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The Cardassian Restorative Committee has set aside a plot of land for Elim Garak. It is near enough to the city that he can attend meetings, when he can manage it, but transports rarely pass his home, and his neighbors are few and far between.
The house is too large for one—small families in Cardassia are rare, or at least they used to be. The first day, Garak spends in his new home, he sleeps on the kitchen floor, windows and even doors flung wide open. The air still stinks of dust and smoke and rotten eggs, but he gulps greedily, for this is the air of Cardassia, after all.
He is home—if not the home he recognizes.
———
When Garak forces himself to wake up, he goes exploring. He finds that he has three acres of land, most of it desecrated farmland. There is a small forest of deciduous trees marking his perimeter. Most of them have lost their leaves, and their branches skim the sky like grasping hands.
He can’t bring himself to walk across the farmland—something about the turned-over soil and the remnants of gourds would be too much—so he sticks to his own backyard, counting trees, pacing from one end to the next. Shoeless, the bits of rubble and broken glass slice through his feet, sting in just the right way.
There’s a patch of earth here, at the back of his house, that Garak didn’t initially notice. Upon closer inspection, it appears that it might have been a garden once upon a time. Flower gardens were unproductive, and rare on Cardassia, but it was possible that the family living here might have had a vegetable garden to supplement their meager military rations. Plenty of Cardassians did that, though it wasn’t technically legal to grow food not supervised by the state.
Garak wonders if they were executed for that. It’s possible they were simply victims of one of the region’s bombing. It’s comforting to think that their deaths were simply accidents, that they were not targeted, that they had no enemies. It’s best not to dwell on such minutiae.
He crouches low, examining the garden carefully. Whatever once may have grown here, any traces are long gone. Instead, long, thorny branches reach over the soil like bony arms, interlocking again and again in an infuriating tangle.
“Tricky,” mumbles Garak. He kneels gingerly, trying not to get dirt on his pants. He grabs experimentally at one of the less thorny branches. His fingers sting, but the branch comes up easily enough, unearthing a shower of dust and a few pebbles.
There’s comfort in a project, and comfort in routine, and Garak finds himself returning to the garden day after day.
The garden is difficult, just the way Garak likes it. He spends hours upon hours pulling up prickly overgrowth with his bare hands, wincing each time a thorn sinks into his flesh. Each time he lays down his trowel, a new weed springs up; if he neglects the garden even one night, a fresh bed of tangled weeds springs up. The rocky soil is peppered with rubble and concrete and dust that lurks under his fingernails no matter how hard he scrubs.
The soil, like the rest of the planet, bears scars from the war. Garak, desperate not to get his hopes up, reminds himself that the soil is probably poisoned, salted, too utterly destroyed to host much of anything but the hardiest weeds. He agonizes over his computer for days, and finally selects three experimental blossoms: Cardassian nightshade, Aramanth, and Edosian orchids.
He plants the seeds and bulbs at night, when the moon is full and white. He tugs at tangled weeds and pours purified water into the sand and imagines that, perhaps, perhaps, this could be his home.
It takes three weeks for his ever-stubborn garden to show any sign of life. When, on one warm night, he spots the white-gray heads of orchids poking above the ground, he hugs himself and laughs like a lunatic. He had made that happen. Cardassia had grown that. It was possible that things were not entirely hopeless.
When the madness passes, he is overwhelmed by a new, startling urge: the desire to share his pride with somebody else. He can’t very well discuss it with his neighbors, who are few and far between and suspicious even by Cardassian standards.
His mind drifts to the station, as it often does in dreams, and before he knows it, he’s sitting with his PADD.
To Lt. Dr. Julian Bashir:
I apologize for my silence throughout these long months. Much has happened in your absence…
Letter-writing comes easily to Garak. In some Cardassian subcultures, it is considered to be an art form. Tain cared little for art, but instructed Garak closely in all forms of communication nonetheless, and Garak, always pleased to impress his father, excelled.
He writes for what feels like hours, explaining his new home, the construction of a nearby hospital, the strange weather patterns, the Klingon play he read recently—he writes truths and untruths and everything in between and he does not write about sleeping on the floor or the stench of burning asphalt or biting his hands till they bleed.
He hesitates only once: at the end. Bashfulness is an unfamiliar emotion to Garak, but he feels foolish writing about his silly flowers.
