Work Text:
Benjamin Sisko flicks on the light to illuminate his windowless, puppy pee-yellow office, letting himself briefly hope that some elves dropped in overnight and finished his quarterly report for him. He’s been in a neck-and-neck race with Jadzia to get it done before she finishes crunching the numbers for a different funder’s semi-annual report. She’s also been trying to convince him to write ‘All work and no play makes Ben a dull boy’ mid-paragraph to pad the wordcounts, certain that no civil servant or enigmatic foundation staffer actually reads them. He’s tempted, but can’t risk what precarious stability Ninth Street Newcomer Services has grasped after its most recent episode of restructuring.
“‘Morning.” Miles sticks his head in the door, granola bar in one hand and clipboard in the other. “Last night’s sign-in sheet, before I forget.”
“Ah, thank you.” He skims it as his laptop fans whoosh on like jet engines. Maybe they should squeeze in one more Krispy Kreme fundraiser after all. “Good turnout. How was the facilitator?”
“Just lovely. Didn’t yammer on at a million miles an hour like the last one, and she stayed until everyone got a turn on the Cricut machine. I even made Molly some little horse stickers, she’s just mad about them these days.”
“Oh, I know.” Ben chuckles, pushing up his reading glasses and recalling their most recent dinner at the O’Brien’s, when she wouldn’t let Jake up from the carpet until he had read every one of her equine-themed picture books. “How many of these are green card holders?”
“Only two. I popped by Quark’s evening class and got some of them to sign so we have enough.”
The program manager exhales through his nose. “We’re really not supposed to do that.”
“I know.” Miles raps his knuckles idly on the doorframe. “D’you want a coffee? I’ve got a pot on.”
“Please.” He has to admire Miles, old salt that he is. He could quit anytime he wishes to play househusband on Keiko’s tenured faculty salary, though Benjamin suspects she’s relieved he prefers to stay busy. All the better for them, since none of the interns who came and went with grants were quite as keen to sit and help clients sift through tedious bureaucratic paperwork or practice citizenship test flash cards.
Ben sets the clipboard aside, planning to enter its data into the Kafkaesque client management system as soon as he finishes triaging his email, but he doesn’t even click on the icon straightaway. He feels idle, restless.
Should’ve been an engineer, he hears Jen’s oft-repeat of her father’s loving jibes echoing in his head, but now he wonders if he really ought to have walked south instead of north of the quad some fall afternoon. They were just kids back then, bright-eyed and invincible as they read bell hooks to each other on his twin dormitory bed. They never thought about HMOs or daycare fees or what it means when your car’s transmission breaks down. Told themselves it was necessary, temporary, even elevating somehow when they couldn’t afford to see a movie or Jen could barely zip her skirt over her pregnant belly to go TA her 8pm class.
Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t need to school his expression when Jakes brings him a permission slip with a price tag attached. Maybe he would recognize the guileless young man in their graduation photo.
His eyes drift up from the frame as the front door squeak-slams repeatedly and the walla-walla of morning chatter fills the oblong office. Pinned to his corkboard is a handmade card, watercolour and scribbled thanks from a mother for the crowd-sourced gift bags and meagre grocery cards they had managed to to distribute last December. Her hours had been cut at the plant and it was all she could give her kids for Christmas.
Ben sighs, straightens up, and rubs his hands together to get the engine of his brain to turn over, shivering when he feels dry skin catch. This is what he gets for falling for a New Yorker. He lets his email load while he reaches into his desk drawer for-
Fingernail clippings.
He blinks and no, his eyes aren’t deceiving him. Someone had helped themselves to his dollar store nail kit and left behind a small pile of sizeable, off-white half-moons.
“I finished updating the client files yesterday!” Nog announces to him as he strides around the reception desk. “What would you like me to start on next?”
“Ah, see if you can update the conversation circle posters. They’re looking a bit stale.” He hates tossing out busywork, but Nog is hypercompetent compared to their recent string of admin assistants, who ranged from ‘endearingly useless’ to ‘now barred from the premises by court order.’
