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The Jem’Hadar running this prison camp are nothing if not efficient.
Tain’s body is barely cold—colder than that of the typical Cardassian, that is—when two soldiers wrap the body in blankets and dispose of it.
Garak neglects to attend the ceremony(if flushing a body out the airlock can be called a ceremony) and chooses to remain in their cell, pointedly looking away from the bed.
Julian, for his part, does his best to stay quiet, though his tongue itches with questions. Tain was your father? Why didn't you come sooner? Are you okay?
When he can get away with it, he sneaks glances at the empty bed. He tries to imagine his own father lying there. It’s not a fantasy he entertains very often. His father, for all his flaws, has always been inescapably alive. The thought of the alternative is, well—
He thinks he might understand how Garak feels. Not that he’d tell Garak that, of course.
When their roommates stumble in, bleary-eyed and aching from their days in the Dominion camp, it’s late. Julian thinks it’s late, at least. The months without a timepiece have tested his internal clock, which he previously thought to be precise.
Worf arrives first, with Martok stumbling behind. Martok rubs his left shoulder—it’s been bothering him for weeks, no matter what Julian does—and sits heavily on his cot.
The older Klingon glances at Tain’s bed, looking almost mournful. Julian understands the feeling. Tain was a bastard, true, but there remains an inescapable feeling of emptiness after the death of the grand old Cardassian.
“They haven’t given your Mister Garak a bed,” Martok points out.
“Mm.” Julian shakes his head. “I suppose they figured they didn’t to. One Cardassian leaves, another takes his place.”
Worf’s nose wrinkles with distaste. “They did not change the sheets.”
Julian lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “When have they ever? Our comfort isn’t exactly their first priority.”
Worf snorts in assent. “I can see that.”
Julian scans his commanding officer. He looks as though he has spent the day heroically keeping his eyes open, but it doesn’t appear as though he’ll be able to hold out much longer. Julian, being the only medical professional in the room, imagines he’s the only person who should imply that Worf should sleep without it being taken as an insult. If Garak suggested anything, he might get thrown across the room.
“It must be getting late,” comments Julian, theatrically stretching. “I don’t know about you all, but I need to sleep if we plan on getting off this godforsaken rock.”
Worf grunts, collapsing heavily on his cot. The Romulan woman and Breen rest on their backs, faces to the ceiling.
Garak doesn’t move from his stiff seat on the floor. The man has kept it together—no meltdowns, no anger, only cold, quiet calm. In some ways, Julian thinks, it’s worse than anything he’s ever seen.
He watches Garak’s expression, careful not to betray his own worry. Over the years, Julian likes to fancy that he’s gotten rather good at reading Garak’s inexplicable temperaments. His forehead is currently creased, his lips pressed tight. Anxiety? Dread?
Julian calls to mind what he knows about Cardassian death rituals. At the memory, he nearly slaps himself. Of course Garak is dreading the night. He’s expected to take Tain’s bed, after all.
“Garak,” he murmurs, drawing near his compatriot. “Take my bed.”
Garak’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. Julian recalls what he said earlier—the greatest weakness of all.
“No, thank you, dear doctor,” Garak says, voice carrying. A peculiarity of Garak’s speech—why whisper, his tone seems to say, when there is nothing to hide? “I’m quite fine using Tain’s.”
He’s lying. Always lying. Julian tries not to growl in frustration.
Martok, seeming to have picked up on some discomfort, glances in their direction. “I do not blame you for not wishing to sleep in that petaQ’s bed. His stench—” At a glare from Julian, Martok falls silent. “But, ah, if it is your wish…”
“It’s not,” says Julian firmly before Garak can butt in. “Garak—please. You need to sleep.”
“And I will.” Garak looks uncomfortable at the attention, which is a first.
Martok strides over to Garak and claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. (Garak somehow manages to stay standing.) “You are brothers in arms, Cardassian. Sleep together, as the warriors of old used to. There is no dishonor in rest.”