He probably won’t even read this, rationalizes Garak, and plunges on recklessly.
I have a small garden out back. (I was a gardener once; did I ever tell you that?) Apparently, the soil is not beyond all hope. My Edosian orchids show signs of life. I will do my best not to kill them, as long as they don’t cause any problems.
Feeling truly reckless now, Garak signs his name and transmits the letter without proofreading it. He grabs a trowel and a watering can so that he can appreciate his achievements and ignore the sudden, intense ringing in his ears.
———
At dawn, three weeks later, Garak receives a notification on his computer. Tired, and only vaguely able to care that it may be a bomb warning, he opens up the notification and begins reading.
It’s from the doctor. A letter.
The preview kindly informs him that it is 6,823 words long.
The words seem to have poured out of the doctor, and Garak allows himself to recollect the past, if only for a few moments. He remembers a lunch with the doctor, both of them ten years younger. Julian is babbling on about some Earth playwright, seemingly unable to stop, and Garak, smiling, blissed out on that damn implant, is happy to just sit there.
Blinking through the sudden memory, Garak settles into a chair and slowly begins to read. There are bits that read like an academic paper, interrupted by amusing anecdotes about patients, interrupted by stories about acquaintances that end abruptly and go nowhere, interrupted by tales of the war and half-asked questions and apologies and frantic wanderings.
One short paragraph near the end catches Garak’s attention.
Garak, you said that you’re gardening. I wondered—are there bees on Cardassia? Do they make honey? All I know about entomology comes from Milne. As a child, I used to long to see bees.
I looked up the soil quality of your region. I admit that I’m no gardener, but even I can keep a cactus alive. I thought I’d send you a sort of housewarming present. Enclosed are replicator patterns for Echinopsis backebergii. I understand that they flower under proper conditions.
Garak sits back in his chair, alone with his thoughts.
Julian has sent him a cactus. Well, a replicator pattern for a cactus, anyway. A cactus from Earth—very exotic. And the cactus might flower. Under proper conditions. If it grows, that is. Which it might not.
But it might.
Julian wants to know about the bees. Something about this detail in particular makes Garak’s chest feel unbearably tight. He finds himself wishing that the doctor was there, and the doctor was telling him everything about bees, because the doctor would know everything about bees, of course, and Garak would be arguing with him, saying that if Earth was really so great, they would still have bees, and Julian would argue that he couldn’t be held accountable for the actions of his ancestors, and the Promenade would be crowded but he would feel calm and he wouldn’t want the argument to stop.
———
No bees, begins Garak’s next letter. Cardassia’s major pollinator is butterflies. Cardassian insects are nothing like your earth insects, so fragile and prone to extinction. The butterfly population flourishes even after the war.
They are fond of your cactus, which has flowered beautifully. I think they are unused to the sweetness.
———
Life goes on. Garak’s disagreeable Aramanth bush refuses to bloom, and he digs it up in a fit of rage. He sleeps in the kitchen, pushing the table to the side so that the furniture doesn’t choke him. Some days, when the wind picks up, Garak can smell his garden, blooming, growing, even in the heat, and he can’t help but smile.
He begins sewing again, when he can find spare fabric. Sewing for himself isn’t as interesting as bickering with demanding aliens, so he makes up imaginary customers: a Bolian looking for formalwear, a Ferengi looking for an outfit for his date with a dabo girl, a Human looking for something to wear to Risa.
Julian sends him letters. Garak sends him more.
Julian tells him about lilacs, about how he had a big bush at his childhood home, and he sends Garak the replicator patterns.
Garak practically keels over, dizzy with emotion that he can’t quite place.
———
Some evenings, when Garak awakens with a strange well of strength, he goes to Restorative Committee meetings. He bickers with the do-gooders, who seem to have licked Federation boots so heavily he’s surprised their teeth aren’t coated in shoe polish, and bickers with the traditionalists, who even after the bombs still cling to their precious version of Cardassian society.
All in all, it’s a good way to spend one’s waking hours. The bickering clears his head, and even endears him to certain members, though there are those that seem to dislike his well-researched opinions.
