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A seventy-seventh birthday was hardly a day worth much celebration. Julian was contented with calls from both his children and a jumble of friends, planned in advance around complicated schedules and time zones. He received them all in his living room, still in his bathrobe and pajamas, a cup of tea steaming in one hand.
“You’re going to visit soon, right?” Jadi asked him plaintively as if she were still six instead of thirty-six.
“That depends, has that colony of yours figured out how to make real mattresses yet?” He teased.
“They’re still backordered,” she admitted with a sigh. “I love this place, but sometimes I wonder if I went too far out.”
“No such thing,” he assured her with a smile. “You’re my adventurer. And you’re doing important work.”
His call with Avi was mellower. They spoke of medical innovations and a Bajoran professor that Avi had grown fond of. It was a relief to hear his son talk with interest about another person. Avi tended to keep to himself.
“Happy birthday, Dad,” Avi ended the call with a sigh. “I’ll try to call again soon.”
“I’d like that,” Julian said lightly. He didn't expect much. For all that she’d flown so far from the nest, it was Jadi that always came back to him. Avi was only a short transport trip away and they rarely spoke.
Julian tried not to let on how much that pained him. He wasn't sure he did a very good job.
After Avi hung up, there was Henri-Eta, a former intern of his. Zhe was full of gossip about their mutual medical acquaintances which picked up his spirit and set the tone for his conversation with a few other friends. There was even a call from Miles that Julian delighted in.
“You’ll see when you have grandchildren,” Miles shook his head, a little boy peeking over his shoulder and a toddler asleep in his arms. “It’s like all the best parts of being a parent and none of the sleepless nights.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” Julian sighed. “Avi isn't interested in committing to anything, except his studies and Jadi’s still bruised from her divorce.”
“I never liked that woman,” Miles said darkly.
“Neither did I. Who collects politicians’ signatures? Not a normal hobby.”
Keiko leaned into view with a bright smile, taking the baby from Miles arms over his protests,
“Hello, Julian. Happy birthday.”
“Thank you,” he gave her a smile back. “I heard you’re considering retirement?”
“Just from field work,” she balanced the child across her chest. “I’ll still teach, of course. But I’m too old to go wandering away from home all the time.”
“I understand completely.”
After all, Julian hadn't left home after all this time. Instead, Deep Space Nine had evolved around him into a bustling metropolis, opening new layers like a flower, all the while Julian had only consented to move to larger family quarters then back to a single man’s abode.
Miles and Keiko signed off with the little boy demanding dinner and Julian still sipping his way through his early morning tea. The living room fell into a peaceful silence. He was just about to talk himself into getting off the couch to get ready for the day when another call came through.
“Computer, who’s calling?” He asked in confusion.
“Unknown. Federation secured code. Clearance level: OmegaOmega5.”
Julian whistled, “Better pick up then.”
The screen jittered and jumped and then the face of a young man solidified. He was, objectively, handsome with a square jaw and piercing brown eyes that matched the trail of spots raining down either side of his neck. But Julian could not be objective about this face.
“Before you lecture me, Julian,” the smile was so similar that Julian had to bite back a gasp of recognition, “I promise I’m taking every precaution.”
“Dax,” he shook his head in disbelief, “you told me-”
“Ezri told you,” Dax said with utter gentleness. “I’m Huzzin Dax now.”
“I know,” Julian admitted. “I do look you up once and awhile. I just....it’s good to know that you’re alive and well.”
“I look you up too,” the gaze was different, but still aged and knowing despite its youth. “And Jadi and Avi. I miss you all.”
“Not as much as we miss you,” Julian swallowed. “No. I’m sorry. That’s cruel of me to say.”
“But understandable,” Huzzin inclined his head. “Truly, I didn't call to give you any pain. I wanted to wish you a happy birthday and give you a bit of a gift, if you’ll have it from me.”
“Huzzin, I have, historically, been unable to turn down any gift from Dax.”
“Good. I think you’ll like this one. It’s not much, honestly. Just a story that I came across that I thought might interest you. I’ll send it along to your PADD.”
“Thank you,” Julian frowned, “But surely that’s quite a risk to take over a story?”
