Monuments to Self-Loathing: A Par'Mach Comedy

by katiemariie

Summary:

Set somewhere in season four, Worf struggles to adjust to life on the station, choosing to spend his off hours alone in his quarters. When Sisko gives him a gift that obliges him to remain in public, Worf opts to hang out at the bar where he becomes a better father, rescues the innocent townsfolk, and strikes up a relationship with one person on DS9 he somehow doesn't hate talking to: Quark.

Notes:

• For Deathstar510.

For most of his life, Worf has been the only Klingon in a sea of Humans and other Federation citizens. Often this leaves Worf feeling quite lonely—isolated and unmoored—especially during childhood. Then as any Klingon would, he learns to turn his uniqueness into a strength. Being the only Klingon in the room, he discovers, also make him the best Klingon in the room by default. When surrounded by clueless Humans, who would dare question Worf’s claim to Klingon identity? Who would notice if his notion of what being Klingon means matches what he has read in books rather than how Klingons actually behave in the present? Most of them have never even met a Klingon until he comes along; within instants, merely by being the first he becomes the prototypical Klingon in their eyes (or VISOR, in one notable case). For years, Worf manages to skate by in this way.

And then the Enterprise is destroyed.

And he is left alone, House dishonored, and surrounded by colleagues who actually know something (no matter how little) about Klingons. In fact, one of his new crewmates seems to be laboring under the impression that she is an honorable Klingon—in both senses of the word.

Logically, Worf knows that he should be honored by Dax’s invitations to spar, drink bloodwine, and debate opera. But he can’t help but resent this Trill who in the course of many lifetimes has spent more time amongst Klingons than Worf has in his thirty-two years. He meets her warm welcome with simmering rage, pettiness, and all manner of dishonorable emotions.

In short, like a Human.

Separated from the one Klingon who still cares for him (it is far too dangerous to bring Alexander to the station; he won’t allow the Khitomer massacre to replay on DS9) and unable to bear the way he feels around his colleagues (so Federation), Worf falls back on old habits.

He goes to the bar.

On the Enterprise, Ten Forward was the one place Worf was sure to find a fellow non-Human who knew what it was like to live among them but always apart from them. A sympathetic ear.

On DS9, he finds only ears. Large, Ferengi ears.

“What’ll it be?” Quark asks. “The usual?”

“No.” Since siding so publicly with the Federation, prune juice has the sharp aftertaste of failure.

“How about a stein of bloodwine? We’ve got a nice vintage in the back.”

“No.” He hates that these are his two options.

“Then what can I get for you?”

“Alcohol,” Worf answers tersely. He catches Quark’s wrist as he reaches under the bar. “Not watered down.”

“Look at us.” Quark says, skillfully wriggling himself free as if being manhandled by patrons happens every day. “We’re already getting to know each other.”

Worf watches him fill a small tumbler with a clear liquid. Quark slides the drink across the bar. “Enjoy.”

Worf takes a cautionary sniff, certain that he’ll smell the same recirculated water that comes out of the station’s taps. Instead he’s met with a familiar, light scent that he can’t place. He takes a cautionary sip, letting it move across his taste buds. He places the liquid almost immediately. “Harelka,” he pronounces, unintentionally bypassing his universal translator.

“What was that?” Quark asks.

“Vodka,” Worf says, switching back to translatable speech. “And from a small refinery at that.”

Quark looks genuinely impressed—and also slightly concerned to have a customer in front of him who can actually taste alcohol. “You have quite the palate.”

Worf shakes his head. “I’m familiar with the drink. My parents are from Belarus.”

“That’s right.” Quark snaps his fingers. “You were raised by Hew-mons. Boy, that must have been rough.”

Worf realizes with some horror that this Ferengi is the very first person to ever acknowledge such a possibility. It’s somewhat shocking to hear aloud given how accustomed Worf is to Humans extolling the virtues of the man who removed him from the horrors of Khitomer (not that Worf wanted to be removed; one of his earliest memories is holding on to his parent’s dead bodies with all his strength), or Klingons bemoaning how soft and gentle his Human mother must have been—with the insinuation that Worf learned those traits himself.

No one—not even Worf himself—has ever given voice to the possibility that he was neither rescued nor coddled, that being raised by Humans presented some kind of hardship. Not that Worf—or anyone else for that matter—has never thought such a thing. In the grand scheme of things, Worf has always assumed that a lie by omission is less damaging to one’s honor than expressing ingratitude towards one’s parents. Now that it’s a matter of open conversation, Worf feels compelled to speak the truth.

At the risk of dishonoring his parents, Worf coolly responds, “At times.” He immediately feels slightly less repressed. Only slightly.

“It’s couldn’t have been easy.” Quark wipes down the bar absentmindedly.

“It was not.”

“You’re a stronger man than I. Me? I couldn’t take it. I’ve spent three years living amongst Hew-mons and I gotta say: it’s starting to get to me.”

“Really?” Worf takes another sip of vodka.

“Now, don’t get me wrong. If it’s between Hew-mons and Cardassians, I’ll choose Hew-mons every time.” Quark leans across the bar conspiratorially. “Between you and me, the way Cardassians treat women makes my stomach turn. And that’s saying something.”

Suddenly Major Kira’s less than honorable tactics in the Resistance seem justified.

“Still,” Quark sighs. “The Cardassians might have been a bunch of lecherous fascists, but…” Quark trails off as if struggling to find one complimentary thing to say about the whole species. “It’s like this: a Cardassian is always more than happy to stab you in the back. But a Hew-mon? A Hew-mon will stab you in the front and spend the next half-hour monologuing about how stabbing people is the true mark of a civilized species.”

Worf can’t help but think of a certain Human captain prone to reciting eloquent soliloquies on the bridge. “As a people, they do seem to be a bit overconfident in their knowledge of the galaxy.”

“It’s like they’re advertising, ‘Hew-mon knows best.’ But they’re not selling anything, they don’t have a system of currency, so what’s the point? Why make the effort?”

“In my experience,” Worf says slowly, “Humans find difference very… discomforting.”

“And heaven forbid a Hew-mon feel even a moment of discomfort.” Quark affects a whine that comes out like an odd mixture of an Irish brogue and a posh British accent: “‘Quark, you don’t have the holo-program I want.’ ‘Quark, all my ice melted and now my drink is warm.’ ‘Quark, your waiters keep pickpocketing me.’” He rolls his eyes. “All day, every day. Any time someone is mildly inconvenienced. It’s taking years off of my life; I’m sure of it.”

Worf finds himself unconsciously leaning in. “Human culture no longer knows how to appreciate personal suffering. Do you know how many days my parents fast a year? One. Only one. And yet there were still people on Earth who considered them barbaric for fasting.” Worf does not mention the role this played in his parents’ families settling on Gault. He’s revealed enough as it is.

“That’s what happens when you implement a post-scarcity society. Everybody gets a handout: food, shelter, clean water. They don’t have to work for any of it! They never learn the nobility of suffering.”

“You find suffering noble?” Worf asks. “I thought Ferengi valued wealth and luxury.”

“Oh, we do. Our entire society—our religion even—is based around making profit. Ideally, every Ferengi would have stacks of latinum up to his lobes, but practically it doesn’t work out that way. In a capitalist economy, the only way that some Ferengi can live in the lap of luxury is through the maintenance of a permanent underclass. And since Ferengi don’t colonize other societies—unlike some species—that underclass is made up of Ferengi.” Quark clutches a hand to his chest. “They suffer in silence, never asking for public assistance or social reform, allowing the rest of us to rise to the top. It’s beautiful really.”

“I am not certain they would agree.”

Quark scoffs. “Who cares what they think? They’re poor.”

“You are lucky that Ferengi do not have the mettle for physical confrontation. No Klingon would suffer such indignity.” Worf takes a gulp of vodka. “If your permanent underclass were Klingon, your head would be on a pike before the end of the week.”

“Really? Tell me, Mr. Klingon Warrior, what’s stopping you from slaughtering the Klingon aristocracy that dishonored your House?”

“Is waging war against the Empire not enough?”

“Waging war is one thing; that’s just another day at the office for you Starfleet types. I’m talking about rebellion, revolution, overturning the whole feudal system.”

“I’m only one man. A Klingon, but still only one man.”

“Well, there have to be other Klingons toiling away in dishonor. Why not raise an army and storm the castle?”

“They would not have me,” Worf answers honestly. “And I would not have them.”

Quark leans in again. “Who would you have?”

Worf wonders briefly if they teach innocent flirtation in bartending school, or if he’s simply chanced upon a second bartender who pairs deep conversation with meaningless come-ons. In any case, he has experience handling it. He straightens up and downs the rest of his vodka. “Someone less breakable.”

Worf turns and leaves the bar somewhat disappointed at having to go, but also not knowing any way he could have stayed.

Quark calls after him, “The drink’s going on your tab!”

—

When he gets back to his quarters, Worf finds Captain Sisko waiting outside the door like something out of a nightmare: a personal visitor and an admittedly intimidating superior officer.

“Sir, is something wrong?” Worf doesn’t know which scenario he finds more frightening: the Captain being here on a social call or to deliver a professional reprimand.

Sisko smiles warmly. “No, I just thought I’d see how you’re settling in.”