After one meeting, a young man with a missing eye approaches him shyly. After stammering out an introduction, he launches into a wordy explanation of a certain sector of the Cardassian peoples focused on medical restoration and justice, and how if Garak would be amenable, they could use a volunteer, just a few times a week—
Garak’s vision swims, blurring with memory. The young man has two eyes, then one, then he is a a human, a doctor, a captain, a soldier, a spy—he is Garak, of course, this was a trap—
Garak bolts. Hours later, he awakens to find himself returned to his body underneath a scraggly Ithian tree, trembling and sick with paranoia. They poisoned me, he thinks, wildly, not even knowing which they he means, and, maddeningly, knowing that there’s nobody to blame but himself.
Windstorms ravage his region the next week, forcing him to finally close his windows if he doesn’t wish to choke dust. He spends his days pacing irritably, tail lashing, glancing out anxiously at his garden. If Julian’s damned lilacs don’t last—
The windstorms subside after a week. Garak is begrudgingly pleased to see that the lilac bush has lasted, aside from a little wilting. He makes note to mention to to Julian in his next letter.
———
Garak misses the doctor, and he hates himself for it.
It is extremely unpleasant, he realizes, to miss people. With a stab of irritation, he realizes that this is why Tain told him to never get close to the people he observed. Once you started caring for them, really caring for them, it was impossible to be truly productive.
It doesn’t help that Julian’s letters are few and far between. Of course, it makes sense. Not everyone is a pathetic, unemployed, ex-exile. The war is barely over. Julian has people to heal, treaties to sign, ambassadors to please. (Friends to play darts with, girlfriends to impress.)
Garak writes when he can, trying not to mention his creeping loneliness or fits of apathy where all he can do is stare out the window. Instead, he writes about the garden—something that never ceases to interest him, and which is growing by the day.
Cardassian nightshade blooms only once a month: when the moon is full. It is quite the finicky plant, and I must be particularly careful not to overwater its roots. Its leaves are quite toxic, but the flower itself can be used to make tea.
Garak pauses, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.
I’d like very much if you could see it, doctor.
He considers this, reconsiders, and deletes the final sentence. He signs off on the letter and sends it before he can do any more revising, ignoring the emptiness in his chest.
———
Dear Julian
Dear Dr. Bashir
Dear Doctor,
Would you ever want to visit Cardassia? I know, I know—it’s not exactly a tourist destination. But travel is safe, I promise you. And we could stay at my house. We wouldn’t need to travel more than three square acres.
I wish you could see the nightshade. I wish you could see your cactus. It’s brighter than anything that grows naturally on Cardassia. You would like it here.
———
Send me a picture, Garak.
———
Come to Cardassia, my dear doctor.
———
Dear Doctor,
Not that I’m counting, but it has been six weeks since your last correspondence. If you don’t wish for us to speak anymore, you can send me a letter. If you don’t, well, I’ll assume that you want me to keep badgering you with letters.
———
Dear Doctor,
Resistance in the north. Nobody seems to agree with the rebuilding efforts. I imagine you’d have something to say about this.
———
Dear Doctor,
I went to a meeting of the Cardassian Renewal Society yesterday. They’re wondering if you’d consider a visit to the annual medical conference. They asked me to put in a good word. Here’s my “good word.” Come if you want—or don’t. They'll survive without your aid.
———
Dear Doctor,
Your lilac bush is terribly temperamental. It blooms for a day before wilting. A terrible disappointment. The butterflies, at least, seem to like it.
———
Dear Doctor,
Reread your Shakespeare. Hamlet is still an embarrassing excuse for a hero. Nothing tragic about something so foolishly simplistic.
I think that Ophelia woman has a point. Nobody listens. Terribly frustrating.
———
Dear Doctor,
Are you angry? You can tell the truth. You won’t upset me. You can lie, too. I don’t mind.
———
Dear Doctor,
The butterflies don’t like the summer. Too hot for them. My garden is suffering, too.
———
Dear Julian,
Please come.
———
Garak—
When?
———
The sky is black overhead when Julian Bashir stumbles down Garak’s dry, dusty road.
Garak is on his hands and knees, having a disagreement with a particularly unpleasant isca root, when he sees the doctor.
He knows that Julian can’t see him just yet—those human eyes, genetically enhanced or no, can’t see a single gardener, hunched behind a lilac bush, in the dead of night. So Garak stares, and watches, hungry, drinking in every detail.
