Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Sorry, Major. We'll be back for you during the next window in the ion storm."

"When will that be?" Dax asked.

"Approximately eight hours. Stay warm, Old Man. And good luck, both of you. Sisko out."

Kira let out a long sigh through her nose as the commlink cut off. "All right, Dax, give me your blanket."

"Uh, sure." Dax blinked but pulled the thermal blanket from her shoulders, taking care not to brush the pile of rocks they'd heated with their phasers. Between that and the shelter provided by the cave that had been their beam-down site, they weren't exactly toasty, but they wouldn't freeze to death either.

Kira spread the blanket on the cave floor in front of their "campfire," then sat on it. "Come on."

"Ground cover—good idea." Dax complied.

"Don't tell me they didn't teach you about that at Starfleet Academy."

"They did. You were just faster off the mark."

Kira smiled, her lips thin. Before Dax could work out what was going on, though, she added, "If you're going to sit all the way over there, you'll have a pretty miserable night."

Dax looked from Kira's blanket-draped, outstretched arm to her impatient expression. "You don't mind?"

"All I mind is letting the heat escape."

Dax scooted over. At first, she tried to leave some space between them, but Kira shifted until their bodies were pressed against one another. She even went so far as to wrap an arm around Dax's shoulders until Dax took the blanket edge from her and pulled it the rest of the way around. Finally, Kira pulled the top of the blanket over their heads, making a warm two-person cocoon.

"Hey, this is actually pretty cosy," Dax remarked.

She could feel Kira shrug against her. "If you say so."

"What are we going to do about sleep tonight?"

"You still have the perimetre alarms in your pack, don't you?"

"Mmhmm."

"Then we'll set them up and sleep right here."

Dax bumped her with her shoulder. "Sounds fun."

As dim as their emergency lights were, she still caught Kira's look. "It's practical. It's how my brothers and I stayed warm growing up during the Occupation."

". . . Right."

She could hit herself, if it wouldn't mean dragging the blanket from both of them. She really should have known better.

"It was the same after I joined Shakaar's resistance cell. Most of the time, it was only Lupaza and me, and maybe Furel, but on the coldest mountain nights, we'd all pile in together."

Dax stayed silent, thinking about that—thinking about a slight teenager shielded from the cold and the Cardassians alike by no more than a blanket and the bodies of her new family.

Then she said, "You know, even after eight different hosts, you're never too old to learn about life."

Kira glanced at her, then focused straight ahead. "Glad to hear it."

But, when Dax circled an arm around her, she leaned her head on Dax's shoulder.

Chapter Text

"I can't do it, Rom—I can't!"

"Sure you can. You'll be just fine."

Leeta reminded herself yet again to breathe and looked into the caring face of her partner. Normally, the sight of Rom smiling away at her like a sunbeam in the shape of a Ferengi was enough to cure any ills. But today wasn't even close to being normal.

"But I'm going to have supper with the Emissary! And he's the captain of the station!"

"It's all right. He's really nice," Rom said as they came to a stop outside their host's door.

"That's easy for you to say—he isn't your Emissary!"

Rom's hand went to the small of her back, and that helped a little, but then he pressed the doorchime and that didn't help at all.

A moment later, a teenaged voice called out, "Come in!"

"Come on, Leeta." Rom gave her back a gentle press.

"Ohhh!"

Was it too late to catch the next transport off the station?

They stepped inside and found that Nog had arrived ahead of them. He was watching the Emissary, who was . . . cooking. While wearing an apron. And humming.

And she had thought she'd been feeling off-balance before.

"Hey, Rom, Leeta. Glad you could come."

Leeta pulled her gaze from that strange domestic sight to the Emissary's son, who was approaching with a smile.

"Hi Jake," Rom greeted him. "How's the writing going?"

"Great. How's the engineering going?"

"It's going great, too! It couldn't be better."