Now Worf is sure this is the most terrifying option. He swallows. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” Once the door swishes shut behind them, Sisko says, “I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t spend a lot of time on the station during your off-hours.”

“Is that a problem?” Worf asks.

“No, not at all. In fact, I find it perfectly understandable.”

“You do?” It is hard for Worf to imagine the gregarious Captain Sisko avoiding his coworkers. Worf has even heard rumor of the man inviting his crew over for a dinner party. Surely he has never felt this level of resentment.

“Of course. When Jake was young, I was never more than a comm away. For the first few years, I never took mine off, always afraid that if I did, catastrophe would strike and he’d have no way to reach me.” The smile fades from Sisko’s face. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be only being able to speak to your son over subspace. No wonder you return to your quarters right after shift.”

“Yes,” Worf falters, unaccustomed to lying. “To be near my vidscreen. In case he calls. I mean, Alexander. My son. Who is on Earth.” However awkward, Worf finds the dishonor of this dishonesty much more palatable than the alternative of sharing his real feelings.

“I thought that might be the case.” Sisko removes something from his back pocket. “So I dug this out of storage. I figured you might get better use out of it than the bottom of my old footlocker.” He passes Worf a small electronic device resembling a PADD except twice as thick. “It’s a portable subspace transceiver configured to the station’s communications array. As long as you’re within half a parsec, it will pick up any subspace communication sent to your vidscreen’s frequency.”

Worf feels the weight of the device in his hand, realizing the gravity of the gift.

“Now you don’t have to worry about missing him when he calls.” Sisko mimics Worf’s cadence, “I mean, Alexander. Your son. Who is on Earth.”

Worf fights the impulse to curl his hand into a fist, cracking the device’s screen. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.” Sisko claps him on the shoulder. “See you around.”

As soon as the Captain turns to leave, Worf lets his shoulders slump dramatically, adolescently. Despite being the nominal tactical expert in this crew, Worf finds himself completely outmaneuvered by the Captain’s friendly gesture.

As a Klingon given a gift by a social superior, Worf is honor bound to use the subspace transceiver in public for all to appreciate Captain Sisko’s generosity.

What’s more, having been caught in a lie, Worf has to behave as if the lie were true lest he dishonor himself and the man he sought to deceive. That means he has to act as if freed from the burden of returning to his quarters immediately after every shift to wait by his vidscreen. He must, as much as he wishes otherwise, leave himself open to conversation by remaining in public.

If he wasn’t overwhelmed by incipient doom, Worf could almost be impressed by Captain Sisko’s sophisticated methods for ensuring crew morale. (Worf recalls Geordi deploying similar, if not so intricate, tactics for drawing out some of his shyer subordinates. The Engineering Division has always attracted the fleet’s introverts.)

As it stands though Worf simply finds himself all the more grateful to the ancient Klingons who slayed his people’s meddlesome deities. If a single Bajoran icon can play him so well, Worf doubts he could withstand the will of the Klingon Pantheon.

—

Not one to leave old debts unpaid for long, Worf goes to the bar after his next shift to settle his tab. And, of course, paying for last night’s drink kills some of the time Worf is now bound to spend outside of his quarters during his off hours.

Quark smiles toothily as Worf enters. “Well, if it isn’t the Klingon underclass.”

“Ferengi,” Worf says.

“And proud of it. What’ll it be? Another exotic Hew-mon drink?”

“My bill.”

“Have two words ever sounded so lovely?” Quark pulls out a PADD from under the bar, tapping a few keystrokes with his manicured fingernails. “Here you go,” he says, passing it to Worf.

Worf’s brow furrows at the bottom line. “This is rather steep for vodka.”

“It was rather good vodka. From a small refinery if I recall correctly.”

Having learned a healthy respect for top shelf vodka on Gault, Worf doesn’t fight Quark on the markup. He returns the PADD with his signed authorization and the account number for his Starfleet credit line.

Quark’s gaze flicks over the PADD before stashing it underneath the bar. “Sure I can’t get anything? You’re looking a little parched.”

Worf momentarily considers ordering one of those gummy Andorian cocktails just so he has an excuse not to talk. But even one would wreak havoc on his dental hygiene, and Worf is admittedly vain when it comes to his pointy whites. “Prune juice.”

“Be right up.”

Quark walks over to the replicator, leaving Worf alone at the bar, completely vulnerable to the local barfly’s insatiable desire for conversation. Sensing imminent danger, Worf takes out the subspace transceiver, putting in the earpiece just as Morn is about to open his mouth. Worf dials the pre-coded frequency for his parents’ home in Minsk.

His mother answers in a flurry of Yiddish. “What’s wrong? Has someone died? Are you under attack?”

“No,” Worf answers in kind. “I just wanted to say hello.”

Helena narrows her eyes, peering at Worf as if trying to detect a Changeling impersonator. (It is an expression that has become increasingly common these days.) Seemingly satisfied, she smiles and says, “Thank you, Worf. How are you doing?”

“I am… adjusting. How are you? Is Alexander giving you any trouble?”

“No, no. Alexander is being a very good boy. Much better behaved than when he last lived with us. I can get him if you’d like.”

“Yes, I would like that.”

Helena leaves the frequency open as she stalks off to find Alexander. Worf looks up briefly to find Quark staring at him, prune juice in hand and a very peculiar expression on his face.

“What?” Worf snaps.

Quark shakes his head, setting the prune juice in front of Worf. “Nothing, nothing.”

“Father?” Alexander says in Worf’s earpiece.

Worf turns back to the subspace transceiver, a smile overwhelming his face as he looks upon his son. “Alexander. Hello.”

And then Worf may as well be back in his quarters because the world around him fades away to just the two of them.

—

“How was school today?” Worf asks slowly, emphasizing the Klingon consonants.

Alexander looks up as if reading from the ceiling. “Good.”

“Just good?”

Alexander smiles, more sure of himself. “Very, very good.”

“What did you study?”

“Uh… Geometry… Music… uh… To scold…”

“To scold?”

Alexander corrects his pronunciation, “History.”

“Very good. Did you enjoy learning today?”

“Yes. It was…” Alexander yawns widely. “...fun.”

Worf looks to the chronometer at the bottom corner of the screen, mentally converting the reading to Minsk time. “I’ve kept you too late again,” Worf says in Standard. “You should get ready for bed.”

Alexander begins to protest.

“We will talk again tomorrow,” Worf says firmly. He returns to Klingon: “Good night, little warrior.”

“Good night, father.”

Pocketing the transceiver and his earpiece, Worf sees Quark staring at him from behind the bar, that strange expression on his face.

“What?” Worf snaps.

Perhaps now more accustomed to servicing cranky Klingon customers, Quark does not demur. “Why aren’t you a communications officer?” he asks.

An odd question, but Worf answers it honestly: “I find listening to static… unpleasant.”

“You and me both.” Quark shrugs. “Still, it’s a shame that stopped you. Especially after you took all those foreign language courses at the Academy.”

“I didn’t take any xenolinguistics courses at the Academy.”

“Really?”

Worf nods. “I was already fluent in Klingon so the requirement was waived.” Worf had briefly considered taking another language, but the only other course open to the security track was Romulan. And Worf would always associate that tongue with the first time he’d heard it spoken: lying beneath his mother’s lifeless body as Romulan officers searched Khitomer for survivors, speaking in their own language so the colonists could not understand them.

“So, what, you’re telling me you come in here every night speaking languages you learned for fun?” Quark asks.

“I wouldn’t call it fun.”

“I forgot: you’re the only Klingon in the galaxy who doesn’t like fun.” Almost immediately, Quark puts his hands in the air disarmingly. “Kidding, kidding, just kidding. You’re just like all the other Klingons. Just kidding.”

Worf scowls. “If you must know, I grew up speaking multiple languages.”

“On Qo’noS?”

“On Gault.”

“Gault?”

“A Human farming colony my family lived on when I was a boy. It was very important to the people there to keep their cultures alive. That was why they left Earth.”

“Wait, you’ve been speaking Hew-mon languages this whole time? I mean, I know you’re teaching your son Klingon, but everything else? That was Hew-mon?”

“What else would I speak to my parents?”

“I don’t know. Standard? Like every other red-blooded Hew-mon out there.” Backing away from the bar, Quark corrects himself, “Not that you’re a Hew-mon. You’re not a Hew-mon.”

Worf turns the question back on Quark. “Why don’t you speak Standard?”

“I’m a Ferengi.”

“You never bypass your universal translator; no one can hear you speak Ferengi. What difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference in the galaxy. I’m a Ferengi; I want to talk like a Ferengi.”

“Exactly.”

“But you’re a Klingon! If you’re not going to get a promotion out of it, why speak all these Hew-mon languages?”

“It is how I honor my parents. And...” Worf straightens his sash. “Klingons appreciate the value of a liberal arts education.”

“Liberal arts education is one thing. But speaking—how many languages do you speak?”

Worf thinks for a moment, sorting out disfluent tongues and dialects. “Fluently? Six.”

“Only six?”

Worf detects the sarcasm, but feels the need to clarify regardless. “Many of the ancient Klingon dialects exist only in print. Their phonemes have not yet been uncovered.”