“What else is there worth the risk?” Huzzin smiled. The smile of Jadzia, playful and distant as the moon. The smile of Ezri, warm and familiar as Julian’s ancient bathrobe (a gift from Ezri herself). And something new and unknown. Something that wasn’t Julian’s mystery to solve. “I want you to be happy, Julian.”
“As I do you, Dax,” he held tightly to his mug.
“Happy birthday then.”
The call cut out and the quiet that followed was no longer peaceful. Julian picked up his PADD, a light blinking to indicate a new message. The sender was listed as the ‘Federation Arts Council’ and attached was a small file. It proved to be exactly what Huzzin had said: a story. The PADD predicted only a ten minute reading time. Julian checked the clock. He’d gotten up early for the calls. Ten minutes either way wouldn't matter.
He settled in to read.
______________________________________________
The Federation Arts Council 128th Annual Short Story Competition, Entry #445
Author provided title: The Baker and the Cobbler
Once upon a time, there was a small village at the center of all things and at the center of the village was a market. Though the village was small, the market was very busy, and all manner of things were for sale.
On the right side of the road, there was stall set up by a baker. He had come from the West along time ago where the sun beat down much hotter than it did in the village. He liked to stay by the warm oven and think about his home as he made rolls and loaves.
His customers were many and varied, but because he was from the West, few of them lingered to talk. It was a quiet life. A lonely life.
The spot on the left side of the road, across from the Baker, had been empty for several months. He was as surprised as his customers, when life appeared behind the wooden slats again. A handsome young man set out rows of curious looking shoes and hung out his sign.
The baker watched the new cobbler for several days. He seemed pleasant enough, easily making conversation with anyone who stopped by his stall. He soon had enough customers to enhance the stall a little, painting his shingle in bright colors and adding another row of shelves. When there were no customers, he worked on repairs. With deft hands, he sewed in new soles or nailed in a heel.
The baker made up his mind to greet his new neighbor at last. He would bring him a roll and be cordial. The cobbler was new to the village and might not yet have picked up on their wariness for Westerners. It would be interesting to hear gossip again.
But to the baker’s surprise, the cobbler approached him before the baker’s resolve could be put to action. At lunch, the baker was usually closing up for the day as everyone else in the market took a break to prepare for a brisk afternoon. But before the baker could set his lock shut, the cobbler crossed the street.
“Hello,” he waved. “I hope you don’t mind me intruding, but I was thinking that a baker might become tired of his own wares. Would you care to share my lunch today? I've got cheese and fruit and nuts.”
“I would like that,” the baker decided, locking up his stall. He followed the cobbler back across the street.
The cobbler’s stall was cooler, uncomfortably so, and smelled of animal hide, but the cobbler had a warm smile and he was generous sharing his small lunch. They spoke lightly of a number of things though the baker could see the questions behind the cobbler’s eyes.
“I've been told you come from the West,” the cobbler when the food was nearly gone.
“A long time ago,” he allowed.
“I’m from the North myself,” the cobbler tilted his head. “Do you miss home? I find myself homesick at the strangest moments.”
“That is not the question I expected you to ask,” the baker laughed.
“I suppose not,” the cobbler laughed with him light as as feather.
“I came here a long time ago and I like baking things. It’s a good life.”
The cobbler agreed that it was and turned the conversation to the gossip that the baker had been so hungry for.
It seemed only polite after that that the baker should invite the cobbler over for the lunch the next day. He cut into one of the unsold loaves (and if he’d set it out of sight when it came out such a lovely perfect brown that was his own business) and slathered it with butter he’d churned himself from his one stubborn cow’s milk.
“Now I know why you’re always so busy,” the cobbler was delighted and licked butter off his fingertips. “I've been trying to make my own jam from the berries in my garden, but I’m helpless at it.”
“That I cannot aid you with, but I will gladly try your failures,” the baker offered.
And the cobbler did bring the baker pots of ill-made jam. And interesting bits of rock he’d found with flecks of mica that made them shine. And stories that he had grown up with. They were ridiculous stories full of romance more sickly sweet than the jam and ideals as distant from reality as the stars from the earth underneath their feet.
The baker liked the stories best of all. He gave the cobbler his own in return though the cobbler often looked perplexed by them, but he listened politely and asked questions. They grew fond of each other and the baker admitted, at least to himself, that he looked forward to lunch every day.
Until the war came from the South. Everyone was needed to fight and there was no market. No room for jam and bread and stories.
