Julian This, Julian That
Ezri, who doesn't know the secret, arrives an hour early to help you make dinner. You stare at her for a moment, then laugh.
"Ezri," you tell her, "I don't cook. I replicate every meal."
Through her blushes, she protests, "But Miles always says-"
"He works long hours. He doesn't need to know everything."
She smiles at that; "Your secret's safe with me."
Ezri's family now, more or less. You wonder if she knows this, if she knows what the boys get up to when the girls are away doing other things. But this is one of those evenings when you all get together, have food and conversation while Jake takes his turn to babysit the kids. It probably wouldn't do to tell her now. She'll find out eventually, if she hasn't already guessed.
You know what they do, you've known for some time. Neither of them told you, of course, and you don't have any proof. You just know. Sometimes, you long for a confrontation, one of those scenes from a novel with stuttered denials when you catch them in flagrante delicto.
You remember the way Miles used to look at you, before you came out here and met him. You remember it well enough to see it when he looks at Julian.
And of course you're jealous. You're sure your name never appears in their conversations (unless it's about your cooking), while every other sentence you hear from Miles is Julian this, Julian that. You wish that you were that important to your husband.
You want to know what your husband sees in him.
You want to know. You really want to know. Or need to.
So you lean in until your lips touch Ezri's, and you kiss her. It's not quite affection, it's not quite sexual. You just need to know.
And she kisses you back, though you aren't surprised by this. There is little Dax can do to surprise you, so much of Ezri is still Jadzia. No wonder Julian is sleeping with her.
"Julian this... Julian that..."
For a moment, you reconsider, because the poor girl must be messed up enough as it is.
But you really want to know.
"Is that how Julian kisses you?"
And when she shakes her head you prompt her; "Then show me."
So she does.
And now you know, more or less. Given the inevitable physical differences, and the fact that you're fairly sure that thing she did with her tongue was an Ezri special, you nearly know.
You could, of course, have gone to Julian and found out for yourself, but then he'd know that you know, and that would be a bad thing, because he and Miles tell each other everything. Well, almost everything. And Julian is a much better liar than Miles. Miles, after all, didn't lie about his own past for seventeen years, and he doesn't hide his feelings very well when he tells you about his hours spent with his "best friend".
"Julian this... Julian that..."
Maybe if you keep seeing Ezri you can talk her into a more accurate approximation at some point. Which almost -- almost -- seems like a good idea. And of course, if you make her moan enough you might convince yourself that Julian isn't more fun in bed than you are. But you still suspect he'd be better than Miles -- if you're getting your kid genetically engineered, you might as well take these things into consideration.
You're tidy and the table is set when the men arrive, ten minutes late. They have an excuse -- something technobabble that you suspect you're not supposed to understand -- but Miles looks slightly guilty, and the jacket on Julian's uniform isn't quite as neat as usual.
"So what were you girls up to?"
"Oh, we were comparing notes."
Miles approves, because "Julian's always saying what a good cook you are."
"Julian this... Julian that..."
You smile indulgently at them, and your hand brushes against Ezri's as you lead the way to the table. The seating arrangements are easy to decide, the traditional male-female leaving the men on either side of you. That doesn't stop them continuing their conversation past you, accepting only occasional interjections from you or Ezri, and only stopping when Ezri eventually points out that they're being a little rude. They apologise, of course, and you find something neutral to talk about.
Miles collects the plates, as usual, and bends down to kiss you lightly on his way to the kitchen. You blush ever-so-slightly and look at the table. You don't want to start laughing.