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Wedding Bell Blues

By Cardie-ologist

Act 1

Julian Garak fiddled with the collar of his tuxedo shirt. Black tie simply wasn't made for Cardassians, even those whose neck bones were as insignificant as his. Ever since he'd seen a holo image of his Uncle Kukalaka so turned out, however, he'd vowed that no other costume would do for his wedding. Still, he envied the other groom, his brother Terel, whose dress uniform as a Cardassian Glinn fit him like a glove.

"Will you stop grooming yourself, Ridgie," Terel called out irritably from where he was standing by the window. "You look fine. You'd even pass inspection with Papa."

Julian gave a few more unsatisfactory tugs at the bow tie and walked away from the mirror to join Terel, whose eyes had been glued on the arriving guests for half an hour. Julian put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "He won't come, you know."

"I know. Still, I keep hoping. We'd always been so very close, with me being the heir to the House of Dukat and all."

"Ex heir. That's the problem. You had to realize he'd cut you off when you told him you were renouncing your claim to the House and moving to Bajor. It was the same with me. Oh, at first there were transmissions on my birthday, that kind of thing. Every time I made contact, though, he'd be unavailable to take the message; then he'd send some canned reply a few days later. I could never arrange to talk to him in real time, and whenever I went home to visit the rest of you, he was always conveniently 'away on business.' Of course, when I told him about Pol and me, he gave up even the pretense of caring."

"He boycotted Papa and Mama's wedding too, and then he came around later," said Terel wistfully.

"That's right. Perhaps he will, in your case. I mean, he can hardly be that self righteous about your joining with a Bajoran, given his own romantic history. We uh'nats, I fear, will, however, remain consigned to the outer darkness permanently."

Their eyes met solemnly. Who would have thought, after all those wonderful adventures with their Grandpapa growing up, that it would come to this on what should have been one of the happiest days of their lives? "I think it was jolly big of us even to send him an invitation," Julian insisted, vowing that he wouldn't acknowledge the pain, even to Terel.

Terel gave him a little hug, "Oh, give it up, Ridgie. You're just as miserable as I am. Don't think you can fool *me* I'm your brother."

There was a knock on the door, and a moment later their two younger siblings entered. "The Vedek says it's time to come out. They're playing some chant or other on the drums that means we should begin the processional," said sister Prelenda, all atwitter to be part of the august occasion. She had been made ravishing beyond her years in her first "adult dress" crafted of the sheerest, shiniest silk by her doting Papa, its blue color precisely matching that of her wide set, beautiful eyes.

"My, my Prel, you do look fabulous," said Julian appreciatively. "I guess it won't be so bad having you for my attendant after all."

"I should hope not. I can't imagine why you wanted to have Uncle Julian stand up with you, when your own flesh and blood was available."

"Because, my dear sister, you're a girl. And you know you would much rather have strewn the arcantha petals, except they said that thirteen was a tad too old for that job."

"It wasn't really my age," Prelenda fumed. "They just couldn't resist the spectacle of those three disgustingly cute little Notars performing the ritual. As for my being a girl, you could just as easily have played the bride as the groom, you pervert, you." She flashed her brother a smile, to show that the insult was only a part of their usual good-natured sparring.

"They're not Notars; they're Khomurs. Notar joined Cerona's house when he joined with her," Enabran interrupted nervously, as he clenched and unclenched his big hands. "Stop arguing and get going. I think we're late already."

"Calm down, little brother, they can't very well start without us," said Terel, as he wiped some of the perspiration that was flowing down Enabran's face with one of Julian's rejected choices for a handkerchief. "All you have to do is stand there and not pass out."

"We should go, though," Julian observed, holding the door open. Taking four simultaneous deep breaths, the first generation of the House of Garak marched out into the bright, Bajoran sunlight that was flooding the garden of the Kendis Shrine.

***

They had to quicken their pace in order to meet the bridal party in the precise center of the joining ring, equidistant from each of the 30 volcanic stones that marked the sacred place. Although a Vedek was officiating, and the vows were to be Bajoran, the other rituals were Cardassian. "A hybrid wedding for hybrids," they had insisted to two pairs of reluctant parents. Now Kira and Odo, Ziyal and Garak sat in the place of parental honor with beaming faces as Enabran stepped back from his eldest brother while Lt. Commander Haran in her full dress Starfleet uniform placed in Terel's the hand of her sister Lupaza, incandescent in red and gold chiffon, and then stepped back also. Enabran had to tug Prelenda back out of the center so that Notar, in his double extra large tuxedo, could place the hand of his similarly tuxedoed brother Pol in Julian Garak's. The two couples then faced the guests and knelt as Notar's six year old, chubby cheeked triplets Sarima, Quark, and Letilla Khomur solemnly laid down the path of arcantha petals.

Just before the next chant was to have begun, the moment of silent contemplation was shattered by the sound of boots crunching the arcantha petals, as, resplendent in a silver dress uniform that matched his slicked back hair, Legate Elmor Dukat entered the garden and climbed over seven guests in the back row in order to seat himself.

Julian's gaze followed those of the many turned heads among the guests. "Prophets, Terel, he's come!" His brother only nodded, afraid that his voice would break with emotion if he tried to speak.

***

The wedding supper that Notar's Bajoran Cardassian restaurant staff had catered had arrived at the fifth of its seven courses. Terel had eaten hardly any of them, as he kept straining to see his grandfather, seated five meters away in a four table grouping of the Cardassian embassy delegation and the senior staff of the Commerce Ministry. "Why didn't he sit with Mama and Papa? They have an empty chair for him at their table."

"He's probably mortified. You said he hates to admit it when he's wrong," Lupaza said soothingly. "Go ahead and eat something, my love. Just be happy that he showed up after all."

"No, it's ridiculous. I'm going to talk to him," Terel replied.

"Terel, don't," Julian admonished, extending his arm to hold his brother back. "You'll just get more upset." Terel angrily brushed Julian's arm aside and strode off. "There goes the rest of the party," Julian brooded.

"Don't let him upset you, too, Ridgie," said Pol lovingly.

"I can't help it. Grandpapa does have such a knack for spoiling happy occasions."

***

Terel approached the Cardassian group and gave a little formal bow. "We Garaks are so happy you could attend, gentlemen. Especially you, Legate Dukat," he said icily.

The other Cardassians nodded awkwardly and muttered embarrassed congratulations. Dukat at first averted his eyes, then decided to brazen it out. "Well, well," his voice boomed, "I could hardly miss the joining of two of my favorite grandsons."

Terel left him hanging for a good minute. Then he said in a softer tone, "Why don't you come with me to get a drink, Grandpapa?" Dukat gratefully acquiesced, and the two of them walked over to the bar, and ordered two kanars from the Ferengi server. Then, at Terel's request, they walked past the bar and into the small chapel where Terel and Julian had dressed. Terel shut the door and immediately exploded with anger.

"What do you think you're doing, Grandpapa? You should either have stayed away altogether or behaved like the member of the family you are. I can't believe you're hiding out with those strangers, that you haven't had the decency to speak to Ridgie and me and our partners."

"I didn't know if I'd be welcome. Your mother and I had a dreadful row when I said I wasn't coming, your father doesn't need an excuse to be angry with me, and my behavior toward you and your brother--"

"Has been abominable!" Terel turned away, terrified that he might cry. Composing himself for a few seconds, he crossed his arms and met Dukat's gaze: "What changed your mind, Grandpapa?"

"I've had a very bad habit in my life of burning bridges between myself and those I love the most. Those bridges get harder and harder to rebuild as the years go by. I hope I haven't been too late this time, Terel." The young man gave him no answer. Dukat continued urgently, "Can't you understand how I felt, though, when you told me you wanted to relinquish your claim to the House of Dukat. I had so many hopes for you. It was one thing when Julian ran off to Bajor; he was never much of a Cardassian to begin with. But you, Terel?"

"You never gave me a chance to explain. You just threw me out of your house and told me to be damned."

"I know. I've never taken betray-- surprises very well when my family is involved," Dukat replied. "Some day we'll sit down, and you can give me all your reasons, but this is your wedding day. Let's go back and join your guests. I promise that I'll come by your table before I leave."

"Not good enough, Grandpapa. You'll hear my reasons now, and if you can't fully accept them, and Ridgie's, you can leave. Otherwise you'll join the family table, as you should."

"Any more orders, Glinn Dukat? Or is it Glinn Garak now?" his grandfather inquired sarcastically.

"For the moment, it's still Glinn Dukat, but soon it will be neither." Dukat began to protest, but Terel silenced him. "Please, just listen for a change." Dukat extended both his arms in a mocking apology and seated himself with great pomp. Terel fought off a chuckle and continued. "You remember that my division was called in to put down the uprising at the Darmenti labor camp, where the inmates struck over the scant rations, and then murdered the guards when they tried to compel them to return to work, and that I told you I was selected for the execution detail afterwards."

"That sorry incident showed the foolishness of leniency in political affairs," Dukat huffed. "Did they imagine that commuting to a life's hard labor the sentences of all those children of the conspirators in the coup of year 330 of the Fourth Republic wouldn't have repercussions? Children do grow up. Ah, my apologies, I interrupted you."

Terel couldn't help grinning this time, until the seriousness of what he was trying to say reclaimed his features. "Seventy three prisoners survived the re taking of the camp. Central Command ordered them all to be shot on the spot. One detachment tied their hands and made them kneel; three other men and I were to fire a phaser rifle to their heads, one by one. As I approached my seventh target, the man looked up at me and said, "So, Dukat, we meet again. Sorry it can't be under better circumstances." It was Zelnar Ghartel; we'd been in First Form together, were quite close pals before his father was arrested. I didn't answer him; I just positioned the rifle, fired, and moved on to the next one."

"You did your duty like a loyal Cardassian," Dukat affirmed sympathetically. "Sometimes the state requires hard things from us."

"So you said at the time, Grandpapa. Papa told me that he understood what it took for me to do it, and that when the nightmares started, he could help me deal with them. Mama was appalled, I know, but all she said was that she knew how difficult it had been. Only Ridgie had a different view. He said I should have refused the duty, that it was dishonorable to shoot unarmed sentient beings in cold blood, no matter what they'd done. I'm afraid I blew up at him. I was certainly your heir on that occasion, Grandpapa," Terel added bitterly. "I told him that his opinion hardly counted, he'd turned his back on Cardassia to go live with those ridge noses. And what did a filthy uh'nat know about honor any way for he'd told me about Pol and him from the beginning. When he started crying, I said that he was no brother of mine and broke off the commlink."

