The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [1]
Nog stood in front of the door, his hand raised and poised to knock. He noticed that Jake didn’t appear to have any other kind of signaling device mounted on or near the door, and wondered when his old friend had become such a Luddite. No com panel, no security device… it was so different from what Nog was used to.
He rapped his knuckles loudly against the door four times, then took a step back. He heard something- or someone- stirring inside, then heard indistinct muttering. The sound made his heart leap; although he couldn’t make out what was being said, it was the speaker that mattered, not the speech.
The door cracked open several centimeters, and light spilled out from inside, momentarily silhouetting the tall, dark-skinned man who stood there peering out.
“Greetings, old man,” Nog said, remembering what Benjamin Sisko used to call Dax. It seemed somehow appropriate now, here, as he saw his friend’s eyes widen in delighted surprise.
“Nog!” Jake Sisko’s voice cracked slightly as he shouted his friend’s name, and then he opened the door wide, holding his arms out.
Nog stepped forward, opening his own arms and clasping them around Jake’s torso. It was only after he had hugged his friend for several seconds that he remembered that he was soaking wet. He pulled back, looking up at Jake.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me,” Nog said.
Jake’s expression changed instantly- was it bemusement registering there?- and he good-naturedly whacked the Ferengi on his shoulder with the palm of his hand. “Right. Whatever. Bygones, Nog.”
Turning, he gestured inside. “Let’s get you out of the rain and into my warm, dry den. Then you can tell me what brought you out to my hideaway in the middle of hurricane season!”
Nog stepped inside, purposely keeping the grin on his face. He wondered if the problem he was bringing Jake would constitute a stronger storm than the weather outside.
Jake Sisko pulled the cork from the top of the bottle with as much elan as he could muster, given the way his fingers were cramping up these days. He poured two glasses of the dark liquid and set the bottle down as Nog reached for one of the deep, round wineglasses.
“Twenty-three seventy-six? That was an… interesting year,” Jake said, looking at the date on the bottle. Nog had chosen an Italian wine, a rich pinot noir that smelled enticingly of fruit and oaken casks.
“Not as interesting as twenty-three seventy-seven,” Nog said, grinning. “But I know how much you hewmons like the older vintage beverages.” He hoisted his glass toward Jake.
Jake raised his glass as well, regarding the dark liquid inside thoughtfully and giving it a gentle swirl. “You’ve certainly come a long way since the old root beer days back on the station.”
Nog snickered. “We live and we learn, Jake.” He paused to swirl the contents of his own glass. “To an old friendship.”
Jake clinked his glass against Nog’s. “Not so old,” he said, smiling. He took a sip, eyeing the Ferengi over the rim of his glass. His friend still looked barely a week older than his teens.
“Well, not so old for you,” Jake finally added, smiling. “I swear, you Ferengi don’t ever seem to age.”
Nog grinned back, his sharp, pointed teeth gleaming. “Oh, I’ve had a few nips and tucks over the years, Jake,” he said, running his right hand over his right lobe. “Don’t want my lobes to get too droopy. Hard to get another wife if I look like a melting candle.”
“Haven’t you had enough wives?” Jake asked. “I think I’ve lost of track of how many times you’ve been married. Three? Four?” He caught himself before mentioning that he hadn’t been invited to several of the weddings.
Nog pondered for a moment, then grinned sheepishly. “I guess it depends on whether you count Diressa as a separate wife both times I married her.” He gestured toward the rest of the spacious house. “Speaking of which, where’s Korena?”
“She’s on Bajor,” Jake said. “The weather’s better there,