skee-ball.”

“No?”

“No, and I really tried too. They used to give out food for prizes during the Depression. I spent a lot of nickels trying to win a ham dinner.” She and her brothers had scrounged for anything anyone had dropped, pennies, nickels, whatever had slipped someone's eyes and pockets. Whatever they found was quickly lost at Coney Island, but the lure of butter and cheese and meat were too great and they were too hungry to stop. Financially, her family did better after the first few years, but even still she could feel phantom hunger pangs.

“Did you ever get it?” asked Darlene. 

“Not once. But I did get a pound of sugar. My mother made a pie, and I think I cried while eating it.” An apple pie, a little burnt, made with hard crab apples. But sweet and filling. “To this day it’s still the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” 

“I only ever won cigars,” said Darlene. “The food booths always bested me.”

“They probably don’t have food prizes anymore, huh?”

Darlene shook her head. “It’s a lot of chalk statues now.”

“Chalk?” Kay repeated. Darlene just shrugged.

“Some of them are really cute too.”

Miscellaneous garbage was the sort of thing Kay had been anticipating anyway, not that she wanted it. “I promise you if I win any chalk things you can have it,” she told Darlene.

“Aren’t you a darling?” sighed Darlene dreamily. Jokingly, of course, if the way she was batting her eyelashes in an exaggerated manner was any indication, but Kay still had to fight a blush.

“I’ve been known to be one every now and then,” she managed. And this was all contingent on her managing to win anything in the first place. They continued down the boardwalk like that for a little bit, sizing up everything they passed. The chalk statues were tacky little things and they peered at Kay mockingly with beady eyes as she passed. Why anyone would try and win them was beyond her, and why Darlene had called them cute was more befuddling still.

They were passing one of those strength testing things with the hammer and the bell, Kay about to make an offer to try it, when something else caught her eye.

“Is that a shooting gallery?” she asked, gesturing a few stalls down the walk at a brightly lit red and blue booth.

“Looks like it,” Darlene confirmed. “There’s always at least one. Can you make out the prizes?”

“Pocket knives and cigars.”

Darlene let out a noise of annoyance. “Always cigars, like I said! I’ve got a whole box in my apartment full of them.”

“The knife is useful though,” Kay noted. “Do you have one?”

“A pocket knife? No.”

“I’m going to win you one then,” decided Kay, padding over to the booth.

“Really?” Now Darlene’s appreciation seemed genuine, her smile wide and toothy.

“Yeah, of course.” She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and tried to look away from her lovely companion’s glittering eyes. “Everyone should have a pocket knife,” she blustered. “Besides, winning you something is the least I can do. You organized this whole night after all.”

“I just like organizing things like this,” Darlene said dismissively. She’d stopped in the middle of the walk and was still beaming down at Kay. “You’d really win something for me?” 

She shouldn’t have eaten all that cotton candy with how knotted up her stomach felt. Darlene seemed so mystifyingly disbelieving. Had no one ever won her a silly little carnival prize? That seemed hard to believe as beautiful as her friend was. Was it just that it was something practical? The fact that it was Kay doing it? Kay’s mouth felt dry and she swallowed. “D,” she managed, “it would be an honor.” That seemed to be enough to move them the last few paces over to the booth.

The carnie was as generic looking as carnies came. He leaned against the wall of the booth and gave the both of them a very obvious once-over.

“You ladies want to try your luck at the shooting range?” he asked, leeringly. 

Kay glanced at Darlene who shook her head. “Just me, thanks,” she told him.

“Alrighty.” The man handed her the gun, just a BB. It was, Kay realized, the first time she’d held a gun in five years. Could it have been that long? She’d spent every day in the resistance with one practically glued to her side, and now? She was lost in thought enough she almost missed the carnie’s question. “You know how to fire one of these?”

“I’ve got the general idea,” she told him. Darlene snickered somewhere behind her. 

“For your nickel you’ve got fifty shots. You’re going to go ahead and try and shoot as many of these here little parachute men as you can. Twenty five hits is a cigar, forty is two, and if you manage to hit all fifty you get one of these here pocket knives. Do you have all that?” What would she get if she shot the smug look off his face, she wondered? 

Aiming the gun at the target range, Kay cocked the gun. “I’ve got it.”

“Then fire at will, little lady,” crooned the carnie.

Later, Kay wasn’t sure which expression she cherished more: the surprise and fear on the man’s face as he handed Kay her prize, or the look on Darlene’s when Kay handed it to her in stride. 

(That wasn’t true, and it wasn’t even close. It was the look on Darlene’s face as Kay showed her how to use it, peeling her an apple on the subway on the long ride home. The skin came off in long, clean lines, or at least when Kay did it. Darlene’s attempts were far less graceful, but that didn’t matter a lick. Her tongue peaked out in concentration, her brows furrowed, Kay replayed it in her head again and again that night, along with the feeling of their hands brushing again and again as they passed the knife between them. Again, and again, and again.)

---

The last day of the month tended to be a bit of a wash. 

It was technically a brainstorm day, but that didn’t mean much of anything. “Brainstorming” could mean anything, and so for Albert it tended to mean a long lunch with his wife. Julius and Darlene would gossip and Kay would pretend she wasn’t listening. Herbert was a wildcard, but tended towards what he called “freelance research,” which just meant he was out of the office and doing whatever the hell he wanted. Even Gramlich, who was by and large swamped most days, often took to working on outside commissions.

Sure enough, two PM on July the 31st was as typical of the office as June the 30th and May the 31st and all the months before. Gramlich had taken off an hour ago, pausing a design for Gimbels to get lunch for himself and Julius and would be back any minute. Julius, in turn, was thumbing through a copy of Emma while making small derisive noises as he waited. Darlene was playing solitaire while Kay watched, making the occasional remark about where to place a card and halfheartedly admonishing her friend when Darlene steered the conversation towards the lives of the people in her apartment building. 

Benny was working on the financials. He always did on the last of the month, and he always did it when Herb was out of the office. Otherwise, the other man insisted on sitting over his shoulder and heckling his math. Usually correctly heckling, but Benny had Ron to double check his work. He didn’t need a running commentary.

It had been a good issue. Herbert had the cover with his Profit and Loss, but Kay’s Things Past had been a highlight too, and Julius’s Hippocratic Oath had been surprisingly moving. An issue to be proud of, and one sure to rake in a fair amount. Summer months meant school children buying magazines and comics with lawnmowing and babysitting money, and Gramlich’s tasteful if steamy cover of Herbert’s clandestine lovers’ last embrace was sure to draw customers in. 

The door of the office swung open, and footsteps approached. Likely Gramlich given the timing, though Gramlich moved unnervingly quietly for such a large man. The sound of cards being set to the side, then Darlene’s secretarial voice, practiced and even.

“Hello, officer,” she said. “How can I help you?” Officer ? thought Benny, and he looked towards the direction of the voices in time for the officer in question to talk.

“Oh, I don’t need anything from you, ma’am,” he drawled. And Benny knew that voice. It was with no small amount of horror that he realized that the white men of the office were all out. Maybe Albert wasn’t the best proposed front man, but both Herb and Gramlich were outstanding liars and could think on their feet enough to get the cop out . As it stood, the only men in the office were Black and Brown. Benny could feel the nerves roiling off of Kay. She likely had noticed the same thing. 

“What do you need then?” snapped Kay. Darlene tensed too.

“Kay,” she hissed, and grabbed Kay’s arm warningly, smile brittle plastic.

“I’ve just gotten a few complaints about a socialist newsletter being printed out of this building,” the officer said. “Mind if I speak to your boss?”

Benny stood then. He was the closest thing Defiant had to having a boss anyway, and he doubted that the officer wanted an explanation of collective ownership. “That would be me. Benny Russel.” He walked towards the cop and offered his hand for a shake. The cop just stared at him. 

“You, huh?” He gave Benny a once over. No spark of recognition flickered in his eyes, no sudden realization. But Benny knew that face, its crags and pockmarks, the thin, greying mustache and thin, broken nose. He’d know it anywhere.

“Me,” Benny agreed, folding his arms.

“You mind answering a few questions, boy?” asked the officer, and as the man lit a cigarette Benny wondered if he couldn’t tell Negros apart of he just beat so many of them to near death Benny wasn’t worth remembering. Yes, Benny knew him.

“Not at all, sir. ”

The cop took a drag from his cigarette and scratched his jaw absently. “How’d a colored boy like you end up owning a socialist newsletter?” Benny could practically still see his boot-print over Roy’s original sketch of Deep Space Nine all those many months ago. 

“It’s not a socialist newsletter. It’s a science fiction magazine.”

“How’d a colored boy like you end up owning a science fiction magazine, then?” sneered the cop.

Why, a communist of course. “An angel investor.”

“Must have been some investor, then.” The cop flicked some ash off his cigarette onto the ground. Out of the corner of Benny’s eye, he could see Darlene track the motion. “Tell me, did this investor of your know you’re a Negro?”

“I should certainly hope so, otherwise I’d worry about his eyesight.”

Somewhere behind him, Julius snorted at that, but the officer’s face didn’t so much as twitch. “And he still gave you a whole magazine filled with women and other colored writers?”

“That’s right.”

“Quite the investor indeed.”

“I’d say so,” said Benny. “Do you need anything else, officer?”

“I’d certainly say so,” the officer said, leaning against Darlene’s desk. “Like I said, I’ve had some concerning reports about your science fiction magazine .” 

“Oh?”

“‘Oh’ is right.” He ashed his cigarette again. “You know, instigation of a race war isn’t protected under the Constitution,” he said casual as anything. 

“I did know that,” said Benny. That was bad. He could feel his heart starting to race but forced himself to stay standing steady. “Lucky, then, we’re not doing anything of the sort.” A cop with a history of violence against Negroes, including against himself, and including murder. 

“Really? So you’re not writing about Negroes taking White jobs?” There was a billy club hanging off the cop’s belt, and a gun resting opposite it. “I seem to remember one particular story where a Negro starts a revolution in a small farming community. It was called Paradise if I’m not mistaken?” From so long ago—near the beginning of their run, in fact. Meaning what, that the police had been watching them for a while now? Had they been waiting for a moment like this?

“I’m glad you’re a fan, officer.” Benny’s voice remained steady but his heart was trying to escape the confines of his ribcage. “It’s good to see we’re able to entertain a man so distinguished as yourself.” 