"We brought this," Leeta broke in and was immediately awash with humiliation. She thrust out the bottle of springwine in the hopes of somehow being able to hide behind it. "Your father said to feel free to incorporate as many Bajoran traditions to this evening as I wanted, so I thought. . . . I hope it goes with the meal," she finished. Maybe if she was lucky, the Prophets would catch her up on the spot.

She wasn't lucky. As Jake complimented her on her selection, the Emissary left whatever he was cooking (it smelled amazing) to join them.

"Hello and welcome, both of you," he greeted them. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but my peppers can be very touchy."

"That's perfectly all right. Here."

To her horror, Rom held out two slips of latinum.

"Rom! You can't bribe the Emissary!"

"It's all right," Jake told her as the slips were deposited into a pocket. "Dad's got a system."

"Trust us—we've been doing this for years," Nog added as he joined them.

She dared a glance up at the Emissary himself and got a warm smile in return. . . . It couldn't be wrong if he didn't mind, could it?

There was a little time remaining before supper, and so Captain Sisko invited them to relax for a bit. At first she sat on the very edge of her seat, but as she was drawn into the news shared by Nog and Jake, she settled back into the couch. She only realised she had when it was time to get up and join their host at the table.

"Hey, look what I found on my plate!" Rom exclaimed and held up . . . two slips of latinum.

Leeta turned to stare at the Emissary, who smiled. "It must be your lucky day."

He surveyed each of them—Jake at the opposite end of the table, Nog on one side, and herself and Rom on the other—before his gaze came to rest on her.

"Leeta," he said in a voice brimming with kindness, "would you like to say a prayer of gratitude for us? I know the festival was months ago, but right now, I don't think it would go amiss."

In spite of the return of her nerves, she just couldn't help smiling back. "I'd be honoured."

She took in a deep breath, then spread her palms. The traditional words came to her easily; as she prayed, her smile grew. All of a sudden, she knew exactly what Captain Sisko meant.

Chapter Text

"Remember: you can talk as much as you want but don't promise them anything," Colonel Kira instructed her no-longer-new first officer, Commander Alismo.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't say anything that could be considered a promise only if you looked at it sideways, backwards, or upside-down," Kira went on. "Anyone else in the quadrant would let it go, but we're dealing with Romulans. They won't. Especially not the Senator."

"Understood, sir."

And that was all the time there was for last-minute instructions; the docking bay doors were opening to let through the Romulan delegation, headed by Senator Cretak.

Kira straightened up her already straight posture. "Senator. Welcome to Deep Space Nine."

"Thank you, Colonel." Cretak inclined her head as though they had happened to run into each other in a Bajoran tea shop and weren't, in fact, about to participate in fearsome trade negotiations along with First Minister Shakaar. "It's always a pleasure to visit."

"I'm sure it is," Kira said with nothing more than a smile.

Bajor was less than a year away from receiving full Federation membership, and so a number of powers had been crowding in to negotiate various treaties and agreements before then. A solitary Bajor, it seemed, was perceived as an easier, weaker target than one backed by the entirety of the Federation.

"Why don't I let Commander Alismo see you to your quarters? I'm sure you must be tired after your long trip."

"Thank you, but—if I could ask a favour?"

"Of course," Kira said, because she could certainly ask.

"If you have the time, I'd prefer if you would be the one to escort me. After all, it's been some time since we last saw each other."

"It must have been, what, two months?"

"That sounds about right by the Bajoran calendar, yes."

Kira smiled. Cretak smiled. Kira's expression showed her teeth. Cretak's didn't. She liked to pretend she was far too mild-mannered for such a display, but after facing her down over the Derna Incident, Kira knew better.

She mentally evaluated her schedule. There was nothing coming up that couldn't be postponed. And, if she were honest with herself, she'd rather be the one dealing with Cretak than Alismo. The Commander was an extremely capable officer, but she hadn't seen Cretak's real face. Kira had.