Julian watches as Worf narrows his eyes. Apparently too exhausted to argue the particulars of honor—A first, Julian thinks to himself—Worf sleepily nods and rolls over. On his side, Worf catches Julian’s eye. With a jerk of his head, he signals the doctor.
“Doctor,” murmurs Worf, his voice thick with sleep. “If I were you, I would not sleep with my back turned.”
Julian tries not to smile. “I’ll take that under advisement, Mr. Worf. Now—sleep.”
Worf gratefully takes the doctor’s advice. Within seconds, the room is filled with a warm, rumbling snoring.
Martok nods at the doctor—their typical goodnight ritual—and takes his leave to his own cot. Garak and Julian stand meters apart, each somewhat awkwardly blinking at the other.
“Kill for a shower,” Julian halfheartedly jokes.
Garak nods. “Perhaps the Jem’Hadar could replicate some chamomile tea.”
“Doubt it. They don’t eat or drink—we’ve been living off Dominion rations for weeks. I swear, I never thought anything could taste worse than Starfleet field rations.”
The room is chilly even for Julian’s warm-blooded sensibilities, and he finds it remarkable that Garak’s teeth aren’t chattering as they speak. Even so, he unzips his Starfleet uniform, stripping to his lavender undershirt. He’s filthy—he’s nearly forgotten how it feels to be clean—and it feels wrong to share his filth with Garak.
Garak’s eyes travel about the room, finding purchase on the ceiling. There’s something in his expression that Julian can’t quite place.
“The cots are rather small,” Garak says. “I hate to inconvenience you, doctor.”
Julian half-laughs. “We’re in a prison cell, Garak. Being here is already inconvenient.” He perches on the edge of his cot. “Besides, you can’t very well sleep on the floor.”
“I could. It’s not impossible.”
“It is if you want to get any sleep tonight.” Julian’s eyes fall on Garak’s neck, where a murmur of his pulse flickers. Faster than usual. “It’s too cold for you, Garak. And you heard what Martok said.”
“Ah, and who am I to argue with the aging spirit of Q’onos?” Garak’s hands shake as he eases himself down into a sitting position.
Julian, hoping to make the Cardassian more comfortable, lies down first. The cot is still small, still oddly scratchy. He tries to make himself smaller, tries to will his limbs to grow shorter.
Garak, seeming to sense that Julian isn’t giving up, exhales harshly out of his nose. He lies down gingerly. The mattress creaks at the new weight.
The two men lie next to each other, shoulders pressed against the other, fingertips trailing. Julian notes that Garak hasn’t undressed. It’s for the best—the Cardassian needs as much warmth as he can get. Julian considers offering him his uniform, then realizes that Garak would laugh him out of the prison camp. Me? In a Starfleet uniform? Doctor, you must be mistaken.
“Get comfortable,” mutters Julian, adjusting himself so that he’s lying on his side. He prefers to splay out, arms and legs taking up as much of the mattress as possible, but that doesn’t appear to be an option tonight.
Garak, following Julian’s lead, adjusts himself accordingly. Julian struggles with his arms—they take up too damn much space—and places one on Garak’s shoulder.
He nearly gasps at the cold of Garak’s scales. “Garak! You’re freezing. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Garak’s body shudders, perhaps reacting to the sudden warmth. “To be quite honest, I didn’t notice. It’s been a rather busy day.”
“You’re lying.”
Garak rather uncomfortably shifts around so that he’s face-to-face with the doctor. “Really, doctor, must we go back to square one?”
“You’re lying about not being cold. That much I can tell.”
“Ah, yes. Your superior medical knowledge trumps my self-awareness once again.”
Without thinking, Julian slings an arm over Garak’s shoulder, pressing a warm hand into the cold of his back.
Garak stills. Their eyes meet for a moment—Garak’s slate-black meeting Julian’s deep brown—and for half a second, there is something. Something that Julian can’t quite explain—
Garak shifts around suddenly, turning his back to Julian. “You don’t need to cradle me, doctor. I’m not one of your patients.”