That had been the wrong thing to say. The officer’s face screwed up in anger, thin lips twisting, teeth gnashed, and Benny could see his hands inching towards his side, what side? Darlene could see it too, he knew that, and he could hear Julius gasp behind him, and Julius was so young and impulsive, and hadn’t Jimmy been like that, and God, was Julius about to do something, was somebody— 

“I won’t take none of your impudence, boy,” the officer snarled, taking a step forward, flicking down his cigarette and stamping it out in one clean, violent motion, and he was still talking, “I’ll have you know—

“Goodness, it sure has been a long time.” The world froze as a cool, clear voice interrupted the heat of the moment. Benny hadn’t heard anyone come in, and yet here he was, smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Burt Ryan, is it?”

“Gramlich,” spat the officer, spinning around to face the man who had just entered the office behind him. Gramlich’s suit jacket was tossed over his shoulders, posture relaxed, hands thrust into his pockets as he fished out a cigarette and lighter.

“Or should I say, Officer Ryan,” he corrected, cigarette between his teeth, not bothering to look up at the cop until it was lit. “Still no promotion to detective?” 

“What are you doing here?” Ryan hissed, hands clenched into tight fists.

“Oh, just coming back from my lunch break,” sighed Gramlich, breathing out a puff of smoke directly into Ryan’s face.

At that, though, the cop laughed. “Of course you work in a place like this. Tell me, Gramlich, are your coworkers aware they’re working with a deviant such as yourself?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific. I’m deviant in so many ways, you see. I remember you said something to that effect last time we saw one another, but then again, you are getting up there in years.” He looked the man’s face over with pitying disgust. “You should really try moisturizing.”

“So they don’t know?” he asked, laughing again. He turned back towards Benny. “Russel, did you know this man you’ve been employing is a faggot?”

“Mr. Russel, do you want to know how the good Officer Ryan here came about such information?” asked Gramlich sweetly without missing a beat. 

Benny watched at Ryan’s face ran the gamut from red to purple with rage, and as his hand wrapped rapidly around the handle of his billyclub, ripping it from where it was holstered. At least it wasn’t the gun, but Christ, Christ there was no question on what the officer planned to do. Gramlich didn’t move, didn’t flinch, placidly smoking his cigarette as Ryan, hissed, “You goddamned cocksucker—” and moved, moved forward billyclub in hand, and Benny moved as well without thinking, he couldn’t stop himself, he couldn’t let this happen again, Jimmy had been so young, he had been hurt for so long, and for what and—

Wham!

Faster than he’d thought possible Kay had moved, vaulting Darlene’s desk and in one fluid movement had socked Ryan square in the jaw. The cop stumbled back, but Kay didn’t pause a second before hitting him again, in the stomach this time, then again and again until Ryan was on the ground. 

“Kay!” Julius cried but Kay was still hitting him over and over, her knuckles splattered red with her own and Ryan’s mingling blood and she was silent and hitting him again and again.

“Mrs. Eaton, I think that’s quite enough,” said Gramlich hoarsely.

“Kay!” Darlene was lurching towards her. “Kay, you’ve got to stop!”

“Kay, that’s enough,” said Benny, and he and Gramlich finally managed to pull her off of him. She was breathing heavily, eyes wild as Ryan managed to shakily drag himself to his feet.

His face was a ruin, but his eyes were still clear from beside the bloody wreck of his cheek and nose. “You’ll pay for this,” he seethed.

“And what,” asked Gramlich, “you’ll tell Mulkahey you’ve been beaten so thoroughly by a woman a full head shorter than yourself? It’s been too long since I’ve seen Kevin, maybe you should. I have some details I’m sure you’ll leave out that make for such titillating storytelling.” Ryan spat a clot of blood onto the floor and said nothing. Shooting the lot of them one last look, he skulked out of the office.

“Kay?” asked Darlene, breaking the silence of the officer’s exit. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” She sat firmly down on the lip of her desk. “Just in need of a little patching up is all.” Her hands shook ever so slightly. 

“Do we have a first aid kit in here, Benny?” asked Julius, and yes, that seemed right, hadn’t he been a medic once?

“Over by the windowsill.”

“Thank you.” The room lapsed into silence again as Julius cleaned up his wife’s bloody knuckles.

It was Darlene who broke the quiet the next time. “Fuck, Benny, are you alright?” She was standing next to him, hand on his shoulder. When had she moved there?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked her, and she gave him an unimpressed but now unkind look.

“Benny.”

He just shook his head. There were other things to worry about, things to be done. “I’m going to get something for the blood on the floor,” he said. There was a lot of blood on the floor. A lot.

Gramlich held up a hand, stopping him. “Allow me, Mr. Russel.” There was a slight tremor in his voice, which, coming from Gramlich, was practically full hysterics. “And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll be taking the rest of the day after that.”

Benny couldn't begrudge him that. In fact: “That’s not a bad idea, Mr. Gramlich,” he replied. “I might just do the same.”

Notes:

“Kevin Mulkahey” is Weyoun and “Burt Ryan” is the name of Dukat’s character in FBTS according to the wiki. I don’t know why either. Sometimes they gave the characters very similar names, other times, not so much. Much like with Damar, I’m leaning towards the FBTS characterization of Ryan than Dukat, though he’s more Dukat than Wycoff was Damar. The two of them are very interesting characters I really adore but they’re also a very specific type of cruel that doesn’t necessarily translate into the type of cruel they are in FBTS. Different flavors of bastardry and all that. Ah well, it’s not really about them anyway. Did you know Ryan has a very hard to see shitty little mustache? It’s quite unfortunate. Back to history!

I’ve mentioned the Village a couple times, and that’s Greenwich Village, which is a major queer enclave in New York, famously where the Stonewall Riots happened. Both Kay and Julius aren’t out in their public lives, so they’d have to go to the Village more covertly and likely use different names, but they’d still be free to cruise in (relative) safety compared to other places in New York and the world at large.

The history of Coney Island is a long and very interesting one, and it by far wasn’t my only source but for a really interesting overview I’d look at the Defunctland video on it. The Coney Island of today and even of 1951 wasn’t the one from legend as a number of fires, mismanagement, and the infamously dickish and evil city planner Robert Moses (and also Donald Trump’s dad for some reason, thought that came way later) made it his mission to kill it. But it’s still around! Just not how it was. Moses himself is a whole other can of worms worth looking into. Among other (way worse!) things, he’s the reason the New York Giants move to California in ‘57. Sorry, Benny! Also for a picture of the kind of guy he was, there is a whole section on his Wikipedia page just titled ‘racism.’ There’s a Dimension 20 campaign where he’s literally BBEG. Just like in real life!

Steeplechase is Steeplechase Park, which was one of the amusement parks in Coney Island and the longest lasting. It failed for the reasons listed above, but I can’t stress to you how often that shit was on fire. Also the late 40s through the 50s were a time of changing demographics in NYC, ‘White Flight’ leading Coney Island’s patrons being increasingly Black and yes, Steeplechase still banned Black people from their pool regardless. I did say mismanagement, didn’t I?

And on the subject of racism--lord almighty some of the things I’ve found trying to figure out when people started giving out carnival prizes and what they were giving. That’s not going in here, that can be a you research journey. Every day I’m thankful I don’t live in the past, what a goddamn nightmare. Anyway, the prizes I’ve listed here are all real. The food carnival prizes too. Unsurprisingly, everything from the Great Depression was a huge bummer. Who would have thought!

Something that’s never not funny to me is the fact that Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs were called that from the jump. It was a marketing tactic, just like calling them “kosher style” (they’re not kosher so he couldn’t legally call them that) so that people thought they were cleaner and safer to eat because hotdogs weren’t exactly common and people were very suspicious. Hot dogs and Nathan’s in particular are fairly ubiquitous now, but they didn't leave Coney Island and expand out until 1959.

Chapter 10: August 1951: The Buildings No Longer Shined

Notes:

Please remember the content warnings from the previous chapter! Take care of yourself!

It was past twelve when Kay came home.

No one had stayed in the office long after everything, but with Benny gone and Gramlich, Kay, and Darlene following hot on his heels, it fell to Julius to tell Herb and the Maclins why they were closing up early. Herbert had looked physically ill, and Al had silently and stonily started working on cleaning the blood out of their floor, but it had been Keiko who sat next to Julius asking if he was alright. 

Was he alright? Were any of them? Julius had frozen as soon as Ryan had entered, and everything else had been a horrible blur. It was like he’d spent the encounter in a fishbowl. Ryan was going to beat Benny until Gramlich came in, and then he was going for Gramlich and Julius’s feet wouldn’t move and his limbs were lead and then Kay was moving and—

It was past twelve when Kay finally came home.

Julius was on their bed, sitting with his knees up to his eyes and Kukalaka pressed squarely against his chest. He glanced up from where he’d been staring blankly at the wall when she came in and realized his eyes burned. He blinked a few times.

“You’re back,” he said after a minute.

“I’m back,” Kay agreed, tossing her hat haphazardly across the room and starting on her shoes.

“Where did you go?”

“Nowhere. I mean, I just went walking.” She took her earrings out and shrugged. “Clearing my head.”

“Right.” Julius nodded against his knees. “Did it help?”

“Not really,” she admitted.

“Right,” repeated Julius. Flopping gracelessly onto her side, Kay joined Julius on the bed, and finally he forced himself to change positions, setting Kukalaka down next to him. She had her arms thrown over his eyes, and Julius glanced at his handiwork. “Did your bandages hold?”

“Yeah. I didn’t touch them.”

“Good.” He stared at her hands a little longer just to be sure. There wasn’t any sign of the blood on her knuckles seeping through, which was good. There hadn’t been that much to begin with—Kay knew how to throw a punch—but even if he wasn’t a true doctor, there were certain impulses that were impossible to curtail. 

“I remember from your complaints about patients enough to know better,” Kay was saying, shifting her arms enough that she could shoot him a wry look.

Under normal circumstances Julius would probably return the look and say something witty. These were decidedly abnormal circumstances. “Good.” He managed. “Right.” He felt dull and dumb.

“Yup.” He felt nauseous, mostly.

“He would have killed him,” said Julius. The words came out without him meaning to say them. 

“Probably.” Kay’s arms were over her eyes again. He felt nauseous. Fuck, he couldn’t throw up. Words came out instead.

“With the billy club, and I couldn’t move and he would have killed him and Gramlich didn’t move either he was just going to take it and then you did, moved I mean, and you—”

“Julius.” When had Kay moved? When had Kay put her hand on his back? When had he started hyperventilating? “Julius, breathe.” Kay was pressing Kukalaka back into his hands, and wasn’t that such a sweet gesture? She’d never understood his dedication to the ragged bear, towing it through several countries and multiple war zones, but here she was, giving Julius the bear to calm him anyway. He breathed.

“God, Kay,” he managed, “he would have killed him.” An untenable thought. Gramlich, dead, untenable. Fuck—all that life, that curling wit and creativity, gone, gone in an instant, splattered against the floor of the office by the unrelenting solidity of a policeman’s club, his blood, his brains, his bones, nothing but meat, gone, gone, gone—

He was knocking on hyperventilation again.