When the war was over, the baker was very tired. He went back to the village and found the cobbler cleaning the debris away from his stall. The colorful sign was dimmed with dust and the fine shoes round scorched.
“I mean to go home,” the baker told him.
“I thought you might,” the cobbler frowned at the place where the baker’s stall had been. Someone had burned it to the ground. “Take these.”
The cobbler handed him a pair of shoes.
“You have so little left,” the baker protested.
“But I made these for you, some time ago,” the cobbler smiled tired, but still warm despite all the ugly things he had seen. “You never answered my question. If you were homesick or not. And I thought that must mean you were, very much. So I made you shoes to take you home.”
The baker could not return the gesture of kindness. He could only clasp his friend’s hand one more time before heading into the West. He did not put on the shoes, but kept them at the bottom of his bag.
He did not put them on when he returned to a devastation that broke his heart and the ground was littered with shattered lives. He did not put them on as he helped to restore the land that was so dear to him.
Years passed. Hard years full of work and effort. He gained power and wealth enough that he never had to cook for himself, but rarely had time to enjoy the food. His clothes were fine, but he had no attention to spare for their weave and weft.
He might have forgotten the shoes entirely and the life that had gone with them if his housekeeper hadn’t asked casually one day if she should throw them away,
“Only I've never seen you wear them.”
“I suppose you haven’t,” he plucked them from her hands. “I doubt they’d fit now.”
After all, his feet were no longer strong and agile with tough soles. They were knobbed and battered and old. Curiosity piqued, he sat down to pull on the first shoe.
It fit perfectly. There was nothing stylish about them, but immediately he could tell the craftsmanship that went into them. They never would have fit his feet as they had been. These were shoes for an old man with bad knees.
He put on the other.
“So you’ll be keeping them then?” the housekeeper asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
At first, he only wore them on the rare occasions he had time at home. But he found the more he wore them, the better he felt. Not just his feet, but his legs, his hips and even his back. They became his traveling shoes and he would wear them to and from his destination, then change when he arrived. But even that became too much of an annoyance and eventually they were all he wore.
No one dared to say anything to him, but he knew the strange shoes did not match the rest of his crisp beautiful clothes.
He thought more and more of the little village and wondered what might have become of it.
Perhaps, he thought, flexing his toes inside his fine shoes, he had one last long walk in him.
______________________
Julian pursed his lips. He tried to keep scrolling, but the story apparently ended there. He caught sight of the time and got to his feet. He washed his face and paused to examine it in the mirror. It was not the face of the young naive man that had first beheld Jadzia Dax. It was not even the face of the seventy year old man that had gazed with despair at Ezri’s beloved face as she fell into her last sleep.
His hair was still thick though pepper had long since given into salt. His enhancements had slowed the sagging of his skin, but not halted it. He was still strong, but thinner than he used to be with the hint of fragility creeping into his bones.
“Not such a pretty young thing,” he said wryly to his reflection, then brushed his teeth with a sigh. He put on his uniform, the newest iteration of medical blues with the color extending in a thick stripe down one leg.
The medbay had moved a few times over the years as the shops of the Promenade had grown from a dozen or so to nearly a hundred. The extra levels and extensions added on included Julian’s domain, a state of the art medbay that was nearly large enough to qualify as a hospital. The stable population of the station had boomed into the thousands, a small buzzing city that needed more than a few beds in a clinic.
“Good morning, Dr. Bashir,” a serene Bajoran greeted him at the desk. He kept forgetting her name since she’d taken over for the last receptionist. Was it a sign of a slowing memory or just an average forgetfulness? Hard to know when his mind had never been average.
“Good morning,” he smiled broadly at her to make up for it. He sailed past her down the corridor.
He meant to head straight for his office, but a swarm of interns were gathered in triage with questions that Dr. Troda couldn't answer all at once. And then there was the Vulcan coma patient on the second floor that still wasn't responding to stimulus. Julian tried to stop by the bed every few days where a patient spouse waited, reading endless medical journals and quizzing every doctor and nurse on obscure techniques. There was also the pediatric ward that Julian could never quite move through with any alacrity. He always stopped and handed out hard candies he sourced by the crateful and checked over records.