"Then I'd be delighted. We can get caught up along the way," Kira said and, with a nod at the rest of the delegation, set off down the corridor.

Cretak followed. "Good. That will be most pleasant."

Both of them walked more quickly than the others, mostly out of habit. As soon as they were out of earshot, Cretak commented, "I see Commander Alismo is looking more comfortable with her role. I must say, I had my doubts."

Years ago, she would have stiffened and dived right into a defence of her fellow officer and friend. Today, her only response was a mild, "And why's that?"

"Bolians just aren't the people one thinks of when it comes to being first officer of a space station. They generally are more at home in banks, or so I'm told."

"Now, Senator, that's unfair. Bolians aren't all conservative bankers any more than Bajorans are all religious." She smiled again. "Or Romulans are all secretive and treacherous."

Cretak smiled back and bowed her head. "I stand corrected."

When they reached Cretak's quarters, Kira gave her the usual speech about replicators and alerting personnel to her needs. She finished with, "When you've had a chance to rest, contact me. I'd be happy to accompany you on a walk around the promenade." She couldn't resist adding, "We can make a stop at the jumja stand if you'd like."

"No, thank you, Colonel," Cretak said with what just might have been genuine amusement. "I believe I've had enough jumja sticks to last me for quite some time."

"Suit yourself." Kira nodded. "Enjoy your rest."

Cretak nodded back. "I will. Good day, Colonel."

Kira stepped out of the way to let the doors of Cretak's quarters close. She stayed exactly where she was, however, until the member each of Starfleet and Bajoran Security took their places on either side of the door.

It was going to be a long three days.

Chapter Text

"All right, team, listen up!" Ben set his hands on his hips. "Dukat's team might have beaten us last recess, but he won't this time. Right?"

He smiled around as his team called back with "Right!" and "Yeah!" . . . until he realised there was a big hole in his lineup.

"Where's Worf?"

Nerys stepped forward. "He's in detention. He told Lore in his class that he didn't have any honour in front of the teacher."

Ben grabbed at his close-cut hair. "But he knew we had this match! What are we going to do now?"

"We could get Garak," Jaddy suggested.

"He's not in detention, is he?"

"No, he's working on the front garden with Keiko," Julian reported.

"Right. Julian, you go get him."

"Okay, be right back!" Julian scampered off.

Jaddy watched him go, then turned to Ben with a grin. "Now I know why you're the captain."

Ben smiled back. "Strategy."

*

Julian went as fast as he could; it may have been big recess, but that didn't mean they had forever. He got stopped by a teacher once, since he wasn't actually supposed to be going to the front of the school, but luckily they let him go when he said he needed to talk to Elim.

His boyfriend was kneeling on the ground and weeding (probably) next to Keiko. Rather than wait until he got close, Julian yelled, "Eeeelim!"

He knew he wasn't going to get an answer—Elim didn't like shouting—but at least it gave Elim enough time to finish pulling up a weed.

Once he came to a stop, he gasped out, "Elim, could you come play baseball? Worf's got detention."

Elim sighed. "I guess I could. Unless you'd prefer to?" he asked Keiko.

"No thanks—I'd rather watch."

Both Elim and Keiko got to their feet. Elim brushed off his pants; Keiko didn't bother. Once his boyfriend seemed ready, Julian smiled and stuck out his hand. "Thanks, Elim."

"You're welcome."

His smile grew as Elim laced his brown fingers through his own. Some of the kids used to make fun of them for holding hands all the time, but then, all of a sudden, they'd stopped. Julian wasn't sure why they had, but he wasn't going to complain about it.

"Let's go!" Julian declared.

Elim smiled and the three of them started off. "Right."

*

Baseball wasn't really Elim's favourite thing to do. He was good at it, of course—he simply preferred spending recess gardening or using his fashion designer kit. But if playing meant making Julian happy and knocking the wind out of Dukat's sails, there wasn't a chance he could say no.

