The Listener 
By JA Chapman 


DISCLAIMER:    Paramount owns all rights to Star Trek and all related 
characters, therein. Dedicated to Olivia Monteith, without whom I would 
have no idea what I was doing and Denise Fahar who came up with the 
title. The Listener is a true Mary Sue story. It's not about me or someone I 
know, not really, it's about all of us. The old man is representative of all 
the fans of Deep Space Nine who, whenever we talk of a new storyline or 
wish we could change the ending, imagine what it is the characters were 
really thinking, really saying to one another. It's about the sutble body 
language and sly innuendo that may or may not be there, but that we, the 
fans, want to see. The old man projects his own experience and thoughts 
onto the characters much as we, ourselves, do. Hope you like it!
                                    --Jen




     Abrin'Am was an old man. He had lived a very long time and had seen 
many, many things. Unlike most Bajorans he had traveled extensively 
both before and after the occupation. He was no collaborator, certainly 
not, just an antique dealer who collected beautiful things and who would 
go to the ends of the universe to claim them. He believed in spreading 
beauty and in seeing beauty in all things. Even a worthless hunk of quartz 
held beauty, he believed, not for it's perfection or value but for the many 
flaws that for a moment could capture light then cast it out again, more 
bright and precious than before. 

     Ah, he was an old fool, a romantic who chased dreams and whimsy and 
ignored the practical side of life. 

     Eventually, even he had to admit his salad days were done and his 
bones needed rest but as much as he loved his home, Bajor, the life of a 
farmer or a city dweller was not for him. His people were good and for the 
most part kind, (good and evil equal in the mix as with everything) but a 
very private people. Although Bajor was slowly getting used to other races 
and peoples, their world was still mostly Bajoran. Abrin'Am needed the 
hustle and bustle of people of all sorts who marched through his life. He 
loved the color and excitement of new faces, graces, and ceremonial dress. 
He was a dreamer still, so even though his bones ached and his relatives 
grumbled, he opened up a small shop on Deep Space Nine and there he 
stayed. 

     He was a quiet man, a thoughtful man, one not given to long speeches 
or wasted words. In his salad days, when the universe was a mystery to be 
unraveled, he met a group of traveling merchants from Earth who shared 
with him a bit of their homeworld wisdom: Beware the quiet man for he 
hides his passions well. His great mother had a similar homile: The 
difference between a fool and a wise man is the silence he keeps. 
Abrin'Am was not a wise man but his silence hid many flaws. 

     His ancient eyes wandered the bright and busy promenade examining 
the bright and eager faces of the many people wandering by. His small, 
tidy shop lay a scant distance from the Cardassian tailor's. Abrin'Am knew 
Garak better than most and certainly better than the tailor knew him. 
People never noticed the quiet or the old. There was both a pang of 
poignancy and comfort in that. How many lives passed under his ancient 
gaze, how many secrets and stories did he know? No one would ever 
realize the profound truths locked deep within the withered shell of 
Abrin'Am, for the source of his knowledge, the quick, knowing eyes and 
silent tongue, was also the cage that held it fast. 

     Garak was a Cardassian, a race of people not well received by his own. 
He was also a former spy-quite a notorious one at that. The circles he once 
traveled talked of the Gallant Torturer with both awe and trepidation. Not 
that Garak was so famous, or that Abrin'Am had lived such a cloaked
existence to hear of such secretive happenings. He was merely a merchant 
who gathered and sold precious things and people never saw tradesmen, 
only their wares. Even fast and silent tongues grew bold within a shop 
such as his. Every object held a story- a secret life begging for 
acknowledgement. That was the appeal of antiques- every connoisseur 
knew this. Everyone who fell into the web of silent whisperings voiced by 
inanimate treasures was so hypnotized by the potent spells they cast that 
caution often grew faint as voices grew loud. Or perhaps no one expected 
a simple peddler to pay heed to such flighty gossip. 

     It was probably the latter. Abrin'Am was a romantic and obscurity, 
while useful, was hardly poetic. 

     Garak was a connoisseur of fine things. He did not buy for show or for 
status. His tastes were simple, elegant, and defined, but with enough of the 
romanticism the old man treasured to make him believe that despite the 
tailor's past transgressions, Garak had surprising depths to his soul. 

     Such an old fool he was, judging a man's soul on the basis of a few 
choice antiquities. 

     As he watched him from an ancient rocking chair, he pondered the 
tailor. Though he could not hear their voices above the din, the old man's 
eyes were still sharp. The doctor, young Julian Bashir, stood close to the 
tailor, his face bright again now that the Dominion threat was curtailed 
and the station once again abounded with activity. They had a strange 
relationship, those two. They danced a strange ballet with their verbal 
leaps and twists, sliding sinuously around the real conversation, twirling, 
whirling, and wending about. The young fresh-faced physician (Oh, how 
he remembered being so young and idealistic) looked up at the tailor, and 
saw adventure. The tailor then would make a comment, and his eyes 
would devour the doctor's every reaction, absorb every intonation and,
perhaps, rediscover the very innocence he had lost so long ago. 

