It's a lonely place to be, an empty bed.

When I slide beneath the covers at night, my forgetful body instinctively curves to welcome and cradle him, and my arm snakes beneath the pillow - his pillow - waiting to feel his comforting warmth and weight. But the sheets are cold, and the pillow is damnably light, and all that caresses my skin is a puff of air from the descending coverlet.

I mutter to myself and turn over, pressing my eyes tightly closed and praying that sleep will come swiftly. In sleep, I can be with him again. I can feel him holding me, cradling me, kissing me...loving me as only he can. In sleep I can see his eyes sparkle and hear his blessed rumbling voice. In sleep, I won't have to feel this miserable, empty, lonely bed.

In the morning, I drowsily reach for him, my hands searching fitfully over the bed, seeking the pooled silkiness of my gelid love. I hear myself making pitiful little sounds - something you'd expect to hear from a week-old keela pup pulled from its mother. Encountering a cold place on the too-smooth sheets is what usually brings me to full wakefulness...and harsh reality.

I am alone.

It's not too bad, once I'm awake and getting ready for work. I can dash through our quarters without stopping to touch each memento of him now. His bucket sitting on the table near my mandala still makes me pause, but I caress it quickly and go in to take a brisk sonic shower. I throw on my clothes and run over the day's schedule in my mind, as I check the clasp on my earring and rebraid my hair.

I still braid my hair for him; I always will.

When I stand before my mandala to pray, I find myself fighting the urge to rail at the Prophets over this situation. I strive for calm, for peace within my pagh, but part of me keeps screaming "Why?!?" and wanting to shoot something or someone...even a Prophet, blasphemous though that may be.

I guess you never quite outgrow being a terrorist.

I usually manage to find enough calm to pray for Bajor, for friends here and departed, for guidance, and - always and ever - for him. I pray for his wellbeing and happiness. I pray that his pagh be filled with light. I pray that his people will welcome him, be healed, and...give him love. That's all. I haven't huddled on the floor, tears streaming from my eyes, begging the Prophets to send him back to me...at least, not yet. I couldn't beg Odo to stay; I won't beg Them to send him back. At least...I think I won't.

On duty, it's not a problem. I throw myself into my work. Staff meetings, mission briefings, department reviews, Starfleet updates, Council reports, docking schedules, duty rosters, maintenance lists - a thousand and one bits of bureaucratic nonsense. I sometimes wish there were more of them.

I sit at the Captain's desk, still unwilling to think of it as my desk, and I monitor the life of the station. I've grown eager for crises - let a scuffle break out in a docking bay, and I'm right on the heels of the Security team, anxious for activity. I make a point of patrolling the Promenade twice a day - unofficially, of course. He left good people in place in Security; they know their work and do it well. Dax said something to me about undermining their morale by my "patrols," but I don't think so. I meet deputies on their rounds all the time, and they always give me a brief smile and nod, before we go our separate ways.

They understand; they miss him, too.

I have lunch with Dax a few times a week; Julian has irregular hours, and Dax loves gossip too much to spend all her free time with her new lover. That must be a Trill characteristic, or perhaps the Dax symbiont itself is greedy for gossip; Ezri's as bad as Jadzia, who, according to Captain Sisko, Ezri, and Jadzia herself, was just as bad as Curzon.

It's odd looking down at Ezri, rather than up at Jadzia, and even stranger to hear her uncertainty about so many things. Jadzia was always confident and never without an answer. Ezri is still trying to figure out who she is; I think she looks to me for advice as much as I used to look to Jadzia. She's bubbling over with happiness these days; it makes me smile just to see her face light up when Julian comes into view.

After I get past the sharp, twisting pain in my belly, that is. Ah, well. I'm happy for them; truly I am.

Julian always asks about my health; am I taking my mineral supplements? Am I eating regularly? Am I watching my caffeine intake? Have I cut back from six raktajinos a day? He uses every standard medical question he can legitimately work into the conversation, but those warm eyes are watching me with concern and sympathy. I want to kick him, sometimes, but it's not considered a proper disciplinary action, so I answer with as little sarcasm as I can manage and tell him firmly that I'm fine. He doesn't believe me, but neither do I, so it doesn't matter much. What's wrong with me is nothing that he can fix, and a mineral supplement isn't going to supply what I'm lacking.

I put in long hours these days, longer than I did as First Officer. I welcome the workload, and I'm best pleased when a day's work leaves me feeling utterly drained. By the time I leave the office in Ops, I've handled everything that came across the desk, put out a dozen or more "fires," and laid out the next day's schedule. It's efficient. He'd be proud of me.

I always stop by Quark's at the end of the day, even if I've had to go there earlier on official business. I make a point of standing by the bar, surveying the customers and casting a jaundiced eye on the dabo tables. I stare suspiciously at some of the shadier-looking patrons and suppress a smile when they hastily gather themselves and scurry away.

Quark always comes over and indignantly protests my "harassment," with loud complaints about the "sanctity of free enterprise," and a reference to the Rules of Acquisition, but he'll have a glass of synthale in his hand for me, and a soft, knowing look in those beady eyes. We growl and grumble at each other for a few minutes, then he turns back to the bar in exaggerated disgust, and I turn on my heel in exaggerated officiousness, and we feel the day somehow...completed by our little ritual. It may be sad, but it keeps us going.

I make my last circuit of the Promenade, then have something to eat from the Replimat. I seldom taste it, but I take my time over it nonetheless, and watch the people passing by. Sometimes I'll have dinner with Kassidy and Jake instead, or with a visiting dignitary or an old friend. More rarely, I'll eat with Julian and Dax, but they're still in the first flush of young love, and it's not polite - or comfortable - to intrude too often. It doesn't matter. I manage to eat, one way or another.

But after I've eaten, I've lost my last excuse for not going home.

It doesn't feel like "home" these days, but it's all I've got. I could have requisitioned new quarters, but I didn't - it wouldn't have helped. When I come through the door at the end of the day, I have to remind myself not to look for him, not to expect to hear his voice....not to call Security and ask when he's going to be off duty. The first three times I had to break off a comm call to Security were embarrassing enough; I've managed to stop myself before I hit my comm badge, since then.

I skin out of my uniform and into something comfortably worn and sloppy, then go over my personal correspondence. There's the usual assortment of commercial transmissions - "junk mail," the Captain used to call them - offering to sell me everything from Bolian mineral water to timeshares on Risa. Molly writes to me every week; Keiko and Miles send me holopics of the kids; Vedek D'ago sends me a note every once in a while; Chancellor Martok keeps inviting me to come to Q'onos for a targ hunt; even Worf sent me a message a few weeks back. I read all of them, delete or save them, and write out responses as necessary. Sometimes it takes hours. Eventually, though, there's nothing left that I "need to do."

I'll stand by the viewport in the living room, staring out at the stars, watching to see if the wormhole will open. If it does, I press my hand against the port and speak his name, softly. I imagine I can see him, rising up out of the golden sea, his face turned toward the sky and his hand reaching back to me.

"Odo, my love, my heart, my own - come back to me," I whisper softly, pleadingly. I imagine him arcing into the sky - a ray of light piercing the bitter cold of space, sailing through the stars, spiraling through the wormhole, and coming home to me.

I hold my breath and think I hear him speaking to me, to my mind, my heart, my very pagh. "I love you, Nerys."

I lean into the viewport, my head pressed against its chill surface, and I whisper back, "I love you, too, Odo."

I think I hear him reply, "I'll always love you."

And I turn from the viewport and make my way to the bedroom.

To my empty bed.

Such a lonely place to be.