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Garak does a good job, mostly, in not thinking about how much easier things were with the implant.
It’s easier to live on the station now than it was when he had first arrived. Garak has acclimated. His first year on Deep Space Nine under Federation control had been a paranoid one, delineated by his investigations into the residents of the station. Who was a danger to him? Who could be leveraged? He had catalogued every Bajoran remaining on the station. What was their role, and where did they spend their leisure time? Any given Bajoran might have reason to kill Garak, but Federation control of the station provided at least some safety. And after some months, Garak had come to to think of it as any other long-term posting under cover, only with a much slimmer likelihood of ever returning home.
There are still things that thread longing through him for the days when the comfort of the implant made the day-to-day indignities of living on Deep Space Nine easier to smile deferentially through. Demanding customers, the contempt of visiting Bajorans who haven’t grown used to him, the ever-present cold of his quarters, even with the heat on full blast. Sometimes, when he feels particularly self-indulgent, Garak lets himself revel in missing it for a few moments, much as sometimes he lets himself miss his homeworld.
Then, of course, onwards to other things. Garak may be a long way from home and surrounded by aliens who mistrust him at best, but he is a professional. Losing the implant was inconvenient, but it was his own error. It does him no good to dwell overlong on it.
Still, though, it would be much easier to smile through the simultaneous, if temporary, loss of both his shop and his quarters were the implant still in effect.
As the Promenade has been temporarily shuttered, it is in a mostly empty cargo bay that the station’s shop-keepers, restaurant-owners, and other miscellaneous residents are gathered. Commander Sisko is addressing them from atop a shipping container, still looking stern and dignified despite the circumstances. Kira and Odo stand beside him.
Bashir, Garak supposes, is surely working in the Infirmary, tending to the prodigious number of sick. Perhaps a day ago, a group of smugglers had managed to track in a fungal infection sourced from the Gamma Quadrant, and only Bashir’s quick diagnosis of the disease has kept it from spreading further throughout the Alpha Quadrant.
Per Sisko’s report, there are perhaps three or four dozen afflicted, all with unenviable symptoms: dizziness, nausea, and then intensifying seizures as the fungus proliferates in its host’s bloodstream, gradually crossing over into the brain. The smugglers had been the first to grow ill, and two of them are reportedly in dire condition. Then several station residents on the third floor of the habitat ring had fallen ill due to a quirk of the station environmental controls allowing the fungus to spread through the air filtration system. The Promenade and affected quarters have consequently been sealed, and over the next few days the air inside them will be completely replaced.
“The air filtering should take no more than a week, at which time the quarantine will lift,” Sisko says from atop the shipping container that serves as his temporary podium. “I can’t speak yet in greater detail about how long the process of decontaminating the Promenade and your quarters will take.
“Those of you whose businesses have been closed will be compensated within reason.” This last point seems directed at Quark, who’s been muttering under his breath for the better part of Sisko’s address. “And as for those of you whose quarters have been closed, we will be adapting this cargo hold as emergency quarters. If you have friends or family on the station who are willing to host you, that will of course be permitted -- as soon as our medical staff has tested to confirm you’re not infected. I’ll turn the floor over to my first officer for more details.”
Kira steps forward, hands clasped behind her back, and gives instructions with the military precision that Garak has come to expect from her. While the Promenade being closed down is disruptive itself, the disease’s impact on the habitat ring is worse. Nearly a third of permanent residents’ quarters have been impacted.
The details are predictable. There will be cots replicated and transported in; there will be rations replicated and showers provided. The station itself is quarantined for three days. Garak listens idly while Quark continues to complain to anyone listening, as if it isn’t Quark’s fault for hiring smugglers that they’re all crammed in a cargo hold together.
The cargo hold is cold, and Garak wishes idly that he’d thought to bring a heavier jacket.
After Kira has finished rattling off orders, Sisko finds Garak in the back of the cargo hold. Garak nods at him as he cuts through the throng of mostly Bajorans and Humans. Some of the Starfleet officers on duty have started organizing claims to cots, and Garak has been happy to stay aside.
“Ah, Mister. Garak. Exactly who I was looking for. I’m sorry about your shop.”
"Thank you, Commander. It does pain me to be away from my work, but all things considered, I'd rather be here and without my work than have cause to be in the Infirmary."
"Indeed." Sisko grins. "Speaking of which..." He turns to look at the cots materializing at the end of the cargo bay, neatly side by side. "I could use a walk."
"I'd be happy to accompany you, if you'd like."
"How kind of you to offer."
