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The klaxon pulled Sisko from sleep like a Klingon battle cry: sudden, merciless, and deeply inconsiderate of the fact that he'd only been asleep for three hours. His hand found his combadge before his eyes opened.
"Sisko here."
"Captain." Kira's voice was tense. Things were actually serious. "Unknown vessel just dropped out of warp at extreme close range. Not responding to hails. Weapons are charging."
He was already standing. "Emergency transport. All senior staff to Ops. Now."
The transporter took him mid-step.
He materialized in Ops in his burgundy flannel pajamas; matching top and bottom. Jake had given them to him last birthday, and they were truly excellent pajamas. He took the room in one sweep: Kira already at her station, fingers moving, wearing an oversized shirt and loose pants, alert in the way she always was: completely. The viewscreen showed an angular vessel he didn't recognize, running hot.
"Report."
"They dropped out of warp right on top of us and started charging weapons immediately. No response on any frequency." She pulled up an identification screen. "Running protocols now."
The transporter hummed again.
Chief O’Brien materialized near the engineering station, wearing an ancient, threadbare t-shirt with "Starfleet Racquetball” faded across the chest and plaid boxer shorts that had clearly seen better days. His hair was standing up at odd angles, and he had pillow creases on one cheek.
"Bloody hell," he said, squinting at the viewscreen. "What time is it?"
"Too early," Kira said, not looking up.
"Unknown vessel still powering weapons," Jadzia reported from her station. She had materialized already seated in a deep purple nightgown. Tholian silk, probably. Sisko had always suspected she had a sixth sense for transporters. "They're definitely targeting us."
"Shields up. Chief, weapons status?"
"Working on it." Miles shuffled barefoot to the nearest console, squinting at the readouts. "The system doesn't exactly appreciate being activated at—" He checked the time. "—oh-whatever-the-hell hours."
Worf materialized beside the tactical station. He was wearing a nightgown: proper, floor-length, heavy-duty Klingon nightgown, thick as a tapestry, that swished when he moved. He looked at the room. Those occupying the room made sure not to look below his neck in returning the stare.
"The vessel continues to charge weapons," Worf announced, with full dignity. The nightgown swished. "I recommend a warning shot across their bow."
"Let's try hailing them once more first," Sisko said.
Odo materialized near the door looking exactly as he always looked, composed and unshaken, and took a long moment to survey the assembled crew.
"Good of everyone to dress for the occasion," he said.
"Some of us don't have the luxury of being one piece," Miles muttered, tugging at his shirt.
The transporter hummed once more. A shimmer near the auxiliary station in the back corner.
Kira checked her roster. "That should be the full officer complement."
Sisko did a quick count. "Where's Doctor Bashir?"
The question landed in silence.
Then, from somewhere near that auxiliary station in the back corner came a voice: small, muffled and distinctly strangled.
"I'm... I'm here, sir."
Everyone turned. The angle of the support column blocked the sightline. Nobody moved.
"Doctor?" Sisko's eyes narrowed, instinctively reading the wrongness of the moment. "Are you all right?"
A pause. One much longer than it should have been.
"I need—" A breath. "Could someone—could someone please—" The voice tightened further, past embarrassment and veering into desperate. "I need someone to come over here. Please."
Miles and Kira exchanged a look. Kira moved first, Miles following close behind.
There was a beat of absolute silence.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Miles said, strangled.
"Oh my," Kira managed. Sisko had only heard that tone from her a half-dozen times.
"What?" Sisko took a step forward. "Is he injured?"
"Not... exactly," Kira said.
"Could someone please—" Julian's voice was tight. "If you could just remove the blindfold. I can't… reach it."
"Blindfold?" Jadzia was already out of her chair. "What—"
"I've got it, I've got it, I'm getting it," Miles said, sounding every bit as if he was holding himself together through sheer force of professionalism. There was fumbling. A curse. A soft, defeated groan from Julian as the fabric came away and he presumably discovered exactly who was present.
"I'm so sorry," Julian said, with the raw sincerity of a man who genuinely meant it. "I'm so incredibly sorry, sir, the transport just grabbed me, there wasn't any time—"
"Chief." Sisko kept his voice level. "Situation report."
Miles's face, when it turned toward him, had achieved a shade of red truly impressive given his natural palette. "Sir, I think—I really think perhaps Commander Dax should—it might be better if—" He abandoned the sentence. A whine from Julian
“Miles—”
"The handcuffs, Julian. Right. Yes. The—" He fumbled a phasic spanner out of a nearby kit with hands that were not entirely steady. "I'm not looking, so you know. I’m just... I’m not looking"
A soft click.