“Phonemes?” Quark’s hand flies to his mouth. He points a shaking finger at Worf’s chest. “You… You’re…”

“What?” Worf snarls.

“You’re smart!” Quark lets loose a peel of laughter. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before: you’re legitimately intelligent. All this time I thought you were just a brooding slab of Klingon masculinity stuffed into a Starfleet uniform—exceptional as that may be—but turns out, you have a brain. And here I was thinking you never spoke to anybody not on a comm screen because you had nothing to say, when really you just don’t like to talk to people. At least, not the people here.”

Worf looks over his shoulders, scanning the bar for any of his coworkers.

“Don’t worry.” Quark lays a hand on Worf’s forearm. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Worf grabs Quark’s wrist tightly. “I will not be blackmailed.”

Rather than wriggling his wrist out of Worf’s grasp—something Worf knows he’s capable of—Quark uses his free index finger to trace circles on Worf’s hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Blackmailing a big, strong Klingon? Too dangerous for someone so—how’d you put it?—breakable.”

“Good.” Worf releases Quark and stalks out of the bar.

“Goodnight, little warrior!” Quark calls after him. In the exact Klingon intonation Worf uses to bid farewell to Alexander each night.

Worf’s gait falters momentarily as he realizes he may be the first Klingon in history to teach their language to a Ferengi. And accidentally at that.

—

“You’re here early,” Quark says. “I just opened the grate.”

Worf takes a seat at the bar. “Raktajino. Large and strong.”

“Just the way I like it.”

Worf has been awake for too long to either process or respond to the innuendo. Instead, he lets his head droop forward and massages his pounding forehead ridges. After a moment, Quark sets the steaming cup of raktajino in front of him. Too hot to drink—even for a Klingon—Worf tries to inhale the caffeine along with the beverage’s nutty scent.

Quark tilts his head to the side so he’s eye-to-bloodshot-eye with Worf. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you come in last night.”

His nose hovering about a centimeter above the mug, Worf answers, “Alexander is experiencing his second nen’poH.”

Quark looks upward—much like Alexander does when searching for a word (and not lying in bed sweating and crying). “Grow time?”

“Growth spurt,” Worf corrects.

“Ah, those magic changes. I gave my father a lot of sleepless nights when I was that age, too.”

Worf takes a cautious sip, burning his tongue but not entirely caring. “Not like this.”

“Of course. Klingon puberty is probably a lot more operatic than a Ferengi’s.”

“Alexander has grown five centimeters taller since last night.” He’s probably even taller than that by now, but he hasn’t been able to stand up for the past two hours.

“Is that normal?”

Worf nods. “He will grow at least ten more centimeters by the end of the week.”

“That has to be painful.”

“The three nen’poH are the only times a Klingon will weep openly.” Worf chugs his raktajino, burning a throat already sore from a night singing the traditional nen’poH ballads to his son—the first time Worf can remember hearing those songs in person. He slams the mug on the bar. “Another.”

Quark disappears behind the bar, and Worf lets his head hang down, his eyelids drooping closed.

He wakes with a start to the sound of glass breaking. Quark is nowhere to be seen; still early, this part of the Promenade is deserted. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Worf considers going to the Replimat for more raktajino—he doesn’t even know why he came to Quark’s in the first place; he was on autopilot this morning—when he hears Quark’s now familiar pleading from behind the bar.

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to do this,” Quark says. “Let’s talk about this.”

Alarmed, Worf steps behind the bar, following the sound of two Ferengi voices: Quark’s and another he can’t quite place.

“I asked for my severance package last week,” the other Ferengi hisses. “But you refused to give it to me!”

Worf slowly opens the door to the storeroom, finding Quark pressed against the wall by one of his Ferengi waiters.

“Well, uh, if you look at your collective bargaining agreement, I only have to give you severance if I fire you,” Quark says, eyeing the broken bottle leveled at his throat. “Since you chose to resign—”

“I had to quit!” the waiter says, and Worf silently creeps toward his turned back. “I can’t stay here! The Klingons will take over this station before the end of the fiscal year. If you can’t see that, then you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

Looking away from the broken bottle long enough to see Worf approaching, Quark relaxes slightly. “Look, I get it. You wanted some extra latinum from the safe to help you start over. If you put that bottle down, I’ll give it you. No questions asked.”

“Really?” The waiter lowers the bottle a few centimeters, providing enough distance between its sharp edge and Quark’s throat for Worf to knock him to the ground.

Quark glares down at the crumpled heap of a waiter. “No.”

—

Worf tosses and turns, knowing that at this exact same moment but somehow light years away his son is doing the same thing. If he could, Worf would take Alexander’s place in a second, but as it stands he can’t even be at his son’s side. The two days leave granted (or rather forced on him) by Captain Sisko for today’s heroics (and, as revealed by Constable Odo’s report, the exhaustion that made Worf sleep through the first half of an attempted robbery) are insufficient for a journey to Earth. Even at maximum warp, Worf couldn’t reach his son before the nen’poH subsides. The most Worf can do for Alexander is comfort him over subspace. With Alexander concentrating fully on trying to snatch even a few moments of sleep, Worf is left waiting for his call.

After nearly wearing a hole in his quarters’ carpet, Worf has taken his captain’s suggestion to “try to get some rest” despite knowing full well that the peculiarities of Klingon adrenal response—something Dr. Pulaski once referred to as “the fight and keep fighting response”—would keep him awake for at least six hours. (Other Klingons have been known to achieve REM sleep only two or three hours after battle, but Worf has always been a bit more on edge then most Klingons. He can’t remember if he was always this way or it only arose after certain childhood events. When Sergey found him on Khitomer, Worf was still in his pajamas.) Still Worf has to try, however futilely, for Alexander’s sake. Someone needs to sing the songs, and sleeplessness does a number on Worf’s voice.

The door chimes, sending a hypervigilant Worf reaching for the subspace transceiver with one hand and the dagger beneath his pillow with the other. Worf sighs, putting both down, and heads to the door.

Before it’s even halfway open, he grunts, “What?”

“Someone’s in a mood,” Quark says.

“Yes,” Worf says, blocking the doorway with an outstretched arm. “And not the mood to deal with you.”

Against Quark’s better judgment—at least, Worf assumes Quark has better judgment; this might be too generous an assumption—the Ferengi easily ducks under Worf’s arm, entering his quarters.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Quark says appraising the numerous melee weapons hanging from the walls. “It’s very… martial.”

Worf turns, clicking the door shut behind him. “Explain your intrusion or find yourself on the other side of that door.”

“Well…” Quark props himself up on the arm of the sofa, examining his fingernails. “Since Sisko gave you the day off, I thought I’d stop by and give you the opportunity to say thank you.”

“Thank you?” Worf scoffs. “For what?”

“For this morning. Folks on the station can’t stop talking about your heroic rescue. Thanks in no small part to my first person account. I’ve always had a gift for storytelling if I say so myself. A way with words, you know?”

Worf stalks towards Quark, saying in a low, dangerous voice, “People know about this morning?”

“You kidding me? The bar’s had a line out the door of people wanting to hear the story. Included free with every ten slip purchase. I’m well on my way to surpassing my projections for the quarter.” Quark reaches out, placing a hand on Worf’s elbow. “You’re welcome.”

Worf grabs Quark’s upper arm. “This is the kind of thanks I receive for saving your life?”

“What? I thought you’d be happy. Tales of derring-do, stories of honorable deeds; that’s the kind of stuff Klingons are supposed to live for. You’re practically the Kahless of Quark’s.”

“Kahless,” Worf says, tightening his grip on Quark, “didn’t fall asleep in public, leaving the innocent townsfolk vulnerable to rampaging hordes.”

“Wait. Who’s who in this metaphor? Am I the innocent townsfolk or—”

“The innocent townsfolk.”

“Innocent? That’s a first.”

“And now thanks to you and your storytelling, everyone aboard the station knows how I nearly failed to—”

“Nearly failed?” Quark says, standing from his seat. There is a startling lack of distance between them. “You saved my neck.”

“Barely. But what if I hadn’t woken when I did? What if—”

“‘What if?’ doesn’t matter. All those people out there…” Quark gestures beyond the door. “All those people who think you’re a hero? None of them are thinking about ‘what if?’”

“Maybe that’s true for the Ferengi or the Bajorans, but to anyone in a Starfleet uniform…” Worf feels his grip around Quark’s arm grow even tighter and releases it, conscious of how fragile the Ferengi is by comparison. “I have to be perfect just to be seen as worthy of wearing the same uniform as them.”

“Well, I don’t wear a Starfleet uniform. I don’t care if you’re perfect. In fact, I like that you aren’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Quark sidesteps Worf. “I’ve got a bar full of people waiting for me to tell them how great I think you are.”

Worf halts Quark’s journey to the door with a firm but gentle touch to his shoulder. “You may be able to live with my imperfections, but had I failed—had you died—I would not have been able to live with myself.”

“I guess we’re both lucky things worked out the way they did,” Quark says.

“We may not be so lucky next time.”

“What makes you think that there will be a next time?”

Worf stares at him plainly. “You attract trouble. You cause trouble. In fact, I think you like trouble.”

“Me?” A hand flies to Quark’s chest in indignation. “You got me all wrong. I am just a simple Ferengi businessman. If I can’t monetize it, I don’t want anything to do with trouble.”