"You just didn't want to hear from him what your guilt was already telling you. I understand," said Dukat softly.

"Oh, no, Grandpapa. That wasn't it at all. You see there was something bothering me that I hadn't told anyone. It hadn't been hard for me to shoot Ghartel. I wasn't feeling any guilt or pain. I waited for nightmares that never came. I felt nothing except fear that I was feeling nothing. As the months passed, this fear grew, and I finally took some of the leave I had coming. That had been our reward for doing the dirty work a half year's leave. Julian and Pol were holed up in that primitive cabin of theirs, writing their novel. The nearest shuttle landing pad was seven kilometers distant. I had to hike it, straight up a mountainside, and when the sun went down, the temperature dropped thirty degrees, cold enough to faze a Bajoran, let alone someone raised on Cardassia. I turned up on their doorstep in the middle of the night, shivering and exhausted. I'd interrupted them in the midst of some passionate interlude, I'm sure. It would have served me right if Ridgie had slammed the door in my face and left me there to freeze. They let me in, though, and warmed up some raktajino, and then Pol diplomatically said he had to go regenerate. I fell into my brother's arms and just sobbed, telling him that killing those prisoners had meant no more to me than eradicating the parasites in the orchard at the country house, and there had to be something terribly wrong with that. After I got hold of myself, he took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. 'Look, Terel,' he said. 'If you don't get away from Cardassia soon, you'll stop thinking that it's terribly wrong. You'll be proud that you can do your duty without regrets. Then the ogre curse will never let you go.'"

"The ogre curse!" Dukat exclaimed. "Julian's a grown man now. I can't believe he still puts any store in those ridiculous fairy tales your father used to tell him."

"He's a writer, Grandpapa; he knows it's just a metaphor." Terel looked at his grandfather pointedly. "It's a fairly appropriate metaphor, though, isn't it?" Dukat was atypically silent.

"We talked all night, and then I fell asleep in my chair," Terel continued. "When I woke up, it was very clear what I had to do. Giving up the House of Dukat gave me so many more choices. For one thing, I'd been dreading what would happen when I told you that Lupaza and I were planning to be joined. Dealing with her mother had been bad enough. You'd have shaken your head and told me that of course you had loved Grandmama Naprem dearly, and Mama, but after all, we couldn't bring still more Bajoran blood into the House of Dukat. Then you'd have winked at me and said that it didn't take much to do one's dynastic duty with the heiress of some other great house and that Lupaza and I could still have our fun."

"Terel! You pay far too much attention to General Kira's slanders of me."

"I've spent far too much time around you, you mean. You're not a very difficult person to read, Grandpapa." Once more, Terel achieved the feat of reducing his grandfather to silence.

"It's not as if the House of Dukat will collapse without me," the young man went on. "Cousin Malchor has been eating himself alive for twenty years that he wasn't to be Dukat heir. He already has three sons, and he'll be a worthy leader of the House. So I'll take back my father's name. I'll resign my commission when my leave expires next month. You'll be pleased to know that I'm not abandoning the soldier's life entirely. Starfleet has agreed to accept most of my credits from Central Command Military. I should only have to make up about a year's work at Starfleet Academy mostly the Ethics courses," he grinned. "Paza has two more years to go in her advanced Security training there, so we can be together."

"How can you possibly join Starfleet? The Dominion Treaty expressly forbids Dominwealth citizens from serving the Federation in any capacity."

"You forget, we've all got dual Cardassian-Bajoran citizenship. I'll renounce my allegiance to Cardassia when I resign my commission. I'm sorry, Grandpapa, but if I don't do this, everything that's decent in me will be lost."

Dukat sat stunned for a while, taking in his adopted heir's systematic repudiation of everything he held dear. Finally he rose and gazed at his grandson steadily. "Some day I must tell you all about your great grandfather, Palmor Dukat. At this moment you remind me of him very strongly."

Terel bowed his head. "Yes, I understand how what I'm doing makes me seem a traitor to Cardassia," he said unhappily.

Dukat laid a hand on his shoulder. "No, no, Terel. I didn't mean that at all," he said earnestly. "My father gave up everything rather than betray what was decent in himself. He paid a terrible price for his principles. I'm just thankful there's a less painful way for you. Now, it's time we both rejoin the family, eh, my boy ?"

***

Lupaza was drumming her fingers on the table top with increasing irritation. "Where have they gone? Dessert's over, and still no sign of Terel or your grandfather."

"If they've gotten into a serious conversation, it could be hours," Julian observed. "The Dukats and the Garaks are prodigious talkers. Terel is quieter than the rest of us, but that's only relative."

"In that case I'm going to visit with some of my friends from the Academy. If Terel comes back while I'm gone, you can just tell him that I've run off to be the mistress of the first handsome male, of any species, that walked by," Lupaza announced flippantly.

Julian stirred the quickly melting remains of his dessert aimlessly with his fork. Pol put an arm around him and kissed him tenderly, "Don't be so gloomy, Ridgie, what do you need your grandfather for, when you've got me?"

Julian smiled and returned the kiss. His mood didn't improve, however. "It's just hard, having him and everyone back on Cardassia think I'm some sort of degenerate. I mean, of course, Papa and Mama have been wonderful about it, but uh'nat is still one of the dirtiest words in the Cardassian vocabulary. You know, they absolutely banned The Shapes of Love there. You can be put in a labor camp just for owning a copy."

"I guess we're lucky that, for all the narrow mindedness Bajorans can be guilty of, they've never differentiated between heterosexual and homosexual love." He stroked Julian's hair. "Besides, whenever we want to visit Cardassia or any of the few other provincial backwaters that get themselves excited by same sex couples, I can just be a girl. Doesn't take a second to shift."

"No!" Julian shouted, drawing a few stares from neighboring tables. "I've never tried to conceal that I'm hybrid, and I won't cover up my love for another man, either. I'm angry about the way Cardassians treat us, not ashamed."

"Whoa, Ridgie, I'm not the enemy," Pol responded, more concerned than hurt.

"Sorry, lover, I know you're not," Julian took on a teasing air, "It's just that, if I were interested in girls, I'd have been fighting big brother over your twin sister, and you'd have been left in the lurch." They kissed again, this time more passionately, until the sound of approaching footsteps caused them to break off with some embarrassment.

Jake Sisko peered down at them from his considerable height. Although his close-cropped hair was flecked with gray, and there were the beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, he had never lost his air of boyish enthusiasm. "Sorry to intrude, lovebirds," he began, "but Kasidy has a tight delivery deadline, and she's my ticket back home, so we're going to have to leave the party a little early. However, I certainly couldn't depart without congratulating 'Julian Pol' in person for all the success you two have had with The Shapes of Love. The Salerian Prize for best first novel in the quadrant. *Very* impressive."

"For my part, you should congratulate yourself, Jake. It was the Naughty Nog stories that got me started thinking about being a writer," Julian replied. "The stuff that won us the prize and all those ecstatic reviews is Pol's anyway. 'A breathtaking, sensuous lyricism that accomplishes the apparently impossible task of making the humanoid reader truly understand what it means to be a Changeling,'" he quoted. "I mostly contributed the plot."

"Ridgie underestimates himself," Pol replied modestly. "The real selling point of the book was the ' heart stopping erotic moments,' and those passages are all his. My Julian has always had a very dirty mind."

"They certainly were astounding," Jake agreed. "I don't think I'm the only one who had to take a cold shower every chapter or so."

They all laughed, and Julian blushed a little. "In fact, Jake," Pol went on, "I would probably never have become a Changeling if Ridgie here hadn't nagged at me endlessly about all the possibilities for enhanced pleasure."

"Stop it, Pol, that's private," Julian protested.

Jake had sat down by this point. "Hey, I'm a very old friend of the family. You can tell me. I've always wondered just how much of that novel was autobiographical."

"The emotions are ours, but not really any of the circumstances," said Julian, hoping to bring the subject to an end. He had never figured out where Pol had come by this confessional side of his nature. He certainly was no chip off the old Changeling, no matter what the science of his conception indicated. Odo had practically liquefied on the spot when *he'd* read their book.

"That's true enough," Pol said. "The beginnings of our relationship were as boring as could be: falling in love with your childhood friend. It didn't hurt that Mother and Father had us share a room when Ridgie decided to go to school on Bajor."

"What a struggle it was to seduce him, though," Julian put in, his story telling impulse overcoming his reticence. "He kept saying, you're too young, Ridgie, you don't know your own mind. As if I hadn't had a crush on him since I was seven. He finally succumbed when I was fifteen and he was eighteen."

"We'd spent many long hours discussing my reluctance to activate my Changeling abilities," Pol took up the story. "After we'd been sleeping together for six months he told me that although I was quite the exceptional lover as a solid, I really owed it to him to take our sex lives to the next level by becoming a shape shifter."

"He complained that I was exaggerating the difference, but then I threatened to ask his mother for proof, and that did it," said Julian triumphantly. "He went right to Odo the next day and said that he was ready to 'embrace his destiny.'"

"I've never regretted the decision. And I know that Ridgie wasn't really motivated by his own lechery--"

"Not entirely by my own lechery," Julian interrupted impishly.

Pol squeezed his hand. "He knew how afraid I was to take the step, and he also knew that my love for him was the one force strong enough to make me take it."

"Well, that's not a love forged in a runabout marooned in a nebula for three weeks," Jake said, "but quite a romantic story in its own way. So what will you two do for an encore?"

"After the honeymoon, we're going back up into the mountains to start work on the second novel. It's going to be a complete change of pace an adventure story about a brave little tailor in a kingdom beset by ogres," Julian replied.

"That can be risky, going against your readers' expectations," Jake cautioned.

"I realize that, but this is a story I just have to write."

"Yes, that's the one that's autobiographical," Pol said with a wink.

"Well, I hope it wins a transport full of awards, too," Jake added warmly. "I really do have to go now. Sorry."

"We'll still have plenty of catching up to do, to win as many literary prizes as you have," Pol called after his departing figure. Then he turned back to his partner. "What you said about not wanting me to shift into a woman. Does that mean our little performance is off?"