Eventually, he made his way into his office. He had his own view of the wormhole now, if he turned in his chair to watch. Despite all the passing years, it still struck a deep chord in him as traffic flowed in and out the galactic connection.
Today, he watched absently for the better part of an hour before he recalled his purpose and turned back to the mountains of paperwork, budget reviews, and the upcoming symposium on infectious disease that the station would be hosting.
Hunger struck eventually and he looked up from his work to order food from the replicator. He considered the plate and pushed it to one side.
“Computer, is the Federation ship Gauntlet in communication range?”
“Affirmative.”
“Call Dr. Karik, low urgency.”
The computer fell silent for a moment and Julian stabbed disinterestedly at his food. The screen flickered to life about the time he was considering a meal replacement bar to choke down instead.
“Dr. Bashir!” The bright smile of the young Cardassian woman automatically lit on one Julian’s face in return. “Is everything alright?”
“Fine, fine,” he assured her. “I apologize for calling you without advance notice. How is the Gauntlet?”
“Oh, very good, very good,” she was sitting in a high backed chair, looking well at ease. “It’s a good thing you reached out today and not tomorrow. We have a planned warp jump in a few hours. We’re headed out to Klingon territory for a few weeks. The Captain has been chosen to help negotiate a trade deal.”
“Ah, and knowing your captain, he must be thrilled,” Julian grinned wider.
“He’s talked about nothing, but his tingling lobes in staff meetings,” she agreed. “And how are things on DS9?”
“We’re preparing for the symposium, but otherwise all is as it always is,” he tapped the stack of PADDs in front of him.
“I read your paper on the oxygenation creep in some Gamma species, fascinating stuff.”
“Thank you,” he inclined his head. “I wish I had more time for research, but running this place barely allows for it anymore.”
“Heavy weighs the crown,” her mouth was serious, but her eyes sparkled. A Cardassian expression that Julian was inexorably fond of. “And...how is Jadi? I spoke with her before she left for the colony, but that was months ago.”
“She’s still healing,” Julian studied Karik's face carefully. “But I believe she would very much appreciate a call from an old friend whenever you’re in range. Or even a letter if you can’t call.”
Karik lapsed into a momentary silence. She was young still and part of a new generation. Cardassians had changed after the painful lesson of the war. They’d had to. Karik had been one of five sharp students who smelled the new air and had chosen to join Starfleet. She had never learned to school her expression and leave nothing for outsiders to read in the planes of her dove gray face.
“I will then,” she said quietly. “But I doubt that you called me to meddle in your daughter’s social life.”
“No, that’s true,” he allowed. “I might have called to ask you in meddle in mine.”
“Pardon?”
“I need help tracking down a Cardassian. And I know how difficult it is to navigate any kind of directory without a full understanding of the language. I was hoping you might be able to do me the favor of finding his address for me.”
“I could try,” she frowned. “Why are you looking for him?”
“It’s been a number of years since we spoke and I realized...well. I think it would be a shame if I was to wait too long.”
“I see,” she was already turning to her computer screen. “What’s the name?”
“Elim Garak,” he told her. It was the first time in decades since that name had rested in his mouth, but it still felt utterly comfortable and welcome there.
“Garak...” She tapped away. “You know the name sounds familiar. Like something I read once in a book.”
“It’s certainly possible. He had a way of living at the fringes of history,” he smiled faintly.
“Ah, here,” she snorted. “Right. He has a privacy screening on his data, but someone else has gone in and lifted parts of it. I’d guess he doesn't have a lot of friends in the Security Department at the moment. I’ll translate and send you what I can find now. It should be enough if you really want to find him.”
“Thank you,” he sat back in his seat. “And if I might, I have one more question for you.”
“What’s that?” She turned back to face him, curiosity naked on her face, but to her credit, all her questions remained unasked.
“What’s the current fashion for older professional men on Cardassia?” He gestured at his uniform. “If I meet him looking like this, he might very well close the door in my face.”
After a great deal of laughter and teasing, she gave him some advice and a current periodical of Cardassian fashion. She vowed to rat him out to Jadi and he only smiled and nodded. Jadi would be full of questions, but that was a future concern.
Julian terminated the call and immediately initiated a formal request to take a leave of absence from the station for a few weeks. He rarely used his time off and he wasn't surprised when the current captain approved the request within minutes.