The commander is blunt when he needs to be, which Garak appreciates. "I think you should find somewhere else to stay while the Habitat Ring is being decontaminated."
"Commander, I couldn't agree more." Sleeping in the same cargo hold as the Bajoran flower-seller who always glares at him in the replimat seems like tempting fate. "I don't suppose you'd let me return to my quarters? Perhaps an exception could be made." He asks more because he’s expected to, not because he genuinely thinks that’s possible. Sisko rolls his eyes. “No, then. Well, are there unused officer’s quarters I might be able to use? I’m not picky, Commander, and if you’re worried about coming across as playing favorites, I assure you I won’t tell a soul.”
Sisko ignores him. "If there's anyone on the station you might feel comfortable staying with, I think you should ask them." Garak means to say something snide; Sisko cuts him off. "Dr. Bashir, for instance."
"...ah," says Garak. They've reached the end of the hall, and Sisko turns to walk them back towards the cargo hold. "I suppose I could ask him."
It's not an altogether unappealing thought, staying in Bashir's quarters. They'd been trivial to break into, admittedly, which would make any deep sleep an impossibility. Then again, perhaps Bashir could be persuaded to set some sort of trap against the door...
"I doubt he'll say no," Sisko says, before Garak returns to the cargo hold.
"One never knows. Perhaps he has entertaining to do this evening," Garak says.
Sisko doesn't dignify that with an answer. He folds his hands behind his back and leaves.
By the time Garak returns to his spot in the back of the hold, with his back against the wall, Quark has started a betting pool over/under when they'll be allowed to return to their quarters. Several unhinged conspiracy theories have already started circulating. The cold has started to properly settle into Garak’s bones. Sleeping in Bashir’s quarters does hold a certain appeal, even if during the days, Garak will still have to find something to occupy his time - the doctor may be trusting, but even he wouldn’t allow Garak unfettered access to his personal spaces.
(As if Garak couldn’t break in if he wanted to, and has before when necessary.)
Kira had announced that it would be a few hours before the medical staff would be freed up to test them, and so the displaced station residents have been doing their best to entertain themselves, mostly with wild gossip, for quite awhile. Though his hearing isn’t keen, Garak could swear he’s heard his own name mentioned a few times as a potential source of the fungus. Though professionally flattering, it does suggest that sleeping in the cargo hold might be tempting fate a little too strongly.
It hasn't been utterly interminable, though. One of Garak's neighbors, a Human holo-merchant, passed by to grouse amiably about the state of the station. The holosuites have evidently been on the fritz, and the Human sees it all as evidence that the Federation doesn't have its act together. Garak lets him ramble. The cargo hold is beginning to feel cramped and claustrophobic as more cots are set up, and Garak wonders with a twinge of nervousness if Bashir will as cavalierly as Sisko had assumed agree to let Garak stay with him. The prospect of sleeping in the hold is excruciating for several reasons.
There are rumors that one of the docked and quarantined ships has rented out its quarters for an exorbitant rate, which Garak finds idly tempting. This is the sort of thing one keeps latinum stashed away for, after all. Or perhaps Garak might find some abandoned mining post and hide himself away for a few days. He knows the station well, and he’s sure he could find something. Even if it would be cold, and too small, and Odo would probably be suspicious and end up oozing around the station looking for him.
Only, of course, if Bashir says no, which he has plenty of reasons to. Perhaps he’s sleeping in his office while his department struggles to treat this disease, and he wouldn’t have Garak stay in his quarters alone. That would be quite reasonable. Or perhaps he’ll misinterpret Garak’s question as a proposition, which - well, if he said yes to that, that would be quite the thing. Garak catches himself thrilling at the notion for a moment and considers scolding himself, but he has had something of a bad day, and the indulgence of fantasizing about the doctor’s company in a rather more intimate setting is an acceptable diversion from fantasizing about reactivating the implant, or fantasizing about returning to Cardassia.
And so he considers it for a few comfortable minutes. Bashir presents himself as a man of some experience, and given how easily he finds company at Quark’s when alone, Garak figures it’s likely true. What would it be like, to leave Quark’s for Bashir’s quarters, Bashir’s hand at the small of his back, assertive and reassuring as always? It’s a good thought, warm and distracting.
Not the sort of thought, though, that puts Garak in a proper state of mind to ask Bashir for access to his quarters without it sounding like a proposition. And so after some consideration he discards the thought for now.