"Thank you," Julian said wretchedly.
"It's fine," Miles said. His voice suggested it was not fine. It suggested that it would not be fine for some time. "I’m just— I'm going back to my station." He did so.
"Chief?" Sisko asked.
"He's—" Miles ran a hand through his already spectacular hair. " He's—he's decent. Sort of. Mostly. I mean, he's not injured. Mostly."
Kira had composed herself with admirable speed. "Captain. The Doctor might need—" She gestured vaguely.
Sisko walked over and finally got a clear sightline.
Julian was sitting in the chair, hunched forward, trying to make himself as small as possible. He was wearing only underwear—small, tight black underwear—and absolutely nothing else. His hands were now free from the handcuffs, which lay on the console beside him along with a dark strip of fabric that must have been the blindfold.
And covering his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his collarbones—many places visible and likely additional places not—were marks. Small, dark bruises and teeth marks in comprehensive clusters that could only be attributed to thoroughness and time.
He had his arms crossed over his chest. He was not meeting anyone's eyes.
Sisko unbuttoned his pajama top in silence, revealing a white undershirt below. He held it out without comment.
Julian took it with both hands and pulled it on. “Thank you, sir. I'm—I'm very sorry."
"Unknown vessel is still powering weapons," Worf reported, intently and professionally at his console.
"Right." Sisko turned back to the viewscreen. "Hail them again."
Julian had wheeled his chair as deep into the corner as it would go, tucked behind the console and a support column, and was doing an admirable impression of someone who was not there. He was only partially successful. The collar of Sisko's shirt didn't quite reach the marks on his neck.
At the engineering station, Miles was only half mid-crisis. Clearly he had decided that whatever else happened that night, he was going to understand his console completely.
"No response," Kira said.
"Dax, weapons?"
"Particle beam configuration. Standard enough." She paused, admirably putting things into perspective. "We could handle a hit with shields at full strength, though it’d shake us up a bit."
"Chief, status?"
"All systems online." A pause. "Ready when you are, Captain."
A long beat. Worf straightened.
"The unknown vessel is hailing us."
"On screen."
The viewscreen flickered to reveal a Caitian trader who looked, if anything, more disheveled and startled than they did: middle-aged, rumpled, clearly running on adrenaline.
"Bajoran-Federation station." He rallied admirably. "My apologies for the alarm. We had a warp drive malfunction and dropped out too close to your position. The weapons charging was automatic defensive protocols. We meant no threat."
"Do you require assistance?"
"No, minor repairs only. We'll move to a safe distance and—" His eyes drifted past Sisko. Caught. Stayed there a beat too long. "Is that officer injured? Those marks—"
"He's fine," Sisko said. "Not injured. We don't require assistance."
"Are you certain? Because those appear to be significant—"
"We're certain," Kira said, in her most professional tone. "Thank you for your concern. Please proceed to a safe distance for your repairs."
The Caitian looked uncertain but nodded. "Of course. Apologies again." The screen went dark.
Nobody moved.
Miles was still staring at his console.
"Well," Jadzia said into the quiet. "I suppose—"
The doors burst open.
Garak stormed through them. He was in gray set with a classic Cardassian cut with a blue bathrobe barely on over them, belt loose and trailing, in his right hand was a phaser set to a setting that did not discount structural damage as a consequence of firing, and his expression was somewhere between cold fury and barely contained panic.
"Captain,” he said, voice tight and moderated in that way that suggested a degree away from being not in control. "Julian has been taken. Transported, possibly Section 31, possibly opportunistic. I need you to tell me what resources we have available for an immediate—"
He stopped.
His eyes had swept the room and landed on the corner where Julian was folded into a chair wearing flannel shirt and not much else, very much present and accounted for.
The phaser lowered slowly.
"Doctor," Garak said.
Julian raised one hand in a small, miserable wave. "Hi."
Garak was quiet for a moment. Processing, Sisko suspected, was not the right word. Garak was not a man who processed; he was a man who continuously reassessed and immediately adapted. But even he seemed to need a moment here.
"Emergency transport protocols," he said finally.
"We had a potential hostile vessel," Sisko said. "Everyone was transported from their location."
"How..." Garak seemed to genuinely be searching for the word. "Thorough."
"That's one way to put it," Julian muttered.
Miles made a sound that was almost a whimper and certainly involuntary.