He’s carrying a suitcase, stumbling awkwardly with its weight. He’s carrying something small in the other hand, too small to make out. He’s grown a beard—more of a beard than any Cardassian could hope to grow, but it’s still patchy, barely there, reminding Garak of the rough stubble of the Dominion camp. His hair is messy, sticking up in a funny way in the middle, and his eyes are tired, too tired, more tired than the typical jet-lagged traveler.
He’s wearing a Starfleet uniform. Of course he is.
Garak lifts his hand, and Julian startles. Garak can’t help but smile. Something about surprising the doctor even after all these years, always being a shadowy figure in the dark, is—delightful.
The doctor is saying something, walking faster, but Garak can’t hear from this distance—Cardassian hearing is weak compared to that of a human. Garak is walking closer, suddenly, trying not to run. He can make out the plant—something small and green, fragile even compared to the lilac bush in his backyard, spotted with tiny yellow flowers.
If he focuses on the flowers, he won’t need to look at Julian, who doesn’t look at all like the man he remembers.
He is face-to-face with Julian, and he desperately needs to be somewhere else.
“Garak,” says Julian. He’s out of breath.
“Doctor,” says Garak. His hands are too heavy to move. He wants to grasp his shoulders, to take him by the hands—but he’s holding that plant, and anyway, Garak is suddenly terrified that if they touched, they’d both explode.
“I—I brought you rue,” blurts out Julian. He shoves the plant forward towards Garak. “It’s an Earth plant. Medicinal.” For the first time, he cracks a smile—a half-smile, something anxious, uncertain. “Under the right circumstances, it can also be quite toxic.”
Garak feels a smile creep across his face unbidden. “Is it really?”
“Indeed. I thought you might appreciate it.”
“Of course I do, doctor.” Garak takes the pot from the doctor, feeling the brush of rough terra-cotta against his palms. The weight tethers him, keeps him thinking rationally. “I’m sorry for my appearance, but I was in the garden out back…”
Julian holds a hand up to stop him from talking. “You look better than I do. The shuttle here was delayed, and I’ve been sleeping on and off, and I had to take that anti-radiation injection, which—I don’t know how you take that every day, it's—” His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “You are taking your injections, aren’t you?”
Garak widens his eyes in mock offense, pressing one hand to his chest. “You wound me, doctor. I haven’t lost my good sense.”
Julian eyes him reproachfully. “That’s not exactly a comfort.”
Garak has the sense of a chasm opening inside him. It’s as though his body sees fit to remind him of the loss. This is what you were missing, murmurs a quiet voice. How could you forget?
He notes the dark circles under Julian’s eyes and recalls that most humans don’t care for the night. “Are you tired?”
Having lost the potted plant, Julian looks unsure of what to do with his hands. “I slept the whole way here. To be honest, I’m—a little out of it.”
“You look it.” Garak tries to examine the doctor closer, get any hint of what he’s feeling, but the man is strangely closed off. “You should come in,” he says, finally. “I’ll make you tea.”
———
Julian Bashir is sitting at one end of Garak’s kitchen table, hands fidgeting anxiously in his lap. Garak is trying to breathe normally, because this is all normal, this is very normal.
He sets about boiling a pot of water on his faulty gas stove, crumbling a dried nightshade flower into two teacups. After some hesitation, he uses two of his weekly replicator credits to summon two scones. They’re not very good—Cardassia isn’t renowned for its baked goods—but he figures the doctor would prefer them to fish soup, which are all the rations he has left.
“It’s not much,” Garak says, setting the plates on the table, “but I thought—”
“It’s good. Thank you.”
“I made the tea.” Cursing himself, Garak retries the sentence. “What I mean is—the leaves are from my garden.”
Julian chokes mid-sip. “The nightshade?”
“One and the same.”
The doctor sighs, suddenly looking less interested in his tea. Garak tries not to smile.
“So you’re gardening,” blurts out Julian.
“Yes.”
The rue sits at the center of the table. A small yellow blossom falls to the wood.
“I didn’t know that you…” Julian trails off. “Do you still make clothes?”
“Sometimes. There’s not as much demand as there was on the station, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Julian gives a sort of rueful smile, gazing into his tea. “I know there was never any other option, that of course you wanted to return home, but, well—it feels wrong, not having you there.”
Garak’s breath catches in his throat. Why? Isn’t this what you wanted? Some—confirmation that he still thinks of you?