Benjamin locates their newest hire, a medical school dropout engaging in the time-honoured backup plan of NGO work, singing bubblegum pop under his breath and shimmying his shoulders and hips just so in the photocopier room. He’s nothing if not a breath of fresh air. “Did you see anyone go into my office after I left for city hall yesterday?”
“Hm?” Julian straightens up, turning ninety degrees in the narrow path between the wheezing copier and the massive filing cabinets. Ben feels a tad guilty for disturbing him. “No, not that I noticed. Why?”
“Someone decided to give themselves a manicure and left the evidence behind.”
“Are you serious?” Nerys emerges from her adjacent office with her nose wrinkled, very nearly overturning the criss-cross stacks of files on the edge of her desk in the process. “Who does that?”
Jadzia arrives at 8:59 precisely with her protein smoothie in hand, finding Nog on the phone, politely refusing yet another well-meaning offer of used furniture, and a crime scene investigation underway in Ben’s tiny office. “The Board members were in and out of here last night, you don’t think it could have been one of them?”
“I did see Ross double-dipping his tortilla chips at the last AGM,” Miles remarks, rubbing his chin with great suspicion. “Do they look like a man’s fingernails to you, Julian?”
“Well, I wasn’t studying pathology. All I can tell you is the culprit could have done with a bit of vitamin E oil.”
“Couldn’t we all,” Nerys drawls, shaking her head and helpfully holding out the wastebasket as Ben scoops up the disgusting detritus with a tissue. “Short of swabbing for DNA, I doubt we’ll ever find out who did this.”
“Who did what, exactly?” In the doorway, wearing his usual shiny black suit and repugnant smile, looms their past-his-sell-by-date executive director- one Mr. Dukat. His presence in the office is as predictable and welcome as a cold sore.
“I’ll schedule an anti-harassment training early next week,” he continues, Benjamin’s brain having gone helpfully offline while he pontificated about health and safety laws of which he clearly had no meaningful understanding. “It’s crucial that we nip issues of this nature in the bud.”
“It’s not harassment,” Jadzia pushes back, with that ancient sort of polish over her stern expression that’s allowed her to accomplish so much in life. “It’s just bad manners.”
“And it obviously wasn’t any of us,” Nerys adds with more audible distaste. Ever since Opaka, their only director who truly cared and understood, had been forced off the Board in an ugly no-confidence vote, their resettlement coordinator has been nearing her breaking point with the ED. He only hopes he gets to see it happen.
“Oh, of course. I’m sure it wasn’t, but we don’t want anyone feeling singled out.” Dukat aims his unabated smirk at Ben for a second too long, his faux concern bordering on nauseating. “It’s best to address it immediately, and avoid any liabilities.”
“I was just going to throw the clippers out,” Ben drawls, fundamentally amused that the man who signs his paycheques would think he has the means for frivolous legal action. Though he is right about one thing- previous lawsuits caused by actual managerial negligence had depleted their organization’s reserve fund. Now they can’t even afford to be careless with the good pens.
“By all means!” He holds up his hands in a robotic approximation of affability. “I’ll see if the Board will pay for a catered lunch. I’m sure they would be happy to show their appreciation for all your hard work.”
And with that last crisply-enunciated syllable, he disappears into his office, its sole window never quite airing out the stench of cologne and dodged child support payments. Everyone drifts back to their respective desks, their spot of enjoyably mundane indignance soured to garden variety despair. At least they can all take respite in knowing his calls to the new Board president are never shorter than forty-five minutes.
Ben glances at his phone before returning to his inbox, finding a missed call from Jake’s school. He takes his glasses off and rubs at the headache starting between his eyes.
***
“Are you able to open the file, Ki- Nerys?”
“No, it’s still completely blank. I’ve tried everything.” She continues tapping out a text to a client, not even touching the laptop, and only pauses to share a look with Ben.