Garak's mood has started to sour when the first wave of blue-uniformed medical staff arrive, tricorders and hyposprays in hand. A Bajoran nurse imposes herself on Garak, fussing over his temperature, and is perfectly polite when she injects a hypo with something preventative into his wrist. Garak feels a bit simpering saying thank you to her, as if he needs to be overly gracious to compensate for her not injecting him too aggressively or something of the sort. She shrugs, smiles, and tells him that Dr. Bashir will be along shortly.
It does brighten Garak's spirits immensely, though the prospect of asking Bashir is still more unsettling than anything else.
The nurses work their way through the cargo bay, confirming no one else is sick. It seems to settle the atmosphere of the evacuees to have something to focus on.
Bashir appears after long enough that Garak had begun to fret somewhat; he goes straight to a pair of nurses with PADDs scattered over a cargo container. The Bajoran nurse who'd administered Garak's hypo indicates something, and Bashir lights up. He says something to the nurse and then heads straight for Garak.
It's a relief to see the man -- the nurse had been something of a friendly face, but no substitute for Bashir. The man has a bag over one shoulder, some dreadful Starfleet-issue thing, black and boxy. Before Garak can say anything, Bashir has sat on the ground, bag in his lap. Garak sits beside him when he pulls something out.
"Why, what's this?"
"I figured you could use something to read," Bashir says. He props his chin in his hand, looking pleased with himself. "Assuming you didn't manage to smuggle anything out of your quarters against orders, that is."
"I had considered it," says Garak, which is a lie. He'd been in his shop when Sisko had ordered the Promenade and affected region of the Habitat Ring closed. While he probably could have escaped their armed Starfleet escort, Garak didn't believe in giving potential enemies any excuse to shoot him in the back.
He turns the PADD on. There's a datarod pre-loaded: "'The Importance of Being Earnest,'" he reads out loud.
"I'm not holding my breath, but I think you might actually like this one," Bashir says.
"How kind of you, Doctor," Garak says, and smiles. They both know Bashir's just doomed himself to Garak finding no end of things to complain about, but that's the game of it.
"I take it there's no hope of the Habitat Ring being opened back up again before, say, this evening."
“Fungal diseases robust enough to survive spacefaring travel are sadly persistent.” Bashir’s nose wrinkles as he rolls up his sleeves. “Just be glad you weren’t infected. Sickbay’s more than full-up; we’re using the H-2 cargo bay for everyone we’ve managed to stabilize.”
“How fortunate this station has such an excess of unused cargo bays. Such a valuable trading partner, the Federation.”
Bashir rolls his eyes, which is about as much as the half-hearted insult deserves.
Which is when Garak sits up a little straighter, looks away from Bashir, and says as cheerfully as he can, "Doctor, I have a favor to ask."
Of course Bashir says yes.
Garak spends the afternoon in the cargo hold. After the medical staff cleared them all, most of the evacuees had filtered out, either to solicit for some place other than the hold to sleep or to simply spend the time ‘til lights out elsewhere. Garak, though, has a play to read and no place in particular to go.
The play which Bashir has given him is one of those with too much cultural context for Garak to quite make sense of it at a first pass. Garak reads it once without referencing the footnotes, just to get a sense for it, before starting over to read it more thoroughly. It’s easy to figure why Bashir picked it -- The truth is rarely pure and never simple, one of the lines goes, at which Garak smiles in recognition.
Garak has finished his re-read of the first scene, this time reading each footnote, when Bashir appears again, fresh from the Infirmary. Or not so fresh as the case may be. The doctor looks exhausted, and they don't talk much on their way to Bashir's quarters.
Bashir lets Garak in first. Bashir’s quarters look the same as the last time Garak had seen them, when he’d let himself in so Bashir could request a shuttlecraft. He doesn’t keep many personal things besides a stuffed toy on one of his shelves, and so the room seems sparse, making it all the more obvious there is only the one bed in the room for furniture. Garak waits by the door, uncertain if he should mention it. Personal replicators don’t usually have the power-stores necessary to replicate something as large as a cot, but perhaps as CMO, Bashir has access to something Garak doesn’t know about.
Bashir, for his part, seems not to notice. He yawns, flopping down on the bed. Then he sits up, confusion clear on his face. "Sisko must have forgotten to transport a cot over," he says. He drags a hand down the side of a face. "Damn. D'you think it's too late to comm him? Computer -- Garak, what is it?"
A quick succession of feelings has coursed through Garak: first, an unfortunate realization, the brunt of which he has apparently failed to conceal from his friend; second, faint annoyance with himself for failing to conceal his realization from Bashir; third, faint satisfaction that Bashir has not only learned to read Garak's expressions a bit more carefully, but also that he cares to.