Kay’s hands were holding his around Kukalaka, firm and steady. “But he didn’t, Julius. He didn’t.”

“He didn’t,” Julius repeated shakily. 

“I wouldn’t have let him.” And no, she wouldn’t have. There wasn’t a world where Kay Hunter didn’t jump into action. Julius squeezed his eyes shut.

“You’re a good person, Kay,” he said finally, opening his eyes.

Kay reached over and tweaked Kukalaka’s threadbare ear. “You think so?”

“You don’t even like Gramlich,” he reminded her, and she scoffed.

“You don’t have to like someone to stop them from getting beat to death by a cop.”

“I suppose not.”

She frowned. “No one deserves that. Not for—”

“No,” he agreed. The revelation of Gramlich’s sexuality wasn’t as much of a shock as it could have been. A lot could be dismissed as a European affectation, but Julius doubted anyone in the office was truly surprised. The rest of the office—that was a terrifying thought. Technically speaking Keiko, Al, and Herbert hadn’t been there when he was outed, but word traveled fast. How would they react? 

In Julius’s most hopeful calculations, only a third, maybe, would be unnerved enough to quietly petition for his dismissal. He liked them, he truly did, they were kind and caring, but when had that ever stopped someone from blanching at the thought of deviance? His parents, certainly, had their moments of tenderness. His mother more so than his father to be sure, but when, at fifteen they’d found him necking with the boy from across the street, she’d wanted to send him away just as much as his father had. It was the desire not to shame the family, not any real disapproval of those places, that had kept him out of a correctional facility for boys twisted up like him.

He knew Kay was thinking something similar from the set of her jaw. Julius didn’t know if her family ever knew about her homosexuality before their untimely ends, but family wasn’t the only place fear and disapproval came from. She’d know of stories like Julius’s. Certainly, after their wedding.

But of course, Gramlich hadn’t been the original target of Ryan’s ire and promise of violence. Julius clutched Kukalaka’s plush body tighter.

“Did you see…did you see Benny’s face?” he asked. “Through it all?”

Kay shook her head. “I wasn’t looking.”

“He thought he was going to die too.”

“Gramlich?”

“Himself.” And for what? For what? “Before. He—” Bile rose in this throat. “Kay—”

“It’s alright.” Her hand was on his back again. “We’re all still here.”

“For now.” He would not—could not forget Benny’s absence at Incredible Tales, weeks of recovery to be able to hobble up the stairs of the Arthur Trill building. Benny hadn’t been open about what, exactly, had happened, but he’d told them the gist. It, too, hadn’t been much of a surprise.

“Julius,” said Kay firmly, looking him squarely in the eye, “‘for now’ is all we have. We’re all still here. I wouldn’t let anything happen to any of you, okay? I wouldn’t.”

He smiled despite himself. “You did give a lovely demonstration of that today, yes.”

“Yesterday now.”

Julius rolled his eyes. “Yesterday then.”

“But I’m serious, Julius.” 

“I know you are.” With one final squeeze, Julius returned Kukalaka to his place on his nightstand. “Thank you.”

Kay waved him off. “Of course. You know how this works by now—I’m there to defend, you’re there to patch me back up after.” Julius looked at her hands again and his stomach twisted.

“I should have done more.”

But Kay just shook her head. “Fuck that. I know you’ve killed people, Julius. We went through a war, there’s no way you didn’t and besides, we sleep in the same bed, remember? You talk in your sleep. You don’t like hurting people. That’s not the kind of man you are. And that’s a good thing.”

“You don’t like hurting people either,” he reminded her. She didn’t, he knew. Genuinely. She was good at it maybe, but that wasn’t the kind of woman she was. She worked hard not to be.

“But I can take it,” she said. “I can deal with it. I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”

“No, but the world we live in? With people like Ryan, with cops like that, with people the way they are? Someone has to. It’s okay that person’s not you. Besides, if you had done something, he would have killed you too, or near it.”

“I know that. I know.” Didn’t he just. He knew the color of his skin, his own effete mannerisms easily dismissed as European quirks. Of course he knew. “And I know that there’s not something for me to learn here, some grand lesson about myself. It was just something senseless that ended as well as it could have.” Julius sighed, exhaustion lancing through him suddenly. “Have you eaten dinner yet?” he asked Kay.

“No.”

“Me neither.” He stood, then, and ran a hand through his hair. He still felt vaguely ill, but he needed food. Not that anywhere was open at this hour. Mentally he ran through the contents of their cabinets, several days out from when they should have gone grocery shopping. It was nice to worry about something boring again. “I think we still have pasta,” he said finally.

“Pasta sounds great right now,” said Kay, flopping back down on the bed. No doubt she was more tired than he was, and twice as hungry. He smiled at that

“I’ll get some water boiling then, darling.”

---

It seemed wrong that August 1st was a Wednesday.

That meant it was a work day, of course, but the middle of the week? If Ryan was truly considerate he would have threatened them all on a Friday to let them recuperate. But, of course, trauma or no, they had a job to do and a product to create. They had to begin pitches, then writing if they wanted to get Defiant out on time.

The blood was out of the floor when Benny came into work that wretched Wednesday morning. He was always the first in. It gave him time to organize his thoughts, the day, start up some coffee in the communal pot. Always the first in the office, except this time, he wasn’t.

Gramlich had dragged his draftsman’s stool to sit in front of Benny’s desk and was reading Emma (the same as Julius had the day before, Benny remembered, and with equal amounts of derision). Normally Gramlich stayed in his office the whole day, and was near to the last one to arrive, just before the Eatons by ten minutes or so, and yet here he was.

“You’re here early,” said Benny sitting at his desk and setting down his things. Gramlich closed the book in his hands unceremoniously and tucked it into his suit jacket. 

“Yes, well you don’t have an office and I don’t want to make a scene.”

Benny frowned at that. “What’s this about?”

“I’m quitting,” Gramlich said bluntly. He was wearing his hat, Benny noticed, like he was ready to leave right after this and so hadn’t bothered taking it off. “I doubt that you all have any sort of severance package and I’d like to get ahead of anything protracted.”

“And why are you quitting?” asked Benny.

“Mr. Russel,” sighed Gramlich, “you’re a very smart man which is not a compliment I pay lightly.”

“Ah.” It was about yesterday, then. 

“‘Ah’ indeed.” Gramlich stood. “You can find my letter of resignation on your desk. For both of our sakes, I’ve kept it brief.” He shifted his weight and gave Benny a long look. “I will say I’ve quite liked working here. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Russel.”

Gramlich was already starting to walk away when Benny managed to get a response out. “I don’t accept,” he said.

At that, Gramlich froze. “What?”

“Your resignation,” clarified Benny, tapping the paper in front of him. Still warm. Probably written on Benny’s typewriter too if he had to guess.

Gramlich knit his brows. “Whyever not?”

“Even if we were able to afford an artist of your caliber for what we pay you,” for even half, really, “and even if you hadn’t saved my life, I still wouldn’t accept. I reject your reasoning.”

“Which is?”

He was being difficult on purpose. Benny wasn’t sure why he expected anything else. “Most of us at least were here to hear what that man said about you,” he said patiently, “and your lack of denials.”

Gramlich hummed. “He was rather loud,” he agreed. “And there was no reason to deny anything. I am, as he said, a faggot. And a cocksucker—a rather good one at that, and fairly prolific in my day. It’s been a spell, but I’m sure if you asked nicely I could give a demonstration.” Gramlich grinned at that, all teeth, a shark’s grin. His brows were furrowed now, and he’s made his way back over to Benny’s desk, leaning threateningly over the edge of his, hands grasping the sides.

Benny just leveled him with an unimpressed look. “You’re trying to make me feel, what, squeamish? Put off? Mr. Gramlich, I do not care that you are a homosexual. I would even go so far as to say that the office at large doesn’t care either.”

“You cannot possibly know that. I’m rather sure of the opposite, in fact.”

That was likely true to an extent. “I’ll rephrase then: if anyone does, I’d rather have them resign than you.”

“You’ve known them all far longer than you’ve known me,” said Gramlich, seemingly deeply confused.

“And if they have a problem with my decision I won’t have known them half as well as I like.” Benny leaned in, staring at the man in front of him with stern, unflinching eyes. “We want you here, Gramlich. I want you here. There’s not a single member of this operation that isn’t, as Officer Ryan so eloquently put it, ‘deviant’ in some way. If anything, you fit in more with us now than you did before. So no, I don’t accept your resignation unless you have a better reason than that.”

Gramlich just stood there for a spell, staring at him, his face as unreadable as ever. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quiet. He straightened then, and nonchalantly took the drafting stool from in front of Benny desk, starting the short walk back to his little alcove office. His mask was up again, and he looked for all the world like nothing had just occurred. Just before he crossed the threshold into his studio, Benny spoke again.

“You’re a part of this crew,” he said. “You always have been. And I’m glad you are. And it’s an honor to meet you again, Mr. Gramlich.”

Gramlich didn’t turn to face him, but he did freeze for a moment. “And you, Mr. Russel,” he replied, taking off his hat.

---

It was almost two weeks later before it really hit Kay.

She should have known it was coming. She had, in a way, and it wasn’t really a surprise when she stopped suddenly in Darlene’s kitchen halfway to picking up a salad bowl for dinner. 

But it had been the same the first time she killed someone, freezing suddenly in the middle of a mission, a bullet whizzing so close to her head it cut a path through her hair. It was only Silmond pulling her to the ground that kept the next one from splattering her brains across the rocks behind them.

It had been the same when her father had died, numbness and nothingness for two weeks until one day she’d just snapped, keeled over like a sailboat in a tsunami while their cell had been setting up camp.

But that had been years ago. She hadn’t had a similar incident since the last day of the occupation when everything hit her at once that it was, at least for the most part, over. Previously it had only ever been triggered by far more egregious circumstances. Maybe she was going soft. 

“Kay?” Darlene was standing in front of her, head cocked in concern. Kay looked up at her, and blinked, eyes refocusing.

“Mm?”

“You’re just sort of standing there,” Darlene said.

Kay shrugged. “Mm.”

That just seemed to make things worse. “You’re communicating in monosyllabic grunts, Kay.”

She shrugged again. “Mm.”

“Right. I can work with that.” That seemed to be more to herself than to Kay. “This is about the 31st, yeah?”

Obviously. “Mm.”

“I figured.” She slotted her hand in Kay’s gently. “I’m going to take you to the couch, is that okay?”

Kay nodded. “Mm.”