When he and Julian arrived at the baseball area of the playground, it was to find the captains practically nose to nose and their teams fanned out behind them. Ben had his arms crossed against his body and was looking stoic; Dukat, by contrast, was relaxed and obviously having a wonderful time rubbing in how badly Ben's team was going to lose.

Elim smiled again, and for now he set aside his dislike of raising his voice to shout over, "I'm here to join your team, Ben!"

Both captains turned and, at the sight of him and Julian arriving hand in hand, abruptly switched expressions.

New Ben was the one smiling as he called back, "Garak! Good to have you on the team!"

"It's good to be here," he replied as Julian broke away to join his friends and, behind him, he heard Keiko plunk down on the grass to watch.

"Garak," Dukat ground out. Elim noticed with pleasure that the mottled blue and white of his skin had, over the weekend, become yellow and white instead. Nerys really had done a thorough job on him in their last fight.

He smiled at Dukat. "It's a beautiful day for baseball, isn't it?"

"Let's get going already." Dukat stomped off to grab a bat. It was obvious he'd like to complain about Ben Sisko's Grade Three team recruiting a Grade Five-er, but considering he himself was in Grade Five (and Odo's cousin on his team was in Grade Six), there wasn't anything he could do. He couldn't even say Elim wasn't a regular, because they had been the ones to snap up Damar that recess. He was stuck and Elim loved every minute of it.

He shared a happy look with Ben. Today, they were in perfect agreement.

Then Ben flung his arms wide. "Play ball!"

*

By the time the bell rang, Ben's team was leading 3-1. If the teacher on duty had let Miles take one more turn, they probably would have even gotten Nerys home from third and made it 4-1.

"Good game, everyone!" he called to his team as they headed for the doors. He noticed Dukat didn't say anything to his team; why they kept playing with such a huge jerk was beyond him.

Jaddy caught up to him and slung an arm around his shoulders. "That's the way to put it to Dukat! Worf is gonna be kicking himself for missing such a 'glorious victory.'"

They both had a good giggle at that. Worf was a pretty cool guy, but he took everything way too seriously.

"Want to hang out after school?" he offered as they arrived at the line-up area.

"Sure, sounds great. I'll bring my bike."

"Awesome."

Ben slipped into place behind Jaddy, giving her ponytail a quick tug when the teacher wasn't looking. Only a couple more hours before he and Jaddy (and maybe some of the others) could celebrate their win. He couldn't wait.

Chapter Text

"Welcome, welcome!" called out Morgh, chef of the Klingon restaurant. He always had a personal greeting and a toothy smile when Leeta and her friends arrived together, and why not? Not many businesses saw parties of eight turn up every week.

"I have already prepared your place." Morgh gestured at where two tables had been pushed together, chairs lined up just so. "Make yourselves comfortable while I deliver the menus."

"Thanks, Morgh," Pella, known as M'Pella during working hours, said and dropped into the nearest chair with a heavy sigh.

"Yes, thank you!" Leeta added as she took the seat next to her.

It had become an end-of-the-week tradition for the dabo spinners of Quark's, and had been for as long as the Federation had been running DS9. It was good to go out for a meal, a chat, and a rant somewhere they wouldn't have to deal with Quark trying to cheat them out of their money. (It was bad enough he did it during work hours without giving him the chance in their free time.)

With eight of them to get settled, they barely had time to say anything to each other before Morgh returned with four padds to a hand. He took their drink orders, ranging from water (Ralidia) to bloodwine (Pella), and off he went again.

"Oh, gladst is back on the menu," Tellan Sarda remarked. "Too bad Mardah isn't still here—remember how she ordered it every single time for three months?"

There were a few chuckles. That level of devotion was hard to forget.

"Has anyone heard from Mardah lately?" Brin (also known as Etheria) asked.

