Wingfooted

Garak lifted a pawn on the lower level. It climbed.

“Is it working?”

The ambient hum of the station filled the pause. Somewhere aft, a conduit cycled. Julian moved again — mechanical now, working through it rather than past it.

“Why do you try so hard?”

“I like a challenge.” Another piece. Garak’s eyes didn’t leave the board, but they weren’t reading it either. “You are challenging.” A small nod, as if confirming something to himself.

Julian looked up. The pretense of the game fell away from his face like a mask set down carefully, not dropped.

“I have never given in.”

“I don’t expect you shall.” Garak’s voice carried something that wasn’t quite amusement. “I’m hunting something.” A pause — measured, not accidental. “You’re running from something.”

“We’re both running from things, Garak.”

The Cardassian’s voice dropped. Not softer. Lower. The kind of quiet that fills a room rather than retreating from it.

“Not this.”

Outside, a transport announced its departure on some distant speaker. Neither of them moved.

Julian reached for his remaining rook. Moved it. An aggressive play, cornered into honesty.

“What are you implying? Suggesting?”

Garak moved his own queen down a level. The board tilted further toward inevitable.

“I’m not implying anything.” His fingers left the piece. “Suggesting anything.”

The silence held its shape.

“Then what do you want?”

Garak looked at him then. Not at the board. A moment of something like openness — costly, brief, a door opened just long enough to confirm the room exists.

“I can’t promise forever. Or a future. Or knowing me — not entirely.” His voice remained even, careful, the way a man is careful when he’s telling the truth and knows the weight of it. “I can give tonight. Perhaps others. But it couldn’t be—”

“We couldn’t be.”

“No.” Garak held his gaze. “That’s too dangerous. All around.”

Julian was quiet for a moment. The station hummed its indifferent hum.

“Tonight?”

Garak was unhurried. “If that is your desire.”

“Is it yours?”

Garak watched him. Said nothing. Which was its own kind of answer — the one he wouldn’t let himself speak aloud, wouldn’t hand over, because some things said plainly become things that can be taken away.

Julian reached out and toppled his own king. The piece rolled once and settled on its side, three levels up, catching the amber light.

“That would be your checkmate.” A decision. A choice.

Garak looked at the fallen piece for a moment. Then he leaned forward and set his cup of gelat down on the table, quiet and deliberate, beside the board.

“Julian—” He held out a hand.

Julian stood. He crossed the small distance and took it.

“Tonight.”

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