“Right. Okay, come with me.” She tugged lightly on Kay’s arm, and Kay followed her like a loyal dog. Darlene eased them both onto her couch and, to no small amount of disappointment on Kay’s end, extracted her hand from Kay's grip. “I’m just going to talk for now and you don’t have to say anything. I’m surprised you didn’t say anything earlier—well, no. No, I’m not. But you know you can always talk to me about anything, Kay.” 

Like how much she wanted her? Please. Kay snorted.

“I’m serious! I won’t pretend to know what’s going through your head. I don’t know what you’ve been through, or what you’re going through. But whatever you need—” Silently, Kay took Darlene’s hand again. Darlene faltered, then smiled, the faintest hint of color on her cheeks. “Just me, huh?”

“Mm.” Just her. Always just her.

“Softie,” Darlene said, but she looked delighted nonetheless. “I was scared out of my wits you know. That whole time. I’ve seen what—what people like that can do. And I just kept thinking ‘oh God they’re going to die.’ Just over and over again. And then you! You, like an avenging angel—that’s about the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. And the dumbest.”

A sound of protest escaped Kay’s lips. “Ah!”

“Yes, Kay, and the dumbest. Jesus, you could have been fucking killed! Or arrested or whatever else! But I said the bravest first for a reason.” She squeezed Kay’s hand. “You’re a real hero, you know that.”

That was too much. And untrue, blatantly untrue. “No.”

“Ooh, that was a word that time. And yes, you are.”

“I just had to do something, D,” she croaked.

“I know you did,” said Darlene softly. “And I’m glad for it. You wouldn’t be the person I—the person I know if you hadn’t.”

“Yeah.” The words came easier now. “You know I can’t stop looking at my hands?” she said. “They don’t even hurt anymore, it only took a week. Julius said that was normal. But I can’t stop looking at them.”

“‘Out damned spot?’”

“Something like that. I keep looking down and thinking there’s going to be blood on my knuckles, or a scar. Something. But I look down, and they’re just my hands.”

Darlene hesitated for a second then lifted Kay’s hand to her lips. With a tenderness that took Kay’s breath away she pressed a kiss, just a tiny thing, to her knuckles. Darlene looked up at Kay through her lashes, lifting her head up ever so slightly and achingly slowly. “They’re good hands, Kay,” she said. “They do good things.”

“Y—yeah.”

“I know it’s not much. I know you don’t believe me when I said it, and I know I don’t know what you’re thinking right now. But you really are a hero. Now, then.” She pressed another kiss to Kay’s knuckles. “A hero.”

And when Kay looked down at her hands, her lipstick-stained knuckles were as red as her cheeks.

---

Every night he woke up in a cold sweat.

It was strange: he hadn’t been affected like this in the war. Not that he’d handled the deaths of his men with aplomb, but any reactions he’d had were contained within his waking hours. Immediately following Jimmy’s murder and his own beating it had been much the same. No, it had been Dunmore that had done it. He’d had nightmares most nights there as well.

But it had been almost two years ago now. Nightmares were an occasional thing, a thing of the past. He’d wake suddenly, and it would fade. But not with this. Fuck, not with this.

“Benny?” Cassie’s voice came groggily from behind him. He must have woken her as he bolted upright. He hadn’t meant to.

“Go back to sleep, Cass,” he said softly, tracing the line of her bonnet, “it’s alright.”

She ignored him of course and sat up, resting her head against his shoulder. “Another nightmare?” 

She knew him too well. “Mhm.” He pressed a kiss against her forehead.

“The office or the street?”

“A bit of both. And the asylum.” Already it was starting to fade, but not fast enough.

“Oh, baby.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright.” Cassie’s voice was wretched. “And I wish there was something I could do.”

“You’re doing what you can,” he said gently. “That’s all I could ask.” It meant the world to him, really. Likely part of the reason for the nightmares beginning in the first place in Dunmore had been the fact they kept him from her. They were each other’s support, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, or her for him.

Cassie pursed her lips. “I’d do more if I could. I’d kill that cop if I could for what he did to you.”

Benny laughed softly. “I don’t doubt it, baby. And I appreciate it.”

“I’d cut his damn head off and parade him through the streets.”

“I bet.”

“I can’t believe it was the same motherfucker,” she spat. Righteous, protective anger was practically radiating off her in waves. “And he didn’t recognize you? After everything he did to you the first time?”

“Not a lick.” Likely, Ryan didn’t think another powerless Negro was a man worth remembering.

“Of course the bastard didn’t. Of course. I’ll kill that son of a bitch. How dare he?”

The memories of the nightmare had faded by now, and with Cassie pressed against him he felt warm and comfortable. It was very sweet, her rage on her behalf. She wasn’t a woman who angered all that easily, but when she was lit up like this, it was a treat. How he adored her. “He’s just like every other cop, baby,” he said soothingly. 

“I’ll kill them all too,” Cassie seethed.

“For me?”

“For you. No one’s going to treat you like that again.”

“You’ll protect me?”

“Tooth and nail. You deserve it.”

He kissed her, then. And once more for good measure. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Let me decide what you deserve, mister.” Cassie rested a hand on his cheek, and he leaned into the touch. “You feeling any better?”

“Very.”

“Good. Because it’s three o’clock in the morning and we’ve both got work tomorrow.” She settled back down into bed with finality, and Benny was helpless to do anything but join her. “And if that pig comes back to haunt your dreams, I’ll get ‘em.”

Benny laughed. “Good night, Cassie-love.”

“Good night, Benny-dearest.”

---

It was past seven when Kay started getting ready to head home. She and Julius were working on a joint story this time, their first in a year and a half, and it was shaping up to be a good one. Crossover wasn’t either of their usual things, but it was nice to work together again. She’d missed it.

Kay was packing up the last few pages from her typewriter when she noticed him.

She didn’t deign to turn and face him, but still she watched Gramlich warily from the corner of her eye. “You’re still here.”

“So are you,” he countered, unimpressed. Unlike herself, he wasn’t getting ready to go, but busy inking. Gramlich wore glasses when doing detail work, something he pretended to not be self conscious about. Even still, Kay noticed him no-so-discreetly removing them upon seeing her.

“Julius told me he had to grab something from downstairs and to wait up for him,” she explained, folding her arms.

“He left a half an hour ago, Ms. Hunter.” Gramlich smiled, charmed. “He lied.”

“So why are you here then?” she snapped. 

Other than the obvious? his arched brow seemed to say. “I tend to leave late. And Ms. Kursky asked me to close up.”

Darlene’s involvement complicated things. “Some scheme from both of them then?”

“Most likely.”

Kay scowled. “To, what, get us to talk?” They probably thought it was healthy. Which just showed what they knew.

“So it would seem.” Gramlich holstered his inking pen and stared at her. He rested an irritatingly not ink stained hand against his cheek.

“It’s not like they can actually make us do that. I mean, we can both just go home.”

“True,” he agreed. “But, I would note, Ms. Hunter, you’re still here.”

“So are you.”

“That I am.” Gramlich pulled a cigarette from his pocket and held one out to her. His brow was raised again, a silent challenge. But, fuck it. A free cig was a free cig. She took it and leaned in the doorway of his office, taking the light when he offered it too.

“I didn’t take you for the talking-about-your-feelings type,” Kay said after a long drag.

“Nor I, you. I do, however, want to thank you for saving my life.” Which would explain the cigarette. He wasn’t exactly a generous man normally, at least not by Kay’s estimations.

She waved her hand dismissively. “You didn’t think you were going to die. You would have moved if you did.”

“On the contrary, Ms. Hunter,” he said through a mouth full of smoke, “tensing makes the injuries sustained hurt more. Rather, I was going to take the first blow and move from there. It is unlikely, however, that any retaliation on my part would have not resulted in my death, either by office Ryan or by one of his brothers in blue.”

Kay frowned at that. “But you still goaded him.”

“Yes, well.” He ashed his cigarette. “Better myself than Mr. Russel.”

“I won’t argue that.”

“I didn’t imagine you would. Still, thank you. I do enjoy being alive even if there are things I’m willing to die for.”

“Julius thanked me for saving you too,” she said, not entirely meaning to. Gramlich stilled slightly at that, just for a second. Interesting.

“Did he really?”

“Yeah.” Kay watched him fiddle with his cigarette. “But I didn’t do it for you. Or for him.”

“Oh?” His eyes glinted.

Whatever. If Darlene and Julius wanted them to talk, what the hell. It was late, she was tired, and she had no use for pride at the moment. “I’ve watched a lot of people get killed, Gramlich,” she said. “A lot of people. And most of the time I couldn’t do anything about it. But I’ll be dead before I let another fascist kill someone if there’s something I can do. I don’t like you, but you didn’t deserve to die for that. Other things, maybe, but being a homosexual? No.”

“You seem very sure of my past nefarious deeds.” He was trying to deflect. Kay had been expecting it.

“And am I wrong about that?”

“Even still,” Gramlich replied, which meant he didn’t care enough to bother deflecting that one. It was all but a confession, really, coming from him.

“I know your kind.”

“Germans?”

“People trying to do better to make up for something,” she said, tapping the ash off her cigarette. 

A small smile tugged at Gramlich’s lips. “I suppose it takes one to know one?”

“Maybe.” God, she hated dealing with him. He was so fucking annoying. “Look, I wanted to thank you too.”

“For?”

“For pulling me off of him.” Did she have to spell it out? “I would have killed him, I think.”

Gramlich was quiet for a minute (a minor miracle), then he took a drag from his cig and looked her square in the eye with those icy blues of his. “I’ve seen a lot of death too,” he said. “I wonder when I lost my taste for it.”

“Me too,” she admitted. “Things were easier when death was.”

“Quite. And when I carried a knife.” He seemed to be uncomfortable with the honesty and sentiment again because he was back to deflecting again.

“I miss my rifle sometimes.” Maybe she was uncomfortable too. And she did.

Gramlich nodded. “They’re lovely weapons. Effective, if prone to jamming.”

“I guess you don’t have that problem with a knife.”

“No. Technically speaking, the rules of my extraction simply prohibit me from possessing a firearm, but how were they to know my weapon of choice? It’s the spirit of the thing.”

“Magnanimous of you.”

“I like to think so.” He would.

Kay took a long drag. “Extraction, huh?” She wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d slipped up by saying it. It was a peace offering, then.

“It wasn’t exactly easy to travel from Berlin to New York in 1943.” Definitely a peace offering. Were they bonding? Kay didn’t like that one bit.

“Especially for a spy.”

“Goodness no. What was I supposed to put on my paperwork for occupation?”

Kay snickered, despite herself. The triumphant look on his face at her reaction brought her back to reality. “How the hell did you even survive?”

“I have a talent for it. And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Ms. Hunter, but I am a rather good liar.”