"I got a message from her earlier," Gillian (or Glidia). They all leaned in; when she wasn't spinning the wheels and calling out "Dabo," she was the most soft-spoken of all of them. "She's just started classes for her second year. She said that she's finding the honours courses a jump up from last year, but she was smiling. I think she's doing all right."

"Good for her!" Leeta said, beaming. She didn't know Mardah all that well—her first year at Quark's had been Mardah's last—but someone who could live through the Occupation and go on to make it into honours classes in a year was worth celebrating.

"Send along our congratulations, will you?" Pella told Gillian. She grinned. "And ask her if she's met anyone nice."

Gillian smiled. "Well . . . she did also mention a cute Vulcan in her class. . . ."

Before they could demand she elaborate, Morgh arrived once again. It was probably the fastest they'd ever whipped off their orders, and after he'd left, they all pressed Gillian for details, then moved on to similarly light topics of conversation once she'd satisfied their curiosity as much as she was able (which wasn't nearly enough).

Things took a turn for the more serious later on, however, when Misteria (Woranal) set aside her utensil, her yellow fingers flattening briefly on the tabletop before announcing, "I was thinking of seeing sometime in the next few days if Garak is hiring."

That stopped the conversation dead. Every one of them turned to stare at her.

"Why?" Pella asked, tension straining the richness of her voice.

Leeta didn't blame her, and she fidgeted with the edge of her napkin. The rare occasions Garak went to Quark's, he was polite and never gave any of them trouble—something every dabo spinner could appreciate. But at the same time . . . this hadn't always been a Federation station.

"Because frankly, my boobs are getting cold," Woranal answered very dryly.

The moment was carried away on a wave of laughter; Midia raised her mug of Chech'tluth in salute.

But when the wave had washed past, Woranal spoke again, more softly. "It's the business with the union. It left a sour taste in my mouth. I came all the way out here to meet people and have a good time, but lately, I haven't been having fun anymore."

Ralidia covered Woranal's hand with her own. "Do what you want, Nal. We'll support you all the way."

Leeta took her other hand. "Just make sure to send us lots of messages, okay? We'll miss you a lot."

"And I'll miss all of you." Woranal looked around the table. "You're the reason I haven't missed my family and my people—because that's what you are to me. If I do move on, I'll never forget you, any of you."

"Oh!" Leeta had to release Woranal's hand to wipe her eyes with her napkin. She heard someone sniffle.

"All right, none of that," Pella said, though there was the tiniest catch in her voice. "Get those glasses up."

Leeta fumbled for her martini as, around her, everyone did the same.

"To Woranal," Pella declared in full voice. "No matter where you go or what you do, may you find happiness."

They touched their glasses and called out agreement. But as they were about to sip their drinks, with deliberately awful timing, Pella added, "Long may your boobs be warm."

There were shrieks and gasps—and lots of coughing when Midia accidentally inhaled her Chech'tluth—but, once again, there was laughter.

Leeta set down her drink to pick up her napkin and wipe away a few more tears. Her job might be long, hard, and thankless, and sometimes she didn't like it very much, but she could never say that about the people crowded around her. Like Woranal, they were her family, and no matter where life took her, she would never forget them.

Chapter Text

". . . And with temperatures as low as fifty-six tUrlan in Kardasior, this winter is officially the coldest in nearly forty years."

"Julian, are you replicating tea?" he hears Garak call.

"Computer, shut down--yes, red leaf."

"Well, make mine particularly hot."

He stifles a laugh. "If you insist."

He does as instructed, then brings both mugs to the next room. Garak peers at him, narrow-eyed, wrapped head-to-toe in a blanket, a trapped creature in its lair.

"What are you finding to smile about?"

"Oh . . . this and that." And he swishes his legs for the glorious sound of cloth. Trousers, at last.

Chapter Text

Back on DS9 after a fearsome battle, his time on duty at last at an end, there was only one thing Martok wanted to do: celebrate. Yet another Jem'Hadar ship had thought to challenge the Klingon Empire and had been smashed and blown to fragments for its folly. It was a good day, and a day for wine and song.