After that it was a simple matter of booking passage out on a Ferengi caravan. He bargained himself into a decent room with some of the latinum he’d accumulated from dabo games over the years.
It was startling and a little sad to see how easy it was to slip away. His staff were unhappy and schedules had to be juggled, but none of them questioned him beyond asking if he was going someplace fun. ‘Visiting an old friend’ was apparently a satisfying enough answer for most of them and it turned to the details of covering his duties while he was gone.
Gone were the days that he was close with every officer on the bridge. Most of them he only knew by last name at the long conference tables.
Two days later, with the same duffel bag that had brought him to the station all those years ago, Julian boarded the transport in casual Cardassian robes. He slept for most of the flight, the hum of warp a familiar comfort.
Cardassia itself took him by surprise. The rebuilding process was not as far along as he would've thought, here in this quieter province. Many buildings had clearly been abandoned to ruin. Vines cascaded up and over broken walls, pulling the rock back down into the earth. What was restored was not the jagged tall buildings Julian had anticipated. There were few buildings above three stories and most had almost organic look, soft arches and large panes of tinted glass to ward off the harsh sun.
He moved through the busy little way-station and was pleased to find a mix of species not only commuting, but running kiosks and bodegas. There was even a lone proud Bajoran man selling breakfast sandwiches. Julian resisted the urge to buy from him and ask him how he came to be there. It was someone else's’ story to acquire.
As he moved deeper into the town, the multicultural tableau slowly gave way. Whatever diversity had come to settle around ports in Cardassia had not yet penetrated the invisible shell of her monolithic culture. Away from the business district, the streets wound into a quiet suburban feel and Julian quickly approached his destination.
He knew the house as soon as he saw it. Or rather, couldn't quite see it. Around the property, someone had erected a lovely and intricate fence that served as a trellis for a climbing flower. The pearlescent blue bloom bowed between broad green leaves. Just over the tip of the tallest plants, a sloping roof top could be seen.
Julian came around to the front gate and to his great surprise, found it open. Even if it was closed, it seemed it’s only locking mechanism was a simple latch that could be easily undone through the fences brackets.
Frowning, and starting to seriously consider that the database had yielded the wrong address, Julian walked through the gate. The lush garden that met him leading up to the elegant, but small house, was far more in line with his expectations. Plants from several worlds cropped up among native flora.
And kneeling among them was a Cardassian of advanced years. His hair glowed gunmetal silver in the intense afternoon sun and his hands moved slowly and carefully, plucking out weeds with causal force. Very quietly, the Cardassian hummed.
Without so much as hint of his face, Julian was certain of his identity. He thought just then that he might've known with only the turn of his wrist or the line of his neck ridge. Nearly fifty years had passed since they had been face to face, but Julian’s memory had never let a detail slip.
“Garak,” he said once, reverent and quieter than he intended.
The careful hands left their work. Garak stood and faced him and for a moment, there was naked joy and trepidation there for anyone to see. Then gone again, to staid neutrality.
“My dear doctor,” Garak held out both his hands and Julian placed his own into them without a second thought. “It is...so very good to see you.”
“It’s been too long,” Julian agreed, searching his face and cataloging the small changes time had wrought.
“Just long enough,” Garak squeezed his hands gently. “I should think.”
“Long enough for a story sent to the Council to be flagged by the security council and read by someone that might recognize the content?” Julian suggested. “Someone that might alert me directly to some strange parallels?”
“Hm?” Garak was already looking elsewhere, inspecting Julian’s clothes and bag. “You've come prepared for a Cardassian summer.”
“It is summer, isn’t it?” The medical cocktail he’d prepared for himself had helped some with the heat, but he was very aware of the oppressive sun.
“It is,” Garak smiled faintly. “Why don’t you come inside? I’m sure I can coax something cold out of the replicator for you.”
“That would be appreciated.”
They were still holding hands, Julian realized and he reluctantly let go, so Garak could lead them inside.
It was marginally cooler indoors, the walls sweeping in gentle curves down a hall into generous room that seemed to serve as a gathering place and kitchen all at once. Impressionist art from several worlds hung on the walls and Julian gravitated towards a particular piece as Garak moved around the kitchen.
“Is this a Monet?” He ventured to ask at last, breaking the tenuous silence between them.