“I did pick up on that.” If they were sharing, bonding, offering one another fucking olive branches, well, Kay had a hell of one to give. “Even still, those fascist fucks were good at finding us.”

His brows raised into his hairline at that. “My, my, Mrs. Eaton. Does Mr. Eaton know?” 

“He’s not that dense when it comes to people, you know.”

Gramlich looked a touch disbelievingly at that but just shrugged. “One can never be sure. People tend not to see what they don’t want to. It does make more sense though.”

“What does?”

“Why you would bother preventing my death.”

“You’re as bad as Julius—you don’t need some sort of homosexual connection to someone to not want them to die, Gramlich. My reasoning doesn’t change because of solidarity or whatever else.”

That seemed to surprise him. He put out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk and stood. “You’re a strange woman, Mrs. Eaton.”

“You know you asked when we first met which name I preferred. I think you pick based on whatever point you’re making.” Gramlich hummed in an enigmatic way that Kay interpreted as a yes. She barreled ahead. “I prefer ‘Kay.’”

Gramlich looked momentarily like he had a hairball, but even still he managed to get out, “Kay, then. After everything…well. After everything it seems like the least I can do.”

“I’m still not calling you by your first name though, even if you do ask,” she said, moving to recollect her things. 

He just scoffed. “Goodness no. We wouldn’t want the other to think we like one another or anything.”

“My thoughts exactly. You’re still an untrustworthy enemy spy after all.”

“And you’re certainly stuck in the past a normal amount.” Fucker. Kay barely restrained giving him the finger. “And can you imagine how smug Mr. Eaton and Ms. Kursky would be after having orchestrated their foolish little scheme? It hardly bears thinking about.” She had to give him that.

“I’ll be sure to curse your name tomorrow morning in front of them.”

“You’d better.”

Notes:

Queer employment discrimination technically became banned in the 1964 Civil Rights Act, but it wasn’t explicitly covered by it until 2020. Historically then, there is a very good chance that Gramlich would have been fired after getting outed, hence him trying to get ahead of it. The 50s in particular were a pretty bad decade to be queer, gay men being targeted on the state and nationwide stage more than they had before thanks to the McCarthy era. Hooray!

Sodomy itself (broadly, penetrative gay sex) began to be decriminalized starting in 1961 in Illinois, but the second state to do the same was Connecticut a full decade later, and New York didn’t follow suit until the 1980s. Nationwide it wasn’t decriminalized by the Supreme Court until motherfucking 2003 in a 6–3 ruling. Sitting member of the Court Clarence Thomas was a part of the dissent.
Bonus! If you go farther back, you can find delightful little gems like in Virginia in 1800 commuting the sentences of those on Death Row for homosexuality to a maximum of 10 years! Unless you were enslaved of course, then you still got killed. Massachusetts followed Virginia’s lead for once in 1805, and Maryland and New Hampshire in 1806 and 1809 respectively. The last state to ban the death penalty for homosexuality was South Carolina in 1873.

The Abwehr was just riddled with double agents. Frankly, a lot of the Nazi government wasn’t super jazzed about the whole Nazi thing. Even still, most went along with it without little more than a token protest or a private disagreement. This included large chunks of the Abwehr (the German intelligence agency from the start of the Weimar Republic to the end of the Third Reich), who did things like giving advance warning of the invitations of Czechoslovakia and Poland and giving the Allies Wehrmacht troop movements etc. but still worked for the Nazis regime all the same doing, you know, Nazi shit.

Also yes, yes it’s very hard to kill someone with a knife and Garak uses a disrupter in the show, but think about ease of concealment and also I just like knives. I think they’re cool, sue me! I imagine Gramlich’s just very good at using them. They’re also quiet, which guns are not.

Chapter 11: October 1951: A Small Handful Upon This Planet

Notes:

Hey, so this chapter's research notes hit the character limit and then some for the end notes, so some of them are going to be here. Skip past this to not get I guess lightly spoiled? Originally, this opened with a comment about how long the research took and how long, then, the writing of it took in turn. Fitting, I guess.

Let’s start with baseball again, shall we? “The Shot Heard ‘Round the World” is one of the most famous plays in all of baseball history, and considering it’s the Giants, I just had to include it. Even if it meant doing more research in baseball. Now, my first question was “could Defiant see this game live or was Polo Grounds segregated?” The answer is sort of. I’d recommend this article about the history of marginalization in baseball if you want to learn more. It’s a really interesting read.

Trying to manage making what the importance of the game is clear and also interesting to a non-baseball audience who wants to read about space is very difficult and I hope to God I’ve succeeded. Blame Sisko, not me. “Merkel’s Boner” is a fuck up by Fred Merkel back in the ‘00s that has a fucking hysterical name. He flubbed a run and it became his legacy. Bobby Thompson did fuck up similarly in this game, justifying me mentioning it. Russ Hodges was the announcer for the Giants and his commentary is also some of the most famous in all of sports. The quote from him is what he actually said.

Converse are mad old! They’ve been around since the 1910s and look basically the same the whole time. They really hit their stride in popularity in the 1936 Olympics (that was the Nazi one), and after that in WWII as a shoe for training and the rest is history. Darlene likely would have been introduced to them properly during her basic training then, hence her wearing them for athletics in the here and now. Women doing sports wasn’t as stigmatized in the 50s as it was earlier in the 1900s, and so women playing baseball wouldn’t have exactly been earth shattering. Just not professionally of course. They also would have been wearing pants without much head turning (as long as it was still in a femme way).

(Notes continue in the usual spot)

It felt like it was all happening so fast. Not that anything in baseball ever did.

The lead up to the playoff pennant had been tense. The Dodgers (of course) had dominated. That hadn’t been the surprise. But the Giants were number two, and had been for almost the entire season. By mid-August the Dodgers were up by a staggering thirteen games, but then as the teams kept playing, the Giants were winning and winning and then it had been sixteen straight victories and August was over. By the tail end of September, there were seven games left to see who would make it to the World Series to face the Yankees.

The Dodgers choked. The Giants won all seven. 

The wins were tied. To decide who was making it to the Series it was decided it would be three games to call it, but sure enough, the wins were tied again. The first game had gone to the Giants, but the second was a blowout for the Dodgers.

And now it was October.

It had been a hard sell for most of the Defiant crew, but with Ron hosting in his gorgeous house and broadcasting it on his massive 19” TV, Benny, Darlene, and Keiko had managed to talk some of the others into joining them to watch the game.

Ron’s enthusiasm had been a pleasant surprise, but according to a deeply bored looking Herb he’d always been obsessed with it, even if he couldn’t play worth a damn. Currently, Ron had joined Keiko in explaining the rules to Albert between innings. Darlene and Cassie were engaged in a rapid-fire discussion about various players' batting aptitudes that had Lisa and the Eatons looking lost. Benny was letting Herbert complain to him about his lack of interest—the cost of his attendance. 

“It’s back on!” cried Lisa as a commercial ended, seemingly relieved for the break in the conversation she’d been trapped in. The rest of the viewers returned their attention to the TV with various degrees of enthusiasm.

A torn-seeming Cassie patted Darlene’s arm. “We’ll get back to talking later, then.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” she replied.

“It’s all but over now though, isn’t it?” grumbled Herb. “I mean, bottom of the ninth, down three. I say we call it a night.” It had been a good game so far, mused Benny, though not for the Giants. The Dodgers had been the only team to score a run for seven innings before the Giants managed to get one of their own, only for the Dodgers to manage three in the eighth.

Darlene let out a noise of disbelief. “Before it’s over? Are you crazy?”

“Yeah, brother,” chimed in Ron. “Y—you never know. The game’s still going.”

“Not for much longer,” grouched Herbert. Things weren’t looking good, admittedly. It wasn’t an unbeatable lead, but this late in the game it might as well have been. Still, it had been a good season if nothing else, and resting on the Rossofs’ comfortably plush couch Benny was happy enough. And he’d never been the type to throw the towel in. Especially not in baseball. It made him an optimist.

“Likely not,” he said to appease Herbert. “But Ron is right. We’ve watched this far. You can go if you want.” Herb muttered something under his breath but didn’t move. 

“Keiko?” asked Julius while the Dodgers took the field.

“Yes?”

“If you’re from San Francisco, why root for the Giants? They’re not exactly your home team.”

“No,” she agreed, “but we don’t have a ‘home team.’”

“No?”

“No, not in the Majors. The farthest west team is the Browns in St. Louis.”

Kay hummed. “How’d you get into baseball then?” she asked.

“Oh, we still have the Pacific Coast League,” replied Keiko. There was no way in hell the Eatons knew what that was—they barely understood the difference between the American and National Leagues after all—but they could likely figure it out from context clues.

“Who’s your team there?” asked Kay.

Keiko laughed. “The Seals, of course! You know Joe DiMaggio played for us before he joined the Yankees? Same with his brothers. But we don’t get their games out here. And since I’ve relocated, I needed a new team. And Albert is a Giant’s fan because he doesn't have a choice otherwise.” She pressed a kiss to her husband’s cheek. Albert snorted.

But Benny’s focus had left the conversation and was squarely on the TV now. He sat up a little straighter in his seat. “Hold on.”

“What is it?”

“There are three on base.”

Kay frowned. “And?”

“And no outs.”

“And Bobby Thompson at the bat,” said Keiko slowly, eyes widening.

“Is he good?” Julius asked.

“Good enough for the Major Leagues.”

Darlene scoffed at that. “He’s the one who recreated Merkel’s Boner in the second inning.” Herbert snickered from his corner.

“But he got that sacrifice fly in the seventh,” Cassie reminded her. Lisa wound up for a rebuttal but Benny cut in.

“Quiet, everyone. You all just missed a strike.”

“Shoot!” Darlene hissed

Cassie put a finger to her lips. “Shh! I’m trying to hear Hodges!”

The Dodger’s pitcher wound up for his second shot as Russ Hodges, the Giants’ loyal announcer’s voice crackled over the TV. “Branca throws…”

Crack! Thompson hit the ball and it soared into the air, the second it hit the hard wood of the bat, he seemed to be running.

“There's a long fly…” said Hodges as the field erupted into movement. Thompson was running, as were his fellow Giants at base, and the Dodgers in the field scrambling towards the ball, still flying— “it's gonna be…” —it was going, going, going— “I believe…” —gone! 

It was gone!

“The Giants win the pennant!” crowed Hodges, “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! Bobby hit it into the lower deck of the left-field stands…”

“We did it?” asked Benny, staring at the TV screen. The rest of the room was frozen, frozen as it hit them.

Cassie was nodding, eyes wide. “We did it!” 

“Holy shit, we did it!” Darlene was flushed and laughing. 