It seemed he was not the only one to have come to this conclusion: a number of his soldiers had beaten him to Quark's. Already, he could hear the third verse of the main theme from Aktuh and Maylota being bellowed out and he was still a quarter of the promenade away. He grinned, took a long pull of the bottle of bloodwine he'd brought to carry him the long way to Quark's, and kept grinning as he swaggered into the bar.

Inside, the place was alive with victorious Klingons tossing back ale, cheering and cursing at the dabo wheel, and, of course, singing. Everywhere he looked, Martok witnessed the celebrations of warriors—until he caught sight of one man sitting alone.

"Worf!"

Martok charged forward, knocking aside soldiers and being knocked in return. Worf stood as he arrived; Martok waved him down.

"Worf, what are you doing?" Martok demanded over the terrific din of a table being overturned. "Why are you sitting alone in the midst of such a celebration? Join us—sing a song, challenge someone to battle, drink with the others until the prune juice runs down your beard!"

"It is not my celebration to join," Worf explained, making no move to accept the invitation. "I did not partake in the battle. I have no right to celebrate a victory that is not mine."

"Worf. . . ." Martok pulled out the chair opposite his friend—how disappointing that there was furniture still upright—and dropped into it. "Victories are meant to be shared, whether you had a part in ensuring them or not. If I could invite all of the Empire to Quark's, I would! A victory for the Empire achieved by even a single warrior is a victory for us all."

Still Worf refused, saying, "It would be . . . presumptuous of me to celebrate alongside your soldiers. I am the only one present who did not partake in the battle."

Martok thrust out a finger. "So, when you vanquish the Jem'Hadar on the Defiant, will you bar me from toasting your victory?"

"Of course not!" Worf's fingers went temporarily slack on his glass. "You are my brother and the leader of my House!"

"So why do you think I would deny you the pleasure of celebrating at my side?" He allowed that to sink in for only a moment before he went on. "Ah, Worf. I have told you before: being a Klingon is about joy every bit as much as it is about honour. Partake in our joy—spread it." He flung his arms apart; bloodwine slopped to the already sticky floor. "Roar to the galaxy your pride in being a Klingon!"

Worf shot to his feet. "I will, General!"

"That's the spirit." Martok took two quick steps around the table to give Worf a hard pound to the back. "Go out there and be a Klingon as fiercely as you can!"

Worf seized his glass of prune juice. "Yes, General!"

He lunged off. Martok watched him go for only a moment before taking a swig of bloodwine. As he went off to begin his own celebrations, he grinned again, wider than before, when his ears were filled with Worf's voice joining in on the sixteenth verse of the theme from Aktuh and Maylota.

Chapter Text

"Here are your quarters. I hope you will find them adequate."

Nog stopped stock still in the doorway and blurted, "That's it?"

It wasn't that tight quarters were unusual for him. When he and his father had joined Uncle Quark on Deep Space Nine (or Terok Nor, when they had first arrived), he'd gone from a house to a small apartment. But this wasn't an apartment—this was a room, and a tiny one at that.

Within an instant, his brain caught up with his big mouth. He spun, dropped his bag, and smacked his wrists together, hands open to offer an apology. "I-I'm sorry, sir, I was just expecting something a little . . . bigger."

The Vulcan senior cadet gave no indication that his apology had been accepted or rejected. She only said, "Larger quarters are a privilege attained through hard work and discipline. When you have proven yourself, you may apply for them."

"Yes, sir." His back was straight, but there was a sigh in his voice. He had so much to prove already—he didn't need more!

"Your roommate is to arrive shortly," the senior cadet informed him. "I advise you to take advantage of the time before their arrival to unpack your belongings however you see fit. Good day, Cadet Nog."

He tried to stand even straighter. "Good day, sir!"

