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A bee has no loyalty to the keeper, only to the hive; no commitment to the place, only to the community.
Excerpt from Practical Handbook of Bee Culture by Sherlock Holmes, The Language of Bees, Laurie R. King
"Do you think," Julian said, while exploring Garak's hands distractingly with his own, "we could tell some people about us? Not everyone, just maybe a couple of people?"
Garak replied only with a suppressing look through narrowed eyes.
"Oh, come on, Garak! You said it yourself, Ziyal all but knows. You don't have to be quite as on your guard around her. But I've got no one else I can really talk to about how things are going with you."
"I never let down my guard," Garak said. "Except here, with the jammer on."
"But why?" Julian asked. "My reason for keeping us secret is gone. I've been found out as an Augment. There's no more threat from too much attention there. We're at war with Cardassia, so any Cardassian that gets through the front lines is a relatively equal danger to anyone on the station. And Enabran Tain is dead. Even if there's someone of the Order's caliber who's still interested in you, are they really going to bother with me in particular, at a time like this?" Julian made one of his pleading, slightly pouty faces. "Could we at least reconsider our secrecy policy?"
Garak heaved a sigh. "I'll think about it."
Aboard the Defiant, they had even less privacy than usual available to them. Garak contented himself with cornering the good doctor in the medical supply room and flirting even more outrageously than usual. This meant irritability and insults which were, by human standards, overly harsh.
Bashir played ignorance very well, not exactly flirting back, but at least maintaining his usual level of banter. Though he did look tired, and Garak expressed his concern the only way that made sense right now: insulting his appearance, to boot.
Still, they got through the mission without even being tempted to give things away. They were both far too busy, Garak plotting and tricking and occasionally killing, and the doctor forging bonds and saving lives.
Things could go on just fine the way they were.
But maybe Julian was right. Maybe they could be better.
Then Garak got back from his second mission with the Defiant, and Ziyal wasn't waiting for him.
He had a very, very bad feeling about that.
People who attached themselves to him just ended up in trouble over it, one way or another. The body was a shock, but perhaps not a surprise.
Doctor Bashir came in at one point during the endless frozen time Garak spent trying to figure out how to say goodbye to someone who wasn't there anymore. The doctor didn't speak, just reached out and squeezed Garak's shoulder, low enough not to be scandalous, hard enough that Garak could feel the emotion in it. It was a simple message that he was there, that he wouldn't interrupt but that he was nearby if he was needed.
Garak wasn't even sure how long he'd spent there, or at what point Bashir dragged him away by the elbow to Garak's own quarters, the only place on the station even vaguely warm enough at the best of times, and now not nearly warm enough to hold back the chill.
The doctor didn't try to engage him in conversation for a good three days after that, but then he broke the rule and let himself into Garak's quarters for the second time in a week.
"We're not abandoning our agreement," Garak told him, glaring.
"Garak, you're not even vaguely all right right now, and everyone knows it. What would people think of me if I didn't push my way into your quarters right now?"
Bashir had a point.
"I understand you feeling vulnerable at the moment," Julian continued, "so I won't push too hard. I just want to make sure you're eating, and offer a distraction if you need it."
"I don't want a distraction. I can't afford to be distracted."
"Oh, yes, because you're so on the ball right now," the doctor drawled, his voice a blend of gentle mocking, fondness, and concern.
Garak turned to look at him, raising his brow ridges.
The doctor brought out an isolinear rod, raising his eyebrows in return.
Resigned to the inevitability of these exchanges by now, Garak sighed, and gestured to the table. Julian put it down there willingly enough.
It would be another two days before Garak picked it up, but just its presence there, a visible sign of Julian's support, was grounding.
The Language of Bees was a slow and contemplative read at first, full of darkness and mystery, symbolism and obsession and grief. It spoke of the surreality of life and the importance of art.
It hurt to read. Garak wanted to resent Bashir for giving him this book. Especially when Holmes came to see the body.
There was so often a body or three in these stories, but this time it was different. This time it wasn't simply a puzzle around which the characters danced.
The body of a young woman who was out of place in the culture in which she found herself. A young woman who had been vital and intelligent and generous. A young woman Holmes considered family.
Garak read on, not knowing how much of what motivated him was determination and how much was that kind of horror that made it impossible to look away.
Holmes was businesslike about it, until he wasn't.
The expression that hardened his features and turned his eyes to flame was one I had rarely seen there.
Rage, pure and hot.
It was surreal the way Julian seemed to see him better than he saw himself, every now and again. How the books kept highlighting aspects of their lives that cut right to the heart. Garak almost suspected that the King woman was an elaborate con, and that Julian himself was writing these books as they were needed. But he wouldn't have had the time - not even an Augment.
As the days passed from that fixed point of Ziyal's last breath, Garak became hard and determined in a way he hadn't realized he wasn't before.
The book hurt to read, but it helped to have it, and to know that Julian had read the same words and connected them with what Garak must be feeling now.
Garak knew he would do what he had to to win this war and free Cardassia. Garak knew some of his decisions would be ugly. But Garak also knew that Julian, the only real familial connection that remained to him, understood as well as anyone could that the ugliness was a necessary part of who Garak was, and what his life had made him.
So when Julian had come to him, distracted, concerned about Captain Sisko and the biomemetic gel, Garak knew the doctor would understand when he explained that it had been one of those hard decisions. A sacrifice for the greater good of winning the war.