"Oh, no. An entirely different matter. That's not life, my dear, that's theatre."

***

Lupaza returned from visiting with her Academy classmates to discover that Terel still hadn't rejoined Julian and Pol. "If that husband of mine thinks he's going to have a passionate wedding night, he'd better get back here in the next five minutes," she announced through clenched teeth.

"The honeymoon is saved, sister," said Pol. "There he comes, and he has Dukat with him."

"I think I'll go talk to Uncle K." Julian remarked, rising hurriedly. Pol shot out his arm, Changeling style, and restrained him. "No, you won't. We're going to get this settled. One way or another."

Dukat reached the table a few steps ahead of Terel, exuding smiles and charm. "Lupaza, Pol, I've heard so much about you all these years. It's hard to believe I'm meeting you for the first time." He grasped Lupaza's hand and kissed it with a great show of gallantry. "Ah, you are as lovely as your mother, as of course you should be. Terel here is a lucky man." His gaze turned to Pol, seated next to his twin, and faltered. There was an awkward pause.

"I'd really prefer that you not kiss my hand Legate Dukat," Pol said lightly. "I'd be honored, however, if you would shake it."

Dukat laughed and then grasped Pol's hand firmly. "Of course, my boy. And let's drop the formality. I'm your Grandfather Dukat now." Pol nodded a grave assent.

Julian was still standing by his chair, gripping the back with both hands, his expression strained. "Does that mean you're still my grandfather, then?"

Dukat turned and embraced him. "Forgive me, Julian, I've been such an arrogant fool," he said softly.

"As usual," Julian retorted, but then returned the embrace heartily. "We've all learned to cope with it, Grandpapa." Dukat extricated himself from the embrace, giving Julian a little pat on the back. "Always one for the clever reply, our Ridgie, just like his father," he said to the others, with a mere trace of huskiness. He cleared his throat and addressed them magisterially. "So, what an occasion this is, my grandsons joined with the children of my dear old friends, Odo and Kira."

Pol and Lupaza exchanged puzzled glances. They had heard their parents speak of Gul Dukat from time to time, but nothing they had said jibed with the description of him as an old friend. Dukat was not slow to notice their bemusement. "You mean they've never told you about the old days?" he inquired in a wounded tone. "Why, they would never have met if it weren't for me."

"No, we haven't heard that story, Grandfather Dukat," said Pol diplomatically. "Perhaps you'd like to share it with us."

"I'd be delighted," Dukat answered eagerly. "Here, let me just pull up a chair between you." Terel and Julian regarded their grandfather with affectionate exasperation, which he marked but disregarded. "Now, it all started with this man named Vaatrik . . ."

***

By Cardassian tradition, after the wedding feast came the "dak'oret," an opportunity for all the male family and friends of the groom to reveal at least one secret about him, the more humiliating the better. The two young couples had agreed unanimously upon Quark to referee this dubious ceremony, and his wisecracks did much to defuse the immense discomfort experienced by some of the Bajoran and human guests over the lengthy recitation of peccadilloes large and small that Terel and Julian had committed from the day they left the womb. Enabran had composed 53 drafts of his anecdote about the time Julian ran off to visit his Uncle K. on Udara Prime under the pretext of a school field trip to explore the Hebitian ruins, a pretext for which Enabran, though only seven at the time, had manufactured the counterfeit parental permission forms on his computer. Unfortunately the strain of being the center of attention proved too much, and he fainted dead away after the first sentence. Breaking about sixteen cultural taboos, his sister Prel pried the script from his hand and delivered the rest of the anecdote with impeccable comic timing.

After the last of the participants had given their accounts, Quark availed himself of the toastmaster's prerogative to give a ribald account of several intimate instances in The Shapes of Love that he had it on the best authority derived from life. The boisterousness that had previously characterized the Cardassian tables subsided immediately, as most of the guests developed a sudden compulsion to study the silver and china patterns closely. "Serve those intolerant kanaroholics right," he thought with immense satisfaction.

As Quark returned to his table, Julian ascended the dais. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he said in his best master-of-ceremonies manner. "That concludes the Cardassian portion of our entertainment. As you've no doubt noticed, our decor today is inspired by the glamor and sophistication of mid twentieth century Earth. So it's only fitting that we conclude this happy day with the charming practice at Terran weddings of dancing the night away. We've brought to

Bajor, all the way from New Orleans, Earth, at my Papa's great expense, John Marsalis Green and his Jazz Melodians." He gestured to the musical quartet that had been quietly setting itself up in a corner of a synthetic wood floor that had been installed in the center of the garden. "Let's give them a big hand."

After the applause subsided, Julian continued. "For our first dance Terel and Lupaza and Pol and I will lead you out to the strains of 'Dancing Cheek to Cheek,' immortalized by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in that still popular holo movie 'Top Hat.' While I'll try my best to emulate the immortal Astaire, my beloved's special abilities will allow him absolutely to reincarnate the lovely Ginger." He strode over to Pol and offered his hand as the Changeling transformed himself into an exact duplicate of Ginger Rogers, down to the costume she had worn in the film. There was a mixture of gasps, laughter, and applause from the crowd. Julian Bashir jumped to his feet and cried out "Bravo!" until the father of the grooms pulled him back down with the admonition, "Control yourself, my dear doctor."

Holding each other close, Julian and "Ginger" whirled onto the center of the floor next to their respective brother and sister, as the music began playing melodiously indeed, and Ridgie whispered in his partner's ear, "Heaven, I'm in heaven."

***

Act 2

Notar had catered a great many wedding receptions since opening his first restaurant seven years before, and experience had taught him that seating worked much better with tables of eight or more. Those stubborn twins and their partners, however, had insisted that there be casual groupings of tables of four, reflecting the four of them who were being joined, and nothing he could say would talk them out of it. Not least of the headaches this arrangement had caused concerned his own family. With only four spaces at his and Cerona's table, he had been forced to assign one of the triplets to sit with his mother and father and sister Haran. He'd had the children draw lots to see who got to join the grandparents, but the child so selected (Letilla) had wailed that she was being unfairly banished, and the other two had wailed equally loudly that they'd much rather sit with "all grown ups." In the end, the triplets had evolved a constant round robin of motion between the two adjoining tables, with ensuing squabbles about whose food was whose and nearly disastrous delays in going to the waste extracter for fear of losing their places in the rotation.

Currently Sarima was the one ensconced between Grandma and Auntie Haran while Grandpa had gone off to talk to some of his deputies a few tables away. She'd had very good luck in sneaking spoonfuls of dessert from her aunt's plate, since Auntie Haran was the slowest eater she'd ever seen in her life. Grandma had pretty sharp eyes, though, and when a number of baleful looks didn't stop the raids, she had finally confiscated the little girl's spoon.

"That's not fair," Sarima protested. "I don't think Auntie Haran will ever finish her dessert otherwise."

"It's all right, Mom," Haran smiled, "Spoonie Rima is welcome to share."

"See!" said Sarima.

Kira, who knew that the "spoonie" reference had nothing to do with the impounded eating implement, turned the baleful glare on Haran instead, but it had no greater effect than it had had on her grand daughter.

Haran pushed her plate toward the child and offered her one of Odo's untouched spoons. "Thanks, Auntie Haran," Sarima gushed.

"So, spoonie, you and the other trips taking good care of my voles?" Haran asked as the child dug into the dessert in earnest.

"Oh, yessh," Sarima asserted through a mouthful of kava cream. "I feed them, and Letilla waters them, and Quark cleans the run. We're very careful. Daddy says that you would kill us if we weren't."

"Your daddy's just joking," cautioned Grandma.

"I don't think so," Sarima replied with wide eyed sincerity. "Daddy says Auntie Haran tried to kill him all the time when he was little."

"Don't worry Sarima, they pay me to kill wicked aliens now, so I've sworn off little kids," Haran responded solemnly.

"Haran, enough. You shouldn't encourage her," Grandma said in her "I'm not kidding" voice.

Ignoring the rebuke, Haran continued addressing her niece. "I do love those voles very much, though, spoonie. They're direct descendants of the ones I had when I was just a little bit older than you. Since they only let two voles live in my quarters on the ship, I have to depend on you and your sister and brother to watch out for the rest of them."

"We won't let you down, Auntie Haran," the little girl promised. "At least I won't."

"Good. And just for that, you can finish all of my dessert."

Sarima didn't quite get to finish the whole dessert, however, because a minute later her eagle eye spotted Letilla and Quark heading toward the dance floor. She jumped up from her chair and blocked their way. "Where you going?" she demanded.

"Quark's going to dance with me," Letilla boasted.

"I want to dance, too!" Sarima whined.

"All right. I'll dance first with Tilla, and next with you," said Quark. "Go sit down."

"No. I'm coming with you to make sure you don't cheat. If Grandma says all right," she added, casting a sanctimonious glance at Kira.

"Go ahead, Sarima," her grandmother answered, "but just be sure to stay out of the way of the other dancers." Sarima was out of sight as soon as she heard, "go ahead."

Kira turned toward her daughter. "Haran, you have to stop calling those children 'spoonies.'"

"There's no harm, Mom. People have been calling Pol's Julian 'Ridgie' ever since he was the trips' age, and he's never minded."

"I never approved of that, either," Kira confided. "But he was Garak and Ziyal's son, so it was none of my business. This is."

Before Haran could reply, Odo rejoined them. "Ah, a table free of grandchildren at last," he said.

"Don't let them get you down, Dad. The four of us were certainly more to put up with than Notar's brood. I alone was more trouble than all three of them combined!"

"Yes, but it has been almost twenty years since we had six-year olds at the table. Your mother and I have grown rather fond of quiet dinners and adult conversation." He squeezed Kira's hand.

"Mom's in a huff because I call the trips 'spoonies.' You don't think they mind, do you, Dad?"

Odo hesitated. Haran had never outgrown her childhood practice of playing her parents off one another when she felt in need of reassurance. He would have to frame his answer carefully. "I think Cerona minds," he said cautiously.

Haran flushed. She always counted on her father's support. "What do I care what one of those dirty Cardies thinks?" she replied angrily.

"Don't talk like that; she's your brother's wife," Kira admonished her.