“Very well, I’ll screen-share it then.” A put-upon sigh buzzes through the aging external speakers. “Apologies once again that I wasn’t able to attend in person. The Immigrant Affairs Secretary called this meeting very last minute and I only made it to the city an hour ago.”
As if on cue, a dog barks and there’s an echo of possibly several children laughing in the background.
“Let’s begin, then. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” The Zoom screen projected onto the bluish board room wall shifts to a PDF of the employee handbook. Not a PowerPoint, not even a Prezi, just the manual itself being scrolled down to the appropriate section. “The definition of harassment, per current legislation, is-”
Phones slide out of pockets almost immediately. Worf brought his case notes to update, broad shoulders hunching over them. To think that they’re being paid to sit through this while five new refugee families who arrived at JFK yesterday are cooling their heels in their sponsors’ temporary lodgings chafes at Ben. But he’s long since learned to deal with these circus acts like quicksand- wait, don’t flail against it, then slowly extract oneself at the earliest opportunity. They may as well make the most of this unintentional break, given how often their lunches are interrupted.
Benjamin glances at Julian beside him and feels a bolt of pity strike his heart when he sees his pen scribbling away. But he’s not actually jotting anything down, merely doodling simple shapes and an askew grocery list. A tic-tac-toe board appears in the corner and on impulse, he reaches over with his own pen and marks an O in its centre. The health navigator half-chuckles, marking an X above. They get through three rounds, two-to-one in Benjamin’s favour, before naturally returning to their phones for want of elbow room. Ben silently tips his screen to show a post from their sister agency about their transitional housing build, Julian nods in eager approval and tips his own to show him an extremely niche meme.
Their minds follow along with Dukat’s droning voice as one does with TV commercials, tuning back in when the action returns. “Just as a reminder, there will likely be some changes coming once we receive confirmation from all of our funding sources. I’m hoping to keep things status quo, but just to be on the safe side, you’ll all be receiving end-of-contract notices on Friday.” A voice crackles in the background of the call, almost sotto voce. “I have to head into the meeting now, but feel free to reach out by email if you need-”
Before Nerys can finish ending the call, the rest of them are up and filing into the claustrophobic kitchen. Jadzia inspects the tray of six-inch subs that had arrived from the Quizno’s up the street an hour ago. “Cold cuts, cold cuts, more cold cuts- oh, good, there’s exactly one veggie. Here you go, Worf.”
“Actually I was planning to head out, if it isn’t any trouble.” He brushes an errant loc from his shoulder, expression stoic as always. “I have noticed that if I eat lunch in the cafeteria, the elementary students find me more approachable.”
“Go ahead, and let me know how Amir is doing.” Ben nods and their school settlement worker is off on his marching orders, shouldering a frankly massive tote bag full of tutoring aids and one sandwich, pressed upon him by their finance manager.
“And what exactly did he mean by ‘changes?’” Julian prods Miles, who is already tucking into one of the barely-baked rainbow chip cookies on offer. “Are we really going to be laid off with only two weeks’ notice?”
“Oh, they threaten that every year. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
Ben takes his soggy, paper-wrapped sandwich back to his desk. In his inbox, marked urgent, he finds an email from their illustrious leader with instructions to print the attached PDF and have everyone sign it by EOD affirming that they have received anti-harassment training. When he finds all their hot chocolate and instant oatmeal packets cut open the next morning, he says nothing.
He continues to say nothing when keyboards are unplugged, monitors have their brightness turned up or down, and various office tchotchkes are needlessly rearranged. He briefly suspects Quark taking revenge over the ESL classroom relocation fiasco, but he isn’t one to waste his precious time. Except of course, on arguing grammar with Odo in front of their students.
There’s no rhythm to the incidents, and he hears nothing from neighbouring agencies during the building co-op meetings. His only other suspects are supernatural, though he doesn’t really believe their creaking, echoing office complex is haunted by anything other than basement asbestos.