“An adequate replica.” The tone Julian had once privately dubbed ‘Foolish-Young-Human-You-Amuse-Me’ hadn't changed a bit. “Although the Ferengi who sold it to me tried to convince me otherwise.”
“It’s lovely,” Julian studied the brushstrokes. “I don’t think I’ve ever spent enough time looking at art.”
“DS9 has become quite the hub. I’m sure you’ve been busy with other pursuits.”
“Still,” he shrugged and turn back to Garak. “Life is illuminated by culture.”
“Now what romantic fool told you that?” With a flick of his wrist, Garak added a leaf to Julian’s drink. “Mint. It’s a hardy plant. Only Terran plant that will grow here.”
“Thank you,” he took the glass, their fingers momentarily brushing. Julian had an instant fully immersive memory: sitting across from Garak at the replimat, spooning some his own meal onto Garak’s plate to insist he try it. Garak had tried to halt him with a half-smile, the flat of his hand against Julian’s wrist. The moment of resistance, of softness in acceptance. The clack of spoon on plate and the retreat. “I’m surprised you don’t find our art too insipid. Especially a romantic like Monet.”
“Do you think he’s romantic?” Garak turned to regard the painting as if he had never seen it before. “It has always struck me as melancholy.”
“Even with those bright colors?”
“Come, doctor, a few shades of lightness do not a happy man make. No, I see a man who is nostalgic for a time that he doesn't adequately remember. They call them impressionists, because it’s not the thing itself, but an echoing imitation. I look at the water lilies, and I think of idealized times.”
“You used to scorn idealists.”
“No, I used to be one,” he corrected gently and turned from the painting. “We just had different ideals.”
Garak’s shoulders were still a straight line, unbowed. Julian wondered how heavy a load they had carried since they last met. What that kind of weight could do to a person who refused to bend.
“You know, I never believed you when you said you used to be a gardener, but I was wrong again. It’s lovely,” Julian sipped his drink and it was marvelously cooling.
“It’s grown on me.” Garak paused letting it sink on.
“Did you make a pun?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, doctor. Can I get you something to eat?”
They ate in tidy kitchen with a window out to the garden. Some pollinating insect bumbled along the flowers. Julian told Garak about the hospital and Garak told him about the mess of the archives.
“It’s only now even a ghost of what it was,” he sighed. “I sometimes wonder if it’s worth the bother.”
“The bother? Of preserving Cardassian history?” Julian gaped at him.
“For whom?” Garak gestured to the empty house. As if to the entire planet all at once. “Our children are leaving us in droves. The ones that stay are intent on becoming something entirely different. The cities are unrecognizable. I got lost in the capital when I went to visit a few years ago. Lost! I grew up there!”
“Things change.”
“Don’t be trite,” Garak huffed. “I don’t mean that there were new shops and I was disoriented, I mean that nothing was as it had been. And the streets of the capital have been the same for a thousand years. Here the restaurants, there the theaters, the government seat in the middle. But after the bombings, it was decided that it would be better for the government seat to be moved to the outskirts of town. Do you know what lies at the center now? The university.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Julian smiled. “Learning is a lifetime goal.”
“They only require a year of Cardassian history and one of Cardassian literature now,” Garak grumbled. “A year! As if that encompass all there is to know about the place that made you.”
“I don’t know if I took any Terran literature courses in school,” Julian shifted through the dusty syllabi in his brain. “Certainly in the younger years, but university...maybe not.”
“So we are to become Terrans,” Garak shook his head. “What am I preserving our history for if it’s only for others to boredly memorize dates?”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Julian finished his drink considering. “My daughter is very invested in Cardassian literature. We’d read her picture books from ever planet and the Cardassian ones were her favorite. When she was old enough, I gave her some of the books you shared with me.”
“And she got something out of them?”
“She enjoys working for something larger than herself,” he shrugged. “I think they spoke to her at a certain level that I never understood.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“How many would you like to see?”
Julian hadn't foreseen whiling away his first afternoon on Cardassia showing Garak family photos.
“He doesn’t look much like you,” Garak studied Avi’s secondary school graduation holo.
Julian raised an eyebrow, “They’re both adopted. Jadi is Trill and Bajoran. Avi is Terran and Vulcan.”
“Adopted,” Garak studied Avi’s somber face. “Your genetic enhancements?”