Julian didn't like it, but he still held Garak close in the bubble of privacy created by their sound jammer, and that was enough.
"Do you think I should hold off on the official protest?" Julian asked in the darkness.
"No," Garak replied. "It would be wildly out of character for you." He kissed Julian softly on the lips. "You are all righteous anger for the cause of justice and medical ethics, and I wouldn't have you any other way."
Julian sighed, a not entirely contented sound.
"This won't be the last time one of us has to make a hard decision about where our priorities lie," Garak warned him. "This is going to be a long and difficult war."
Julian scratched softly at the tough scales underneath Garak's shoulder blade as he answered. "I know," he said. "And I don't like it. But I can live with it."
Garak smiled. "That's the important thing," he agreed. "It's less important whether you can still live with me, when all this is said and done."
"But still important," Julian said. "I believe we'll get through this."
Garak huffed. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he warned.
Julian just hummed contemplatively, and cuddled Garak closer to his chest.
Julian also investigated other ways for Garak to be of use to the war effort, and that was how Garak ended up decoding the messages that Starfleet intercepted from Central Command.
But the longer that went on, the less able Garak found himself to live with Julian - or anyone else in Starfleet green - or himself. Every time he went to work on the codes, it got worse. It was as if his own body was trying to do him in. Julian had to come and save him, but after a certain point, all the doctor could do was look on helplessly and hope that the incredibly aggravating new incarnation of Dax would somehow discover a magical cure.
There were no magical cures. There was the control of mind over matter, and the failure to do so.
Garak shook his head, and tried not to think of Russell in her precarious cavern.
It would be an irony if I had survived numerous opportunities to plummet from the sky only to be squashed by a boulder.
It would be an irony for Garak to survive all that he had survived, only to be sabotaged by his own body and mind.
And still Ezri Dax pushed him.
She pushed him until he yelled. She ran away crying, but she came back, and kept pushing. She pushed until she got him to admit in so many words that he believed every message he decoded was going to kill more Cardassians than it saved.
It hurt, and it helped. Like the books. Being seen, and seeing oneself. One's mind could not grapple with the truth if one refused to see it.
How like Julian this new Dax was. So young, so deceptively clumsy, like a baby deer. But under that, so much intelligence, and enough stubbornness that wild horses couldn't drag them from the goals they truly clung to.
It didn't make things easy, or even simple. But it helped. So Garak kept cracking the codes that would send his fellow Cardassians, all unknowing, to their deaths.
In between, Garak found himself staring out at the stars, wondering how it would all end, part of him wanting to just get there already. But the future rarely decided to arrange itself in ways that were to Garak's liking.
He could save the dreams of others, save their futures, but he feared his own wishes were now beyond the realm of the possible.
Julian, of course, noticed how very absent he'd become. They were lucky to share a meal twice in a month, these days. But Julian always tracked him down for some kind of time spent together, even if it was just to curl up against Garak's side as he decoded messages, or sewed, or slept.
"I miss you," the doctor said, one night. "You're here, and I miss you."
Garak just sighed, and didn't look away from his PADD. After a moment, he said, "I am not the easiest person to love."
"No one is, Elim." Julian's fingers traced the ridges on his chest in idle silence, not uncomfortable, but having its own kind of weight.
Garak let his hand come to rest in Julian's hair, and he thought about futures that might still be. He looked at the doctor, then, making a choice.
"I'd like to give you permission, not just to date other people, but to fall in love with them," he said.
"Why?" Julian asked, head coming up, inadvertently pushing into Elim's hand. "Why now?"
Garak brought his hand down to rest against the side of Julian's face. "I haven't stopped loving you," he said. "But if we win this war, I must do whatever I can to help Cardassia, and I will have no more time for you than I do now. And if we lose, I will become a shadow."
Julian covered Garak's hand with his own warm one. "What if I want to be a shadow with you?" he asked.
"You don't. You're far too brightly shining for that kind of life."
"Well, then, we'll have to make sure we win. And I'll help Cardassia with you."
Garak shook his head. "You don't know what you're offering."
"No I don't. Neither of us knows what the galaxy is going to look like after this war. So let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"I'm not, my dear. I simply wish you to know that you have permission to build yourself a life outside of the little I have to offer right now, and most likely in the future."
Julian responded only with a thoughtful hum.
"You miss me," Garak reminded him. "I can't change that, but perhaps I can make it more bearable."
"No." Julian collapsed dramatically across Garak's chest. "Nope. I shall pine over you forever. There's no hope for me. I'm lost to you, Garak." He twisted, just enough so he could look Garak in the eye. "Elim. I really am."
"We'll see." Garak kissed his dear doctor's cheek. "I was right about Leeta. I think I'm right about this. You see, Julian, I know you, too."
Julian's face looked... like perhaps that hurt, but maybe it helped, too. And Garak thought that even if he himself didn't get a happy ending, he could stand to live in a world where at least Julian Bashir got one.
Garak sighed, and finally put down the PADD he'd been holding. "Come here," he said. "And pull the blankets back up, your dramatics are letting in a draft."
For the moment, he let himself think of a better ending. For a moment, he let himself think of Holmes and Russell.
Hunched together, shoulder to shoulder, we waited for Ragnarok, the end of the world.