Julian appears in his doorway one afternoon, Dukat off at a real conference for once. “I don’t suppose we have any of those YMCA passes left?” Ben tugs open his bottom desk drawer to find out, revealing a small bag of single serving dairy creamers squeezed between the files. “Ah.”
“This is going to be my Voynich Manuscript.” He rubs his eyes until stars dance at the edge of his vision. “I’m going to think about this until I retire, maybe for the rest of my life. And if that’s their goal, they’re succeeding.”
“But perhaps not for much longer.” Julian’s expression turns from bemused to conspiratorial as he quietly shuts the French door and moves to lean against the rickety metal shelf of pamphlets and miscellania, lowering his voice. “I did some research and found out that New York is a one-party consent state for both video and audio recordings.”
“Go on.” Ben gazes up at him calmly, wondering if it might be best for their health navigator to take a personal day.
“In my backpack is a very discreet GoPro,” he continues, tipping his head towards his office with a wide grin. “Courtesy of an ex of mine who was very into cycling and unsuccessfully tried to convert me- anyways. If we set it up above eye level, no one would know to look for it. We could catch whoever is pulling this nonsense in the act.”
Ben hums consideringly, trying not to smile. His verve is reminding him a little of Jennifer, the wild spark in her eyes when she would outline exactly how one of her incompetent colleagues had at last set themselves up to fail. “And what do you propose we do once we have this evidence?”
He expects Julian to pick the obvious recourse that would be available in any sane workplace, and prepares a gentle letdown that would surely label him a sellout in his younger self’s eyes. Instead he merely shrugs his shoulders inside his oversized sweater. “Well, I was thinking we could put their little gifts in a box and mail it to them with no return address.”
He chuckles outright at last, long and hearty, leaning back in his chair. “John le Carré, right?”
“Hm?” Julian blinks at him before similarly recalling his interview. “Oh, yes. I’m surprised you remembered.”
“Well, it’s not hard to remember details about your employees, is it, Mister Bash-ear?” They share a dry snort at Ben’s impression. Sneering at the ED on the courage of their new contracts and one-percent raises, then trailing off. “How are we going to go through all the footage?”
“I can set it to motion-detect. I’ll come in early and stay a little late, no one will know.”
“Well, alright,” Ben sighs, a little surprised at himself, but only a little. “As long as it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all,” Julian swings the door open with a cadence of forced normalcy. “I’ve got plenty of time on my hands.”
“Really? Then you won’t mind filing these for me.” Nerys grins, handing him a stack of bright blue folders. Julian, recognizing when he’s walked into something, dutifully spirits them off to the towering cabinets. She leans on Ben’s doorframe, looking as run-ragged as he feels at the dawn of a new fiscal year. “I’ve got Elim on the line and Jadzia’s not back from her appointment yet, are we okay to waive his table fee for the craft bazaar?”
“Again? He’s been off the Board for three years, how long does he plan to keep this up?”
“I don’t know, but he got us an entire day at the rec centre for all of five dollars.” She twists her USB lanyard around one finger. “Plus if we don’t, I’ll have to hear about it while we’re watching Murder She Wrote.”
Ben glances past her to make sure Nog is on the phone. “Jadzia might be right, maybe you should try Tinder.”
She scoffs, but there’s a well-earned affection behind her blinding grin. “You first.”
Ten days pass without incident, neither springtime construction traffic nor snoozed alarms preventing the swift completion of Julian’s appointed rounds. Benjamin starts to wonder if they’ve somehow scared the culprit off. But then at last, a text- Meet me at the Celestial Cafe on the corner of Union and 8th for lunch tomorrow.
He plays along out of a growing, genuine enthusiasm, making a discreet exit at noon. Or as discreet as he can while dear old Dax shouts from her accounting cell, “Ben’s actually taking a lunch! Quick, someone circle the calendar!”
