Chapter Text
“Are you sure it isn’t suppose to be The Fornby Project?” Parmak had asked the question innocently enough to the Bolian completing the set up of goods right outside the entry to the shop. The newcomer had enlisted Parmak’s help in hanging the mysterious beaded curtain leading to the shop inside. That comment unfortunately had put up a wall between their positive interaction following, as the Bolian Ziw Tralar informed him sounding annoyed, that the “other skinny overly pedantic doctor” had said the same, and they could both very well mind their business. Parmak wasn’t quite sure what other doctor that was until he learned later of a later Federation transfer expected to arrive. Parmak had attempted to apologize for any slight. He’d been trying to work on his Federation Standard starting with the basics and he thought he remembered that words used some sort of “the”, “a”, “an” or something, but it seemed there was a lot of what Ziw called “artistic license” that he was awfully unfamiliar with.
Ziw had given him a measured look when they finally finished - and he’d taxed Parmak’s already bad back with moving an endless convoy of boxes - deciding with a bit of a strange expression, that even if Parmak was apparently just as ill mannered as every other Cardassian he’d ever met, at least he had the decent to appear contrite. So Ziw gifted him with several books as his way of saying thank you. First and foremost was a book that Ziw assured him was full of useful old Standard greetings that he should take note of. Parmak had discovered to his delight while offering his assistance that the eccentric “Fornby Project” (a few stores down from Garak’s, how convenient!) contained a wide variety of old books in addition to the stores of antiques and eccentric collectibles. The old texts were one of his true loves, though Garak often despaired at the volume of Parmak’s “library”.
Parmak was curious about the new medical team as he later parsed the book of idioms. He knew that the Federation was bringing a medical team per protocol, but he had yet to meet any of them. He didn’t exactly see the need for them, protocols aside. Nurse Jabara too had commented on the Federation thinking they were the only power in the quadrant capable of diplomacy. Parmak laughed as she said it, being that she was currently performing a check up on one of the Starfleet ensigns. The young woman in the Starfleet uniform said nothing in response, holding a neutral expression as they talked over her, awkward as that surely must have been. While Parmak agreed with the sentiment, he had to politely demur. It was the logical assumption that there would be resentment from the Bajorans on station directed towards the two Cardassians, especially a doctor. Still, it would have been nice had anyone thought to ask his patients what they thought.
As far as the Bajorans and previous Cardassian occupiers knew, Parmak and Garak were both exiles due to their anti occupation leanings and revolutionary activities. It was a story which allowed them to foster rather positive working relationships with the Bajorans after the takeover. The story may have been true in Parmak’s case, but Garak was only there because he refused flat out to torture his lover even under threat of death. For Garak, death would have been preferable to exile and Enabran Tain knew that. He refused, with that infuriating grin of his, to grant his “favorite operative” a merciful death, instead deciding that if one Nokaran doctor was more important than the State he’d sworn to serve, then the two of them could very well die together as exiles. Garak had quietly accepted that penance, taking every opportunity to regale those on station with their fantastic tales of heroism. In private, he never failed to rail on how irritating it was to hear the constant racial slander always followed by “but of course you and Doctor Parmak are nothing like them.”
“Do you get fries with that shake?” Parmak puzzles over that one in present time, repeating the words, checking his diction against the computer. It’s a Federation System and takes some getting used to, but he and Garak have been adapting. He and Garak have had to adapt to quite a lot over the years.
“Are you still at that?” he hears Garak ask, coming into the room looking particularly well put together. Hmm, it seems Garak too has caught wind of the new Federation Doctor. From some of the gossip around the station that Parmak’s heard, the new Chief Medical Officer Doctor Julian Bashir is a young handsome man with no known attachments. One of his and Garak’s former partners, a dashing and considerate young Bajoran named Teja, was keen to let him know with a suggestive wink that the doctor was definitely “their type”.
“Are you an angel? Because you must have fallen from heaven...” Parmak mumbles to himself, repeating the sounds as best as he can. Yes, he absolutely is “still at that”. Thirty six hours from learning of Doctor Bashir, and finally seeing a picture hasn’t been nearly enough time to gain proficiency in a new language, but it absolutely is enough time to try and memorize a few greetings from the old book. It took him just that long to understand the thing they call romanized script well enough to pronounce the words. He’ll leave the definitions for later. Perhaps Doctor Bashir can teach them. Oh now that’s a naughty thought that he’s quite eager to explore later.
“Did you hear that he’s a xenobiologist?” Parmak asks, looking up to Garak with a wicked gleam in his eyes, pushing his glasses back up on his face. Garak snorts as he sits down and neatly plucks the book from Parmak’s hands, idly thumbing through it. “Do you suppose that it ah... has the same implications as it does back home?” That gives Garak pause as he checks to make sure he’s holding the book the proper way.
“You realize Kelas, and forgive me if this sounds uncharitable, that the primary cause of the xenobiology field becoming synonymous with ‘alien fucker’ back home originated solely with you.”
“I think you’re giving me far too much credit, Elim,” Parmak replies, absently toying with the end of his long braid. He may sit up a little straighter at that regardless, as best as his back will allow. “I noticed you’re wearing one of your new pieces. Were you planning on going somewhere without me?”