Most importantly: the realization. Garak sits delicately at the end of Bashir's bed. It is...large enough, perhaps. "I believe your commanding officer may be operating under the assumption that you and I are, ah..."
There's a thump, and Garak feels a weight hit the mattress. He angles his shoulders such that he can see Bashir lying flat on his back, one arm flung over his face. He makes a vaguely distressed sound.
"I take it you may have reason to believe the same?"
Bashir props himself up on one elbow, looking aghast. "I thought the commander was just glad I wasn't nagging Jadzia for a date anymore," he says. He drops onto his back again, groaning. "I'm an idiot. Sorry, Garak."
"I'm sure we can disabuse him of the notion come morning."
There’s a certain tension in the air, and Garak curses himself for not thinking harder about Sisko’s easy assumption that Bashir would let Garak share his quarters. After all, it’s not the first time someone’s made the mistake and assumed he and Bashir were together. In fact, most anyone passing through the station with any understanding of Cardassian culture would be forgiven for assuming Bashir and Garak all but married for flirting so much in broad view of the whole station.
They’ve never talked about it. It makes Garak feel every inch a lonely old man to think about how much he enjoys it, the simple act of arguing with Bashir over lunch, to risk having it end by telling Bashir what inspires the all-too-common mistake -- but if it did bother Bashir that much, surely he would mention it?
After all, the first few books Garak had recommended to Bashir had been tailored as a kind of cultural introduction. They had been classics, yes, but classics with...instructive romantic subplots. Even then, judgement impaired by the high of the implant, Garak wasn’t sure if he’d meant it as warning or invitation to Bashir. At the time, half of him hoped being flirted with would scare him off to a sensible distance; half of him hoped Bashir would take the hint and take him to bed. Bashir, being Bashir, had simply seemingly not noticed.
Bashir gestures with one hand. Bashir gestures frequently, and with flair, and Garak is never quite certain what the nuances of the various gestures are. For the most part, Garak interprets them as signals to wait; now, it's a serviceable assumption. "S'not even that. I can take the floor, you can take the bed."
"Don't be absurd, Doctor."
"I'd go to the Infirmary, 'cept all the cots there are being used, too -- damn."
"I am perfectly happy to sleep on your floor, Dr. Bashir."
Bashir sits up again, this time folding his legs under him to sit cross-legged. "Don't be ridiculous. How old are you?"
Garak glares at him flatly; as if he'd answer such a directly-asked question.
Bashir must genuinely be in a mood, as he doesn't even acknowledge the invitation to quarrel about something simple. Anxiety curls in Garak's chest; it would be good to channel that disagreement somehow. A nice, simple argument would do just the trick.
"It'll be just like med school," Bashir says. He unfurls his legs. The man has remarkable proportions, and it's just as good that Bashir is as worked up as he is, as Garak finds his gaze lingering more than it ought.
"Doctor, you're the one doing me a favor. Were it not for your hospitality, I'd be sleeping in a cargo hold, on a cot not much more comfortable than the ground, and in company I mistrust at best."
Bashir stands as Garak talks, fussing with the replicator. "D'you need something to sleep in? Something warm, right?"
"Doctor."
Bashir doesn't look at him. Garak sighs and presses his palms atop his knees. Really, this is absurd.
A light touch to Bashir's back convinces the doctor to step aside from the replicator, and Garak dials in his size and material specifications. The clothing materializes with a shimmer.
"May I use your shower?" Garak asks.
"Of course."
"I suggest we share the bed tonight. In the morning you can request a cot be transported over, and we'll think no more of it."
Bashir stares at him with complete disbelief, then considers it.
"Only if you don't find the idea offensive, that is. I am, I have mentioned, more than willing to sleep on the floor--"
"Fine," Bashir says. Then, with charm and an easy grin, "I suppose if you wanted me dead, there'd be easier ways to get me."
"That's the spirit, Doctor."
Truth be told, Garak had expected Bashir to consent to Garak sleeping on the floor rather than accept sharing a bed. And so it's with some trepidation that he emerges from Bashir's washroom. Mercifully, the lights are already low, and Bashir is curled up under the topsheet of the bed.
The temperature in the room is already higher than when Garak turned the heat all the way up in the shower, which was unexpectedly kind of Bashir. The blanket has also been folded up and laid over what's to be Garak's half of the bed. He lies down gingerly, though Bashir is fidgeting too much to be asleep already.
Bashir orders the lights all the way down, and it's quiet for a few minutes. Garak lies on his back as his eyesight adjusts, with relief, to the darkness. The warmth from the shower is already leaving him, and he would be tempted to replicate another blanket if he thought it would help particularly.