"So? At least Terel and Julian have some Bajoran blood and the good sense to renounce their Cardassian citizenship. If Notar wanted to marry a Cardie and defect to Cardassia, he's lucky I don't do anything worse than call his kids spoonies."

Kira and Odo exchanged frustrated glances. This was nothing new. After twenty five years of peace, and later mutual cooperation, between Bajor and Cardassia, Haran still hated Cardassians as deeply as her mother had hated them at the height of the Occupation. It particularly galled Kira because she also harbored resentments at Notar's choices, resentments she worked diligently to suppress, and it never helped to have her daughter speak them out so nakedly. So, angered by Haran's outburst, and having indulged in three glasses of Maraltian seev ale, she said something she instantly regretted. "Well, Haran, if you ever manage to get married, you can select a full blooded Bajoran and start working to restore the balance in the family."

"Nerys!" Odo exclaimed, shocked that his wife would refer to the most vexed area of Haran's life in such a context.

Haran was looking at her mother with a face full of anguish. "Prophets, sweetheart, I'm so sorry," Kira began, "I should never--"

"It's all right, Mom," Haran mumbled, biting down hard on her lower lip, "I guess I asked for that."

Kira reached over and put her arms around her daughter. "For a piece of my mind, perhaps. But not that."

Haran pulled away and turned her gaze outward onto the dance floor. Amidst the swirling couples she spied a gold Starfleet dress uniform and a head of wavy black hair heading their way.

"Oh, great," she said, half to herself, "just what I need at this moment. Here comes Yoshi."

***

Commander Kirayoshi O'Brien, Chief Engineer of the Starship Glenn, strode purposefully to Odo and Kira's table. He greeted Odo somewhat formally but kissed his one time surrogate mother affectionately on the cheek. "Yoshi, it's good to see you after so many months," Kira enthused. "Sit down and tell us all about yourself."

He made no move to sit. "Actually, Nerys, I came to ask Haran to dance." For the first time he met their daughter's gaze, licking his lips nervously. "You wouldn't turn down an old friend, would you, Haran?"

Haran looked down at her plate, fiddling with her fork, and said nothing. "Of course she'll dance with you, Yoshi," Odo said pointedly. "Darling, where are your manners?" "You certainly don't have to keep us old fogies company, honey," Kira added.

Haran glared at both parents, and, still saying nothing, rose reluctantly and accepted Yoshi's outstretched hand. He led her gracefully to the dance floor. The band was playing a bluesy romantic ballad, and he pulled her close, resting his cheek against hers. She pushed away immediately.

"Prophets, Yoshi, don't start all this again!"

"Start what?" he replied with calculated innocence. "It's only polite to dance with the family of the bride and groom. We've known each other for ages. Where's the harm?"

"The harm is in the fact that you've been trying to get me to be your lover ever since our Academy days. All those dinner invitations in your quarters. Coincidental choices of shore leave destinations. Insisting to your Captain that I should be transferred to the Glenn. It's worse than the way that Cardie Dukat is always leering at my mother!"

"I've hardly behaved like a genocidal despot - or a sexual harasser," Yoshi returned, hurt. "I've always backed off when you told me to. Why won't you give us a chance, though? I simply can't help loving you, Haran."

No, nobody love Haran. As many times as she had heard protestations to the contrary, it was always her instinctive reaction. Or rather, nobody should love Haran if they knew what was good for them. Not that Yoshi had ever bought that argument. She tried another. "Yoshi, I used to be your *babysitter*. It's all wrong; don't you see that?" Haran pleaded desperately.

"Come on, Haran," he said, whirling her around as they changed direction near the bandstand. "So I'm four years younger than you. That doesn't mean anything. We were in the same Academy class; I got my first ship a whole year before you," He dared to stroke her nose ridges playfully. "For God's sake, I outrank you."

She let her head fall back onto his shoulder. When she was feeling her most desolate, she fantasized about taking shelter in his comfortable, familiar affections. But they wouldn't stay comfortable for long. She knew how paralyzing were her fears of intimacy. She knew her temper, her dark moods, her bitter self doubts. She knew how dangerous to their safety the doctors had said it would be for her to have children. She knew she wasn't about to ruin Yoshi's life.

Haran raised her head and gave him a small, sisterly kiss on the lips. "We were in the same class at the Academy because it took me six tries to pass the psychological readiness part of the entrance exam. You outrank me because it required all the combined influence of both my parents and everyone they ever knew in Starfleet to get me commissioned despite three Federation psychiatrists' evaluations that pronounced me emotionally unfit for duty. I'm trouble, Yoshi; I always have been. We wouldn't last a week as lovers, and then I'd have lost you as my dear, old friend."

"But you weren't unfit for duty. You've had a very successful career. I know all about your problems. They don't scare me like " he broke off, his ardor having led him to the brink of unwise candor.

"Like they do all the other men I've ever met?"

He rested his cheek against hers again, saying nothing. She didn't pull away this time, but whispered in his ear as the music increased in tempo and their steps accelerated. "Yoshi, your personality's a precise replicant of Miles's, decent, grounded, dependable. You were made to be a family man, just like he is. That's just not the package anyone is going to get with me. If you do love me, Yoshi, I want you to do something for me."

"What? You know I'd do anything."

"I want you to give up on us and find yourself someone who can love you in the way you were meant to be loved, someone who can give you what your parents have together." She raised her head and looked him squarely in the eye. "The next time we dance, I want it to be at *your* wedding to that woman. That will be one of the happiest days of my life."

The music stopped. She looked at him for an answer, but he only turned away and shook his head. "If you won't dance with me any more," he said at last, "at least come talk to Molly and the folks." Haran sighed helplessly and acquiesced with a nod.

***

As the band started up again Sarima held on tight to her brother Quark's jacket to keep him from rejoining the crowd. "Let go, let go," he protested.

"No, you won't dance with Letilla any more. You've danced with her three dances in a row. It's my turn."

"You stepped on my feet four times. Letilla's not such a clumsy toes." Quark tore himself away and escorted his other sister back out onto the floor. Looking over his shoulder, she stuck out her tongue at the wallflower. Sarima's eyes filled with tears. She looked around for her Mommy and Daddy so that she could tell on Quark, but they were dancing clear at the other side of the crowd.. Next she cast a glance at Grandma Nerys's table, but she and Grandpa Odo were engaged in animated conversation with a group of dark skinned Terrans. Having no immediate recourse for assuring that her brother would get into trouble, she hung her head, folded her little arms across her chest and pouted.

A hand tapped her shoulder and a voice in front of her said, "Why so glum, spoonie?" She looked up to see her Auntie Haran, who was something of an expert on pouting, smiling at her indulgently. Auntie Haran was holding onto the arm of still another Terran, a male who had very strange shaped eyes.

"Quark promised he'd dance with me as much as with Letilla, but now he won't. He says I'm clumsy."

"Go tell your story to Grandma. She'll straighten Quark out I'm sure."

"She's talking to those aliens," Sarima protested. The odd eyed Terran let out a little chuckle, "We are everywhere today, aren't we?" he said.

Sarima blushed blue and hung her head again. Auntie Haran came to the rescue. "At this kind of party, people move around a lot. I bet by the time you get to our table those pesky aliens will be gone." She gave the little girl a gentle shove in Kira and Odo's direction.

Auntie Haran was right. There were many hugs and handshakes, and then the aliens moved away. Sarima crept over to Grandma's chair and laid her head in her lap. "Quark says I'm clumsy and won't dance with me," she sighed, sniffling several times for the full effect.

"I'll tell you what," Grandma said, "You and I can dance together. Grandpa won't dance with me, either."

"That's right, your grandmother was just complaining about being stuck here with me when she's so eager to show off her fancy footwork," Grandpa put in.

"But girls can't dance with girls," said Sarima, horrified.

"Today anyone can dance with anyone," Grandma observed, as Julian and "Ginger" glided by. "We'll have lots of fun Rima." She picked her up and danced energetically into the middle of the floor with her grand daughter in her arms.

***

Seeing that Odo was all alone, the original Quark slid himself into the chair next to the Changeling. "So, your wife finally got tired of sitting here with the galaxy's most noted party pooper?"

"She's mediating some quarrel among the triplets. She'll be back soon. Don't feel like you have to amuse me."

The Ferengi didn't reply, but he didn't leave either. "Garak is certainly sparing no expense on this shindig," he observed. "The bar bill is going to be astronomical. Most of the guests are definitely plastered already. Not that he can't afford it out of the Nor profits. Of course, I suppose Notar felt obliged to donate the food, as brother of the bride. It's only we Ferengi who don't put sentiment ahead of profit when it comes to family celebrations."

"Notar can also well afford it, or so I understand."

"Oh, absolutely. That boy has always had a keen head for profit. Every move he's made is pure genius. Cardassian Bajoran cuisine, Cardassian Terran, Cardassian Trill, those hybrid restaurants of his on the Nors are the talk of the quadrant. And it didn't hurt him to marry into the most distinguished line of pastry chefs on Cardassia. He even calculated those children precisely. I remember him saying to me, 'Quark, since we have to have the kids implanted anyway, Cerona and I have decided to get it all over with at once. We'll request one boy, and one girl, and leave the sex of the third up to nature. It will certainly minimize the time Cerona has to be away from the kitchen.' Made me proud to hear him talk that way."

"Nerys and I were appalled," Odo sniffed. "Although it all does seem to have worked out well," he added grudgingly.

"Cerona is already teaching the girls to bake. She's got just as sharp an eye on future profitability as Notar does," Quark enthused.

"What about their brother? Is he training to become the master chef?"

"Even better," chuckled the Ferengi. "Notar knows that I can't keep the Quark's franchises going by myself forever. And my family has hardly bred any successors. Those blueskins of Nog's are already counting the days until they can join Starfleet. As for Rom and Leeta's girls, well you can just imagine what business sense those two morons could pass on to their offspring. So Notar's going to buy me out, and train up Quark to take over the bar business when he's old enough. That's why he named him after me."

"Are you sure that's the only reason?" Odo asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Of course, the boy's a sharp businessman, as I've said. Not that I didn't make him pay for the privilege. My name is a registered trademark. By Ferengi law, no one can put it on a birth certificate without paying me a licensing fee of ten bars of gold pressed latinum."

"You didn't actually take the money, did you?" asked Odo, dismayed.