“Of course. That’s why you chose such a safe location for your business.”

“This is an up-and-coming slice of the quadrant. In a few years time, this’ll all be condos and Quark’s franchises. But in the meantime, one or two homicide attempts a year is just the price of doing business.”

“One or two?”

“On average.”

“And you’ve never learned how to defend yourself?”

“Hey, I happen to be an expert in Ferengi self-defense. Hide, plead, bribe—I’ve got the whole thing down.”

Worf rolls his eyes. “I’m talking about proper combat skills.”

“Oh, and who would’ve taught me that? Eddington? Odo? I don’t know how you ran things on the Enterprise, but around here the security personnel don’t offer the local repeat offenders tutorials on how to hurt people.”

“You don’t pose a physical threat to anyone. You’re a small time crook, not a mercenary.”

“What do you mean ‘small time?’”

“And with outsized ambition. You’ve done more harm with your mouth than you ever could with your fists.”

“What can I say?” Quark slides two fingers along the edge of his earlobe. “I have a very talented mouth. Although I haven’t gotten any complaints about my fists either.”

In this setting—alone in an unmarried man’s bedchamber without a chaperone in sight—Quark’s flirtation doesn’t seem so innocent, his come-ons so meaningless.

Not for the first time, Worf wonders what a Klingon raised in the Empire would do in this situation. He is sure that no Klingon—male, female, or otherwise—would allow a Ferengi to approach them in such a brazen manner. There are rituals, protocol for this kind of thing. True, they vary by region, but Worf has spent enough time memorizing such customs to know that none involve allusions to particular manual sex acts. Even the most ribald Klingons cloak that kind of innuendo in layers of hunting metaphors. To do otherwise would be seen as a strike against the recipient’s honor. If Worf had grown up in the Empire, he would surely eject Quark from his quarters, possibly without opening the door.

But Worf is no son of the Empire. Raised by Humans, House dishonored, a perpetual outcast, Worf is fairly certain that any member of the Imperial elite would crumble if placed in his shoes. Partly by circumstance and partly by choice, since the age of five, Worf has forged his own path—one as winding and treacherous as any faced by the heroes of ancient ballads. Having a mandate from Kahless to go where no Klingon has gone before, who’s to say that journey couldn’t include a Ferengi companion? Since coming to Deep Space Nine, Worf realizes, it already has. Albeit without the aforementioned manual sex acts.

Worf has never done such a thing before, having very limited experience with any kind of sex act, but it does sound intriguing. If anything, sex for Klingons is an exercise in transcending bodily limitations: one’s capacity for pain, pleasure, and cardiovascular exercise. And if Quark enjoys stretching the limits of the body (as well as certain muscles) in one way, he may enjoy the Klingon approach to sex in general.

Any fantasies of what that might look like (and feel like) are forestalled by the realization that Worf has been standing silent for an awkward span of time.

What were they even talking about? Oh, yes, that other ‘F’ verb: fighting.

Eager to end his embarrassing silence, Worf blurts out, “I could teach you.”

“I’m sure you could,” Quark purrs, and any chance of Worf stanching the flow of adrenaline has gone completely out the airlock.

“I mean, how to fight. I could teach you how to fight.” As intrigued as Worf may be, having Quark not be murdered while Worf is sleeping takes precedence.

“Oh.” Quark takes a small step backwards. “Well, I guess I could use a few pointers.”

Worf can almost feel the higher ground raise up under his feet. “Are you scared, Ferengi?”

“Me?” Quark shuffles backwards towards the door. “Scared? No, no, I’m terrified.”

“Good.” Worf drops his voice an octave. “So am I.”

Quark titters nervously, backing himself into an end table.

“After my son’s nen’poH passes, I will contact you to arrange a training session. In the meantime, try not to lose your nerve.”

“Oh, well, you know me. Nerves of steel.” Quark manages to back out the door without breaking anything, including himself.

Worf has little time to savor Quark’s retreat. (Who knew retreat could be so alluring?) His subspace transceiver chimes before the door closes.

—

Two days later, Alexander’s nen’poH has stabilized enough that Worf can confidently set aside the majority of his lunch break for a few moments’ rest. If not actual sleep, then heavy meditation. Worf feels his mind step over the threshold into the timeless, incorporeal realm that binds all warriors past and present, when his door chime yanks him back into the banal realm termed reality.

He sighs and stands from the floor, genuinely sorry for whoever has disrupted him. Especially if that person is someone other than Quark and therefore warranting a much less restrained response.

The door opens to the one person on the station Worf has been expressly forbidden from hitting. (“He can be… trying,” Sisko admitted months ago. “But try not to rise to his bait. It wouldn’t look too good right now, politically: a Klingon decking a Cardassian. No matter how much he deserves it.”)

“Mr. Worf,” Garak gushes. “So fortunate to catch you at home. May I come in?”

“No,” Worf grunts, placing a forbidding arm across the doorway.

Having better sense and (hopefully, for his sake) less amorous intentions than Quark, Garak makes no effort to sneak past Worf. “Very well. I only have a quick question for you anyway, and then I’m back to the shop. Rush order, you see. Very tight deadline.” Garak pauses for response, but finding only Worf’s blank expression, he carries on. “This outfit I’m working on, it’s something of a special order, truly bespoke, nothing like it in the catalogues. And I was hoping you might be able to offer a few pointers. I’m afraid Klingon aesthetics are far from my area of expertise.”

Worf knows there’s a catch somewhere, a rug about to be pulled from under his feet, but finds the opportunity to consult on Klingon aesthetics for a professional and fellow aesthete much too tantalizing to pass up. “What was the order?”

“Hmmm… I believe his exact words were, ‘I want something that a Klingon, you know a real Klingon-y Klingon, will look at and think, “Here’s a Ferengi worthy of swinging my bat’leth,” if you get what I’m saying. But still functional, you know? “I’m ready to train” but also, “I’m down to—”’”

“I’ve heard enough,” Worf says. Normally, anyone who dared make such accusations about a potential mate would receive a very public challenge to his honor. But given that Quark likely said all that (and more that the Cardassian is censoring for decency’s sake), Worf has little recourse. “Did you come here just to annoy me? Is your life that empty, tailor?”

“Emptier than you can imagine. You’ve no doubt heard the stories about my past, about my life before I came to the station. Back on Cardassia I was someone of importance, if not prominence. But here I find myself almost entirely dependent on the good favor of my customers.”

“Speak plainly.”

“If you insist.” Garak cranes his neck forward, darkening his face with Worf’s shadow. The jovial tailor’s facade falls away, revealing something primal, reptilian. “We are different, you and I, but at the moment our goals complement each other perfectly. You want a sparring partner fit to ravish. I want to keep my most loyal customer happy. In this case, one necessarily leads to the other. You scratch my back, and Quark will scratch yours.”

Not for the first time, Worf marvels at how out of place such a conversation would seem on the Enterprise.

Worf crosses his arms over his chest. “Expect photo references by this evening.”

—

Up until this moment, Worf has always assumed that as a species the Ferengi were too compact to properly swagger into a room. Of course up until now, Worf had never been in a room with a Ferengi wearing an outfit specifically (and expensively) designed to elicit par’Mach.

At the risk of flattering himself, Worf has to admit it’s working. Garak has no doubt learned a great deal this week about the role of trompe l'oeil in Klingon textiles, particularly the use of barely visible patterns to create the overall illusion of musculature. The tailor has show remarkable restraint, leaving the vulnerability and scrappiness Worf finds so alluring intact—albeit under layers of physique enhancing fabric.

“Hey,” Quark says sultrily, leaning against a brazier. “Hot, hot,” he yips, pulling his hand away, shaking it mightily. “Remind me to add a disclaimer about that to the catalogue.” Quark cradles his burned hand between his legs.

“If you cannot withstand the pain,” Worf says, “then perhaps we should not—”

“No, no. I can handle the pain!” Quark holds out his hands, the left only slightly oranger than the right. “I can handle a lot of pain. Where’s my bat’leth? I’m ready.”

Worf considers a bat’leth hanging on the wall. “You’re not ready for a weapon.”

“Worf, I don’t know if you’ve looked at me, but carrying a weapon is the only thing I’m ready for. Let’s face it, without a weapon, I could never take someone your size.” He clarifies, “In a fight.”

“Size doesn’t matter.” Worf clarifies, “In a fight.”

“That’s easy for you to say; you’re a Klingon. But I’m a Ferengi.”

“So was Grimp.”

“Well, he had a weapon!”

“An improvised weapon,” Worf corrects. “You could have just as easily armed yourself with a broken bottle.”

“And destroy valuable property? You know, it’s thinking like that that lets the robbers win.”

“Any item in that storeroom you could have used to protect yourself, but you chose to cower in fear instead. Until you develop the instinct, the reflex for self-defense, arming you would be meaningless.”

“And how do you expect me to—”

“Computer, activate simulation four, randomized, at my command. Ruch!”

A mammoth targ appears in the middle of the chamber, charging at full speed towards Quark. Quark scrunches down into a ball, covering his face with his hands. The beast dissolves upon impact, leaving a puzzled but ultimately unharmed Ferengi in its wake.