     How ironic- the very same innocence and naivete the doctor yearned to 
vanquish within himself were the very elements that Garak was drawn to. 

     Abrin'Am was a hopeless old fool , a romantic who built castles from 
clouds and rode high upon the wings of eagles. 

     His arthritic old bones and delicate constitution may have prevented 
him from seeking out new adventures but his mind was still young. He 
was young again, a young naive boy-man on the brink of self-discovery. 
The ancient fellow had known high adventure, had sought romance, and 
had upon occasion, found both. Young Bashir saw a lot more than most 
would credit him for seeing. The passionate young healer saw the true 
romantic within Garak. He saw the dark, brooding soul entrenched in pain 
and sought to heal those psychic scars while feeding his own 
malnourished spirit. 

     The tailor saw before him a man, a good man, whom he might have 
been. If time was more gentle and our lives ran a steadier course down the 
many straits and passages winding away, Garak may have been different. 
He may have healed instead of harmed, he may have found acceptance 
instead of exile. 

     Abrin'Am prided himself on being foolish, but even he knew that 
hindsight was always clear and what might have beens were a foolish 
waste of time and contemplation. Although not as religious as
most of his fellow Bajorans, Abrin'Am was a strong believer in destiny. 
Everything happened for a reason, he believed. He was old enough to 
realize that a perfect world does not exist. He was a romantic, and every 
romantic knew that one must have bitter with the sweet to fully enjoy the 
flavor of life. Everyone, no matter how young or old, played the dangerous 
game of what if. It was a dangerous game because it did not allow people 
to go on with their lives. It made them resent the past so much that they 
neglect the present and squander the future. 

     Many of his people still dwelled on the occupation and not without 
cause. The recent battle waged between the Dominion and the Federation 
reawakened old hostilities and old prejudices. 

     Abrin'Am was indeed a romantic old fool but he liked to think he was 
able to see the bigger picture through less grounded philosophies. 

     The occupation was a bad thing. Many people died, whole families 
were destroyed, and children left to fend for themselves. It was a dark 
time for his people, of that there was no doubt, but for every night there 
was a day and without struggle there was no victory. His people had 
needed an
enemy to vanquish, a struggle to unite them and teach them that they were 
strong and proud. In some ways, perhaps the occupation was necessary. 

     Abrin'Am was a foolish old man. 

     He looked upon the two young men affectionately. How young they 
truly were. The young never see their youth until it was spent and then 
they mourned it's passing. So caught up, they were in the trivialities and 
silly conventions of society that life zoomed by and at last when they had 
been
hobbled by time and mortality, the wings on their heels traded in for a 
comfortable rocker, able to see life for what it was, it was already lost. 

     Words were often wasted on the young, he believed, a bit of air and 
sound cast off impetuously and then ignored. The sad irony of life was 
that mistakes must be made to be avoided and tears must fall for joy to 
reign. How many opportunities had passed him by? How many chances 
for happiness had he lost because he was too young or too afraid to claim 
them?  He was a true romantic, and love was a grand dance to be led by 
partners of all kinds. He had loved well and lost much. 

     He had never married, never fathered a child or enjoyed the silence of a 
comfortable relationship. When he was young, life was too big, too fast to 
settle for one person. When he was older he was too distracted to involve 
himself in a relationship which lasted more than a handful of months. 
Now he was old and romance was the stuff of memories. Thoughts 
ambled back to a gentle caress, a stolen kiss, a passionate tryst held within 
sweet smelling arms and soft searching lips. Ghosts who fade in and out of 
his mind bringing with them memories of stolen happiness and leaving in 
their wake the pang of loneliness...and regrets. 

     He remembered E'Lea, an Orion tradesman with whom he had found 
such temporary insanity. Insanity, sweet, stolen, forbidden bliss, never to 
be regained and never to be forgotten. Memories haunted him with 
fevered images as clear and solid as the two young men who stood within 
his
gaze. Someday would the doctor find himself hobbled by time and trapped 
by images of a dark and dangerous stranger whom he had lost the 
opportunity to know and possibly become? 

     Such a foolish old man was Abrin'Am. And such foolish young men 
were the doctor and his enigmatic companion. Such was the burden of 
dreamers to see life as it should be rather than it was.