"He certainly did." Notar's voice was heard behind them. "Of course, then he deposited the ten bars in a trust fund with my Quark's name on it."

"Got to hide a few assets from the FCA," Quark muttered. "Taxes on Ferenginar get higher every year."

Notar eased his bulky frame gingerly onto one of the chairs. "So, Dad, heard any complaints about the food or the service?"

"Only praise, son," Odo said warmly. "I'm just sorry I can't personally attest to the quality of the meal."

"I'm sorry, too, Dad. I - I always have been," Notar replied, dropping out of his usual wise cracking mode, one of many personal habits he'd picked up from the Ferengi bartender.

Odo dropped his eyes. "You always said you'd make a fortune in the restaurant business, and you have. Your mother and I are very proud of you. We only wish you hadn't had to move to Cardassia to do it."

"Didn't have to. Wanted to, Dad. You and Mom were just a little too famous on Bajor. I always wanted to go my own way."

And to get away from me, Odo thought, but for once had the sense not to say. He clapped his son affectionately on the shoulder. "You were right, Notar. I know I never trusted your instincts the way I should have."

"Hey, how could a Changeling ever understand the appeal of fine cuisine?" Notar replied in his usual jaunty manner. "Where's Mom gotten herself off to?"

"She's dancing with Sarima to keep her from fighting with young Quark. Apparently he doesn't want to dance with her."

"Poor Rima always has had two left feet," his son concurred. "She'll wear Mom out if she gets a chance, though. I'd better go relieve her. Quark, make sure those waiters of mine get the rest of the tables cleared in good time."

"Sure thing. They're probably off taking a break with those lazy hew mons I hired on as extra bar staff."

Notar rose with some effort and maneuvered his way through the dancers in search of Kira and the children. After he was out of earshot Quark said, "So, I gather things are better between the two of you now."

"Well, as you could tell from the questions I've been asking you, he doesn't confide in me. There's still plenty of discomfort between us. But the days of those bitter quarrels are gone, at least."

"He's glad they are, also. He's told me that often," the Ferengi replied.

Odo looked at Quark thoughtfully. "I used to imagine he was making special efforts to displease me, with his obsessions about food and latinum--"

"And his partiality for my establishment?" the Ferengi countered.

"Yes, that, too. Now, however, I can see that it wasn't all his fault. I was probably too partial to Haran. She needed me so much that I forgot that he needed me as well. I'm afraid I wasn't much of a father to him."

Quark regarded Odo impassively. "No, you weren't," he said simply. "I'm not going to lie to you to make you feel better."

"No, only to protect your profits. Hmf, in any event, I'd hardly expect *you* to spare my feelings," Odo said, but with a smile that didn't match the words. "It's good that he did have someone on the station who could make up for my paternal failings, someone who shared his interests and could give him support and good advice. A kind of second father."

The Ferengi shaded his eyes against the bright afternoon sun. "Yes, it certainly was fortunate that Captain Sisko came from a long line of great cooks."

Odo gave the Ferengi an amused glance. "Ah, yes, Captain Sisko, absolutely. What would Notar have done without him?"

Quark coughed ostentatiously. "This Bajoran climate is far too dry for us Ferengi. I'll go get myself a drink."

"Why don't you bring it back here to the table? I don't know what's keeping Nerys, and it might attract hordes of annoying well wishers if I were to remain here alone."

Quark cocked his head. "More annoying than me?"

"Better the devil you know, as Chief O'Brien used to say," Odo replied.

"Right, then; I'll be back in a nanosecond." As soon as Quark was swallowed up by the crowd, they both smiled to themselves identical little smiles.

***

When Letilla saw that her sister had gotten to dance with Grandma, she immediately abandoned her brother and demanded equal time. Sarima howled, "Anything I have, you want, Tilla. It's not fair." To forestall still another sibling crisis, Kira had insisted that both girls join hands with her and with each other. They were now on their second dance as a team, and Kira's arms were about to be pulled from their sockets as Sarima repeatedly missed the beat and stumbled while Letilla pushed her vigorously in protest over her lack of skill. Meanwhile, their unpartnered brother stood at the edge of the crowd getting madder and madder. He was a better dancer than either of those whiny girls, and yet here he was banished from the fun. He was trying to work up his courage to cut in on the beautiful Prel, who this day's ceremony had, according to his mother, made a sister to Auntie Paza and Uncle Pol and therefore his auntie as well. Prel was enduring her third dance partnered with that large, clumsy brother of hers, who made even Rima look graceful. Big girls wouldn't usually be caught dead in the arms of a primary schooler, he knew, but she might be grateful enough to get away from that jackox to accept his offer. Before he could put his theory to the test, however, he felt his father's hands on his shoulders. "Did you manage to get both your sisters mad at you at once, Quark?" Notar asked. "Usually they take turns."

"It's not my fault, Daddy; they're fighting over Grandma."

"They are? Then, come with me, my son, we're going to call a truce," Notar said decisively, taking the boy by the hand. He waited until the music stopped once again and then waded through the crowd to his mother's side. Giving her a kiss on the cheek, he whispered, "Sorry the kids are being such a pain, Mom."

Kira hesitated just a second too long before replying, a bit breathlessly, "It's no bother, Notar. The festivities just have them all excited."

Her son grinned, "Well, I think it's time they were excited somewhere else." He raised his voice and gestured to the girls, while keeping a firm grip on Quark, "Guess what, kids, I happen to know that the other Cardassian guests didn't eat up all the moba flavored yamok syrup, and if you go ask Chef Deklet nicely, he'll pour it over some tuwally pudding for you."

"More yamok syrup, yum!" exclaimed three voices in unison, as the children took off at a dead run toward the kitchen tent. "That should keep them out of your hair for awhile," Notar said, "And mine, too. In fact, I'm going to take advantage of the situation to get in another dance with Cerona." Kira returned the kiss he had given her, and he lumbered away to retrieve his wife.

With a grandmother's instinct, Kira turned back to train her eyes on the triplets' progress, only to see with alarm that they had run smack into Dukat, who had just surrendered his daughter into the arms of her eldest son for the next dance. Quark and Letilla bounced off the Cardassian like springballs and didn't even stop to apologize, but poor Sarima ended up on the ground. By the time Kira reached her grand daughter, the Cardassian had already helped her up and sent her off in pursuit of her siblings.

"Ah, General Kira, your grandchildren, I believe," boomed the mellifluous baritone that nevertheless always annoyed Kira as much as comm static. Now that she was too late to be of any help to Sarima, she wished she had never approached him. His ostentatiously tardy arrival, by which he had upstaged the two couples, had infuriated her, coming as it did after the month of misery she had seen Julian and Terel going through when Ziyal had told them not to expect their Grandpapa at the ceremony. Kira had kept her eye on his peregrinations throughout the wedding supper, glad that he'd had the surprising delicacy not to stop at her and Odo's table, cringing as she saw him kiss Lupaza's hand. Just the fact that he had picked Sarima up sent chills down her spine. She had an only slightly irrational aversion to having him touch any female member of her family. Standing in front of him, however, there was no way to avoid speaking with him. Make a little small talk, she thought, then run.

"Yes," she responded curtly. "I apologize for their unruliness."

"No harm done. Children will be children. The little girl said she was eager to have more yamok syrup." Dukat shook his head and made a clucking sound. "Ironic, isn't it, General, that your grandchildren have turned out to be more thorough going Cardassians than mine?"

"Don't think I'm happy about it, Dukat."

"No, I didn't presume you would be."

"Still," she gave him an accusing stare, "I did not refuse to attend Notar's wedding or threaten to banish him and his children from my home."

"The Bajoran sense of family is - how shall I put this? - less governed by tradition than on Cardassia."

Kira had no desire to enter into a prolonged conversation with the man, or to compare their two cultures' conceptions of family, so she turned to rejoin Odo at their table without responding. Her heart sank as she saw that he was accompanying her, so she stopped and faced him. When Dukat wanted to have a conversation, he had a conversation. Better to get it over with before he planted himself at their table interminably. Then she'd try to enjoy the rest of the party.

"What made you change your mind, and attend the wedding?" she asked.

"I balanced my completely justified feelings of disappointment - and my utterly correct decisions according to Cardassian tradition with the fact that I was sitting miserably alone in my office while Ziyal and all her children were happy and together and here without me."

"How typical!" Kira retorted. "It's always about you isn't it? You rant and rave and upset everyone and then only behave decently when it's in your own best interests."

He smiled his insincere smile. "At least you'll grant me that sometimes my own best interests do involve decent behavior. That's progress of some sort. Would you like to dance with me, General Kira?"

Her jaw dropped. Putting her hands on her hips, she shook her head incredulously. "You never give up, do you Dukat?"

"No, I don't," he said simply. "I have an obsessive, controlling personality, an infinite capacity for self deception, an exaggerated fear of betrayal and an almost pathological need for the approval of others."

"What?" she asked, mystified.

He threw back his head and laughed loudly. "My Federation psychological profile. All those months during the War that Starfleet intelligence was trying to get me to reveal Dominion strategies to them, they kept having one of their psychiatrists, a Dr. Cox, give me countless personality scans and psychological tests. They were looking for weaknesses to exploit in their interrogations. When the treaty was signed, and I was to be repatriated to Cardassia, young Dr. Cox appeared in my cell with a PADD that contained a complete record of all his files on me. He said earnestly he was always very earnest, was Dr. Cox that he'd been duty bound not to tell me his diagnosis, or to treat me, as long as his superiors needed to keep me at a disadvantage. Now, however, his moral imperative - ah, those quaint Federation notions - dictated that he turn the files over to me. He said he hoped I'd get help when I returned home, and that his records might be useful to my physician."

"And did you? Get help?" Kira asked, fascinated in spite of herself.

He laughed again. "Of course not. We don't even have psychiatrists on Cardassia."

"Too bad. From what I've seen of Cardassians, they'd do a booming business."

He returned her sarcasm, "Another growth opportunity for the restructured Cardassian economy? I must inform my son in law." He paused, smiling reflectively. "At any rate, as I was sitting in my office feeling sorry for myself, I remembered that I'd kept that PADD for my own amusement. As I re-read the files, it occurred to me that perhaps it wasn't just Cardassian tradition that was keeping me from forgiving Terel and Julian. And, well, here I am."