“What the hell was that?” Quark snaps.

“That would have killed you if it were real. You didn’t even try to get out of the way.”

“Well, excuse me for being scared.”

“Fear is forgivable,” Worf says, approaching Quark. “Inaction is not.” He takes a gentle hold of Quark’s elbow, helping him to his feet. “The next time something charges at you, I want you to assume this position.” He moves Quark’s still trembling limbs into a defensive stance. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Good.” Worf takes a step back. “Now go back to neutral. Good. And be prepared for the next charge. That’s all you have to do. If you are in the correct position, the challenger will default without touching you.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“Good. And remember the program will randomly select opponents, including some that are capable of actually hurting you.”

“What?”

“Ruch!

—

After a half-hour of near (and highly contested) misses (“Alvanian bees?” Quark huffs. “You expect me to uppercut a swarm of bees?”), Quark finally shows some evidence of overcoming what he claims is the natural Ferengi predilection for running and hiding. Worf has to admit even the flight response is vastly preferable to Quark’s earlier strategy of hiding from danger with all the skill of a Human infant playing peek-a-boo.

“Okay, okay,” Quark pants. “No more running. I’m gonna do it this time.”

Worf finds it oddly fitting that Quark’s first great act of bravery likely stems from an aversion to further cardiovascular exercise. All the same, he calls, “Ruch!”

A member of one of the larger breeds of grint hound materializes, sniffs the air, and charges at Quark. Still winded, Quark jumps into his defensive stance. The hound skids to a halt, flopping onto its back. It dematerializes with a low howl, mourning the belly rubs that were never meant to be.

Quark looks down at his properly positioned feet, near perfect posture, and brandished fists in total shock—as if some mischievous god and not he had arranged his body this way. His mouth hangs open, revealing nicely pointed, if unevenly spaced, teeth. “I… I did it.”

Before the spirit of celebration can overtake them both, Worf says, “Now do it again. Ruch!”

He keeps the challengers coming fast and heavy, allowing just enough of a break between them for Quark’s posture to slacken before snapping back into place with each charge. Worf only stops when the program exhausts its selection of challengers and begins cycling through them again. He considers giving Quark another go at the animals he fled from earlier, but decides that another opponent would serve as a better test of his newly developed instinct.

“You’re well on your way,” Worf says, “to becoming—”

“A warrior?” Quark offers.

“Less of a coward,” Worf finishes.

Quark shrugs. “Latinum, latinium. Same difference.”

“Facing those holograms was your training. Your test will be to face a real opponent of flesh and blood.”

Before Quark can say a word, Worf is barreling towards him. He registers a flicker of fear on the Ferengi’s face that quickly transforms into that familiar leer. As Worf approaches, Quark takes on his defensive posture before launching himself at his challenger. Teeth bared, Quark manages to get enough vertical lift to wrap his legs around Worf’s middle. Hooking his arms around Worf’s neck, Quark sinks his teeth into Worf’s cheek—not deep enough to draw blood, mind you (Ferengi teeth, however pointy, are still stubby compared to Klingon’s), but it’s the thought that counts.

Worf’s forward momentum, barely dampened by Quark’s opposing force, sends them careening into a pillar just barely missing a lit brazier. Quark’s teeth release their hold on impact.

Breathing heavily, Worf pulls Quark’s arms from his neck, his hands gripping familiar wrists. “You are disturbingly brave.”

“What can I say? I like trouble,” Quark says, still leering. “Wanna make some with me?”

Worf is reminded of two other par’Mach’kai—the very first—who caused such trouble that they shook the Klingon Pantheon from its perch on Sto-Vo-Kor. An entire genre of literature exists in which new par’Mach’kai compare themselves to the old, a genre in which Worf feels he could make a strong contribution to later. For now, he dedicates himself to creating memories worthy of poetry. Worf raises Quark’s hands above his head, pressing them into the wall, and envelopes Quark’s mouth in a kiss with as much teeth as tongue.

—

Since roughly the age of thirteen, Worf’s waking hours have been haunted by randomly-induced intrusive thoughts all revolving around how he could accidentally harm someone by getting too close. Given the age of onset, it is perhaps not surprising that many of these intrusive thoughts regard the negative impact of his stubbornly Klingon appetites: broken bones, ruptured organs, snapped tendons. Yet in all those maddening hours, Worf never foresaw this: a Ferengi spread out on top of him, body spent from par’Mach, but lips still unwilling to let go.

Worf pulls away just enough to say, “We have—” before Quark’s lips find his again. “To go… mhmm… to the infirmary.”

“Mm-mm,” Quark responds.

Worf gently pushes him away. “You heard something break. You must be in tremendous pain.”

Quark shrugs and leans back down, his teeth taking up residence on Worf’s earlobe.

Worf fights the urge to lean into the sensation. “Does your… does your species… produce bonding hormones during sex?”

“Uh huh,” Quark says through his teeth (and the earlobe pinched between them). “Very powerful ones. But only from anything below the neck.”

Worf considers this as a possible explanation for how Ferengi males can be so promiscuous and detached when it comes to oo-mox, but dismisses the thought as far too biologically deterministic for his tastes. Still, the rush of bonding hormones may explain his current predicament.

“And these hormones,” Worf says, “Is the bonding effect enhanced through an interaction with pleasure neurotransmitters released in response to pain?”

Quark releases Worf’s earlobe, his arms tightening around him as he buries his face in Worf’s hair. “Baby, you’re so smart.”

Worf takes this as a yes and sits up, hauling Quark up along with him. “We’re going to the infirmary. Your injuries could cause permanent damage.”

“Who cares?” Quark asks, going limp in Worf’s arms.

“I do.”

“Well, that’s your problem now, isn’t it?”

Worf sighs and lays his trump card on the table, “The longer we remain here, the more profit you lose from holosuite rentals.”

Quark hops to his feet, wincing slightly. “I’m up. I’m up.”

—

They get a few strange glances on their way to the infirmary. They would get more if Quark’s arms were longer; slung over Worf’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry, Quark makes repeated, futile attempts to grab Worf’s ass. He settles for kissing Worf’s shoulder blades, which is thankfully less obvious to passersby.

At long last, Worf deposits Quark in a medbed.

“What happened?” Dr. Bashir asks, brandishing a medical tricorder.

“We were training,” Worf says. This is not technically a lie. “Self defense.”

“I see.” Bashir waves the tricorder over Quark, and Worf can pinpoint the exact moment Bashir sees the telltale hormone readings. The doctor’s face cycles through exaggerated expressions of shock, confusion, realization, mirth, and professional resolve. “Well, um. Let me just. Computer, close the door and initiate soundproofing.”

The door slides shut, locking Worf into the inevitable, uncomfortable discussion.

“Commander, you’re familiar with Starfleet’s directive on preventing sexually transmitted pathogens from crossing the species barrier?” Bashir carefully avoids eye contact by rifling through a drawer. “Particularly as a result of novel interspecies contact?”

“Yes,” Worf says, seeing no sense in delaying what he knows must come.

“Then you’ll know why I have to ask you to put this on.” He holds up an improbably short and very revealing hospital gown.

Worf sighs, taking the infernal garment.

“Step behind the curtain, if you please. I’ll be with you as soon as I mend Quark’s fractures.”

—

Thirty torturous minutes later, Worf is seated on a couch in Dr. Bashir’s office, Quark’s hand resting on his knee, a public display of affection Worf tolerates and even finds a small measure of comfort in following the indignities he just faced.

“Fortunately, my scans show that you are both in perfect sexual health. No sexually transmitted pathogens, only the kinds of injuries one might expect from, well.” Bashir coughs. “I foresee no major threats to galactic public health. As a representative of Starfleet Medical, I will officially approve continued contact, provided you comply with the following recommendations: One. Maintain a monogamous sexual relationship.”

“Of course,” Quark mutters. “I want to live, don’t I?”

“Two,” Bashir continues. “Submit to quarterly bioscans to monitor the possible development of fungal infections. And three.” Bashir lowers his PADD. “Quark, if you’re going to keep doing that to him, your manicurist needs to cut your nails much closer. At least on your right hand.”

—

Given the paces Worf has put his adrenal glands through this evening, sleep should be a distant thought if not a total impossibility. But with the weight of a warm body pressing down on him, keeping him still, Worf can entertain the notion of drifting off.

“Never met anyone like you before,” Quark murmurs into Worf’s chest. “There’s a thousand people on the station, and you’re not like any of them.” He tilts his head up to look in Worf’s eyes. “You think I’m insulting you.”

Worf says nothing.

Quark pulls away, scooting up the bed so they’re face-to-face. “Even when you were kid, I bet you’d come home from school with that scowl on your face, and your mother would say, ‘Oh, Worf, honey, don’t be sad. You’re a wonderful individual, so special, so unique.’ And you would just run off to your room, crying because you wanted to be just like everybody else.”

“I recall a few occasions similar to that,” Worf says, his face expressionless.

“Same here.” He drops a kiss on Worf’s shoulder. “But let me tell you something I’ve learned as a businessman. Unique is valuable. That’s not a platitude, I’m not trying to make you feel better, well I am, but it’s a fact. My brother Rom had this Marauder Mo action figure when we were growing up. He loved this thing. Me, I thought he was being ridiculous: Mo’s face was painted on upside down. The thing was defective. But Rom held onto it, loved it, cherished it. And twenty years later it’s this incredibly rare collector’s item worth a hundred bars of latinum—even out of the box, in the condition Rom’s was in. If Rom hadn’t’ve held onto it, he never would’ve been able to afford Nog.”

