Chapter Text
The lights flickered in the Replimat for the third time during Garak’s carefully-formulated and well-executed argument. He sniffed, exasperated; it meant that his lunchmate was distracted a third time, and riveting his already skittish gaze back to the discussion was no small task.
“As I was saying, Doctor,” Garak began, feeling the conversation slip between his fingers rapidly and without much polite recourse, “Your criticisms of Durham are entirely anachronistic—by all means a man should be able to openly express love for whomever he desires, but when it is in conflict with the modality of his modern society, that is to say, Great Britain four centuries ago—”
Bashir’s gaze was fixed on a point far beyond Garak’s shoulder. Pressing his lips together, Garak followed his friend’s stare until he, too, was watching the unsteady blinking of the Promenade lights. So much for Maurice , then. And to think, he’d given Bashir such an easy volley with his last point to launch himself into any number of diatribes… He leaned forward in his seat, determined to bring Bashir’s attention back to him, when he caught the reflection of the lights in his murky eyes. They were as green as the borderland swamps on Cardassia, which was to say rather brown, but green enough that the nature of the true hue was a topic of passionate debate between Cardassian poets and landscape artists.
That was when all the lights in the Promenade shut off. Garak grimaced. Night vision was, thankfully, something the Cardassian evolutionary path had considered a particularly important avenue. So much so that the near-blinding lights of the station had driven him into bouts of rage-induced exhaustive episodes, but he had the wire for that now. But, if Garak remembered correctly, his friend hadn’t been blessed with the same: humans were notorious for their inability to do anything at night without vision goggles. That must’ve been why Bashir was so nervous; he’d need a flashlight to finish his lunch, and that was a two-handed affair for him.
He was delightful in the dark, though, wasn’t he. Garak’s eyes were meant for this; colors were much richer, less garish. Though living aboard the Station had dulled his vision somewhat, he could still appreciate the undertones of Bashir’s complexion, how much softer his hair looked when it wasn’t bombarded with the white glare from the Replimat’s overhead lights.
“Garak, are you all right?” Bashir’s voice rose above his internal dialogue. He reached out and grabbed Garak’s hand where it was resting on the table. How… He looked up to see Bashir doing the same thing, meeting his eyes, following them as they shot to the side in surprise. How!
“I’m fine,” Garak managed to choke out, his instincts mounting to a twitching in his legs to get up and run. Not that it’d take you far, he reminded himself. No, he couldn’t run. He had to talk, talk, talk until the lights came back on and he could toss his dishes back into the replicator, and then once he rounded the corner maybe then he could run, provided Bashir couldn’t somehow catch up with him. “But, uh, back to Durham—”
Bashir suddenly drew back as if burned by the skin of Garak’s hand. “Sorry,” he said. “I just… can’t see very well, and I thought if I was touching you…” He sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“Quite all right,” murmured Garak, missing the warmth. He swallowed thickly and continued, “Just another folly of humanity.” He flinched. “Much of it, anyway.”
Bashir shook his head, or maybe nodded, it was difficult to tell. “Yes. Um… What about Cardassians? Can you see me?”
“I can tell you’re quite frightened. Are you afraid of the dark, Doctor?” Damn, that was supposed to ease the tension, not thicken it—Bashir inhaled sharply, exhaled in quite the same manner. Garak wasn’t going to mention his claustrophobia, but he would have, had he been a better friend and not a former Obsidian Order operative. “I apologize.”
“Rather childish, I know.” The doctor grimaced.
All of his training was telling him to run, get away from the freakish human whose vision could cut through the dark, but Bashir was clearly on edge, and he wasn’t sure when the lights would turn back on. “But on the contrary—I’d say it’s an evolutionary advantage. What you can’t see is often the most dangerous.” That wasn’t entirely true, but Bashir relaxed somewhat. Garak felt confidence bubble up in him: “Here, give me back your hand. That way you’ll at least know where I am.”
“I—” The refusal got stuck halfway in his throat like a piece of larish pie. Bashir cleared it gently, opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to say, “Well, all right.”
He reached out to lay his hand on top of Garak’s as he had before. Perhaps the darkness was emboldening him—Bajorans couldn't see a thing, he was sure—because he lifted his own hand up and laced their fingers together, squeezing gently.
“Just don’t tear it off when I tell you what I thought of Scudder,” said Garak. I hope they never turn on those wretched lights again, he thought. Julian Bashir’s smile was so much better in the dark.