Once she had left, Nog let out a long breath and took a closer look at where he'd be living for the next couple of years (or longer, if his application for larger quarters was rejected). The room was longer than it was wide by a lot—really, it looked like a conduit, except the ceiling was much higher. Still, if he was a Klingon, he'd probably be able to touch both walls. Just barely, but that wasn't the point.

To his left was a set of bunk beds, made up so tightly he wasn't completely sure the covers hadn't been painted on. Or at least, that was how the bottom bunk looked: if he wanted to see the top one, he'd have to go up the ladder, and after all the travel he'd been doing, he wasn't all that enthusiastic about the idea.

To his right was one long desk with shelves built into the wall above. Lucky for him, they were low enough that he wouldn't have to use the ladder from the bunk beds—that would have been embarrassing. Actually, he sure hoped his roommate wasn't tall or they'd be whacking their head all the time.

Once his survey of everything but the closet was finished, he went to check the view out the window at the end of the room, past the computer terminals. He was expecting to see the wall of the next building—it was what the architects on Ferenginar would have done—but instead, he found a courtyard where a few cadets were playing some sort of ball game. Huh. Not bad.

And now he should stop gawking and get his bags unpacked before his roommate arrived—whoever they were. At the moment, all he had was a name, Zalt chim Prav, the certain knowledge that they weren't a Ferengi (not with a name like that), and the possibility that they were a fe—a girl his age. He'd been asked many times over if he would be all right with a roommate who was a girl and had been not very subtly reminded about the academy policies on sexual harassment. It had been annoying, but every time he had been on the verge of getting fed up, he'd pictured his Uncle Quark trying to fit in. That usually calmed him down—a little.

"Hey."

At the demand for his attention, just a notch under a shout, Nog turned. Standing in the doorway was a Tellarite girl in cadet uniform, glaring at him.

He worked very hard (and very unsuccessfully) at not cringing and tried a smile. "Um . . . hi?"

She didn't smile back. Instead, she strode in and slammed the door. "The back of your head looks like—" She stopped, grimaced, and in a much quieter tone, went, "Frig. Sorry. I'm Zalt chim Prav. Are you Nog?"

"Th-That's me." He almost stuck out his hand, remembered at the last minute that it was a Federation Human gesture, not a Federation Tellarite gesture, and scratched his cheek. "Uh . . . what was that about?"

Zalt made a growling sound. "On Tellar, you start a conversation with someone either by arguing with them or insulting them. My mothers made me practice greeting other species over and over before I came here, but I just can't get the hang of it."

"It's all right." Nog tried to uncringe; he made it most of the way. "Habits are hard to break."

"You're telling me." She stomped over to the bunk beds and dropped her bag. "Speaking of which, you'd better not get funny about me wearing clothes."

Think of Uncle Quark, he reminded himself. Out loud, he said, "Actually, my grandmother wears clothes all the time."

"Really?" Zalt gave him a strange look. "Huh. Hey, I'm turning the temperature—argh. Do you mind if I turn up the temperature?"

"Please. And turn up the humidity while you're at it." It wasn't as bad as DS9, but the air was still dry as gold dust.

"Got it. Computer, turn the temperature up, uh . . . ten degrees, and adjust the humidity up by thirty percent while you're at it. I can't believe how cold it is!"

"My best friend Jake is a Human from Earth and he says it's only going to get colder," he offered.

Zalt made a sound that was probably rude even for a Tellarite. "Why does the Academy have to be on this ice ball?"

"It could be worse," Nog said with his first unforced smile. "It could be on Andor."

Zalt laughed—or at least, Nog was pretty sure that was what she was doing. "Top or bottom bunk?"

"Bottom."

"Great. Top is just the way I like it."

That made his lobes tingle a bit—she was cute, after all—but he kept that to himself. Already, he liked Zalt, and he didn't want to make her angry. Not just because she'd thrash him in a fight, either. He got the feeling they could end up pretty good friends.

Maybe sharing a room wouldn't be so bad, after all.