Garak moved to the corner, his bathrobe still hanging open. He crouched beside Julian's chair, his hand coming up to gently touch one of the marks on Julian's neck. "Are you all right? The handcuffs—"
"Fine," Julian said. "Just mortified."
"Mmm." Garak's thumb moved. "Understandable." His thumb traced the mark gently. "Though for what it's worth, my dear, you wear my… attention… quite beautifully."
The sound Miles made that time was that of soft, private suffering.
"Garak," Julian hissed.
"Well." Garak straightened, shedding the bathrobe and folding it over Julian's lap, a gesture that was both practical and, in its way, protective, then turned to face the room.
"Major." He addressed Kira with perfect courtesy, as though it were a normal day running into each other at the replimat. "Would you be so kind as to transport Dr. Bashir and myself to his quarters? I think marching him through the habitat ring in his current state would be unnecessarily unkind."
"Give me one moment," Kira said.
"Thank you." Garak looked around at the assembled crew and inclined his head in generous contrition. "I apologize for the entrance. When Julian vanished without warning I feared the worst. I'm relieved the situation was merely a matter of..." He tilted his head. "Overly thorough emergency protocols."
"Quite," Sisko said.
"Though I do think some kind of notification system might prevent future misunderstandings." Garak glanced toward Julian, who probably agreed but was not going to say so out loud. "For everyone's benefit."
"That would be appreciated," Julian said, to the floor.
Garak rested a hand on Julian's shoulder, light and warm. "In the meantime, I think there's no longer any ambiguity worth preserving about the nature of our relationship." He looked genuinely, unrepentantly content with this. "If any awkward social questions have been put to rest this evening, then perhaps we can count that among the benefits."
"Garak."
"Mmm?"
"Please."
"Those are very comprehensive marks," Jadzia offered, with a vindication that she made no effort to conceal.
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Garak smiled. "When something is worth doing, it is worth doing well."
"Transport's ready," Kira announced.
"Excellent." Garak helped Julian out of the chair, and looked at him with an expression that had, just briefly, stopped performing. "Come along. Let's get you into proper clothing."
He paused.
"Or out of it entirely."
They dematerialized to the sound of Julian sputtering.
The silence that followed lasted almost four full seconds.
Then Miles put both elbows on his console, dropped his face into his hands, and moaned.
"Oh, come on, Chief, it wasn't that bad," Jadzia grinned with unguarded delight.
"It was exactly that bad." He didn't lift his face. "He was handcuffed, Jadzia. He was blindfolded. And there was—" A gesture, vague and helpless. "Evidence.”
"The handcuffs were an interesting choice," Kira mused.
"They were regulation Starfleet security handcuffs," Odo said. "Which means someone requisitioned them. I'll be having a conversation with our requisitions officer."
"Please stop talking," Miles pleaded.
"I'm talking about it forever," Jadzia insisted. "The moment I sit down at the Tongo wheel, everyone within earshot is going to know everything."
"All right, all right," Sisko said. "Everyone dismissed. Back to quarters. Get some sleep. And I would appreciate— not require, appreciate— if we could all agree to simply—"
"Absolutely not," Jadzia said cheerfully.
"Naturally." He waved a hand vaguely upwards. "Dismissed."
Miles stood with the haunted look of a man carrying something he would carry for a very long time. "You know what the worst part is," he said mournfully, to nobody in particular. "This is burned into my brain forever. I'll be on my deathbed trying to say goodbye to Keiko and Molly and Yoshi and my beautiful grandchildren and I'll still remember Julian sitting there."
He transported out.
The others filtered after him, one by one, until Sisko was alone in Ops again.
Some days this job was clean. Tactical situations. Diplomatic negotiations. Clear objectives, clear chains of command.
And some days his chief medical officer materialized in handcuffs while his Cardassian ex-operative boyfriend stormed in with a phaser and a bathrobe
#
In Julian's quarters, with the lights at a civilized level and actual pajamas on, Julian sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the middle distance.
"I can never go back to Ops," he said. "I'm going to have to resign."
"You're not going to resign," Garak said, settling beside him. "You're embarrassed, which is understandable. But it will pass."
"Miles saw me." Julian repeated. "In handcuffs. And a blindfold. And absolutely nothing—he's my best friend, Garak. We play darts."
"The Chief will recover.” Garak said. "He's resilient. Though perhaps we won’t be having any double dates with him and Ms. O’Brien for the foreseeable future."
Julian gave him a side-eye. "We've never gone on double dates with them,” he pointed out.
“Well, now we're definitely not."