It's some time before Bashir speaks. "I'm sorry." He sounds miserable.
Garak rolls onto his side to see Bashir's back, which is still a better view than the ceiling. "Whatever for?"
Bashir laughs, once and bitterly. "I can't imagine it's easy for you to sleep around someone, what with your former profession. And it's my fault Sisko thinks..."
"Hmm. You're correct as to the former matter," Garak says, deliberately lightly. It's apparently a surprise enough that Bashir rolls onto his back. His profile is lit delicately by the glow of stars through the viewport. "It keeps me up, sometimes, the sorts of patterns the residents of this station think are appropriate to wear together--"
It's an easy deflection, and normally Bashir might roll his eyes at best. But Bashir groans and laughs into his fist. "Fine, be like that." He rolls over onto his side again, but there's less tension in his shoulders, perhaps.
"It isn't that bad," Garak says, to Bashir's back. "Sisko knowing I'm in your quarters would make a murder difficult to hide, so I suspect I might sleep a few minutes here and there."
Bashir's back shakes as he laughs again.
"I have gone days without sleeping before. In emergency circumstances, of course."
"Emergencies," Bashir repeats.
"Indeed." Bashir's hair curls at the back of his neck where it’s longest. Garak wonders what its texture is. "The most urgent of last-minute commissions -- a wedding dress, once, for a woman eloping..."
"Garak!"
"In all seriousness, thank you for your hospitality, Doctor."
Quiet for a bit longer than Garak is quite comfortable with. He rolls onto his back, hands folded over his stomach, and once more considers the ceiling.
"'S no problem," says Bashir. And after that his breathing slows, turns steady, and presumably, he sleeps.
The first night is excruciating. Perhaps Garak sleeps an hour.
He's certainly awake when Bashir's alarm goes off. Bashir must have slept better than him, as he bounds out of bed. He goes straight to the shower. Garak continues contemplating the ceiling and wonders if he might be able to get away with breaking back into Bashir's quarters to sleep later. That, alas, would probably be stretching the limits of the good doctor's hospitality somewhat too far.
While Garak could have broken into Bashir's quarters to turn things over and investigate to his heart's content without Bashir ever knowing it, Garak hasn't. Bashir is an open book enough, always eager to share a story from his childhood or his time at the Academy. Despite that, if Bashir let him stay, he'd find his curiosity impossible not to indulge.
Which would be unfair to his not-entirely-willing host regardless. Garak pinches his nose. If only he had some of his sewing with him -- but no, his work is being starved of oxygen, just the same as Quark's wares and the flower-seller's. Perhaps Bashir would let him replicate something... At least he has the PADD with Bashir's recommended play on it; perhaps Bashir might recommend something else as well... There might be something less awkward to discuss, then, as they tried to sleep side by side.
Then again, perhaps arguing about literature in bed with Bashir is tempting himself too much. While Bashir is locked up in the shower, Garak lets his mouth fall open. In Bashir's room, in Bashir's bed, Garak can taste-scent the man to a nearly obscene degree. There's sweat, and pheromones, and layers of it -- not just the quick impression one gets of a man sitting across the table, but this is the place where Bashir lives.
Garak bites his tongue and tells himself to behave.
By the time Bashir emerges from the shower, Garak has already changed back into his clothes from the day before, as well as replicated himself breakfast, with an extra portion for Bashir. He has the PADD with Wilde's play on and with the first scene displayed, sitting at the tiny table in the center of Bashir's living space, but Bashir sits across from him rather than leave him to read. "This mine?" he says to the food; Garak nods, and Bashir beams. He tears through his food with usual gusto, apparently lost in thought, then replicates a raktajino.
"What are your plans for today, then?" Bashir asks, after a first gulp of raktajino.
Garak hmms and taps the edge of the PADD. "Hopefully finding somewhere quiet, as far away from that damned cargo bay as possible."
Bashir snorts to himself.
"I'll finish this, I suspect. You'll be in the Infirmary all day, I suppose?"
"Indeed. Novel fungal infections wait for no man."
"Charming."
Bashir looks exhausted himself, but that's to be expected. He worked the whole day previous, after all, and he's about to work similar hours today, alongside his similarly overworked staff.
"I'll be about," Garak says, standing to excuse himself. "I suspect they'll work you through lunch, but if you have a free moment..."
Bashir does work through lunch, but he makes it away for dinner. They argue viciously about the play.
They meet at Garak's quarters late in the evening; Bashir apologizes for keeping Garak up when he yawns.
"By the way, how'd you sleep last night?" Bashir asks from his bed.