“That’s the game?” asked Julius. 

“That’s the game! We’re in the World Series, we made it! We made it!”

“The Giants win the pennant and they're going crazy...I don't believe it! I don't believe it! I will not believe it! Bobby Thomson hit a line drive into the lower deck of the left-field stands and the place is going crazy!”

Benny kissed Cassie then—or was it other was around? He was breathless. He was lightheaded. “The World Series…”

“And what a way to get it too.” Cassie’s arms were around him and the Giants were going to the World Series. Willie was going to the World Series.

“The Giants—Horace Stoneham has got a winner! The Giants win it by a score of 5–4—and they're picking Bobby Thomson up and carrying him off the field!” The grainy figure of Bobby Thompson was barely visible in the mass of celebrators, his team, and Hodges could barely be heard over the din. 

Benny, grinning so wide his cheeks ached, turned towards Herbert. “And you wanted to leave.”

“Oh, shut up,” he grouched, but he was smiling too.

---

It wasn’t exactly throwing in the towel, but it wasn’t not that either. After last year, Benny had somewhat lost his taste for writing horror. So this year, he was just doing what he always did. Let the others duke it out. 

Benny was calling this one Rapture. Destiny was coming for Captain Sisko. It was calling his name. 

Benny set his fingers against the keys of his typewriter and began. B’hala awaited. 

---

There was a little fenced-in area behind Darlene’s apartment that was a cross between a park and an alley that miraculously, no one ever used. Which was to say, it was perfect.

“I don’t know how you’ve never played baseball before,” said Darlene, setting out some miscellaneous gear Kay recognized distantly from last week’s broadcast.

“It just wasn’t something my family ever did!” Kay replied, laughing. “We were football people more than anything.” Every Thanksgiving growing up had been spent with grass stained knees and muddy shoes. Kay had lost her first tooth playing football at her cousins’ place out of the city. She still remembered those games fondly, even if the girl she had been was all but unrecognizable to her now.

Putting on a worn glove, Darlene shook her head. “But…baseball! I mean, come on.” 

Ever since the game on the third it seemed the office was struck with baseball fever. Benny, Keiko, and Darlene of course, but even some of the others had been getting into it, excited by the prospect of the World Series now that the Giants had gotten into it in such a dramatic fashion. There had been talk of a little scrimmage of some sort and one thing had led to the other and now she and Darlene were at this park/alley with baseball gear everywhere.

Kay sighed indulgently. “I’m learning it now, aren’t I?”

“That you are,” said Darlene fondly. She handed Kay a glove that matched her own. “I take it you know how to throw a ball?”

“What am I, four? Yes, I know how to throw a ball.”

“Well, that’s half the game right there! It’s a lot of throwing and catching.”

That Kay could do, easy. “And the other half?”

A wicked gleam came into Darlene’s eye. “That’s the fun bit, the batting.”

“That’s just hitting a ball with a stick. I think I can manage.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Darlene tutted. 

“Is there?”

“It’s not as easy as just hitting it. It’s a small, fast moving object. You’ve got to be able to gage if it’s at an angle you can hit. And there’s some aim too—if you just hit the ball but it doesn’t go into the field, then that counts as a strike just as surely as missing it. And bunting! Sometimes it’s better to hit it a shorter distance than to send it out to the stands.”

That did, admittedly, sound like more. “Oh.”

“But,” said Darlene, smiling encouragingly, “it’s still not too terribly difficult to get the hang of. I’m sure you’ll be great at it.”

“You said that about fencing.”

Darlene pouted. “In my defense, I really did think that would be up your alley.”

“It was a good idea,” said Kay. “I just don’t see the point of rules in a sword fight.”

“It’s not just a sword fight.”

“That was the problem.” Weapons as sport never really made sense to Kay. If you gave her a sword, why police how she used it? If she had to use it in real life it wasn’t like there would be points and fouls. But that was an old argument now. “Anyway. Baseball?”

“Baseball.” Darlene took a ball from a haphazard pile she’d arranged in a corner of their secluded alley. “I figure we can cover catching with the glove for a little bit to warm you up before moving to batting.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kay agreed, and Darlene tossed her the ball. Catching it with the glove was easy enough, as was falling into a comfortable back and forth of pitches, catches, and conversation. Conversation with Darlene was always easy. “I can’t believe you, Keiko, and Benny have managed to rope us into a baseball game.”

Darlene smiled at that. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

“With how you three are? That’s true. But I really thought the others would have dug their feet in for longer.”

“Gramlich especially. I didn’t see that coming at all, really. I always assumed if we organized something he'd sit it out.” Kay couldn’t help but agree with that. Despite the understanding the two of them had come to, the image of the prim German in a baseball hat and bulky, unfashionable glove was deeply amusing.

“Benny got him in the end,” she explained. “He’s scary convincing sometimes. And he doesn’t mess around when it comes to baseball.”

“That is true.” After catching an easy lob Kay tossed her way, Darlene held the ball for a moment before throwing again, considering. “You want to try some grounders real quick?”

“‘Grounders?’”

“Just the ball rolling on the ground.” That was self explanatory at least. 

“It’s not out of play?”

“Nope.”

“Right.” Kay nodded. “Okay, yeah, grounders.”

“It’s easy too, don’t worry. Roll the ball over to me?” asked Darlene, and when Kay did, she bent over. “You lean down like this, and then shuffle over and scoop it up. Here,” she said after nabbing the ball in her glove, and rolled it back over to Kay.

“On it.” 

The two of them continued like that for a while, rolling grounders and throwing and catching intermittently. It was nice, something simple but engaging. Kay could see the appeal. Finally, after who knew how long, Darlene tossed her glove over to the corner she’d put the other baseball things.

“Ready for batting?” she asked.

Kay shrugged as Darlene handed her a bat. “As I’ll ever be.”

“It’s very cathartic.” It did seem that way. “You’ll like it, trust me.”

Kay smiled at that as she got a feel for the bat in her hands, the smooth, slightly worn wood not as heavy as she’d imagined. Did she trust Darlene? She’d walk off a cliff if Darlene offered her a hand and smiled at her in that toothy, excitable way of hers. “Don’t I always?” she said.

Kay could have sworn Darlene’s cheeks pinked ever so slightly at that. “You do,” she agreed. Then, clearing her throat and, with only one bat between them, mimed the position she wanted Kay to take. “Hold the bat like this,” she said.

Feeling somewhat foolish, Kay copied her. “Like this?” 

“Raise your elbow a bit? And your hands should be together. There we go. Perfect.” She smiled encouragingly. “I’m going to throw you the ball, okay? Try to hit it.”

“Okay. I can do that.” Darlene wound up for the pitch then fast as anything the ball was coming right for Kay. She swung with all her might, but the ball whistled unstruck down the alleyway. “Damn.”

“Told you,” said Darlene with a shrug, picking up another ball from the pile, “it’s a little harder than it looks.”

“That it is,” Kay agreed. She held her bat in position. “Again?”

“Of course.” The two of them practiced until the pile of baseball by Darlene had gone, Kay missing most of them. When she did manage to make contact, the crack of the wood against the ball was intoxicating. 

“I think I can see what the problem is,” said Darlene as the two of them collected the balls from around their little alley/park.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re picking up your back foot on the follow through.”

“Oh. I take it you’re not supposed to?”

“No,” Darlene agreed. “You pick up your back heel as you’re turning, but both feet should still be on the ground.”

Kay frowned. “Was I not?”

“Not every time. It throws off your balance.”

“Right.” A couple more pitches and half way through the baseball and little had changed when it came to Kay’s batting average. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” she said. It looked deceptively easy, and while she was making contact most pitches, they tended to go “foul” as Darlene said. And the rest weren’t hits at all, foul or otherwise. 

Darlene chewed her lip thoughtfully and refrained from picking up another baseball. Finally, she walked off the patch of grass they’d deemed her pitcher’s mound and over to Kay. 

“Can I show you?” she asked.

“Of course.” 

Kay had thought Darlene was just going to take the bat, but instead, she went up behind Kay. There was a wild, panicked moment when all Kay could think was well, how’s she going to show me from there? Darlene’s Converse tapped the side of Kay’s Keds. 

“Feet apart,” said Darlene, and Kay did so helplessly.

“Feet apart,” she repeated.

Darlene’s hands raised Kay’s arm, her touch feather light. “Elbow up.” Kay could feel her breath on her ear.

“Elbow up.”

 “Hands together.” Long, slender fingers made their way to the bat, and Kay’s hands clasped around it.

“H—hands together.”

“Then you’re going to swing, slowly now, for this.” Darlene’s hands made their way from the bat to Kay’s body, her fingers tracing their way down her hips. “Keep your body even. Steady.” Blood roared in Kay’s ears. All thoughts were replaced with the feeling of Darlene’s chest against her back, the feeling of her heart ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. Darlene was still talking. “Just your heel up on the twist. Just like that. Perfect.” Kay wasn’t even cognizant of her body moving, though Darlene’s words implied she was. She was barely speaking above a whisper, her lips right against the shell of her ear now. “Then the follow through.”

And, well, Kay had been following her instructions thus far well enough. 

She turned her head, ever so slightly so her cheek brushed against Darlene’s, and followed through.

Kay became aware she was kissing Darlene like this: one, the feeling of it. Lips on yours is a distinct sensation. Two, the weakness in her knees. As a rule, Kay was not predisposed to swooning, but Darlene Kursky kissed the world was ending. And three, she dropped the bat she’d been holding.

Weirdly, it was the third one that made her brain catch up to the rest of her.

Finally, finally, she was kissing Darlene.

Oh fuck. She was kissing Darlene.

Just as quickly as she had leaned in, Kay pulled away. “Oh shit,” she said eloquently. “Oh shit.” There were reasons she hadn’t done this before, weren’t they? They were getting a little hard to remember with Darlene’s hands still on her waist like that. “Sorry, I—”

“Kay.” Darlene gave her an amused look and bushed a curl behind Kay’s ear. What were the reasons again? Something something did she even feel that way about her too? Darlene’s expression brokered little argument in that regard. 

“D…” Darlene kissed her again, and this time Kay tuned properly, facing the woman in front of her, leaning into the kiss. ”I’ve wanted—” One of Darlene’s hands was tanged in Kay’s hair. “—for so long—” The other rested on the small of her back, flirting with inching lower. She licked into Kay’s mouth with the enthusiasm and fire with which she did everything in her life.

“Me too,” she breathed as they pulled apart just enough for air. Her face was flushed, but then again, Kay’s probably was too. Then she laughed. “I…oh, Kay. This is what clued you in? Baseball?”

Kay blinked. Darlene was father apart now, and mirth twinkled in her eyes. “What?”

