I Kiss You Goodnight . . .
copyright by
Sophie Masse - soma@johnabbott.qc.ca             

*Sigh* All right, standard disclaimer time;

STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is a Registered Trademark 
of Paramount Pictures. In other words, they own everything except 
what I extracted from my own fecund imagination 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and 
incidents are either a product of the author's imagination <GRIN> 
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales 
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Note - This is a short story I simply concocted one evening; 
my humble contribution to Garak's delightfully shrouded past.

Note2 - This story is set during the Occupation on Bajor.


I Kiss You Goodnight . . .

The Bajoran minstrel sang beautifully that evening. An 
angelic voice amidst such dull grayness. Surprisingly, in a time of 
war and treachery, there had been enough love and compassion for 
one night of celebration. 

Hard to imagine . . . Cardassians grinning and laughing,
clanking metal goblets to their compatriots, some even dancing with
the pretty Bajoran women; a contrasting melange of dark and ivory 
mingled on the dance floor. 

But that was indeed the scene at Mokbar tavern, in the old 
quarters of Delakar. That night, sleep's embrace had no effect on the 
soldiers, and exhaustion did not pervade their spirits. They united to 
share a laugh, and some Obsidian agents were even seen to trade a 
drink or two with other Central Command's officials. It was indeed 
a beautiful night.     
 
In a secluded corner, Elim Garak was stretched on a bench, 
draining the last of his rokossa juice. He settled the glass on the 
floor and turned his steadfast gaze at the gathering. His grin 
refused to leave him at a time of such mirth; he had even bought Gul 
Dukat a drink earlier that night. Now, he had took it upon himself 
to rest a moment, comfortably spread on the rack as he contemplated 
the rowdy crowd. 

A silhouette quietly slid beside him, and a delicately pale 
hand reached for his empty glass. Garak shifted his attention to the
Bajoran servant. He grasped her wrist and smiled warmly when she 
focused frowning hazel eyes on his. "Don't bother, my dear," he said 
sweetly. He scowled pleasantly. "Tell me, have you danced?"

She shook her head, inclining her head respectfully. "No, 
Sir," she replied. "I have not."

Never releasing his hold on her wrist, he stood and bowed 
slightly. "Then let me be permitted to change that," he said, 
pulling her toward the clutter of dancers.   

They danced skillfully, moving with every grace of Hebitian
nomads. However, Garak noted her reticence as she moved increasingly 
stiffly with him, making way to his every step. After a moment, he 
abruptly stopped their dance and gazed into her clear chestnut eyes, 
seeing there the sudden pain of slavery. Somehow, what joy he might 
have previously felt evaporated with that gaze, and his hands 
promptly retracted from her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought 
you would have enjoy this."

She inclined her head. "I do what my Masters tell me."

"Oh dear," he murmured, raising her chin with his fist. "I 
didn't mean to order you to dance with me. I invited you as a 
dancing partner. I would not have taken offense had you refused."    
 
She looked horrified at the idea. "Sir! I would never refuse 
my Masters. Protests merely invite punishment." She shuddered at the
thought.  

"Perhaps," he mused. "But not tonight. Tonight, everyone 
here has equal rights," he decided. He bowed at the neck and smiled. 
"Thank you for the dance. I shall be at your disposition if ever you 
wish to complete it."

She watched him with confusion as he stepped away, regaining 
his seat on the bench. Dazed, she walked to the bar, where her 
friend was busy with drinks.   

"Who is that?" she asked her. The Bajoran woman looked off, 
pouring drinks in glasses as she did so. 

"Who, the fellow in the back?"

"The one in the Obsidian uniform, on the bench."

The woman narrowed her eyes, deftly placing the glasses on 
her tray without giving the task a glance. "I think that's Master 
Garak, Gul Tain's protégé. Why?" she asked, focusing her dark blue 
eyes on her younger friend.

She shrugged. "I was just asking."

"You there!" a Gul beckonned, waving his finger at her. "We 
need more kanar over here."