There's a cot awkwardly jammed beside Bashir's bed, rather more blankets than existed yesterday piled onto it. Garak can't decide if he's grateful or annoyed that Bashir seems to have picked up on Garak's exhaustion. "Perfectly.”
The cot should make it easier. There's no warm body next to him, and so the hypervigilance should lift. It doesn't. It's colder. Garak sleeps, but fitfully, and wakes feeling no more rested than he'd gone to bed feeling.
In the morning, though, Bashir takes it up again. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, as he taps away at the computer terminal.
A week of this, of coming to Bashir’s quarters and failing entirely to sleep, staying up and letting himself take in Bashir’s scent - this is certainly one of the things the implant would have made easier.
They manage time for lunch. Meeting two days in a row isn’t their usual schedule, but Bashir seems to have intuited that having no work is driving Garak to distraction. Boredom treats Garak poorly, leaves him half-paranoid and short-tempered. An argument about Earth playwrights versus Klingon playwrights helps some. News that the disease clean-up is going faster than expected helps even more.
“The two smugglers have completely stabilized,” Bashir says over his hasperat. “And a few of the others are practically well enough to dismiss. They’ve got no quarters to go to yet, of course, but I’m relieved it’s so treatable. Between you and me, Sisko says it’ll be just two or three days before the Promenade’s back open.”
“You can’t imagine my relief, Doctor. I’m terribly behind on commissions.”
Bashir smiles and shakes his head. “You’ll be glad to get rid of me, too, I’m sure.”
“Never, my dear Doctor,” he says, but perhaps too lightly, because Bashir goes to focus on his meal rather than resuming their conversation. The doctor looks distracted.
Over the past few days, Garak has decided that Starfleet sleepwear is as distasteful as Starfleet uniforms. He considers a redesign that might be less offensive as a means of distracting himself, which he feels pleased by until he remembers it's Bashir he's imagining in a redesign, and he is not imagining it with disinterest.
As has become routine, Bashir comms Garak shortly before he’s done working for the evening. He’s been working long hours, as has all of the station.
“Your quarters,” Bashir says.
Garak smiles thinly. “Still quarantined, I’m afraid, Doctor.”
Bashir rolls his eyes, slumping against the station hallway’s bulkhead. “What temperature do you keep it at?”
"Why do you ask?"
“I thought we’d meet halfway or something of the sort. Forgive me for taking an interest in your comfort, would you?” Bashir glares at him in the way that signals he’s properly annoyed. “I’m your friend, Garak, and I don’t want you inconvenienced on my behalf.”
“Really, Dr. Bashir, I insist,” Garak says. Bashir stares at him for a second before finally opening the door to his quarters. They both prepare for sleep in silence.
It’s been nearly a half-hour of silence, and Garak thinks he might finally be on the cusp of sleep when Bashir says, “I could get records for your quarters if I wanted.”
“That’s thoroughly unnecessary.”
“Is it? Because I don’t think you’ll tell me any other way.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Garak says to the ceiling, “because my quarters are this temperature as well. Which, yes, is too cold for a Cardassian. Which is fine. I have a secondary heat source there, and that suits me just fine.”
Based on sound, this has inspired Bashir to sit up in bed, most likely in indignation. “You mean your quarters don’t get warm enough? Garak, that’s absurd, this was a Cardassian station! You don’t mean to tell me the Cardassians who lived here then had to make do with temperatures that were too cold for them.”
“Indeed, Doctor, but the environmental controls have been since optimized for Humans and Bajorans, which is quite sensible, as this is now a Federation station.”
“What temperature did it used to be at?”
Garak bites the inside of his cheek. It’s a bad habit leftover from when he had the implant and it would kick in even with trivial injury; now the pain, rather than the rush of endorphins, grounds him. He says nothing. He doesn’t trust his temper, and the last thing he wants is to alienate Bashir, who is, if obnoxiously, trying to be courteous.
“Garak.”
Garak runs his tongue over the edge of his front teeth and thinks about home. Long, dry, hot days and flat plains; shifting deserts.
“This is absurd.” Bashir sounds genuinely, charmingly annoyed, his voice flat and his words short. “Computer, access historical logs.”
Amongst Bashir’s many charms is not his ability to take a hint. “Really, Doctor, I doubt that this station’s previous administrators would leave logs of such a nature--”
“Oh, so now you’ll talk.” The mattress shifts as Bashir perhaps stretches. Garak grits his teeth rather than trying to snipe something back.