"Yes, to everyone's delight," she countered coldly, giving her words an edge of calculated cruelty. "If you'll excuse me, I've left Odo all alone at our table."

Dukat shaded his eyes and looked in the direction of the constable. "Not alone, General, I believe he's talking to the Ferengi." He started to put his hand on her shoulder, then thought better of the gesture. "Won't you dance with me just once, Nerys? We *are* family now, and Julian informs me that it is a grave sin against protocol for a guest not to dance at least once with the mother of the bride."

She had shuddered at his mention of their familial relationship, unfortunately now a fact of law rather than merely one of his delusions. Nevertheless, she admitted to herself that it was intentionally and steadfastly impolite to refuse his offer. "Oh, all right, *one* dance and keep your hands where they belong," she warned. The minute she said it, a little voice inside of her chimed in: *definitely too much seevale, Nerys* but it was too late to renege. He offered his hand, and, gritting her teeth, she took it.

The band was playing a jazz version of "The Tennessee Waltz," and, as much as Kira hated to acknowledge the fact, Dukat danced it divinely.

***

Haran endured the conversation with the O'Brien clan about what everyone had been doing since they had last seen each other for as long as she could and then rose without apology and announced that she was going back to her own table. No one looked offended. There was a great advantage, she thought, in dealing with people who had known for twenty five years that she was congenitally anti social and habitually rude. She wished her shipmates could be so understanding when she fled the mess hall at their chattering approach.

She wasn't really so anxious to return to her parents either. They'd be prodding her about why she hadn't stayed with Yoshi longer; he was such a nice young man, and it was obvious he had feelings for her. So she lingered at the edge of the crowd, watching the other dancers. Her mouth fell open as she saw her mother, tight lipped but graceful, being guided expertly around the floor by the infamous Dukat. Did her dad know? Glancing toward their table, she saw with relief that he was speaking to Quark. She could control the conversation better that way.

"Prophets, Dad," Haran exclaimed as she approached them, "that Dukat's got his hands on Mom at last."

"So that's why she hasn't come back. Oh well, I don't think he can do her too much harm among all these people," Odo said.

"And if he does try anything, General Kira can certainly take care of herself without *your* help, Chief Weapons Officer Haran," Quark added. "Blown up any interesting aliens lately?"

"No, the last seven new systems we've charted either have very primitive technology or blissfully peaceful dispositions," she said with a deadpan show of disappointment. "Good to see you again, too, Quark. Those holodeck programs you put me onto certainly do relieve the tension when the destructive opportunities of the job dry up."

"Always nice to hear from a satisfied customer," the Ferengi replied affectionately, as his eyes reflexively turned toward the bar area. "Whoops, gotta go, those hew mon waiters are putting much too much liquor into the mixed drinks." He and Haran shook hands with mock solemnity, and the Ferengi then hurried off.

"This is quite a party," Haran observed to her father as she sat down. "It still amazes me that the gang of heroic hybrids ended up in love with each other."

"Yes, your mother and I were just talking about how quickly it's all happened, first Notar marrying Cerona, then the triplets, then Lupaza and Pol safely joined. Only one more wedding to go now."

"Dad, you know that's not going to happen."

Odo regarded his daughter with concern. "Why not? You're just a late bloomer; look how long it took your mother and me to get together."

"Dad," Haran pleaded, "I should never get married and have kids. The therapists have been telling you that since I was nine."

"Hmf," Odo snorted. "The therapists told us a lot of things, and most of them turned out to be wrong. Just like your commandant at the Academy, who said that if Starfleet were ever reckless enough to give you a deep space assignment, you'd spend more time in the brig than on the bridge. Now look at you, senior tactical officer on a starship." He beamed with pride.

"They weren't wrong about the sex and children stuff, all right? Let's just drop it and enjoy the day," Haran replied defensively.

"I didn't mean to pry. Nerys and I just want you to be happy."

"I'm happy enough. Besides . . ." She hesitated. Should she tell him that she knew?

"Besides what, sweetheart?"

Better to get it out. "I don't think we need to put any more of the DNA of Mina Chatal and Gul Nared back into the gene pool."

Odo's blank features contorted with anger. "Who told you that? I'll have their head."

"Don't get out the manacles, Dad. No one told me. When you've got a level 8 Starfleet security clearance, you can get into a lot of databases."

Odo took her hand. "I'm so sorry, Haran. We never wanted you to find out."

She looked at him earnestly. "Really, Dad, knowing the truth was a relief. I'd always thought that they killed my biomother because of me, because, seeing me, they knew that she'd been with a Cardassian. Now I know that it wasn't my fault, that they killed her for doing something that had nothing to do with me, or with the fact that she loved me and didn't give me up when the spoon heads left." As she spoke, the hand he wasn't holding had traveled to her eye ridges and begun the familiar clawing motions.

"Hands on the table, Haran," her father said with a wry smile.

She brought her hand down and shook her head sadly. "Sorry, I usually don't even realize I'm doing it. And I don't do it very often any more, really."

"Haran, you don't have to make excuses to me."

"Well, I really don't do it on the bridge, I promise," she said. Then she made a sweeping gesture at the empty dishes before her. "Look, I cleaned all my plates. I've been able to finish a meal in public ever since I was twenty five. Who says I'm not making remarkable progress with my psychological hangups?" She buried her face in her hands. "Prophets, sometimes I'm such a mess."

Odo cupped her face in his large, elegant hands. "The prettiest little mess I ever cleaned up. We couldn't have had a better daughter, for all your . . . difficulties."

She kissed him on the cheek, "Or I a better father." She took several breaths, "Dad, I've never said . . . but you must know how I ... it's just that it's hard for me to express . . ."

"Calm down, Haran, focus."

"Thank you for saving me, Dad," she blurted out. "When I was in that orphanage, it was like there was a deep, black, empty place inside me, getting deeper and deeper, and I was crawling further and further in. If you and Mom hadn't pulled me out when you did, I think I'd have finally just disappeared into it altogether."

Odo struggled to quell his rising emotions. "Well, we weren't about to let that happen, were we?" he said, attempting flippancy.

"Why did you do it, Dad? You've never given me a straight answer. I was such an uncontrollable, ungrateful little creature. What ever possessed you to take me home with you?"

"I had to, Haran. Mr. Vole just wouldn't let me alone until I did."

Haran smiled and shook her head again. It was the straightest answer she was likely to get. Her father was as uncomfortable with articulating emotions as she was. She noticed that they'd both broken off their mutual gaze simultaneously and were now scanning the whirling couples on the dance floor in identical efforts to retreat from the powerful feelings that had just risen to the surface.

People who didn't know the family and only observed father and daughter together sometimes assumed that Odo was Haran's biofather with a hybrid wife because the two were so alike in so many ways. Haran's one good friend from her school days on Bajor, Melar Fura, now a psycho geneticist at the Bashir Institute, had once said, only half jokingly, that Odo and Haran made her have grave doubts about her future career. "If two people so genetically different can behave in such uncannily similar ways, I'm ready to concede that nurture is all and nature nothing in the formation of personality," Fura had declared.

"Look, almost everyone is dancing, Dad," she said at length. "Why don't you spin me around the floor a few times?"

"I don't dance," Odo huffed. "I am not comfortable making a spectacle of myself, and I seem to be quite devoid of what Commander Dax always called 'rhythm.'"

"That's not what I've heard. Mom says you first romanced her on the dance floor."

If Changelings could have blushed, Odo would have. "That wasn't in front of people, Haran. It was . . . different."

"Come on," she wheedled in the tone that had always gotten him to give in when she was ten. "How many times are you going to see two of your children married on one day? You've got to join in the celebration somehow, and getting drunk is out of the question. Just do as I do. That shouldn't be too hard for a Changeling, should it?"

"All right, Haran," he surrendered, "but only one dance, and we'll stay on the edges of the crowd." They joined hands and moved onto the floor.

Whatever skills he had shown her mother definitely evaporated here in public. Concern for his dignity made him hold himself with a most ungraceful rigidity as he stared fixedly over her head at the orchestra. "Hey, Dad," she said, stroking his face to get his attention, "You've got to loosen up. Prophets, for a creature whose natural state is gelatinous you are the stiffest man I've ever seen!"

***

Act 3

Dr. Julian Bashir tapped Enabran Garak on the shoulder. "May I cut in?" he asked suavely.

"W-What?" said the boy, flustered that the interruption had made him lose count of the beat.

"It's a Terran expression. It means, may I dance with your partner."

"I guess so. Mama and Papa said I was to see to it that Prel had fun."

"I'm sure that I'll have lots of fun dancing with Uncle Julian, Enabran," his sister Prel urged.

"Yes, you've more than done your duty, my boy. I'm sure that you have better things to do than dance every dance with your sister."

"Not really."

Prel shook her head in frustration, "He'll think of something, Uncle Julian, let's go," she pleaded.

As soon as they had danced out a safe distance from Enabran, who seemed rooted, dazed, to the spot where they had left him, Prel effused, "Thanks for rescuing me! I didn't think I'd ever shake big brother off. Just like everything else he's asked to do, he gets obsessed and won't let go. His hands were so sweaty . . . ech. And he's not graceful at all." She batted her eyes alluringly. "Not like you, Uncle Julian."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, my girl. You're just trying to get back on my good side after booting me from the wedding party."

"Were you really mad that I did that? I'm sorry," the girl replied in a tone of sincere distress.

Bashir kissed her on the forehead, causing an immediate increase in all her cardiovascular functions. "No, no, just kidding." He dipped her toward the floor and then spun her around 360 degrees, just as the song ended. She stood motionless for several seconds, trying to get her breath back and to stop her head from whirling. "I I've never danced like th that," she stammered out at last.

"Not the Cardassian style, I'll admit." Bashir noticed a Cardassian youth of about fifteen hovering nearby, casting sidelong glances at them. He took Prel's hand and led her over to the lad. "Perhaps here's someone better equipped to dance with you as a proper Cardassian should."

The boy looked terrified for an instant, but then put on the traditional male swagger endemic to his species. "I'm Delek Goradha, Minister Goradha's eldest, Miss Garak. I'd be most pleased to dance with you," he said, bowing. Casting a dreamy glance back at the doctor, Prel then turned to young Goradha and said, "I'm happy to oblige, Mr. Goradha."

Bashir smiled at the couple paternally. "Mission accomplished," he said to himself with smug satisfaction.