     Julian and Garak paused at the entrance of the clothier’s shop. Both 
spoke words of philosophy and witticisms of daily banter- neither was 
truly listening. Instead, they were each lost in private seas of thought, 
tossed and turbulent emotions raging beneath the calm surface each had 
perfected with the other. Every conversation was the same though the 
topic was ever changing, the words spoken by rote rather than 
concentrated thought. Neither noticed. 

     Garak's eyes, azure blue and enigmatic in their intensity, caressed the 
young doctor. His eyes made slow appraisal of the strong brow, soft, dark 
eyes and strong features complimented by a swarthy complexion that 
seemed to radiate a golden aura. Was he ever so trusting, so strong of self? 
The tailor's mouth formed meaningless sentences as his mind enveloped 
the physician in a swirling cloud of emotion. He was stronger than he 
knew, far more resilient than anyone, save Garak, gave him credit for 
being. He was not the sophisticate he longed to be, but he was not so naive 
either. Sometimes Garak feared the young man. His eyes, so soft yet so 
sharp, pierced his soul. He feared they saw too much, he feared he wanted 
them to see everything. 

     Dr. Julian Bashir looked at the man who stood before him. Between 
them a battle waged, a courtship of cat and mouse. Like a pair of ancient 
swordsmen the circled and sought out flaws- a constant thrust and parry of 
wit and words. Oh, how he longed for peace!  For slow heady
appraisal and warm liquid language. He wondered at the stamina of his 
companion's mind. He admired him, this shadow figure, he was not quite 
the enigma everyone thought him to be, but he was far, so very far, from a 
plain, simple tailor. His mind astounded the young man. He was like a
great bottomless well of knowledge and experience. He knew of 
frightening, shadowy things that young Bashir both feared and longed for. 
He so wanted to voice his admiration, but fear - the fear of the young and 
the untried-kept him still and silent. A thousand silent thoughts passed 
between them, lost in a roar of half understood conversation. 

     "I suppose you must be going, Doctor?" Garak willed the young 
insightful man from him. 

     "Yes, well, I did want to check on the old man who owns the antique 
shop, first." Time to tear himself away, to forget. 

     "Abrin 'Am? What a coincidence, Doctor! I understand he had gotten in 
some new leather bound volumes I wanted to inquire upon." Damn it, 
what a hopeless old fool he was being. 

     "Care to walk down with me?" Just a little longer and then the dream 
will fade away. 

     The young man approached the shop, admiring the treasures contained 
within. 

     "How are you feeling today, Sir?  I had expected you to come in for a 
check up earlier in the week." His color was off and he appeared a little 
introspective. 

     "Doctors are for sick people. I'm fine." Physician, heal thyself. 

     "My job is to keep people healthy, whether they're sick or well. 
Preventative medicine is also important." Stubborn. 

     "I'll come tomorrow, perhaps." Stubborn. 

     "Have you gotten in any new volumes?" Two men so dramatically 
different, yet so similar. Both stubborn and both thoughtful. 

     "Hmmm... In the back." Foolishness of the young and foolishness of the 
old. 

     Two sets of eager eyes roamed the lost treasures. Objects lost and 
found, memories of the living encapsulated in inanimate things. Books 
wrapped in mystery, their pages yellowed by time and wrinkled by loving 
hands called to him. 

     "Byron! I used to read his poetry for hours as a young man!  He was 
quite a romantic, but he also had a dark, gothic side which might appeal to 
a Cardassian." How like Byron he was. Dark and brooding, so full of 
secret and shadowy passions. 

     "That's what you said of Shakespeare, Doctor." Passionate, thoughtful 
and rife with hidden agenda. How much the doctor sees! 

     "Ah, well, perhaps you're right. Lunch tomorrow, then?" Could this 
mad game be somehow pigeonholed as an eating disorder? 

     "Certainly, Doctor." Another dance and life goes on. 

     "I'll expect to see you in the infirmary first thing." Ah, to be old and 
have left the folly of the past behind you. 

     "Hmm... First thing." To be young and have all your adventures in front 
of you. 

     Ancient eyes locked onto young ones for a moment and then the 
moment passed. Abrin 'Am was used to such moments, but this one was 
special. The passing of the torch, an eternal flame of foolish fancy, silently 
and resolutely. Let the dance continue on. 

     "I'll see you later, Garak." 

     "Goodbye, Doctor." Dear Doctor. 

     Was it spoken aloud? No need. Words were wasted on the young and 
the blind. 

     "What an interesting chair. Would it be for sale?" Pure gold. Like the 
skin of a young dreamer, and carved with the secrets of the ages met and 
married in that chair. 

     "Not for sale." Some things are too precious to put a price upon. 

     "Ah, well. The book, then." Perhaps not a comforting physical 
presence, but Julian still. 

     "Not for sale. A gift, take it." Some things are too precious to put a 
price upon. 

     "I couldn't possibly, it's far too valuable." 