Garak finally rolls over in his cot, intending to tell Bashir just to prescribe him a sedative or something of the like and be done with it. But living amongst aliens is starting to get to him. Months ago, Garak could have kept the argument going longer. "When the station was Terok Nor, the...overseers kept residential areas at..." He quotes the Cardassian units.
Bashir asks the computer for a conversion, then nods. “Well, set room temperature accordingly,” Bashir says to the system.
“Ordered temperature exceeds current station guidelines. If--”
Bashir interrupts the computer. “Medical override lambda-twelve-twelve.”
“Medical override acknowledged. Seventeen minutes until temperature reaches 28 degrees Celsius.”
“Doctor, really, you know as well as I that this temperature is far too hot for Human--”
In the low, low light, Bashir is stripping off his shirt. The environmental controls whir as they kick in. Garak feels warmer already.
Bashir gets up. For a dizzy moment, Garak can’t distract himself from the extent to which Bashir really is such a remarkably handsome young man, at least to a Cardassian sensibility.
Is it the same for Humans? Or do Humans prefer narrower shoulders, or a thicker build?
He replicates a glass of water and a sleep aid; his silhouette is lit up by the shimmering light of the replicator. From across the room, Garak watches Bashir’s throat bob as he swallows the pill.
The quarantine lifts even earlier than expected, for which Garak briefly, horrifyingly considers thanking the Prophets. Another night of sleeping in Bashir’s quarters and he’ll do something regrettable. He waits long enough at one of the observation decks that the hall isn't crammed with returning residents when he arrives at his quarters.
The door slides closed as the lights come on. Being alone in his own quarters is such a relief that for a moment, everything feels as it ought. He checks the usual things to reassure himself: certain collateral still in place, and his security subroutines still undiscovered.
Garak replicates something to eat and barely tastes it. He nearly falls asleep with the lights on.
He does wake in the middle of the night.
"Computer," Garak calls out; the computer beeps in acknowledgement, waiting for a command. "Current environmental controls."
"Temperature set to 28 degrees Celsius due to current medical override."
Garak sends Bashir a quick message asking if he’d be free for lunch -- “my treat, to thank you for your hospitality.” Bashir comms back that he’d be glad to, though he sounds distracted.
They go to the Klingon place. Garak says his thanks, and Bashir waves him off, as expected.
“By the way, Doctor, I couldn’t help but notice the environmental controls in my quarters had been adjusted.”
Bashir stares at him for an over-long moment, as if trying to remember something he’d forgotten, then beams. “Oh! So Miles did get around to that.”
Garak cocks his head such that Bashir might understand that his jump in logic is obvious only to him; Bashir shrugs with a suppressed grin.
“I might have mentioned it. I'm surprised he remembered." And with that Bashir brings up the Klingon novel, which they mutually loathe, though for different reasons, and that should be that.
Except that evening, Garak sees O'Brien at Quark's.
“I owe you my thanks, I suppose.”
O’Brien doesn't quite meet his eyes. “Don’t mention it.” It sounds more like an order than a polite deferral, which cheers Garak immensely. “Really, it was nothing.”
“On the contrary, Chief. I appreciate it immensely.”
“Yeah, well, it’s really Julian you should be thanking, and I mostly did it to get him out of my hair about it.” O’Brien scowls at the bottom of his glass, but without particular conviction. “Don’t tell him I said that, but you know how he gets once he’s got a project. If I hadn’t re-routed the systems necessary he’d probably be in the ducts by himself with a spanner right now, tryin’ to figure it out on his own. Because of course you couldn’t live in one of the areas where just a medical override would do it, no. Bloody Cardassian engineering.”
Quark slips Garak’s kanar onto the table and glares at them both with distrust. Thankfully the swell of business that has come with the Promenade’s first night back in action is enough to distract the bartender, who still glares as he strides away.
“Indeed. Nevertheless, Chief, thank you.” Garak inclines his glass towards O’Brien and does his best to smile guilelessly. “Do please stop by the shop if your wife or daughter require anything in particular. I’m always happy to repay a favor.”
O’Brien grips his glass harder, like he regrets ever opening his mouth. The kanar is too sweet, but Garak swallows and then smiles anyhow. Quark’s is busy enough that it’s easy to peel off into the crowd of sentients eager to distract themselves with dabo and drinks and whatever other fleeting pleasures are being offered in the evening.
None of them hold particular interest to Garak. He retreats to the second level of the Promenade, where things are reliably quieter, more private.
The life of a spy is mostly quiet, so long as one conducts oneself properly. Mostly, Garak has conducted himself properly. He has played out so many roles: the naive gardener, the jaded manservant, the ingratiating political aide.