The space is warm, with floor-to-ceiling windows half-blocked by wooden slats. The decor and number of open laptops scream college hangout, but the coffee smells good and Julian is indeed huddled at a corner table, his brow furrowed. Ben scarcely sits down before an aging tablet is turned to face him, playing a clip of Dukat dumping his usual stack of paperwork on Jadzia’s desk at an hour he should be home with his wife and children. “So he-”
“Keep watching.”
He does, and he sees the camera blink, the time showing an hour later when the custodian enters. Sloan, if Ben recalls correctly. Dark grey coveralls, gaunt expression, going about his duties much the same as when they’ve stayed late for an event or a proposal deadline. Less usual, is when he pauses at the reception desk, picks up a photo frame, removes the photo inside and pockets it, replacing the frame before grabbing the vacuum from the corner and continuing out of view. Nog had a dentist appointment this morning, so this latest incident hadn’t yet been noticed.
“But why-”
“I think it’s safe to say that’s beyond our purview.” Julian takes his tablet back and shuts the cover on it before the barista approaches with a grilled cheese for him and some passable bruschetta for Ben. “And that giving him a taste of his own medicine would only make things much worse.”
“Agreed. I’ll have a chat with Jadzia about conveniently finding efficiencies in the budget and hiring a different cleaning company.” He takes an extended sip of his coffee. “Maybe find a reason to change the locks, as well.”
“Do you think Dukat will approve that?”
Ben chuckles. “He doesn’t actually read any of the cheques he signs. We might as well take advantage of that for once.”
Julian hums noncommittally as he leans both elbows on the glass-top table. The top button of his lavender check shirt is undone, hanging precariously loose on one thread, and his usual flickering smile is gone. “If my student loan payment wasn’t due Wednesday, I’d seriously consider getting in my car and just driving until I run out of petrol.”
“I hear you.” Ben takes a bite of his lunch, relishing the warmth as the rushes of damp spring air from the door chill his skin. “Seeing something like that is enough to make me want to go back to scrubbing clams.”
“It’s not just that, honestly, it’s- well, everything!” Julian runs a rough hand through his hair, shoulders and inflection pitching up. “I tell my clients to book appointments they can’t keep because we have no bus tokens to give them. The state sends us posters about accessibility but won’t pay to fix the stairlift. We get funding for ten ‘wellness workshops’ but not enough to have food or childcare so that anyone who actually needs them- I don’t need to tell you any of this, do I?”
Ben offers what he hopes is a kind shrug at Julian’s rapid deflation. “It helps to vent sometimes.”
He slumps, his body caught in a sunbeam. Benjamin notices the stubble on his cheeks and how it makes him look older than he is. “Is there any job out there where you actually get to help people instead of just pretending that you are?”
He thinks carefully. “Yes, but it probably doesn’t have healthcare.”
Their eyes meet, and they crack up properly at the unadulterated absurdity of it all. The kind of laugh you let out when it’s 8pm on a weekend and the sink’s just backed up after the dryer gave out earlier in the day. The one that restarts like a feedback loop every time you catch the other person’s shining brown eyes because it’s just so goddamned ridiculous.
Julian shakes his head once they’ve composed themselves. “You must think I’m a bit naive.”
“Just the opposite,” Ben replies, noticing he enjoys the subtle, unself-conscious surprise on his younger colleague’s face. “If you couldn’t summon any anger, you would be something much worse than naive.”
They’re quiet a stretch, watching the midday foot traffic beyond the window. Something has quietly come unstuck in him, like a book worried off a high shelf. There’s a rare glimmer of solvability in the intractable. “The one-party consent law, you’re certain about that?”
“Hm? Oh yes, completely,” Julian answers around a mouthful of sandwich. “A good friend of mine is married to a lawyer. I solicited a bit of discreet advice in exchange for babysitting their kids. Why?”
Ben’s smile grows. “Hang on to that camera for now, alright?”
Sometimes, it was worth playing the long game.