Julian recalls Worf’s advice. Ironic that Garak, his vigilance slipping for once in his life, has turned his back to Julian.
“No, of course you’re not.” More determined now, Julian presses his body to Garak’s back. “But you are cold, and there aren’t enough beds. It’s pure logic.”
Julian manages to suppress what he truly wants to say—And you’re my friend, you idiot—and focuses on keeping his hand as still as possible. Garak’s scales are ridged beneath his rough fingertips, yet softer than he expected, almost as though he’s freshly shed his skin.
Martok and Worf’s snoring is loud, but gentle—something Julian’s managed to adjust to over the last several weeks. The darkness of the room is all-consuming, and with his back turned to Tain’s bed, Julian almost imagines that he might be able to fall asleep. That is, if he wasn't sleeping chest-to-back with a Cardassian.
It’s not comfortable. Two fully-grown men—one rather taller than the average human—lying down on a hard cot meant for one doesn’t make it easy to fall asleep, especially when the Cardassian insists on barely breathing or moving at all.
“You sleep like a dead man,” Julian murmurs into Garak’s ear.
“I’m not sleeping,” Garak says, his voice rather louder than Julian would have preferred. The Romulan might well still be awake, and the Breen—well, who knows if they sleep? “I am—ruminating.”
Julian feels his hand press down on Garak’s shoulder, in what is meant to be a gesture of comfort—though any comfort in this position is something of an oxymoron. “I’m sorry about Tain.”
Garak scoffs. His body rises and falls in a heavy breath. “No need to apologize, Doctor. You didn’t kill him.” He pauses, voice bitter. “He died at peace. It’s better than what he deserved.”
“Is that what you think? Or is that what you think I think?”
No response. One of the many peculiarities of their current conversation—usually, Garak pounces on any silence. Julian presses on. “What do you think he deserved, Garak?”
Garak pauses. “I think he deserved a death in a prison camp. Outlived by his enemies. Confronted by his son. Cold, miserable, and unburied.” There’s a brief silence as he breathes. “But—I imagine you’ll tell me I’m being too harsh.”
“A year ago, maybe.”
Julian wants so badly to explain something to Garak, if only he could explain it to himself. The last few years—he’s not whoever he was when he first arrived on Deep Space Nine. He’s hardened—except that’s not the right word. He still feels excited, still feels thralls of his own emotion that threaten to overwhelm him.
It’s just that he doesn’t feel young anymore.
He wonders if Garak still sees him as young.
“I think he deserves whatever you think he deserves,” Julian finally says. “I imagine you’re the best judge of that.”
Garak exhales slowly through his own. His voice grows quieter, matching Julian’s whisper. “Whatever he deserves,” he says, “I deserve worse.”
Something hard and black opens inside of Julian’s stomach. Something cruel. “I can’t imagine that’s true.”
One thing that Garak doesn’t understand, Julian reflects, is how much Julian hates Tain. Not that he wants to monopolize Garak’s right to loathing—Julian, perhaps better than anyone else, understands how personal and unique a son’s hatred for his father can be.
But Julian has spent weeks with Tain, more time than Garak has spent with his own father in decades. Julian tended to the aging Cardassian, hearing him at his worst, most unstable moments, muttering about his enemies or his own son or the inescapably human doctor who tended him. When Julian thought to mention his own connection to Garak, Tain nearly laughed him out of the prison camp. (A friend, he had scoffed. Garak has no friends. Not even when he was a boy.)
“A very Cardassian viewpoint,” says Garak, pulling Julian back to the present. His stomach is warm on Garak’s back. “My dear doctor, I do believe that time in prison has hardened you.”
Julian snorts. “Not as much as you’d like. What was that you said about sentiment yesterday?”
“Ah, you’ll never be as gloomy as I wish you to be.” Garak twitches against Julian’s body, pressing closer. “It’s what I admire about you, doctor.”