“I haven't exactly been subtle.”

She flushed. In hindsight…well what use was hindsight anyway. “Well, I mean—”

Darlene kissed the tip of her nose and giggled. “And you get on Julius for being thick sometimes.”

“That’s different!”

“Is it? Kay, we’ve been all but dating for months now.”

“You thought I was married!” she cried. “Happily! In a heterosexual way!”

“Maybe for the first month or so. But come on, Kay.”

“Okay, well—I mean is it obvious?” A touch of fear wormed her way into her voice, but Darlene shook her head.

“Not to most people I’m sure.”

“But…?”

“But I know you too well.”

Kay tucked her head into the crook of Darlene’s neck and pressed a small kiss there before saying, “You do, don’t you?”

“I do.” Kay could hear the smile in Darlene’s voice.

“I think I’m in love with you,” she blurted out, because it was not the day for Kay’s brain as the one in charge of her body. She jolted from her place against Darlene, eye wide as saucers. “Fuck!”

Darlene just laughed. “Kay—”

“Listen, okay, I’ve wanted you for so long that I guess it just came out and—”

“Kay—” Jesus she was still laughing. Was that a good sign?

“I do, though, you’re the most electric person I’ve ever met and I never feel more alive than I do with you and—”

“Kay!” Darlene nearly shouted, grabbing her arms and pulling her into a kiss. “Kay,” she repeated. “Breathe, yeah? Breathe.” She kissed her cheek. “You ground me. You make me feel safe. And I feel alive with you too. Blisteringly so.”

If not for the hold Darlene had on her, Kay probably would have melted into the ground. “D?” Her voice trembled a little.

Darlene just smiled. “I love you too.”

---

August and September were duds. How? It wasn’t the quality of the magazine. That was as strong as ever, but even still. The marketing? Darlene was boosting it as well as she could. Benny didn’t know what it was. The natural dangers of the endeavor they were taking on.

But even if it wasn’t the quality, that was something Benny could control. He could only make sure his section was as top notch as it could be. 

Captain Sisko’s son was holding his hand, crying. He didn’t get it. And that was alright. Jake was just a boy, after all. But Bajor needed his father. And it tore Sisko’s heart in two to see Jake like this, but he had no other choice. The lost city needed to be found. The Prophets needed their Emissary to act. 

And Benny Russel needed to write. It was all he could do.

---

Look—Julius knew that when it came to moving on from July, he was the least affected. That was fine. He knew that healing took time—he’d trained to be a doctor after all. He knew that processing trauma looked different for everybody, and that he was lucky—really!—that all he had to contend with was loneliness.

But fuck was he lonely.

Julius Eaton was not a man unaccustomed to loneliness. It was an old friend, really. But it wasn’t a friend he’d seen in a while now, and after all this time it wasn’t one he knew how to deal with, not anymore.

Kay had been orbiting Darlene for long enough his seeing her less and less wasn’t that much of a shift. And he was happy for her, well and truly happy. He’d been nearly as delighted as she was when she’d come home one night all smiles and giggles and exclamations of glee. He could deal with not being around Kay all the time, same with Darlene, especially if it meant they had one another. For their happiness, he could deal with being a little lonely.

Gramlich, on the other hand—

No. Better not to think about that.

Julius was getting lunch with Albert. He’d long since devoured his salad and was fiddling with the fork as he talked animatedly. 

“I’ve always been disappointed by 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea,” said Julius. “On the one hand I know it’s a landmark text in our genre, and Verne’s descriptions of subnautical exploration are far before their time, it’s just that there’s too much emphasis on the science part of the science fiction.”

Albert just took a sip of his soup. “Mm.” That wasn’t much of a rebuttal. That was fine. Julius could work with that.

“I know you prefer that,” he continued, absently twirling his salad fork between his fingers. “I mean you talk about your robots in a similar way Verne talks about his submarine and his deep-sea diving suit and whatnot, but where’s the excitement? There’s exactly three interesting things that happen in the whole book—a shark fight, a whale fight, and a squid fight. Where’s the pathos?” He looked at his lunch companion expectantly.

“Hm.” It looked for a minute like Albert was going to say something, but he dipped a little bit of bread into his soup and nodded slightly. “Mhm.” He had really thought that would have worked, but still nothing. Maybe he was waiting for Julius to finish his argument?

“And then there’s the descriptions of the marine life—I know it sets the scene and all, you don’t have to tell me that, but is it really necessary to spend so long describing the various fish they pass?” Julius’s fidgeting with his fork was a little more anxious now. He hoped Al didn’t notice. “It’s just pages upon pages of ‘then there was a red fish, then a striped fish,’ and on and on. It’s a bore to read! No, give me Around the World in 80 Days any day. It’s by far Verne’s most engaging novel.”

“Julius,” said Albert, setting down his spoon. Julius smiled expectantly. 

“Yes?”

“I’m trying to eat.”

Ah. Julius flushed. “Well, yes, it’s lunch time. Thank you, by the way, for getting lunch with me. With Darlene and our wives out for a girls’ meal it can get pretty lonely this time of day.” And other times of day. No, don’t think of that.

“You’re not exactly, uh…”

“Eating much?”

“Quite.”

“I’ve already finished my lunch. Besides, lunch is about conversation!”

“Not eating?”

“Well, eating too I suppose.” Julius took a sip of his water to avoid making eye contact with Albert even for a moment. “So what do you think?”

“About?”

“Jules Verne! 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea!” Julius exclaimed, a little impatiently.

“Oh.” Albert frowned. “Well, I, uh…”

“Liked the Nautilus?” Julius prompted. It seemed a reasonable guess considering who he was talking to, and if he was wrong, well that was just an avenue for a bit of debate, wasn’t it?

But Albert just nodded. “Exactly.”

At least it was confirmation he’d read the book. Julius plowed on. “I wish we had gotten more from Captain Nemo as a character. Of course we do in the sequel, but I shouldn’t have to read a whole other book for that sort of thing when there’s hardly any characters at all in the first one. And it makes sense coming from our main character’s perspective—he wouldn’t know all that much about Nemo, he is supposed to be enigmatic after all, but at what cost? Who are we as readers supposed to latch onto to care about the Nautilus’ adventures? Because no one is characterized all that heavily. But what do you think?” There were some good questions, good avenues for discussion. He smiled encouragingly at Albert.

Albert just blinked at him, spoon full of soup in his mouth. He swallowed hastily. “Me?”

“Yes, you, Al.” Who else? (Don’t think of who else).

“I mean it’s all very…that is to say…Julius—”

“Yes?”

Albert floundered. Normally, Julius knew, someone would have chimed in to finish his thought, Julius included. Finally, he seemed to give up. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Julius repeated, a little crestfallen. 

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to, er…”

Julius sighed. “Eat?”

“Quite,” said Albert, smiling.

“Quite,” Julius echoed, not.

---

“How are you feeling?” 

Benny blinked awake and furrowed his brow. “Cassie?” he asked. “Why are you here?” Cassie, somehow, was sitting in front of him, perched at his desk chair she’d clearly dragged to be in front of him on the couch. He was on the couch? But when…

“Because I live here. So do you.”

“But I was in the office,” he said. He’d been in the office, writing about B’hala and then…then what? And then…?

“You were at the office,” confirmed Cassie. “Your friends brought you here.”

“Did they? Why?” His head hurt. Was that it? But when had all of this…

“Keiko said you were unresponsive. Talking to yourself about space.” That wasn’t ideal. He didn’t remember any of that.

“Well we do write for a science fiction magazine,” he said. He didn’t remember. He’d been writing and then he’d been here. Maybe he’d pictured the characters a little better than he usually did, but—

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try and joke it away.” Cassie looked bad. Her hair, normally pristine, looked like she’d been running her hands through it. He could see tear tracks on her cheeks. “You were stuck in your head, Benny. Herbert and Al tried to talk to you for twenty minutes before they had to give up—you kept talking to people who weren’t there.”

“I wasn’t…was I?” He didn’t remember. Why didn’t he—

“You were calling them the names of characters in your stories.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right. You haven’t had an episode since…since back then.” Since his nervous breakdown. Since 1949 and the second worst day of his life. Benny dug his nails into his palms. “You were doing better. What happened?”

“Nothing happened. Nothing’s changed.”

Cassie looked unimpressed. “Clearly something has because you weren’t doing any of this yesterday.”

Nothing had happened, not like last time. Just pressure building and building. “I’m just under a lot of stress at work.”

“You said nothing had changed.”

“It hasn’t.”

“Then why the stress?”

“It’s—” He shouldn’t put that on her. “It’s nothing.”

But Cassie looked genuinely furious at that. “It’s not nothing, your staff had to take you home halfway through the day. I had to call out sick.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“I don’t care about any of that, Benny, I care about you! I’m worried!” She leaned forward and grabbed his hands, tight. “I’m not going to take you back to that horrible place but I don’t know what to do!”

“I just need some rest.”

She nodded. “I think you do. Maybe take a week off. Don’t publish in this issue. Your staff can handle it.” But that wasn’t what he’d meant at all. Panic rose in him, true, unadulterated panic. 

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“They need me. The magazine needs me. They’re all counting on me, Cass.” A whole week off? A whole week? He couldn’t.

“They do need you,” she agreed. “But they need you as you, Benny. You’re no use to anyone as a shell talking to spacemen.”

He was shaking his head. “Cassie, I can’t take the week off.”

“Can’t or won’t, Benny Russel.”

“Can’t.” His palms were going to start bleeding at this rate. He forced his hands to relax.

“I don’t believe you.” Cassie released his hands and crossed her arms. “Something is seriously wrong and you won’t talk to me. Please, baby. Talk to me.”

Benny took off his glasses. His head hurt. His head… “I don’t want you to worry. I don’t want any of you to worry.”

“It’s too late for that!” Cassie cried. Her entire body was shaking. She looked scared, so scared. And he’d done that, done it to her. It was too late, she was right. She so often was. The fight left him suddenly in a wave. It was worse to keep it going like this. He knew that, certainly now. It had started such a good month. Everything had started so well.

Putting his glasses back on, Benny made a decision. “Baby…” he started, “baby, can you promise me you won’t tell my crew? That this stays between us?”

Cassie frowned but nodded. “Alright.”

“Defiant is in a bad way.” The words fell like lead from his tongue.

“What do you mean?”

“Financially. We’re barely breaking even most months.”

“Oh.” She didn't seem shocked, but it was a near thing. Her brows knit in concern. “How are you all getting paid?”

“Ron,” he told her.

“Right.” 

“But you know he can’t keep us paid like that forever. He shouldn’t have to.”

“No,” she agreed. “Probably not. So what are you doing about it?”

