I wouldn't call it love

At last, they couldn't put the meeting off any longer. So he went to their quarters and sat precariously on the edge of the couch, while Kira thumped boxes around behind him.

"I don't know what to do with all her things," she said. "It's not as if she owned much."

There would be gifts from her father, he imagined, chosen carelessly or to alleviate some guilt. There would be the makings of her art. And there would be the dresses. He had made many dresses.

"I just don't know what to do."

"Perhaps I can help," he said. "Somehow?"


Self-preservation society

After the standoff, they each attended to their tasks. Damar piloted the ship. Kira made Odo comfortable. Garak (as was his wont) disposed of the body. Later, she came to sit beside him and they shared some food that neither of them particularly wanted.

"Garak," she said, at last.

He put his head into his hands and kneaded his temples. "Please, colonel," he begged.

"Please?"

"We're all very tired," he said. "I'd hate you to say something you'll regret."

"I only wanted to thank you—"

He pressed his finger against his lips. "Ssh, ssh… That's exactly what I meant."


The end of this day's business

They stood side by side looking out across the ruins. "Prophets..." he heard her whisper. Her tears fell freely. His eyes were dry.

She squared her shoulders and set her jaw. "I won't lie to you," she said. "It's going to be a long road. Cleaning up after's hard work."

"I'm good at mending things."

She touched his arm. He took her hand.

"Say goodbye to the constable for me," he said, and before they knew what they were doing, they were holding on in desperation, the only ones left, afraid that the other too might suddenly be torn away.