She bowed curtly and went about her task. "He asked me to 
dance," she said.

"So?"

She shook her head. "He asked me to dance as an equal 
partner. When he guessed I didn't want to, he stopped."

The brunette frowned as she heaved the tray to her shoulder. 
"He shouldn't have guessed you didn't want to at all. You're 
supposed to give them whatever they want. Remember your last 
punishment, Leena. He might not be so forgiving next time. I've 
heard disturbing rumors on Master Garak." She sauntered away and 
began distributing the beverages to their owners. 

"You!" the same Gul cried. "I won't ask a second time!"

"I'm coming, Sir," she said promptly, busying herself with 
the task. As she did so, a figure moved behind her and reached 
across her to take a glass. She gasped and looked at the man. The 
same man; Garak.  

"Oh don't mind me," he laughed. "Just serving myself a second 
glass of rokossa juice." 

"Sir, I'll do that, please," she said, taking the glass away 
from his hand. As she poured the drink, she was intently aware of 
his gaze on her. Those clear unwavering blue eyes, watching her 
every move. She nearly poured too much but quickly recovered. "Here 
you go, Sir," she smiled, handing him the drink.

He went to say something, but a shadow quickly killed his 
words. When they turned to it's source, Leena gasped and remembered 
the other Gul. He sneered at her. "I have asked you twice already, 
Bajoran. I suppose you need further encouragement. Come with me," he 
ordered. 

Tears welled in Leena's eyes; she knew full well what he was 
asking of her. Garak frowned and stepped forward. "Gul Madred, the 
girl was serving me. She will attend to you right away." He turned 
to her, his stare softened. "Won't you, dear?"

"Y--yes," she stammered as she promptly filled glasses with 
kanar, her eyes riveted on the task and deftly avoiding the Gul's 
glare.

Madred offered a hateful glance at Garak before rejoining 
his group. 

After Leena had properly filled the right amount of drinks,
she turned to Garak, wanting to express her heartfelt thanks; but he 
was already gone.

After she had served the Gul's band, she ran to her friend. 
"Did you see Master Garak?"

She nodded toward the door. "I just saw him leave."

Thanking her friend, Leena ran to the door, ignoring the 
calls to her and knowing what it would cost her later. She didn't 
care. Her heart pounded loudly as she stepped foot outside. She 
halted her wake at the doorsill. "Master Garak!" she called.

A few steps away, Elim turned and frowned. "My dear, you 
shouldn't be out here. Gul Madred has a nasty tendency to punish his 
servants for feeble reasons." 

She shook her head, her fiery hair flowing in the warm
breeze surrounding them. She closed the distance between them. 
"I just wanted to thank you."

He looked surprised. "Whatever for?"

She looked down, but not of shame, nor submission. It was to 
aptly cloak her suddenly sanguine complexion. "For treating me more 
than a servant . . ." she explained. "Even if it was only for a 
night." She looked up, again losing herself in the brilliance of his 
blue eyes. She never thought she could find beauty in a Cardassian, 
until tonight. "We--we never finished our dance," she added suddenly.

He let out a fleeting laugh, his voice musical to her ears. 
"I believe I've had too much liquor for one night. I don't think I 
would have endured the clamorous atmosphere much longer."  

She traced her hand on his broad chest. "Don't leave," she 
said simply.

He took her wrist in his broad massive hand and placed a 
kiss on her palm. When he released her, she quickly enlaced her 
hands around his wide serrated neck and pressed her lips to his. A 
beautifully enticing kiss followed as they both drifted off to the 
other, forgetting for that one single moment who they were. All the 
atrocities of the world died away, and only them both mattered in 
that sole instance. 

When they parted, a hollow feeling pervaded their souls. 

He caressed her chin and smiled. "Goodnight," he said simply, then 
and walked away . . . out of her life.   
 
She never saw him again.


The End  

I know; pathetically romantic, but hey; in the immortal words of 
Falcon/O'Brien; "I've always been a romantic at heart."

Send your comments to soma@johnabbott.qc.ca