“I spent so many years up there, next to that wormhole, well…” Garak concentrates on his hands, the dirt between his left thumbnail. “It feels nice to be on the ground.”
Julian allows himself a small smile. “I never imagined you…” He shakes his head, trailing off with a grin.
Garak lifts an eyebrow. “What is so amusing, doctor?”
“Nothing. You.” Julian pauses, idly running a hand over his chin. “I never pictured you so tied down.”
Garak lifts his chin. “I resent that.”
“Do you? Really.”
“My dear, how would you feel if I called you untethered?”
“I’d say you were telling the truth.” Julian grins ruefully, but there’s something lurking behind the smile. “For once.”
“Still so hung up on the truth."
“I am still a human, you know.”
“Your greatest flaw.”
Garak can’t stop watching Julian’s expression, wondering if the truth lurks somewhere beneath his skin. Every smile, and frown, and twitch of the eyebrows conceals something.
Bashir traces something in the sugar crystals clinging to his plate. “Ezri and I broke up,” he blurts out.
Garak tries to rearrange his face into something resembling surprise. “Really?”
“Yes. Well—she broke up with me.” Julian huffs in an attempt at a laugh. “I, uh…it was a friendly breakup. She’s thinking of leaving Starfleet.”
Garak watches his face closely. “And you?”
Bashir’s face jerks upwards, and a frown etches its way across his face. “What—me, leave Starfleet? Are you joking?”
Garak looks back down at his plate. “Yes,” he lies.
Bashir picks at the remainder of his scone anxiously. “I wouldn’t do that,” he mumbles, seeing to speak more to himself than to Garak. “I’d think that you would understand that by now.”
For the first time since Julian arrived, a twinge of irritation prickles the back of Garak's neck. Finally. Now they're getting somewhere. "Why did you come, Doctor?"
Julian's jaw twitches. "What do you mean?"
"I know that language isn't your forte, but surely you can understand a simple question. Why did you come? Don't say that you wanted to come—we both know that that's a lie."
Garak sets his mug of tea down on the table heavier than he intends. The sound echoes throughout the room, and Julian flinches. Good.
"I came because you wrote," says Julian flatly. "Because you'd been asking me to come—"
"Yes, and you even bothered to respond to one of my letters! Very charitable of you."
Julian's brow furrowed. "I'm terribly sorry that I can't respond to every one of your letters, Garak, but I have a life—"
"And a wonderful life it is. That's why you've been dodging every one of my questions."
One of Julian’s hands slams down, hand stinging against rough wood. ”Why did you want me to come?"
Humans are so incredibly dense. Garak once thought that Julian might be the exception to the rule; even before Garak knew of his genetic engineering, he seemed sharper, smarter, more quick to argue and find the lie in every truth. Now, Garak can't tell if he's being deliberately idiotic, or if he's just trying to rile Garak up—
"I thought that you would enjoy seeing Cardassia," spits Garak. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
Something underneath Julian's veneer cracks. "If this is about the war, Garak, I'm sorry, but—“
"Oh, isn't everything about the war?" Garak gestures outside, where night is just beginning to give way to the pale blue light of early morning. In the distance, the leafless trees shudder. "We did this, didn't we?"
Everything is happening in slow motion, in fragments, present blending with past. Julian is putting his head in his hands, ducking his face. Garak thinks he might be standing up, shaking. This damned house smells like dust and dirt no matter how many times he scrubs the countertops. He hates this idiotic planet, the way it falls apart and never manages to put itself together, the way his garden wilts under the hot yellow sun, the way he always feels suffocated and can’t fix himself—
It’s not anger that claws at his skin now, but dread, pumping hot and ugly beneath his skin. He breathes until his vision blurs into clarity, until he is a reluctant passenger of his body once more.
Bashir is hiding from Garak now, one hand shielding his face, the other gripping the edge of the table as though he fears he’ll fly away.
“I’m sorry,” he manages stiffly.
Garak feels his chest constrict. He tries to resist the urge to bolt. “What for?”
Both hands, now, shielded Garak’s face from view. “I never responded.”
Garak’s own hands twitch. He fights the urge to cross the table, to press his hands to Julian’s, to throw open the windows, to say—Look, the sun is rising.
“You’re here now,” Garak says. He takes a sip of tea, cold by now.