“What can I do about it?” Benny scrubbed a hand over his face. “We’re doing what we can but it’s not enough. The magazine is perfect, it’s everything I dreamed it would be but…”

“But?”

“But it’s not enough.” The admittance was quiet but came out like a caltrop across his tongue. “We’re not enough. I’m—”

“Don’t you dare finish that thought,” said Cassie furiously. “You are enough. And if people don’t want to buy your hard work, that’s no failing of yours. You knew this would be hard when you started. You knew that it was a hard sell and you’d never make Galaxy money. And the rest of Defiant knew that too.”

“They trusted me to do better.”

“They’re adults, Benny. Capable of making their own choices and taking their own risks. And as far as I’m aware, you’re all in it together.”

“I can’t let the others know.”

Cassie made a face. “I know you think that.”

“Cassie, please. You won’t tell them?”

She made another face but nodded all the same. “I won’t.”

“Thank you.” He sighed, relieved. He knew he had to tell them. But not yet. He couldn’t bear it.

“I won’t if you take at least a week off.”

Benny blanched. “Cassie—”

“No arguments. You’re going to hurt yourself, Benny. And if you don’t care about that, then by extension you’re going to hurt those who love you. I won’t tell them,” she said stonily. “But I won’t let you destroy yourself either. I just won’t.”

---

The desire not to lightly traumatize Julius had been the deciding factor for hosting, meaning that Kay and Darlene were once again on Darlene’s purple loveseat.

Darlene was laying down, her long frame meaning she was dangling off the ends for the most part, but they’d started making out on the couch and seeing as neither was inclined overmuch to move for the moment, on the couch they stayed. She looked lovely splayed out, lipstick smudged, her fingers tangled in Kay’s hair, tugging occasionally in a way that sent sparks through Kay’s body. 

Kay, for her part, was the happiest she’d been in a very long time. She’d migrated slowly on top of Darlene, and was making her way down her form, slowly undressing her lover, kissing from her mouth down to her jaw, her neck, her breast. 

A lot of time on the breast, but she was a simple woman. And Darlene had very good breasts. And made very encouraging noises. 

Regardless of how slowly, she made her way lower still, mouthing along the soft planes of her stomach and then lower, lower. She was just starting to pull down Darlene’s skirt, thinking with no small amount of excitement about finally (finally!) getting to taste her, when Darlene pulled back suddenly.

“D?” Kay gave her some space, unsure. Had she been reading things wrong? That seemed unlikely given the previous several minutes, but then again, maybe Darlene just wanted to take it slow? Regardless, she looked to Darlene for an explanation.

“I’m—I’ve never been engaged.” Darlene said after a few seconds. Her face was flushed, and she looked more unsure than Kay had ever seen her. Usually, she was the unsure one following Darlene’s lead. 

“What?”

“I’ve never been engaged,” she repeated. 

“Why did you say you had been then?” Kay asked. “And is this the time for this conversation?” Darlene’s shirt was still fully unbuttoned, and Kay’s own had come off a few minutes back. She’d been looking forward to their skirts following suit. And other things.

“Yes, it is the time. It’s—well really the time was a while before but I didn’t want anything to…” She trailed off and looked away. It was unnerving seeing her like this. “I didn’t want to ruin this.”

More than anything, Kay was confused. “Why would you not being engaged ruin this? I don’t care about that sort of thing. It’s a weird lie, but it’s fine. I don’t really care if there is or isn’t a Casimir Dach.”

But Darlene shook her head. “There is. I’m Casimir Dach. Or I was.”

“What do you mean?”

Darlene looked up at her and met Kay’s eyes. They were slightly red but all the same, her voice didn’t waver. “I’m transsexual, Kay.”

“Oh.” Kay blinked. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. 

Darlene’s gaze slid back down to the couch. She picked at lightly pilling surface of the loveseat. “I…I enlisted in 1941,” she said, and knowing that was a bigger shock. She’d never pegged Darlene for having any military service. She seemed too well adjusted. But the prospect made her having that in common with Kay made her feel some kind of way. She’d always assumed Darlene had been relatively untouched by the War save for the loss of a fiancé. It gave her a touch of innocence, a contrast to her otherwise worldliness. But no one had been untouched by the War. Certainly, now, not Darlene. 

“I was twenty-two,” she continued, “but already I knew that I wasn’t Casimir. It didn’t fit, and I didn’t fit in my skin. When I said Casimir was captured in Italy, I was telling the truth. I was held near Arezzo, and it was about what you’d expect. It’s funny—I’d always wanted to go to Italy growing up.” She pursed her lips and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “It was brutal of course. There wasn’t a day that went by that I wasn’t hungry or thirsty or ready to collapse into my cot for exhaustion. But if there was one good thing to come out of it, it was for the first time in my life I could grow out my hair. It didn’t look nice, and it was matted something fierce, but it was finally mine. 

“I escaped after a little less than a year.” And Kay could picture it, Darlene thin but determined as she always was digging some tunnel or hiding on a truck in a sack of provisions. It seemed like her. Of course they couldn’t keep Darlene caged for long.

Seeming to sense Kay’s train of thought, Darlene smiled slightly and shook her head. “That was brutal too, but you’d be amazed what people are willing to do for a stranger, especially a foreigner. They could tell I was American, my Italian is abysmal, but that didn’t matter. Most people are so kind. Even still I never stayed in one place for long. I stopped being Casimir when I left that camp in Italy, it was safer that way. I was Toby for a while, and then Jordan as I moved up the country.” Her smile widened a touch. “I was Audrey in Switzerland and from there I caught a plane to Denmark as Leila. It was in Copenhagen when I settled on Darlene. And Darlene I’ve stayed. I got a few treatments in Copenhagen to become myself a little more obviously to others, and when the war ended I flew back home. I worked secretarial jobs until ‘49 when I met you all.”

Kay reached tentatively for Darlene’s hand and took it. When it was clear Darlene wasn’t going to flinch away, she squeezed it. “Darlene,” she started, but Darlene held up a hand to stop her. 

“I understand if this…changes things. Truly, I do. I shouldn't have waited so long to tell you, really. That was cruel of me.” Her lip trembled ever so slightly, but she just squeezed Kay’s hand in her own. “But believe me, Kay, I really do love you.” It was strange to see her so vulnerable. Normally it was like she was made of diamond, strong and unshatterable. Kay would kill anyone who made Darlene so palpably terrified to tell her. Her eyes shone in the low light.

“D,” said Kay. “I love you too. That hasn’t changed.”

“No?” She seemed surprised by that.

“No,” she repeated. “You’re still the same woman who takes me out on ridiculous adventures. You’re still the same woman who sits with me and tells me everything will be alright when things get too much in my head. I think it’s my turn now for that, yeah? Everything is going to be alright. Or, well, everything is alright. You’re still Darlene Kursky. All that’s changed is that I now know you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”

Darlene cupped Kay’s cheek in her hand and then, achingly slowly, pulled her into a long, lackadaisical kiss. As she pulled away, she rested her forehead on Kay’s. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” 

“And what about me, huh?” asked Kay. “There’s not a person alive who can put up with my shit like you can, or who pushes me.”

“No one who would fight for me. Will try things for me,” countered Darlene. “I think we might be tied.”

Kay pressed a kiss against her eyelids, one after the other. She felt Darlene shudder in her embrace. “I can live with that.”

Notes:

Historical notes resume here! Scroll back up the the top for like three additional paragraphs of research info.

I had to check to see when the term “heterosexual” was coined for that one line from Kay, and then I just had a tab open on my phone that said “heterosexual” like I was confused about the concept. I often am.

Being trans has and always will be a thing, and the turn of the 20th century saw major steps in trans health care and research. 1920s Berlin was probably the best place in the world to be queer at the time. Admittedly, a decade later it was the worst, but some of you may have heard of Magnus Hirschfeld, a German Jewish openly gay sexologist who created the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, or the Institute of Sexual Research in 1919, which was the first library of queer sex and sexuality in the world, including some of the first ever writing on gender affirming care. It also provided educational, gynecological, and marital counseling services as well as treatments for venereal diseases, access to contraception, and worked with the Berlin police to create “transvestite passes,” which let trans people go out in public wearing clothes that didn’t match the gender roles they were assigned at birth to follow. And it didn’t just research trans healthcare though, but also helped provide said care like orchidectomies, facial reconstruction, HRT, vaginoplasty, and hair removal treatments to name a few.

As employment for out trans people was obviously hard to find, the institute also worked to employ them. One such employee who worked and lived at the Institute was Dora Richter, the first known person to receive complete gender affirming care. Despite the fact the institute was destroyed in 1933, Richter lived until 1966. Similarly, the Danish painter Lili Elbe, the first known recipient of a vaginoplasty, also lived there, though she died in 1931 due to complications with the surgery.

The Nazis didn’t like Hirschfeld for whatever reason (truly, a mystery), and I mentioned the destruction of the Institute in ‘33 (four months after Hitler’s appointment to Chancellor, and in fact, some of the most popular photos of Nazi book burnings are from the burning of the Institute), but Hirschfeld was out of the country on a speaking tour when the attack occurred, and simply never came back. His citizenship was revoked, and after travelling some more, he spent the remainder of his life in Nice, France. He had a heart attack on his birthday and died at the age of 67 in 1935.

Another famous transgender woman from the era, closer to the era of the story in fact, was singer and actress Christine Jorgensen, likely one of the most famous trans people in the world in her day. Like Darlene, she was born in New York and served in WWII (though was drafted in 1944 and did clerical work). Jorgensen began transitioning surgically in 1951 in Copenhagen (previously she had just been taking estrogen), and upon her return to the United States in 1953 she became a celebrity. She had planned to stay in the closet (it would have been far far easier to live in the closet then, thus, that being what Darlene does), but Jorgensen was outed by the New York Daily News. Not that she didn’t face discrimination of course, it was still the 1950s, but she still used her platform to advocate for trans rights up until her death in 1982.

Unsurprisingly, it has been intensely depressing to research WWII Italian POW camps. Shocking, I know. The Italian POW camp I had Darlene in held around 8,000 prisoners and apparently like half of them escaped. Which is embarrassing. Conditions across camps tended to radically differ, some shitty in a normal way and others with rampant disease and malnutrition. It was more of a case by case thing. I’ve heard reports that Italian camps were worse than German ones, I’ve heard that they were better. Ultimately my conclusion on standard conditions is this: it’s a POW camp and it was a bad time. If you want to know more, here is a good overview, and here are records from the family members of those held in various POW camps.

Cameos: All of Darlene’s used names are based on previous Dax hosts, (Audred, Lela, Tobin, Joran, and of course, Curzon).

Notes:

You can find me here on tumblr, I do art (including FBTS art, hint hint)