“I am aware that you have no true appreciation for the craft of subtlety, but being that I do, I thought perhaps a little reconnaissance might be in order.” Garak holds up the book pointing to the shortest phrase on the page. Parmak is still somewhat mystified that Federation Standard has so many types of greetings, and he’s been somewhat at a loss to decide on the best one to use. He usually finds himself hopelessly tongue tied when meeting new people. The Bolian had informed him primly that since he had “all the answers” where Federation Standard was concerned he could very well figure it out for himself. “This is the shortest one so it might be the easiest to recall.”
“Is that supposed to be a slight on my age?” Parmak asks snatching the book back, giving Garak a smack on the knee with it.
“I would hardly cache your age as slight,” Garak answers with a tug to Parmak’s long, white, plait of hair, though Parmak’s hair has always been white. That isn’t the point. Parmak pauses, reading that fire in Garak’s expression, trying not to smile. Garak had used to lament that his ability to properly engage in a good bit of flirtatious banter was permanently damaged from all of his off world fraternizing, but Parmak has had a good several years now to work on it with his husband. He gives Garak’s stomach a little poke in return.
“Mmm, we shouldn’t speak then of things that aren’t slight,” he answers, letting the book drop for now. More sweet little lies; Garak is delightfully thick, and Parmak loves it.
“Then you may want to poke a little lower, Kelas,” comes the answering purr as Parmak does just that.
Perhaps there’s a renewed vigor between them as well, when Parmak decides that Garak’s dapper new creation deserves a bit of dishevelment, and they both agree that Doctor Bashir can wait one more day before a proper introduction.
“It’s Doctor Bashir, isn’t it?” Garak asks as soon as he sidles up to the table, Parmak hovering just off to the side. Parmak thinks the young human is at least twice as easy on the eyes as Teja had said. Really, Parmak is surprised that Teja didn’t go after the doctor himself, but Parmak has never been one to question good fortune. He remains smiling politely, sadly not dressed anywhere near as smartly. He’s dressed for his shift later, sort of thinking as soon as the familiar nerves hit him, that asking to tag along may not have been the best idea, as Garak continues. “Of course it is. May I introduce myself?”
Parmak notices that the doctor’s eyes get wide, the size of dilated dinner plates, as he looks between the two of them. Oh dear, perhaps Teja had been spreading stories after all.
“Uh yes... yes of course,” Doctor Bashir answers not looking the least bit excited. Parmak wishes he didn’t look so nervous because it’s making Parmak more nervous, and Garak just soldiers on his usual engaging self. It’s entirely unfair, he thinks, as he tries to recall any of the dozen phrases he’d memorized out of the book the last few days.
He notices that Garak is also taking a seat now, taking the lead in this, and taking Parmak into the deep waters where he usually doesn’t tread without much more acclimation. Well really, if Garak had wanted to work alone he could’ve said something. Though knowing Garak as he does, when Parmak recalls the earlier conversation, he realizes that Garak had likely only agreed thinking that his husband wouldn’t actually have the audacity to follow through.
“My name is Garak; Cardassian by birth, obviously. This is my husband Kelas,” comes seemingly as an afterthought, leaving Parmak to shuffle around, push his glasses back up, and try and decide if he ought to steal another chair from somewhere or just sit on Garak’s lap.
“We’re the only two of us left on the station, as a matter of fact. So we appreciate making new friends when we can.” Garak looks up to him now, clearly passing this bit off to him, and he sort of wants to get close enough to step on Garak’s foot, because this is all so sudden, and he doesn’t have half of Garak’s charm or ease of tongue. Doctor Bashir is also still completely ill at ease, which is clearly amusing Garak, but only making Parmak’s empathy fire off like a raid siren, and sort of wish he could just vomit and then hide. Garak is expectant, needling him even further with that wicket serpent’s grin. “Oh come now, my dear Kelas, don’t be so shy. I know you were just aching to introduce yourself to Doctor Bashir without the - what did you call it? - formal trappings of the office?”
Garak is radiating smug at that easy lie, and Parmak is going to kill him tonight, doctor’s oath be damned. He clears his throat, sure his smile doesn’t look nearly as coy or practiced as Garak’s as he stammers and tries to remember everything he’d taught himself and picked up from Ziw.
“Perhaps you might take the opportunity to demonstrate one of the charming little phrases you’ve been working so hard on. You really should hear him, doctor. My Kelas has the delightful dulcet tones of an Andorran songbird.” A songbird who’s going to peck Garak’s eyes out, Parmak decides as his eyes dart everywhere but Julian’s face as he tries to pull something out of that blank page.
By some miracle of the ancients, his eyes catch sight of one of Julian’s black shoes from under the table, bringing forth as Garak had suggested from the outset, the simplest and shortest phrase that he’d memorized so far. Well then, they’re going to see who looks stupid now! Parmak beams at Julian and slams both hands on the table just as Ziw had taught him by way of greeting.
“Nice shoes!” Parmak exclaims, hoping that his cadence and tone are at least passable. “Wanna fuck?”