Mostly, though, Garak has played his part while living amongst enemies. And he's done so quietly, because mostly Garak figures out who is lying, and takes action accordingly.
In the broad scope of things, it's not a very serious lie. Another evening, Garak would perhaps tuck its existence away, alongside the mental index Garak has of things that make Bashir roll his eyes and argue a little bit more insistently.
Tonight, Garak finishes his drink, sets the glass aside, and goes to Bashir's quarters.
Bashir is surprised to see him but waves him in. He replicates kanar for them both. They clink their glasses together before sitting at the same table where they’d eaten breakfast a few days ago. Garak sips at his kanar mostly to be polite; the replicated stuff tastes sickly sweet so soon after drinking from Quark’s stock.
“So, to what’s the occasion?” Bashir asks, after they’ve settled. He looks more well-rested than when Garak had stayed with them, presumably due to having the disease finally done with.
Garak considers obfuscating the point, but the first glass of kanar has emboldened him, and he really is starting to get impatient about the whole thing. “It’s come to my attention, my dear, that you are actually a rather good liar when you have the occasion.”
Bashir’s expression goes completely still, and Garak tuts. “Now, now, you know better than to react like that when you’re called out on it. I should thank you, I suppose -- my quarters are much more hospitable.”
Bashir’s shock eases into a self-conscious smile; he rubs at the back of his neck. “Really, Garak. Like I said--”
“Ah, ah. Yes, I recall what you said, and also what Chief O’Brien said just now at Quark’s. Something about you asking him to reroute environmental settings? That’s considerably more effort than merely mentioning something to the chief.”
“Well…” Bashir’s neck has flushed to a lovely darker color. “I didn’t want it to seem like a big deal. Your quarters should’ve come set like that; everyone on the station deserves to be comfortable.”
Garak finishes his kanar, sets the glass down, and inhales sharply through his nose. Now, he supposes, or never. “What gives you the right to alter settings for my quarters? At the very least, you should have asked permission. Quite frankly, Doctor, I feel betrayed.”
Bashir’s eyes go wide, and Garak feels a bolt of regret. “Have you really come all this way to pick a fight with me about doing you a favor?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Garak says, as bluntly as he can. He meets Bashir’s indignant stare straight-on. “That’s exactly what I’ve done.”
Garak can pinpoint the moment when Bashir realizes what Garak means because Bashir does his best to stifle delight with fury. It’s not very convincing, but Garak’s mouth goes dry, and he can’t bring himself to care.
“I can’t believe this is what clued you in I was interested,” Bashir says, leaning in; ah, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, then. “Honestly, Garak!”
“I can assure you I hadn’t the slightest idea. After all, you weren’t particularly interested in sharing a bed--”
“I didn’t think you were interested, Garak--”
Garak curls his fingernails into his palms and suppresses a shiver of anticipation. “It’s not as if you made your interest clear, Doctor--”
“I made myself perfectly clear!” Bashir says as he stands up; Garak meets him, stepping into his personal space. Oh, perfect. “You don’t see me arguing this much with anyone else on the station, do you?”
“How was I to know you knew the significance of arguing in Cardassian courtship?”
“How could I not after how many bloody books you’ve had me read?” Bashir leans in, gaze darting between Garak’s eyes, expression still incredulous, as if he can’t believe they’re actually having this argument. Which, to be fair, Garak can’t quite believe either.
And, finally, Bashir grabs him by the neck - ah, good, as forward as Garak had hoped - and kisses him. Inelegantly at first, but after a second he finds the right angle and then there’s Bashir’s mouth, open and hot, the taste somehow familiar after so long covertly scent-tasting the air around him--
“Do you know how frustrating it was having you right there--”
This time when Garak lifts his tongue to scent-taste the air, there’s a dizzying new dimension to Bashir’s body. Something which Garak hasn’t quite scented on him before, but something he understands immediately. “Yes, actually, and rather intimately.”
Bashir’s eyes widen, and his grip at Garak’s shoulder tightens.
“I do suggest we consider talking about this at a later date, however,” Garak says earnestly.
Bashir leans in again, shoving him harder against the wall. In any other circumstance Garak would find it stiflingly claustrophobic, but...
“If you’d like,” Bashir says, low and suggestive. “I was just thinking of telling you all the things I wanted to do to you that first night. Do y’know I barely slept I couldn’t stop thinking?”
Garak lets himself close his eyes as his stomach twists. Oh, this is far better than he’d imagined. “Well, in that case, Doctor,” he says, though his breath is short, “do go on.”