***

Returning to their table, Bashir put his hand lightly on Garak's shoulder as he sat down. "That daughter of yours is turning into quite a beauty; she'll soon be keeping the boys away with a stick."

"It is most remarkable, considering how much she looks like me," rejoined the Cardassian archly.

"Well, you never know what the effect will be when genetic characteristics cross genders," Bashir replied.

Garak merely stared at him, until Bashir grew quite uncomfortable. Finally the Cardassian said, "I always suspected you'd been up to some mischief in those petri dishes of yours where Prelenda was concerned, my dear doctor."

"What rubbish! It's hardly unnatural for a child to look like her father," Bashir bluffed.

"Of course, you are the expert on such matters," Garak returned, sounding completely unconvinced.

Bashir thought it wise to change the subject. "You haven't been dancing very much, Garak. I had always imagined that you'd be the life of a party."

"I am nearly eighty, you know. One slows down a bit."

"Age doesn't seem to be stopping Dukat. He's danced nearly every dance."

"Ah, the opportunity to hold so many beautiful women in his arms has no doubt had a rejuvenating effect on my son in law. Not to mention that he did not inherit my father's tendency toward corpulence in old age." Garak patted his stomach ruefully. "Once Ziyal has finished dancing with all the guests, we'll go back out on the floor together."

"I have to admit that I could use a spell of rest as well. I'll stay here and keep you company." The doctor pulled out the chair directly across from his old friend and sat down.

Garak took a sip of kanar. "How did you like our charming Cardassian custom of embarrassing the groom after the joining?"

"It was very . . . Cardassian. I can imagine that you were very effective as a speaker at such events in your youth."

"You mistake me. The secrets I uncovered when performing my duties were not usually safe for public dissemination. As for the more harmless forms of gossip, I rarely paid them much mind."

"Garak! I find that very hard to believe," Bashir said with a grin.

"Believe what you will doctor." Garak smiled back at him enigmatically.

"You were at the very least quite aware of everything that was revealed about Terel and Ridgie I'm sure."

"As a matter of fact, I only learned today that Julian had made a visit to you on Udara Prime when he was twelve. Those fake school authorizations were very skillfully done. I had always imagined that my talents had passed Enabran by. Now I see that I was mistaken." He took another sip of kanar. "What was the visit all about, that you never alerted us to Julian's deception?"

Dammit, Bashir, why would you ever have brought that subject up? you've been drinking too much champagne, the doctor said to himself. Now there'll be nothing for it but to tell him. Nevertheless, he first tried to hedge, "It was so long ago, I don't really remember."

"Doctor, don't insult me. That genetically enhanced brain of yours has the memory capacity of a mid range computer," Garak blustered. "Let's see, it was about a month after that supposed field trip that Julian told Ziyal and me that he wanted to leave Cardassia and attend school on Bajor. Could the visit have had something to do with that?"

"All right. I don't suppose Ridgie would mind me telling you now." He took a deep breath, then poured out the details rapidly. "Yes, it did. He came to me in a total panic. He said that he was sure that there was something in Cardassian DNA that turned people into monsters, and he wanted me to genetically re engineer him before it happened to him."

"And where had he picked up this strange notion?"

Bashir hesitated. What he was about to reveal couldn't help but wound his old friend. "A number of incidents had led him to the conclusion. Evidently there had been some kind of pageant at Terel's school that you had all attended. Terel's part involved his trying to get a schoolmate to cry mercy while having pain inflicted on him. Several boys were competing, and Terel had won hands down. While you were all standing around congratulating him, Julian overheard two of the parents of the also rans grousing that Terel had an unfair advantage because the talent ran in the family."

"I don't understand," Garak interposed. "I thought that had all been settled. Julian came to me about the remark, and his mother and I explained about my past, just as we had to Terel. Julian seemed to accept our explanation."

"He wasn't sure that you had told him the whole story, however. He remembered that the man Tarkon the one who tried to kidnap Weyoun had said he had worked with you in your interrogation days. Ridgie managed to get in touch with him in the prison on Bajor. Apparently the man gave him a far more detailed version of what the job entailed."

"Tarkon always hated me because the unfavorable personnel evaluations I gave him ruined his career," Garak sneered. "I'm sure he took great delight in filling the boy's head full of lies."

"Are you sure that the truth wouldn't have been sufficient for the purpose?" Bashir asked sharply.

Garak lowered his eyes. "I suppose it depends upon which truth he might have told."

"The part that upset Ridgie the most was a very gruesome account of your torture of his great grandfather," Bashir said evenly.

"I see," Garak responded very quietly. He shook his head and sighed. "I should have suspected something of the kind. One day we were at the Nor, and Julian had climbed up on one of the Promenade railings. There was no time to do anything but grab him, and then I spoke to him very severely about the danger. He looked up at me, and I could see that he was terrified not of falling, but of me. You can't know what it's like, to have your own son look at you with the eyes of one of your . . . subjects."

"He was just shocked and confused," Bashir continued. "He loved you so much. By the time he came to me, though, he wasn't blaming you for what you had done. He'd been listening to the way his brother and his brother's schoolfriends were starting to talk. He was convinced that cruelty was some disease that infected Cardassians as they matured, turned them into I believe 'ogres' was the term he used. He said to me, "Please, Uncle Kukalaka, don't let me catch it. I don't want to hurt people when I grow up."

"And what did you tell him, doctor?" Garak's face was a mask.

"I told him that cruelty wasn't infectious, or genetically produced. I pointed out to him that his mother had certainly never hurt anyone in her life, and she had Cardassian genes. He thought about this for a while, and then he said rather excitedly, 'Mama didn't grow up on Cardassia.'"

"So you, his concerned uncle, told him that while cruelty might not be genetic for Cardassians, it was cultural, and in that way, should he remain on Cardassia, catching."

"Not in so many words, but yes. Do you deny it?"

"I suppose not. I'm the one who filled his head with the idea of the ogre curse in the first place."

"I swear to you, Garak, I never told him to leave home." Bashir insisted. "I just advised him to talk over his fears honestly with you and Ziyal."

"He never did," the father replied. "He just came to us one day, said he'd already made arrangements to stay with Kira and Odo and to have himself enrolled in that monastery school that Lupaza and Pol attended. Ziyal was frantic to stop him he was barely twelve, after all, and it was hard enough on her that Terel was in boarding school."

"You let him go without much of a struggle, though, I understand. Why?"

Garak absently ran his finger around the rim of his glass. "Curiosity, I imagine. In my idle moments I sometimes wondered what my life would have been like had I never enrolled in the service of the Cardassian state ."

"One of the galaxy's most gifted homosexual novelists?" Bashir grinned broadly, "It does fit."

"Really, doctor," Garak said, abandoning sincerity, "You slander me. I've been a happily married man, and a faithful husband, for almost thirty years."

"Oh, please, Garak! The first time we ever met you were clearly trying to seduce me. That hand on my shoulder, the double entendre of telling me that you would be at my disposal if I wanted a bit of 'enjoyable company'-- a pick up line if I ever heard one."

"I'm touched you remember the occasion in such vivid detail. It always puzzled me, given your intellectual gifts, how you could not have noticed. And yet you kept up our friendship all those years, without being the slightest bit interested in . . . deepening it."

Bashir colored. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Really!" Garak's head jerked up suddenly. "I had wondered why you never settled into any long term relationship with those lovely ladies who were always hanging on your arm. Are you trying to tell me what I think you are?"

Bashir didn't answer directly, as it was not easy for him to explain. "Garak, because of the necessity of keeping my genetic enhancement secret, I worked very hard to appear 'normal' in every way. My idea of normal masculinity derived from the model that had predominated on Earth for centuries, even though, by the time I came along, it was being challenged by the majority of people. Still, I was drawn to the more archaic model; all my deepest fantasies concerned stereotypical male behavior as defined by mid twentieth century Earth. According to that paradigm, sex or love with another man was as perverse as it still continues to be considered on Cardassia. I never even entertained the notion that I might be attracted to you for any other reason than an interest in espionage and good literature. I did know that all the women I dated never really satisfied me, and that I never quite understood why I had made a friend out of Dax

instead of a lover. I suppose, as smart as they'd made me, I should have realized what the explanation was."

"When did the explanation dawn on you doctor? Just this minute?" Garak didn't know quite how to react. He had long ago closed the book on that gloriously painful, unrequited desire as one of his more misguided little follies. For some reason, he was not now feeling regret or surprise so much as anger, which he wasn't doing a very good job of containing.

Bashir sensed it immediately. "I suppose it is rather thoughtless of me to bring this up now, when it's so irrelevant to us." Garak stared at him with his interrogator's stare, but said nothing. "All right, to answer your question," the doctor plunged ahead, "Once my big secret was out in the open to Starfleet the truth about the other began to become clear to me. Of course, I fought it for quite awhile, and by the time I admitted it to myself, you and Ziyal were married, and it was too late for us."

"Was it, doctor?"

"Listen, Garak, Ziyal was head over heels in love with you, right from the start. She used to confide in me about it, since I knew you 'better than anyone else on the station did.' It was quite awkward for me, let me tell you. She realized that you felt affection for her, but nothing more. She was extremely surprised when you proposed. I told her that I thought she should accept, that you loved her more than you realized. Gradually I saw that your affection was turning into real passion for her, too, but one thing threatened the relationship - me."

"So you were seized with the desire to do reproductive research on Udara Prime? It always puzzled me that you would leave Starfleet so easily."

"Yes, I got out of your way." Bashir gestured toward the crowd. "Can you really say that you wish I had acted otherwise, that I had instead come and declared my undying devotion to you?"

Garak's eyes followed Bashir's outstretched arm. Julian and Pol, now returned to his usual form, danced by, beaming deliriously, and waved at the two men. Slightly further away, Ziyal was speaking animatedly in the arms of her father. Terel stood at the edge of the crowd looking protectively at Lupaza, who was doing her best to appear to enjoy her obligatory turn with Enabran. Prel had stationed herself at the opposite end of the floor, in the center of an admiring knot of Cardassian youth. A wave of emotion overtook him. He did love all of them so much.