“Oh?”
Garak stirs again, evoking a warmth deep in Julian’s stomach. Julian does his best to stare at the wall, to focus on something, anything else.
“Indeed. No matter your veneer—that you are a perfect Federation, human doctor—you’re still quite the contrary man.”
Julian smiles. He hopes Garak can’t hear it in his voice. “One of my many strengths.”
“Mmm. Modesty being another.”
“Ah, of course. Charm, wit, my good looks…”
“Your conversational prowess.” Garak sighs—not a sigh borne of exhaustion, but of comfort. “You know, I don’t know how you survived without me. Tain was never much of a conversationalist, no matter how much he blathered on. Martok can’t have been too scintillating, either.”
“Shhhh.” Julian glanced at Martok’s snoring form.
“He won’t hear.” Garak, whether he realizes it or not, is now leaning against Julian, and Julian is conspicuously willing his mind elsewhere. Think of The Never-Ending Sacrifice. Think of darts. “Besides, I’d prefer that man to my father any day.”
Julian, once again, is at a loss for words. “You know, I read somewhere that all sons are doomed to disappoint their fathers. No matter what we do. It’s nearly a tradition on Earth.”
“Well, we aren’t on Earth.”
Julian finds himself irritated with Garak’s sniping, not for the first time. “Some things are universal. You said it yourself—you’ll never be enough for him.”
There’s a short silence, and Julian wonders if he’s gone too far. Stupid, stupid. The man died barely three hours ago.
When Garak speaks again, he’s strangely quiet, his voice exempt of any pretense or peculiarity. “You’re a son. Does that apply to you?”
Julian feels his body go oddly cold. There’s a swooping feeling in his stomach that always accompanies any questions about his family, however vague.
It’s difficult to explain to someone that you were such an immense disappointment at age six that they simply had to change you. It’s especially difficult to explain to a Cardassian spy-turned-tailor sharing your bed.
“I…was never exactly what my father wanted,” he murmurs quietly, pressing the words into the back of Garak’s head. He smells sweet. Like Tarkealean tea, like the spiced Bajoran soap he always uses.
“No?” Garak’s one-word question begs for more information.
This was always the problem. To omit, to exaggerate, to lie—any conversation about his past inevitably ended up being a tightrope walk around the truth. Julian had thought, on more than one occasion, that if Garak knew the truth—The Secret, as he preferred to think of it—he might be so impressed with Julian’s discretion that he would forget to be horrified.
“My father always wanted me to be a doctor,” Julian said.
Garak’s face was turned away, more unreadable than usual. “Well, he must be proud of you—chief medical officer, and all.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Julian thought of the last time he’d spoken with Richard. A short interspace transmission, where Richard talked about his latest project, where Amsha preened and smiled over her husband’s accomplishments. It had been nearly a year ago by now.
He wonders, briefly, if his parents have made any calls since he was taken away to the prison camp. Probably not. It won’t make a difference, anyway. If Captain Sisko hasn’t noticed his duplicate, if Garak hasn’t noticed his duplicate, his parents certainly won’t have.
“It feels foolish to compare our relationship to yours and Tain,” Julian goes on. “My father was not a spy.” He shakes his head, almost laughing. “He doesn’t possess the subtlety, for one.”
“Ah, so it runs in the family. Tell me, does he share in your espionage fantasies?”
Julian bites back a quip and does his best to stay on topic. “Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a tennis player?”
Garak does his best to glance back at Julian. His black hair brushes against Julian’s nose. Julian tries not to sneeze. “I’ve seen you in that ridiculous tennis uniform, but I never knew you were that serious.”
“Well, I was. When I was sixteen, my coach told me I could have become a professional.” He thinks back on his wins, about how good it felt to mindlessly succeed. Before he knew The Secret. “My father, of course, thought it was ridiculous.”
“You do look rather ridiculous.” At Julian’s silence, Garak turns around. “I’m sorry.”