“Rom bought his son?”

“No. I mean, not outright. He used the profits from selling Mo to negotiate a marriage and lease his wife’s womb. He massively overpaid, if you ask me. Don’t tell Nog I said that. Anyway, my point is you may see yourself as some defective outcast, but to me, you’re limited edition, a precious rarity, a one-of-a-kind offer.” He pauses. “You’re smart, but strong. Surprisingly physical for someone who lives inside his own head. You hate people, but love culture. You’ve made your own way in this universe—more than anyone else I’ve ever met—and I respect that. You’re a good person. Maybe not according to your own exacting standards, but still you’re a good person. One-of-a-kind.”

Worf furrows his brow. “Did you just compare me to a doll?”

“Marauder Mo’s not a doll; he’s an action figure! He’s got movable joints so he can pillage ships and punch out his nemesis, Customs Enforcer Karntz. Very butch, very masculine. Not a doll.”

“I suppose I should feel flattered.”

Quark shifts to let his head rest on Worf’s shoulder. “Did I even put a dent in your monument to self-loathing?”

“A small one,” Worf concedes.

“Good. Now you go.”

“Go what?”

“Say something nice about me. You didn’t think I would give you something for nothing, did you?”

Worf sighs, taking a moment to think. “You are deeply strange. You have an incredibly flexible moral code that’s only purpose is to generate profit for yourself and yourself alone. But somehow you’ve treated me with more empathy and understanding than anyone I have ever met. Despite your best efforts, you are a good person.”

Quark takes a long, shaky breath. “Very nice.” He digs his fingernails into the soft of Worf’s thigh. “But that doesn’t leave this room.”

“Of course.”

“I need to maintain a certain reputation on this station.”

“So do I.”

“Good.”

—

Until very recently, Worf has never entirely understood Starfleet policy granting on-duty crewmembers an hour meal break during every shift. No meal takes that long to consume, and if an organization doesn’t encourage drinking, singing, and amicable contests of strength during the lunch hour, what’s the point? However, within the past month, Worf has discovered ways of maximizing his mandatory breaks.

Amidst the cacophony of lunch time at the bar, Worf manages to signal a Dabo girl’s attention moments after walking in. “Where’s Quark?” he asks.

“He’s in the back,” Leeta says.

“Thank you.” He heads towards the storeroom, but is stopped by a light touch on his wrist.

“I should be thanking you.” She offers a warm smile. “He hasn’t groped one of us in weeks.”

“You’re welcome.” Worf pauses. “If he starts again, inform me immediately.”

“Oh, I will. Excuse me.” Hailed by a customer, who thanks to their snapping fingers is surely about to get the worst service of their life, Leeta plasters on an unsettling grin and heads across the bar.

Worf navigates the crush of hungry people, stepping behind the bar and back to the storeroom.

Buried up to his elbows in bottles of fluorescent liquid, Quark calls over his shoulder, “Give me five minutes and I’ll have the new drink special. I saw one of these about to expire the other day, I swear.”

Worf locks the door behind him. “I’m not here for a drink.”

“Hey,” Quark says, turning. “I thought you were Broik. He’s been bothering me every five minutes since we sold out of today’s special.” He extracts his hands from the recesses of the wine cabinet. “Boy, if I knew tying raises to promoting the specials would help me unload flat beer and vinegary wine, I would have started rewarding good performance years ago. What’s up?”

Worf says nothing, simply walks across the room, picks up Quark by the underarms, and hoists him up to eye level. Or, rather, lip level. After a moment, Quark’s lips break away even as his legs curl around Worf’s waist. “It’s lunch rush. They need me out—” He gasps as Worf’s teeth make their way along his outer helix. “Worf, Worf, I’m losing latinum as we speak.”

Worf pulls away, allowing Quark to drop to his feet. “You can take your latinum with you to the afterlife. Me—you can only have in this life.”

Quark glances at the shelves of nearly-off wine and then back to Worf. “Okay, but I don’t have time to get all clingy, so nothing below the waist.” He clarifies, “On me.”

Worf obliges, gripping Quark by the lobes and forcing him down to his knees.

—

Worf steps out of the bar fifteen minutes later, every hair in place, his uniform pristine, and a bit more of a jaunt in his step than when he came in. His stomachs rumble, letting his hunger be known now that other, more pressing physical urges have been met. He turns toward the habitat ring, knowing that a brisk walk to his quarters and back to ops will be much less time consuming than waiting in line at the Replimat. This estimate, of course, does not factor in being accosted by the station’s chief of security.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Odo says, stepping out of his office. “With Quark,” he adds.

Worf looks down, double checking his uniform for any stains that would give him away. Revealed to find none, he says, “That’s none of your business.”

“But it is. I’m chief of security here, not you. Quark is mine.”

And with that, Worf believes he’s found the answer to a mystery that has long been nagging him: how exactly did Quark survive on this station during the Occupation? It doesn’t surprise him that the Cardassians would have a kind of system in place wherein alien merchants could purchase safety with particular favors. However, Worf is surprised to hear that Odo would participate in such a scheme and even try to keep it going years later. It’s time to end this.

“Constable,” Worf says pointedly but quiet enough not to draw attention, the low volume that communicates disrespect amongst Klingons. “This station is no longer under Cardassian rule. You have no right—”

“No,” Odo says, raising his voice slightly. “You have no right. Hanging around the bar at all hours, buddying up to Quark in the holosuites, and now asking his employee to report on his activities? You may think you’re treading new ground, but I was there first. Quark is my informant, not yours.”

“Your informant,” Worf says slowly.

“Don’t play dumb with me. You know I’ve spent years cultivating Quark as a source of information. I will not let you jeopardize that just because you’re unhappy with your new assignment.”

Worf feels the urge to correct this misunderstanding, explain that he no longer doubts Odo’s ability to maintain order on the station, that he has come to respect the Constable’s acumen as an investigator and tactician. Although perhaps not in so many words.

However, that would necessarily require an explanation of what Worf is truly up to with Quark, and Worf cannot possibly think of another sentient lifeform he’d less like to talk to about his sex life than Odo. Given the Constable’s squeamishness around matters of the heart (and the flesh), Worf doesn’t think he could do the man a greater dishonor than by sharing tales of par’Mach. Even hearing about the raging passions and tender conquests of Klingon love might cause Odo to liquify on the spot. Perhaps permanently.

“I understand,” Worf says, aiming for some kind of middle ground that would resolve this conflict without causing too much embarrassment on either side. “If I seek out Quark again,” (which he will tonight; they have a training session scheduled) “it will not be for professional purposes.”

“Good,” Odo says. “I’m glad we could resolve this issue.”

—

Two weeks later, Worf realizes he shouldn’t have taken him at his word. The issue is far from resolved. In fact, upon being summoned to Sisko’s office, Worf realizes the issue has only escalated.

“Worf, take a seat.” Sisko gestures to one of the chairs across from his desk.

Odo occupies the other chair, his exterior rippling minutely, forming tiny waves that flow into his chest. Worf has the distinct impression that Odo is trying to disappear into himself like a black hole swallowing up matter. Such a feat might be possible for a Founder, but Odo seems to just be cycling his mass into his chest and back again.

It’s disturbing.

Worf does as he’s told, keeping an eye on Odo as he sits down.

“The Constable reported something very disturbing to me this morning,” Sisko says, “resulting from his investigation of your relationship with Quark.”

“Sir,” Worf protests, “I have done nothing wrong. I have complied with every Starfleet policy—”

Sisko holds up a hand, silencing him. “I know. You’re not in any trouble. Constable, could you share with Worf what you told me this morning?”

Odo stills his flesh. He doesn’t look either man in the eye. “After our talk a few weeks ago, I remained suspicious of your relationship with Quark. After all, you continued to spend time at the bar and provide him defense training. I reported this to Captain Sisko, but he refused to take action. So, I set up a surveillance device in Quark’s storeroom—”

The arms of Worf’s chair break off in his hands. “You spied on us?” The things Odo must have recorded.

“Let him finish,” Sisko says evenly.

“Yes,” Odo says. “I spied on you. I thought I might catch you discussing criminal matters with an informant, which given that you are no longer a security officer would be a crime. Conspiracy, at the very least. Instead, I recorded a… well, private interaction involving a Starfleet officer without his consent. This, of course, is a crime.”

“This,” Worf snarls, “is an attack on my honor and the honor of my par’Mach’kai. An attack you will answer for.”

“I assume you mean in the courts, Mr. Worf?” Sisko asks.

“No, in whatever hell awaits Changeling voles!”

“Mr. Worf,” Sisko says warningly.

Worf turns to Odo. “I have tolerated your obsession with Quark out of professional respect, but you have exhausted my good graces. This violation of—”

“Mr. Worf!”

“—our privacy and the sanctity of par’Mach, something you will never know, you—”

“Mr. Worf, sit down or I will—”

“—targ, disrespects my House, dishonored as it may be, named after my father, whose memory you spit upon. I will make you wish you were never—”

“Computer.” Sisko’s voice cuts through the room. “Play recording.”