     "It's good to know the value of precious things. Teaches us not to lose 
them. Take the book, treasure it." Foolish Abrin'Am, such a romantic. 

     "Thank you." Thank you, so very, very much. 

     "I always appreciated beautiful things. It's good to know one's mind." 
Go, young fool. Find your own magic. 

     "Goodbye, Abrin'Am." 

     "Farewell, Tailor." 

     Words of wisdom were wasted on the young. Sometimes silence speaks 
louder than mere words. 

     Abrin'Am, romantic, fool, adventurer, collector, sat in a chair carved of 
dreams and watched the tailor make his way through the crowded 
promenade. His eyes grew heavy and his bones grew light. The ache 
which had kept him grounded left him. 

     "One last adventure. The greatest adventure of all." 

     Constable Odo roamed the promenade daily. He, too, was a collector of 
sorts. He collected justice, hoarded away order and searched unrelentingly 
for peace. He always made a point of stopping by the old man's shop. The 
old were often targeted by feral minds. The old man slept soundly in his 
customary chair, not a sound did he make. Odo liked the old man, though 
he didn't know him well. He liked the quiet and orderly existence the 
merchant seemed to lead. 

     "Abrin'Am? Sir? Perhaps you should close the shop for the day." Still, 
too still. "Odo to Bashir." 

     "Bashir here." 

     "Doctor, please Come to the antique store. The old man appears to 
have died in his sleep." 

     For a day or so the shop was quite busy. No customers came, save 
Quark who wanted to bid on what he called 'a pile of junk'. When 
someone passes on aboard the station, plans are enacted, people are called 
in, relatives are notified. Abrin'Am did not have many relatives, just a 
handful of distant cousins who he saw once or twice. They were as 
uninterested in his antiques as he was in farming. When someone opens a 
shop on a Federation run vessel or space station a will must be submitted 
to the C.O. along with legal proof of ownership and annual inventory 
reports. A man's whole life could be filed away on a small slip of paper 
or a flash of a computer screen. 

     Benjamin Sisko was used to seeing his name on legal documents. As 
both commanding officer of DS9 and Emmisary, many Bajoran citizens 
put him down as executor. He did not know Abrin'Am. He had visited his 
shop to admire an old baseball bat signed by Beranard George, the first 
human ball player to break all of Babe Ruth's records in 2063. He 
preferred older memorabilia, but the bat had appealed to him. He had 
meant to return for it, but had never gotten the chance. Now it was in his 
hands- a gift from an old man whose face he could not recall. There were 
several small gifts scattered about his office- all for his senior staff as per 
the old man's will. For Odo, a smooth sculpture of a bird carved to 
represent the Maltese Falcon; for Kira, a Bajoran bracelet of hammered 
gold; Dax, a necklace decorated with small pearls and opals; Worf, a dirk 
and scabbard with scrimshaw inlay; a dart set for the Chief, dating back to 
1812 and very valuable; Bashir a small collection of leather-bound 
volumes; even Quark received a gift of a fine bottle of brandy. The one 
request that surprised him even more than the gift to Quark, was the 
rocking chair bequested to Garak along with two letters and the codicil 
attached that asked that the tailor handle his eulogy. Instead of a 
traditional Bajoran ceremony, the old man wanted his remains cremated and 
cast into the void of space to sail among the stars forever. He wished 
everyone to receive his gifts after the ceremony, except Garak, who received 
his that morning.  Garak appeared even more surprised than Sisko and had 
torn open the first note upon receipt. Sisko did not know what it contained, 
and had not asked, but whatever it was had a deep impact on the tailor, for his 
face grew still and his eyes had widened in shock. He pocketed the note and 
the eulogy the old man had himself written and left. 

     The time had come and all of them gathered in Sisko's office, an odd 
place for a memorial but in with the old man's wishes. All of them stood 
silent and solemn, most in genuine sadness for, although they hadn't 
known him well, they had some affection for him. Others were confused, 
for they hadn't known him at all, O'Brien had never even been to the shop 
save to fix a panel or to rewire a circuit, yet Abrin'Am knew them. He 
knew them well enough to leave them all things he knew they would 
appreciate. 

     The young rarely noticed the very quiet or the very old. 

     Garak approached the young doctor slowly. "Doctor, I know this is a 
most inappropriate time, but I would like to invite you to dinner tonight. It 
is rather important." 

     "Of course, Garak." 

     They sat. Words of comfort were spoken, soft speeches written to sum 
up men's lives. Then when the ceremonies were issued by polite society 
were concluded, Garak rose and stood before the small gathering. From 
his pocket came a letter and from his mouth came the words, "Abrin'Am 
was an old man. He had lived a very long time and had seen many, many 
things." 

     "Abrin'Am was a very wise man..."

                                 THE END