“Mm. It would've been a gamble at best. Trill and Terran DNA is only passing compatible. Throw in genetic enhancements and anything could've happened,” he swiped back in the holo displays memory to the day they’d picked Avi up from the social worker. Jadi was holding the baby, even then Avi had been solemn though he looked at his new sister with intensity. Ezri had her chin resting on Jadi’s shoulder and as always Julian had been taking the pictures. “You truly didn't know.”
“Have you imagined me stalking you across the light years all this time?” Garak asked lightly.
“Not the whole time, but I thought maybe once or twice...” he looked down at his family, smiling through the years. “You’ll think I’m ridiculous.”
“Far too late for that, doctor, so you might as well tell me.”
“I sensed you,” he shrugged. “I can’t explain it. There were just moments when I thought you were there, just over my shoulder. I’d turn to look, but of course you weren't. I suppose it took me a long time to get used to you not being there. And you always had a knack for turning up just when you should. Or shouldn't.”
“I haven’t left Cardassia since I came back,” Garak swiped to the next picture. Jadi covered in paint, beaming while Avi sat as a chubby baby with a delicate dab of blue on the tip of his nose.
“I think I wanted you to be there,” Julian folded his hands in his lap. “There were things you would've found funny with me that no one else would. Ideas I wanted to be talked out of too.”
“Surely there were other people for that.” Another swipe and Ezri was giving a talk in front of a large audience, in a smartly tailored suit. Another and they were on Earth, Miles, Keiko and Kira all clapping silently for Yoshi as he finished a piece on the guitar.
“No one is a substitute for anyone else,” Julian leaned back against the hard couch. “At least not for me. And what about you?”
“What about me, doctor? Be precise.”
“Where are your pictures, Garak?”
There was a moment of quiet. Carefully Garak set the device down on the coffee table.
“The new maps of Cardassia are my pictures. The rebuilt structures, the reconstructed government. The generation that leaves it all behind to bring Cardassia to the universe.”
“Hard to fit that in a holo display,” Julian joked, but he was thinking of the Monet. Of water lilies forever suspended in a idyllic summer afternoon.
“It was worth it all.”
“The neverending sacrifice? I remember it well,” Julian turned to face him. “But does it truly have to be neverending? Do Cardassians not believe in retirement?”
“You've seen my garden. Does that look like something that one with a full time job might manage?” Garak said mildly.
“One that has always worked several jobs at once might,” Julian countered.
Garak inclined his head, “Perhaps. But perhaps I’m just another old politician amongst many, who has through much effort and time made himself irrelevant.”
“Who might have had enough time to take up a new profession?” He smoothed down the seam of his pants where it had started to wrinkle in the heat. “Like writing?”
“What would I write?” Garak snorted. “A memoir?”
“Oh, I thought it was more of an invitation,” Julian gestured to his duffel bag, still by the door. “I’m not so rude these days that I’d turn up without one.”
“Do you know why mint survives here when nothing else from Terra does?” Garak asked, his eyes on the bag.
“No, enlighten me.”
“I don’t know,” Garak said carefully as though admitting something of grave importance."I've studied it. Grown it in batches and compared it with all the things that failed. No one else has tried to grown Terran plants here, so no one else knows either. It’s a mystery. Just a singular hardy plant thriving from one end of the universe to the other.”
Julian hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he set his hand on top of Garak’s. It was fever hot, the way all Cardassians would feel to a human touch. The skin was a little dry. There was dirt under his fingernails.
“I could look into it for you. I know a little bit about people genetics. Perhaps plant genetics aren’t so different.”
“You could write a paper on it,” Garak turned his hand so they were fitted together. Their fingers interlaced.
“Keiko would review it for me,” he leaned a little to one side. One tree trunk falling softly to the next, caught and held. “Maybe Jadi could come out and have a look. She’s always wanted to visit Cardassia and it would give her a good reason.”
“I have a spare bedroom for guests. She could stay there.”
She could. But not Julian. He smiled down at their hands.
“That sounds good.”
A breeze trickled through the open windows, blowing in the scent of a hundred different flowers. His duffel bag didn’t stay long by the door. Later, he would unpack a few things. He would set his shoes beside Garak’s. They would rest there together. Two pairs of practical walking shoes, ready for a final walk home.