The image of the bar’s storeroom lights up the office’s vidscreen.

“Sir,” Worf protests.

“Everyone in this room has seen the recording. Except for you,” Sisko says. “Let’s change that before you do something that we both regret.”

Exercising every last bit of self-control cultivated in the past nineteen years, Worf sits back down in his mangled chair.

“Fast forward to 1214 station time,” Sisko instructs.

The vidscreen speeds through the recording: the door opens and closes, the lights turn on and off as various Quark’s employees enter and exit the storeroom over the course of a single morning. Then the playback slows to real time just moments before Quark and Worf enter.

“Before you say anything,” Quark says, “I gave Midia that Oo-mox for Fun and Profit book months before you came to the station. She was just returning it. Said she couldn’t stand to have it in her quarters anymore. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t burn it. You know how those Bajoran religious types can be. Very destructive. Boy, you shoulda been here when Kai Winn was just a ved—”

“This isn’t about the book,” Worf says.

“Then what? You breaking up with me?” Quark’s jocular expression falls almost instantly. He clutches Worf’s arm. “Please don’t break up with me. Or at least wait until the end of the fiscal year. I’ve got enough on my plate right now without—”

“Is that why you didn’t come over last night?”

“Yes, I told you. Things got really busy at the bar. We had some high rollers in and I couldn’t get away.”

“We had plans.”

“I know, but plans—”

“I spent this entire week scouring the archives for an opera you would enjoy with a recording so clear even you would think it was being performed live in my quarters.”

“And I appreciate that. I do. Hey, why don’t you send it to me? When you come by after your shift, I’ll play it in the bar. That way everyone can enjoy it.”

“I don’t want everyone to enjoy it!” Worf snaps. “I want you to enjoy it. With me. Alone.”

“Of course.” Quark smiles superficially, baring the tips of his teeth. “Alone. In private. Out of sight. Where your precious coworkers can’t see us.”

“This isn’t about—”

“Oh, really? Is that why half the senior staff doesn’t know about us? Don’t try to make me the bad guy when you’re the one who’s ashamed to be with me.”

“I am not ashamed to be with you. I would never dishonor myself or another by engaging in a relationship that brought me shame.”

“Then how come you haven’t told your buddies in Starfleet or the Bajoran militia about us?”

“Because.” Worf looks to the door, ensuring that it’s closed. “To tell them, I would have to talk to them. As you’ve said, I don’t like talking to the people here.”

Quark shakes his head. “Coming from anyone else, that would sound like an excuse, but I’ve seen you transform into an active, nurturing presence in Alexander’s life just to avoid talking to Morn, so I’ll buy it.”

“I don’t want to spend any more time with them than I have to. You, on the other hand, I wish I could see more of.”

“You see me all the time. You come in here every night. We talk at the bar.”

“Yes, while you work. Barring our training sessions, when do I have your full attention?”

Quark doesn’t answer.

“Precisely,” Worf continues. “I just want to spend time with you as my par’Mach’kai, not my bartender.”

“Look, I…” Quark sighs. “I don’t have a lot of experience with… I’m a Ferengi, okay? For most of my life, I’ve only been a bartender, but with you… I’m new to this whole ‘lifeforms have intrinsic worth beyond their ability to acquire profit’ thing. It’s gonna take me a while to figure out how to conduct relations outside the free market.” He touches Worf’s elbow. “I’m sorry about last night. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll come over tonight, we’ll listen to that opera, and plan out what we’re going to do together your next day off. Does that work for you?”

Worf nods, leaning down enough for Quark to nuzzle his nose.

When he pulls away, Quark asks, “You eat yet?”

Worf shakes his head.

“Come on. I’ll get you something.”

As they walk out of frame, the security device’s microphone picks up less and less of their conversation:

“You got any ideas about what you wanna do?” Quark asks.

“Nature walk,” Worf replies.

“Outside?”

“Computer,” Sisko says, “fast forward to the end of the recording.”

The vidscreen speeds through two hours of an empty storeroom until Odo enters, reaching up to deactivate the device. The recording cuts out.

“Not quite so bad as you thought, Mr. Worf?” Sisko asks.

“No,” Worf says. “But it is still—”

“A huge breach of your privacy as a Starfleet officer,” Sisko finishes. “I have a meeting with Major Kira in a few hours to determine what disciplinary measures should be used against Odo as a member of the Bajoran militia. Meanwhile, under Starfleet’s agreement with the Bajoran Provisional Government, you are entirely within your rights as a resident of DS9 to file charges with the magistrate.”

“If I file charges,” Worf asks, “others will see the recording?”

Odo nods. “Even if I pled guilty—and I would—the magistrate, her assistants, the bailiff, and our civil advocates would need to view the recording. I realize it may not seem like justice to have your privacy violated again and again, but—”

“It would make you feel better—being punished?”

“To see justice served? Yes.”

Worf crosses his arms over his chest. “Then I decline to press charges.”

“Very well,” Sisko says. “Mr. Worf, I assume you’ll be satisfied with allowing Constable Odo to stew in his own guilt. You’ll have no need to take any extrajudicial measures?”

“No. Not this time.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Constable, you’re off-duty until further notice. You’re free to roam the public areas of the station and the habitat ring, but—and I don’t need to tell you this—don’t try to leave the station. You’re dismissed.”

Worf doesn’t even look at Odo as he moves to leave. “I hope you realize how lucky you are. If there were anything else on that recording…”

Odo stops before reaching the door. “I know. And I’m sorry.” He ducks out of the room before Worf can respond, perhaps knowing that a few words wouldn’t be enough to heal the damage to their working relationship. That would take time and a good deal of emotional growth on both their parts.

As the door slides shut behind Odo, the warmth slowly returns to Sisko’s face as if activated by his transition from disciplinarian to comforting captain. “I’m sorry this happened under my command. Sorry that it happened at all. But especially under my command. We don’t always do things by the book around here, but there are certain limits we all know not to cross. I forget sometimes that Odo can’t always sense those limits as well as the rest of us. To him, a personal life is still a very foreign concept. Perhaps because he hasn’t been treated like a person or even a lifeform for very long. Now I’m not trying to make excuses for him. What he did was wrong. But there are certain things about him and his past that made doing it seem like a perfectly reasonable plan. And as his commanding officer, knowing what I do about him, when he came to me with his suspicions about you and Quark, I should’ve realized he might do something rash.”

“No captain can truly know what lies in the hearts and minds of his subordinates,” Worf says.

“No, I suppose not.” Sisko picks up the baseball from his desk and tosses it lightly from one hand to the other. “I know I have no right to ask you this, but did you mean what you said in the recording? About not wanting to talk to the other members of the crew? Not wanting to spend time with us?”

“Sir, I meant no disrespect. I—”

“Clearly. If you had, I imagine you would’ve said it to our faces.” Sisko smiles slightly, leaning towards Worf. “Is there something we’ve done?” Sisko winces. “Besides record your private conversations.”

“Not intentionally.”

“But unintentionally?”

Worf looks down at the ball in Sisko’s hands. “When I speak to members of this crew, I get the impression that they have certain expectations of how a Klingon should be, expectations that I cannot fulfill.”

“Would I be right in saying that one of our older crewmembers plays a role in setting those expectations?”

“You wouldn’t be wrong.”

Sisko sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Another problem I failed to get in front of.” He contemplates the baseball in his hand. “I’ve known Dax for many years, most of them as Curzon’s friend. With this new host, it’s often hard to tell where Jadzia starts and Curzon ends. In life, Curzon always had a very dominating personality. I suppose that’s still true even after his death. I don’t think it’s been easy for Jadzia to contend with that. She’s inherited a number of his more bombastic traits without the benefit of truly living his experiences. Memories are one thing, but being someone is entirely another.” Sisko glances over the baseball at Worf. “You know Curzon was an ambassador.”

“Of course,” Worf says. “His name is revered within the Empire.”

Sisko smiles fondly. “I imagine the heads of all the Great Houses have their own Curzon story passed down from their fathers: hunting targ, singing songs over bloodwine. In his years as ambassador, Curzon got to experience the very best of the old Empire. It’s easy, I think for ambassadors—especially the prominent ones like Curzon—to go from planet to planet, sampling the very best that each has to offer, taking in that very curated image cultures present when visited by foreign dignitaries. People try so hard to impress them, to honor their presence, that it’s almost inevitable that they develop a sense of entitlement.

“I remember when I first introduced Curzon to my father. He’d never been to New Orleans before, never had Creole cooking before. My father spent all day in the kitchen, whipping up a little of everything, very eager to introduce gumbo to the Trill species. Curzon ate his fill, complimented my father profusely, and then got up to leave, his dirty dishes still on the table. I don’t know if I’d ever been so embarrassed before in my life. Now, I was ready to wash all the dishes myself, but my father said, ‘Ambassador Dax, I understand this is your first time in New Orleans, but here we have a custom when it comes to dinner parties: whoever doesn’t cook has to clean up.’ And that was that.

“Now, through Curzon’s memories, Jadzia gets served all the best Klingon dishes. But since she’s not an ambassador or a Klingon, she doesn’t have to do any of the cleaning up. Does that make sense?”