Julian’s voice is so quiet that Garak barely hears the next few words. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Garak’s chair grinds against the floor as he stands up. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he knows that he needs to be close to Julian, can’t have a table separating them. “What do you mean?” he murmurs, feeling the warmth from Julian’s skin from even a meter away.
“If I’m not going to die in the war, well, I need a plan, don’t I?” His hands leave his face. He leans back in his chair, eyes closed as he exhales slowly.
There’s pressure building in Garak’s throat. “You could stay here. As long as you’d like.” It’s a plea disguised as an offer.
Julian looks away. Garak feels his heart break. “I can’t.”
“You could try.” Garak finds the doctor’s hands, grasping. Neither man pulls away. “You’ll take a leave of absence—not forever, doctor, just for now. We’ll sleep during the day, wake during the night.” He know he’s rambling. He doesn’t care. “I’ll make you clothes. I’ll start a vegetable garden so we never need to eat those rations again.” His breath hitches. “I have the room for you, doctor. I have the time. I always have time for you.”
Garak doesn’t know when it began, but Julian is weeping. Garak practically unravels. He did this, he made him cry, he’s ruining everything—
He pats Julian’s back as gently as he can. “I…apologize,” he says in what he hopes is a cheery voice. It unfortunately sounds more like that of a terrified little boy.
Julian’s breath hitches. He leans into Garak’s shoulder and finds the Cardassian’s hand. The two sit like this, pressed together for a minute, or an hour, or a month—and Garak can’t breathe, because he is pressed against a beautiful man and it’s like he’s seeing him for the first time and he is warm and careful and gentle and he is falling apart.
“I should have written.” Julian’s voice, frog-like with tears, breaks the silence.
“You did write,” Garak says. “You sent flowers.”
Julian’s voice is small. He sounds young. “I was afraid.”
“Afraid of—”
“Of seeing you.”
“Of seeing me.”
“I had these dreams where you hated me.”
There’s a pause. Julian begins to chuckle, and after a moment, Garak joins him.
He places a hand on his chest, feigning shock. “Hate you? Impossibly. Positively unfathomable.”
Julian is shaking now, somewhere between tears and laughter, and clearly very frustrated about the whole situation. “I just—I left you alone…” His voice falters, and he can’t seem to bring himself to make eye contact with Garak. “You and—all of this…”
“Doctor,” murmurs Garak, pressing the man’s body to his chest, wanting to wrap him in warmth and comfort until the two become one. “My dear doctor, this isn’t your fault.”
To Garak’s relief, rather than pulling away, Julian leans into his touch. Humans are so terribly temperamental about touch, but Julian clings to him as though he’s a lifeboat. “I was worried about you being alone.”
There’s a physical ache to hearing these words. Julian had worried about him, then. He’s not quite sure how he feels about it. “It’s not so bad,” he says. Then, reconsidering: “I wished for your companionship. Even on Cardassia, there are few so skilled at arguing.”
Though Julian’s face is hidden for the moment, Garak can feel his smile pressed against his shoulder. “Well, if you wanted to argue, we could have skipped this whole conversation. Tell me—you want to talk about Shakespeare?”
Garak doesn’t bother to fight his smile. “I want to talk about you,” he says.
Julian shifts away from him, wiping discreetly at his eyes. Garak pretends not to see. “All right,” he says, blinking hard. “I can’t promise I won’t ask you questions, too, but—all right.”
His eyes look glassy in the light. Garak furrows his brow. “Are you tired?”
“No,” says Julian. He looks surprised at his own answer.
Garak glances out the eastward window. A sliver of red clings to the faraway horizon. “Perhaps we could plant your rue before the day gets too warm.”
———
In the crimson light of dawn, Elim Garak teaches Julian Bashir how to replant his rue.
The doctor’s fingers are clumsy as he does his best to follow Garak’s instructions. He’s too cautious, as though he’s afraid of getting his hands dirty. He cradles the mound of soil gently, so gently, seemingly terrified that he’ll disrupt the bloom within.
Garak watches, and wonders.
Julian catches Garak’s gaze. A half-embarrassed smile quirks at the side of his mouth. “And what exactly are you smiling at, Garak?”
You, Garak wants to say more than anything. You, dear doctor.
Instead, he says, “The orchids are in bloom.”
And they are.