“Mm.” Julian wishes Tain’s absence wasn’t quite so obvious. “He said there would be testing.” Shut up, Julian. “And he always thought I should join Starfleet. He never did, himself, but he’s fond of the medical sciences, and thought I could be quite successful.”
Garak tuts knowingly. “I’ve always said you Federation types were insidious as the Borg. If a young fool wants to play tennis, what’s to stop him?”
“Well, I’m glad I’m on Deep Space Nine now. Well. Not currently, obviously. But soon.” Before Garak can say anything cutting about blind optimism, Julian pushes on. “I met you, for one.”
It’s too much. Julian knows that the second it leaves his mouth. He feels his face burn, his stomach cringe with humiliation. He’s always too much, it seems. Sharing a bed is already too much, their closeness, the brush of Garak’s scales on his skin as they rise and fall, breathing as one—
“When was the last time you spoke to your father?” Garak doesn’t sound annoyed, only curious.
“We, well—we don’t talk very much. I haven’t been home in—” He silently calculates the days. “Three years.” Three years, sixty-two days, twenty-seven minutes. “And we speak on subspace rather infrequently. But when we do, he asks about my accomplishments.” He snorts. “He was quite fond of my accomplishments. Not me, but what I could do.”
“He would have gotten along with Tain, then. Not that I’m as accomplished as you.”
Julian briefly imagines Richard and Tain getting a drink together, his own father sweating as Tain swindles information from him. He snorts.
Garak doesn’t seem to see the humor in the situation. “If there was a replicator nearby, we could make a toast.” His voice is soft, but oddly free of irony. “To our fathers. For making us such bastards.”
Bashir feels a twitch of irritation, even now. “Speak for yourself.”
“I’m insulting your father, not you.” Bashir can hear the sardonic smile in Garak’s voice. “Don’t be so sensitive.”
“I think…”
Julian doesn’t know what he thinks. He tries to call to mind a good memory of his father. A day at the zoo. His proud smile. His memory flickers and fades, turning to Tain’s body, turning to Garak’s face. A scared little boy who wanted to go riding with his father.
Julian feels himself ache. For a young Garak, a boy who didn't know a truth from a lie. For Jules, a boy without secrets. For the men pressed together, desperately alone.
“He isn’t a bad man,” mutters Bashir. Who am I talking about? “Only—misguided.”
He thinks about his parents’ words, their pride when he graduated salutatorian, their anxiety when he chose Deep Space Nine as his starting position. He grasps Garak’s tunic in his fists, as though this will steady him. “It would be easier if I could hate him.”
“Indeed, relationships are rarely easy.”
Garak’s hand, previously hanging uncomfortably over the side of their shared cot, travels to Julian’s hand. They stay like that, holding the other together, pressed together in the darkness of space.
“We had good moments,” murmurs Garak. “Tain and I. You know that, don’t you?”
“He loved you,” says Julian, because what else is there to say?
“He hated me,” says Garak, because what is there to do but lie?”
“I—” says Julian, and stops, because it’s not the time, nor the place, to say the truth, to say what he’s wanted to say for years now—
“You’re quite warm, doctor.” Garak gives a sigh of pleasure that vibrates through his body.
Julian experiments with tangling his fingers in Garak’s hair. It’s oddly soft, and feels clean, particularly compared to his own. Julian is struck with the sudden urge to cry, only intensified once Garak doesn’t pull away.
“Do you know…” Garak trails off, his voice thin and clouded with sleep. “Do you know that on Cardassia, a child could be exiled simply for disputing his father?” He laughs breathily, a more vulnerable laugh than any Julian had ever heard. “Or sharing a bed with a human, as the circumstance might be.”
“My dear Mister Garak, you aren’t on Cardassia any longer.”
“Indeed not.” Garak relaxes into Julian’s touch. “If we were on Cardassia, the beds would be far less comfortable.”
Julian leans into Garak’s soft chuckle and surrenders himself to sleep.