Work Text:
Garak was learning, faster than it took for the replicator to produce a mug of red leaf tea, how sensitive humans truly were. Unguarded, uncensored, unprotected. Doctor Bashir’s nose wrinkled under the delicate onslaught of the decorative bouquet of Terran flowers on their table, batting the fronds away with one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other. “I’m very glad you approached me, actually, Garak; I’ve been dying to have another perspective on the Cardassian transfer of ownership of Terok Nor, as it were—”
“Doctor,” said Garak. Surprise, then a brief flash of consternation, flitted across Bashir’s worryingly open face.
“Yes?”
“Have you ever met a Cardassian before?” Concern, contemplation, then determination—Tain would have cast Garak out onto the streets of Cardassia if his thoughts went displayed uninhibited on his face like they did on Doctor Bashir’s.
“No,” said Bashir, “but, that’s precisely why I find it so important to talk to you: to get that perspective. I apologize if I commit any Cardassian social taboos in doing so; I promise that is not my intention.”
Garak laughed good-naturedly, as was only polite, and continued, “On the contrary, my friend. You have been a perfectly acceptable partner by the parameters of Cardassian conversational etiquette, but I must ask: why do you want to waste your time engaging in one with such an obvious outcome? Surely there are more fruitful discussions for us to sink our proverbial teeth into?”
“‘Obvious outcome’? How do you mean?”
“Cardassians—ones brought up on Cardassia, that is, I cannot speak for the war orphans—can be summed up with one word: loyal. And if you’re to be greedy and use a few more, it would be loyal to the state. Someone as intelligent as you, Doctor, could certainly surmise my position without asking me to tell you.” Garak left it there, waiting to see if Bashir would assemble the pieces himself, or, in true Federation fashion, ignore what he didn’t say.
“Well,” Bashir said, drawing out the word for as much as it was worth, which was very little, “I would like to hear it anyway.”
Garak sighed. “Really; with a precursor on Cardassian meal prayers, I daresay you could do it word for word.”
“I would like to hear you talk about it,” clarified Bashir, a challenging glint in his eye. There was no doubt what he was doing, and that was making Garak talk. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for Garak to rebut, but he found himself with nothing to say. Garak gave him an amused look in return to buy himself some valuable time. Of course, he couldn’t just tell him that he was in exile, or that he was overjoyed that Gul Dukat had had to flee the station with his tail between his legs; but perhaps he could convey that to him otherwise.
Garak took a sip of his tea and cleared his throat. “Well, if you insist, Doctor. But I must warn you, it is rather boring.”
“I have an hour until my lunch break is over,” hummed Bashir. His face was deprecating but pleasant altogether. “Be boring all you like.”
“Let me savor that invitation for a moment; I believe it’s the first time I’ve ever had it extended to me.” Garak smiled into his tea, secretly surprised that it was genuine, and not his usual trained facsimile. Where to start, where to end… Certainly not at the beginning, and definitely not at its conclusion. “Well, I must say that there were much less Bajorans around. At least where one could see them.”
Bashir pressed his lips together, looking at his own mug enveloped between his hands. “Yes, I had surmised as much."
“Operations—for me, at least—were quite monotonous,” Garak mused. “Much of the same. Someone comes to you, asks you for something, you do it as quickly and efficiently as possible.”
“Tailoring?”
“Oh, sure,” said Garak, gritting his teeth against a growl. “Either way, it was but a mere replication of life back on Cardassia, save for the fact that you can’t see the moonsets and we were constantly holding and executing Bajoran rebel operatives. Though I suppose that last part has changed in the transfer.”
“‘We’?”
“Cardassians,” Garak said quickly as the doctor’s face fell. “That wasn’t exactly my area, remember."
“Right,” murmured Bashir. “But what do you think about the transfer?”
“It’s a blight upon the history of Cardassia, of course.” Garak peered at Bashir over the rim of his mug, hoping he could see the humor in his gaze. He needed Bashir to like him, and he wasn’t sure why, but it was nearly as important as any mission Tain had ever given him. Maybe even more important, now that he wasn’t here to tell him what to do. “But, we’ll recover. We always have. I doubt this is the last we’ve seen of Gul Dukat, as much as I’m sure most of this station has been enjoying his absence.”
There was a moment, a terrifying, arduous moment, where Garak felt as if Bashir had looked through his skin and into his thoughts, indulging himself in the unfiltered version of what he’d just told him. I killed people, I oversaw their deaths, I was one who betrayed them to their executioners. But not on Terok Nor.
“Huh,” said Bashir, his brow narrowed. Garak could have thrown the table across the Replimat; thankfully he kept his fists balled in his lap. “‘We’,” he repeated.
“‘We’?”
“You said before that ‘we,’ as in Cardassians, were executing Bajorans on Terok Nor. But just now, you said this is that last ‘we’ve’ seen of Gul Dukat. A Cardassian. I thought Cardassians were always loyal to the state, and I would certainly think that Gul Dukat qualifies as one of its largest proponents.” Bashir looked damned proud of himself, and Garak couldn’t blame him. Maybe it wasn’t pride he was feeling, but there was something unfamiliarly warm unfurling in his chest. He chased it down with his now-cool tea. “So which is it?”
“You know, Doctor,” Garak said after a moment, a smile curling on his lips, “I do believe there is hope for you yet.”