“I believe so,” Worf says, being someone who seems to only do the cleaning up.

“Good. I know sometimes my family’s cooking metaphors can get a little opaque.” Sisko puts down the baseball and folds his hands on his desk. “I don’t know if this is unique to Curzon and Jadzia, but it’s been my experience that Dax has a gift for setting the tone, you know, changing the mood of a room, getting everyone on the same page. That can make for some great parties, but when it comes to determining how her friends and colleagues think and feel about an entire species… well, I don’t have to tell you how dangerous that can be. I think it says something about all of us—not just Dax—that we would believe her word over yours.”

Worf realizes the irony of his situation: on the Enterprise, he exploited his crewmates’ ignorance of Klingon culture to assert himself as the prototypical Klingon. But by the time he arrived on DS9, someone else—a Trill—had already pulled the same trick. His own weapon unwittingly turned against him.

“As commanding officer,” Sisko continues, “it’s my job to ensure that every member of this crew feels comfortable operating as a unit—on-duty as well as off.”

“Sir, with all due respect,” Worf says, “I can fight my own battles.”

“I know. And I would never dream of denying you that glory. If you and Chief O’Brien get into a petty argument over a game of Tongo, I’m not one to interfere. But if this crew—either individually or collectively—has created an unwelcome social or work environment based on species prejudice, one where you feel uncomfortable talking to your own subordinates, I have to act. As commander of this station, it’s up to me to create an environment where people of many different species and backgrounds can live and work together unconstrained by the strictures of stereotype and discrimination.”

“Creating such an environment will not be easy,” Worf says.

Sisko nods. “That’s why I’m hoping you’ll help.”

“Me?”

“I can think of no one better suited.” Sisko picks up the baseball once again, gripping it overhand as he does when excited. “Think of it, Mr. Worf: a pilot program aimed at respecting difference within the fleet, starting here at DS9, but portable enough that it can be instituted at any posting.” He snaps with his free hand. “Beginning with the Academy. What you do say, Mr. Worf?”

“It will be an uphill battle.”

“My favorite kind.”

“Then I would be honored.”

Sisko grins widely, bringing deep dimples to his cheeks. “We’ll start next week, hammer out the timeline. I’m hoping to have a workable prototype to implement on the station within six months. It’s a tight deadline, but this is clearly a pressing issue. In the meantime.” Sisko takes a breath, slowing himself down. “You should know that even if the crew doesn’t think of you as the perfect Klingon, that doesn’t mean they won’t respect you as a Starfleet officer, a person, or a Klingon.”

“Again, with all due respect,” Worf says, “I’ve found that isn’t the case. On the Enterprise—”

“Again, with all due respect, Mr. Worf, this is not the Enterprise.” Sisko steeples his hands, surrounding the baseball. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret: no one on this station is a perfect Bajoran or a perfect Changeling or even a perfect Trill. Do you think Curzon would be such a dominant force in Commander Dax’s life if she was the perfect Trill? It’s unusual, perhaps even unprecedented, for a single past host to inform a joined Trill’s personality so strongly.”

The irony again: Worf wouldn’t feel like such an improper Klingon if Dax was a proper Trill.

“And it’s not just her. Major Kira struggles to find a place in post-Occupation Bajoran society,” Sisko continues. “Constable Odo has just discovered what he is, but has no idea who he is. Chief O’Brien is still scarred from the last war—in a species that supposedly overcame such Human experiences as trauma and grief once we discovered warp drive. And Dr. Bashir… there’s something about Dr. Bashir that none of us can quite put our finger on. He’s different, but I can’t for the life of me say how. Time will tell on that one. And, as for me…” He pauses. “Well, could you imagine Captain Picard, the fleet’s spokesperson for Human ideals, serving as Emissary to the Bajoran Prophets?”

“I cannot,” Worf says. “Nor would I want to.”

Sisko chuckles. “You see, no one on this station—not me, not you, not your par’Mach’kai—is who people think they should be. But I’d like to think we’re all becoming who we are meant to be. Together.”

“You speak of destiny rather often for a Human.”

“Yet somehow Starfleet still lets me run this place.” Sisko holds his hands up, gesturing to the station at large.

“I find it refreshing.”

“If you give us a chance, I’ll think you’ll find all our little quirks have their charms.”

“It would be nice,” Worf says, “to have someone to talk to at the bar. Besides Quark.”

“Well, I’m sure none of us could even begin to compete with Quark for your affections, but I’d be happy to arrange a crew morale night at the bar for the senior staff. We could have a few drinks, play Tongo, whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“There is a Human game I enjoy.”

—

“No, wait, how did he win?” Kira asks, watching Worf slide her chips over to his side of the table.

“The king is higher than the queen,” Dr. Bashir explains.

“But that doesn’t make any sense!” Her gesticulations nearly send a drink pouring onto Dax’s lap.

“I agree,” Worf says, even as he counts his winnings. “The wife is the head of the household.”

“They’re both royalty, right?” Kira looks around the table, searching for confirmation. “Shouldn’t they be equal? They’re husband and wife.”

“That always did seem a little weird to me,” Dax says.

“The game is based on the old European monarchies,” Sisko says, collecting the discarded hands from the table. “They weren’t exactly known for their egalitarianism.”

“You’re telling me,” O’Brien mutters into his lager.

“Wait,” Dax says. “I thought you were European.”

“I am. Just not that kind of European. My people didn’t have empires ruled by kings and queens. We were conquered by them.”

“Not this again,” Bashir grumbles.

“What?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always bragging about having Brian Boru, literal King of Ireland, as an ancestor?”

“That’s different. You can’t compare the old kingdoms of Ireland to other Western European monarchies.”

“But they were still kingdoms, right?” Kira asks. “Not queendoms?”

“Exactly,” Bashir says. “And frankly, it’s completely disingenuous to idealize Ireland as somehow exempt from European hegemony. Irish settlers did help colonize North America after all.”

“There was a famine! What did you expect them to do? Stay there and starve?” O’Brien asks.

“Still, it wasn’t their land. They were active participants—”

“Gentlemen,” Quark says, approaching their table. “I’d hate to break up what’s shaping up to be a fascinating philosophical argument, but you’re scaring the other customers.”

“Sorry,” O’Brien and Bashir mumble.

“Ooh.” Quark bends over, propping up his elbows on Worf’s shoulders. He reaches down to rub his fingers over Worf’s tidy stack of chips. “How much is one of these little blue circles worth?”

“One little blue circle,” Worf replies.

“You’re not playing for money? Those two are fighting, and you’re not even playing for money? What’s the point?”

“More money for drinks,” Sisko answers. “Another round. On me.”

Quark signals to the waiter manning the bar.

“You’re making a killing on drinks tonight.” Dax drains the last of her cocktail. “You ever think of setting up a poker tournament?”

“You kidding me?” Quark rests his chin on Worf’s head. “He counts cards.”

“I do not,” Bashir says several decibels louder than necessary. “I wouldn’t even know to begin to—”

“Not you. Worf.”

Worf glares upward.

“So that’s how you’re doing it!” There’s not even a bit of irritation in Chief O’Brien’s voice. “I knew you weren’t this good on the Enterprise. But of course nobody on board played even Old Maid without a holographic randomizer.”

“A holographic randomizer?” Kira says. “You Federation types sure take your card games seriously.”

“Our Chief Engineer was blind. The VISOR he used allowed him to pick up physical impressions on paper playing cards. We never wanted to play a game he couldn’t drop in on.”

“And the randomizer?” Sisko asks.

“For Commander Data, I assume,” Bashir says.

“Yeah, but apparently he wasn’t the only one we had to worry about,” O’Brien says.

“In poker, the benefits of counting cards are minimal,” Worf says.

O’Brien snorts. “Says the guy with all the little blue circles.”

“So much for Klingon honor,” Dax muses.

Kira and Sisko share a look over her head.

“I don’t see what being a Klingon has to do with it,” Kira says.

Sisko nods. “Let’s keep the species-based comments to a minimum.”

Dax shrugs. “Fine by me.”

Quark tightens his arms around Worf, making a show of kissing his cheek. “Do you want me to stay?” He whispers. “Or are you fine on your own?”

Knowing Dax would understand a response in Klingon, Worf replies in faltering Ferengi, “I’m fine. You go. If want.”

“Okay.” Quark drops another kiss on Worf’s cheek and heads back to the bar.

When Worf turns back to the table, he’s met by five very surprised faces.

“Was that…” Bashir asks, “...Ferengi?”

“The eastern dialect,” Worf replies.

“You speak Ferengi?” Kira says, still in shock.

“I am learning.” When the aura of surprise fails to clear from the table, he adds, “It is not a very difficult language.” He pauses. “I have a very good teacher.”

Seemingly satisfied, everyone leans back in their seats, faces recovering from shock.

“The benefits of having a Ferengi boyfriend,” O’Brien pronounces, speaking a phrase he never would have aboard the Enterprise, where the concept of Ferengi offering benefits of any kind or being someone’s boyfriend was entirely unthinkable. Yet somehow on Deep Space Nine it seems like a perfectly normal thing to say. (And, in Worf’s mind, absolutely true.)

He may learn to like the people here yet.