Garak returned his gaze to Bashir's still unlined, eager brown face, its big, liquid eyes set off even more strikingly now that the black hair had streaks of gray. "To a Cardassian, my dear doctor, not belonging to a family is like being blind," he began reflectively. "Oh, you can compensate, you can have a productive life, but you never forget that others can see, and you cannot. To have found Ziyal, to have had our children, so late in my life, was like a miracle of having that missing sense restored." He dared to squeeze Bashir's hand. "I don't think I could have ever given it up again, no matter what delicious experiences you might have offered to me in the dark."

Bashir smiled, returning the pressure of Garak's hand, then withdrawing his. "I'm glad to know I did the right thing," he murmured.

"Yes, even though my two oldest sons have voluntarily embraced exile from Cardassia, while my youngest son seems doomed never to leave his boyhood bedroom until he's at least forty, I wouldn't trade the House of Garak for anything else in the galaxy." After an awkward silence, Garak's curiosity got the best of him. "So, my dear doctor, was I the one exception to your 'archaic' sexual preferences?"

The doctor grinned. "No, there've been a number of young men since I left Starfleet, more of them than women these days."

"Why didn't you bring your latest partner to the wedding then? Ziyal and I would have been delighted to meet him."

"More likely you'd have had apoplexy," Bashir snorted.

"Well, I would have expected you to R.S.V.P. accurately," Garak purred. "That would have given me time to compose myself."

Bashir's smile faded. "Actually Garak, there hasn't been anyone you could call a partner. Men or women, my dalliances tend to be superficial and fleeting." The Cardassian looked at him with something close to pity, as close as a Cardassian could come to that emotion, at any rate. "Perhaps it was because I never acted on my one grand passion," the doctor continued quietly.

"Don't try to impress an old man," Garak said brusquely, "You've always had an alarming streak of superficiality where the ways of the heart are concerned, although I confess I found it a key component of your charm."

Bashir didn't respond to Garak's forced levity in kind. He leaned forward and spoke in an urgent whisper, "Elim, you don't suppose . . . that we could be lovers . . . just once. Ziyal would understand. I think she's always known."

Garak shook his head, leaning forward also. "It's because she would understand that I would never do it . . . Julian. Besides, I did eventually fall 'head over heels' in love with my dear girl, as your quaint Terran expression goes. But I will always treasure the fact that you would still ask, at this point in our lives." He leaned back and refilled his glass from a bottle of kanar that stood open on the table. Then he poured into Bashir's from an open bottle of champagne. Raising his glass, he said, "To a long and dear friendship." The doctor raised his glass and touched it to Garak's, "To you, Elim Garak, whoever you may be."

Garak chuckled, "I'm delighted to see that you still have the humility never to insist that you've discovered all my secrets."

They both emptied their glasses and then poured and consumed another round. Drinking was far easier than talking at the moment. Just as they were both considering still another round, the band struck up a tango. Bashir looked at Garak with a devilish grin. "If you won't sleep with me, Elim, will you at least dance with me, in the spirit of the occasion?"

Garak's countenance at first registered shock, but soon amusement overtook it. "I think I will, dear boy--if for no other reason than to see the expression on Dukat's face."

***

As their second dance, "The Tennessee Waltz," entered its final chorus, Garak was becoming increasingly breathless. "Are you all right, Elim?" Bashir asked him in a concerned tone. "Do you want to sit down?"

"I'm perfectly fine, doctor," Garak panted. He wasn't about to be treated like an invalid. Still, he feared he might collapse if they tried for a third time around the floor. As the music stopped, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Kira was trying to pull away from Dukat, who was holding onto her hand, apparently imploring her for another dance. A perfect opportunity. "Doctor, I see a damsel in distress," he confided, gesturing in Kira's direction.

"Right, Garak, I'll be happy to intervene, if you don't mind being left without a partner." Bashir's grin showed full well that he recognized the face saving subterfuge for what it was.

"I think I can survive the disappointment," the Cardassian said wryly as he caught his breath.

The two of them hurried over to Dukat, and Bashir tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and glared at them with disapproval. "Excuse me, Legate, but I've yet to dance with the mother of the bride," he said. Kira, looking over Dukat's shoulder, mouthed him a hearty thank you. Dukat grudgingly placed her hand in Bashir's. "Of course, doctor, I was just completing that social obligation myself."

The music started again, this time a slow ballad, Gershwin's "Summertime." People were hurrying to dance with their spouses and lovers, leaving Dukat with no eligible partner at hand. He drifted reluctantly off the floor, and Garak joined him.

"Taking a rest, Dukat?" his son in law asked. "Surely there's some young lady present who's not yet been blessed by your attentions."

"Apparently this song has the powers to reunite couples who arrived together," Dukat observed. "Since my dear wife was prevented from attending--"

"As usual," Garak added venomously.

Dukat shot him a withering glance and continued his sentence as if he had not been interrupted "-- I felt it proper to sit this one out. Apropos of which, shouldn't you be dancing with your wife, Garak?"

"What kind of host would I be, to let one of my guests stand here all alone?" Garak replied, deflecting the question.

"You needn't bother on my account, I'm sure, although if your engaging me in conversation has stopped you and Doctor Bashir from continuing to make a spectacle of yourselves, it is well worth it. Have you no concern for Ziyal's feelings?"

"I'm sure that she merely took our performance as it was intended, as a gesture of solidarity with Julian and Pol," Garak returned with unruffled assurance. "You saw her smiling at us, didn't you?"

"Ziyal is far too forgiving sometimes," Dukat grumbled. "But why was Julian looking at you with his eyes popping out of his head? Certainly he realizes that his perversion is inherited."

"Not at all. He told me that he had fully expected me to disown him when he broke the news about himself and Pol. I told him only that, having lived away from Cardassia for so long, I had shed some of our culture's more narrow minded prejudices."

"I am surprised," Dukat replied. "Julian always struck me as a very clever boy."

"Clever enough to have noticed how deeply his parents love each other."

Defeated as he always was in battles of wits with Garak, Dukat switched to intimidation. "Well, if you're even thinking of asking me to dance, uh'nat, I will kill you," he growled.

"You needn't concern yourself. I've been telling you for over sixty years that you're not my type." Garak noted with satisfaction the displeasure in Dukat's face. Although Ziyal's father was the most resolutely heterosexual man he had ever met, his ego always swelled at the thought that Cardassians of both sexes found him attractive. Garak remembered when they were at school together that a small cadre of boys had hopeless crushes on the untouchable Dukat, who nevertheless flirted with them shamelessly, only to issue cruel rebukes to any who ever made an actual pass at him. Comforting one of those crushed by the rejection had constituted Garak's first sexual experience. But he knew it galled Dukat that the sissy Garak, whose proclivities were clear to all, showed not a whiff of interest. He imagined that he could still get Dukat into bed with him, in exchange for saying that he found him alluring. He never had, though, not in any way.

"I don't know how you can say that," Dukat huffed. "After all, you married my daughter."

Garak had to work very hard, considering all the kanar he'd consumed, not to laugh aloud. The man was so pathetic at times. Instead he replied glibly, "Ah, but I've always assumed Ziyal took after her mother."

Dukat did not go for his throat, a possibility Garak was prepared for. The rebuke actually seemed to penetrate the shielding of the Legate's self regard. "She does, of course. You're right," he said, getting a little teary eyed. "If only Naprem had lived to see this day. I remember how she cried, just before boarding the Ravinok, full of regret that I would never again be part of Ziyal's life."

"Perhaps they have a good view from the Celestial Temple," Garak said softly.

"Garak, don't pretend that you believe in that primitive superstition. A man of your cynical nature?"

"All fashions eventually grow tiresome, no matter how comfortable. I wore cynicism for far too long. Faith has a certain elegant appeal."

"So you hope someday to rejoin all your loved ones, out there somewhere?" Dukat inquired mockingly.

"No, I hardly believe my blood soaked pagh will take up residence in any place remotely celestial after I'm gone. Nor yours. But Naprem and Ziyal will one day be together again, that I do believe. Even your father may get a chance to meet them."

Dukat found himself genuinely touched. He smiled at Garak. "All in all, tailor, I'm glad I never did quite get around to killing you."

"Better to be glad you never got around to killing Ziyal," Garak replied. "She's the only thing that saved either of us from utter damnation."

They both instinctively scanned the spinning dancers to catch sight of her. They spied her immediately, partnered now with Dr. Bashir, since Kira had nabbed her husband as he tried to slink off the floor after dancing several times with his daughter Haran. The music abruptly stopped, however, as bandleader John Marsalis Green approached the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're about to play our last number of the evening. It's the traditional Bajoran keletra, "Anora Seteela," rearranged for a jazz quartet. Our two happy couples have asked me to tell you that they don't want to see anyone on the sidelines for this last dance. So we won't begin the music until EVERYONE has a partner."

Couples split and reformed. Even the crippled Vorta, Weyoun, who had decided to come out of hiding a decade ago, maneuvered his mobile chair onto the floor, attended by his long suffering Bajoran housekeeper. Gul Damar, who had just escorted his wife onto a spot nearby, suddenly dragged her to a different position ten meters away, much to his spouse's confusion. Haran took pity on the beleaguered Enabran. Yoshi sighed and led his sister Molly out, following his parents onto the floor. The triplets all joined hands together, prodded by Notar and Cerona. Dukat's unmarried sister Prelenda was in the arms of the recently widowed deputy commerce minister. Her namesake accepted the hand of one of four supplicants, leaving the other three boys to scurry back to the Cardassian tables in search of partners.

Ziyal and Bashir approached Garak and Dukat, with Julian and Pol following closely behind. "Come Elim, dear, the last dance is ours," she said. He kissed her hand and took her onto the floor. Pol went over to Bashir and whispered something in his ear. The doctor burst out laughing, then nodded. He joined hands with Ridgie. "I've been informed that the party cannot end until the assembled multitudes are treated to the terrific terpsichorean talents of the two Julians," he declaimed, impressively getting through all the alliteration, considering how drunk he was.

That left Pol and Dukat. The young Changeling reformed the "Ginger" gown and figure, and, keeping his own face, shifted his hair into a precise duplicate of his twin sister's elaborate bridal style. "Your last chance to dance with the other bride, Grandfather," he told Dukat, his eyes sparkling.

To his credit, the Cardassian's flabbergasted hesitation lasted only a minute. "Well, why not? I never could resist a pretty face," he said, embracing Pol firmly as the music began to play for the last time.