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1.
“As you may also know,” the Cardassian says, “I have a clothing shop nearby, so if you should require any apparel, or simply wish, as I do, for a bit of enjoyable company now and then, I am at your disposal, doctor.” His smile is like a knife.
Oh, Julian gets it. He understands perfectly why this man is an effective spy, how he insinuates himself into situations where he doesn't belong, because in this moment Julian wants nothing so much as to lean in and breathlessly ask what he means by enjoyable company. He wants to let himself be seduced; wants Garak to take him back to his quarters, wants that sharp, unflinching gaze all over him, wants to know what those scaled hands would feel like on his skin.
He takes a deep, shaky breath.
He is not going to be an easy mark. He pictures Major Kira's reaction if he were to let a Cardassian spy into his bed, and the thought is sufficiently sobering to quell the hazy desire spreading through his body.
“You’re very kind, Mister Garak,” he says, endeavouring to sound more composed than he feels.
“Oh, it’s just Garak. Plain, simple—”
“Garak,” Julian finishes for him. He smiles awkwardly.
“Now, good day to you, doctor,” Garak says, rising from his seat. “I’m so glad to have made such an… interesting new friend today.” He puts his hands on Julian’s shoulders, and Julian jumps. He’s grateful that Garak is standing behind him, because he’s sure his face must be beet red. Garak’s hands are colder than a human’s would be. Julian finds the sensation… not wholly unpleasant. Once Garak has let go of him and walked away, he hurries to Ops to inform the rest of the crew of this peculiar encounter—all in the interest of station security, of course.
And if, when he touches himself that night in his quarters, his thoughts drift stubbornly to grey scales and piercing blue eyes—well. That's his business.
2.
The period immediately after Garak's implant is removed is a bit of a blur. He can remember the events, but they feel distant and fuzzy, like they happened to someone else. The days are a haze of pain. He'd forgotten how bad it was, back before he began using the implant—his eyes always burning, his fingers always numb. In combination with the endorphin withdrawal, it's nigh unbearable. He imagines his father would laugh at that. Elim Garak, seasoned operative of the Obsidian Order, protégé of Enabran Tain, trained to withstand all manner of torture, laid low by bright lights and his own brain chemistry. What a joke.
There is, however, the doctor.
It's almost alarming, how soothed he is by Bashir's presence. True, the man is beautiful, and a lovely conversationalist besides, but that's supposed to be it. He's not supposed to get attached. And yet, cutting through his stupor, these remain the brightest snapshots: Bashir taking his hand. Bashir's fingers against the skin of his face as he examines him, brow furrowed in concern. Bashir never leaving his bedside. Bashir fussing over him, looking after him, like his pain matters.
There's so much he wants to say, afterwards. Not about his past—he wasn't lying when he told Bashir he'd given him all the answers he was capable of—but about this, this feeling growing unbidden in his chest, like a weed pushing up through a crack in paved ground. He thinks about telling him that this was the first time, in his long history of nearly dying, that he thought someone might care if he survived. He thinks about apologising for the things he said during withdrawal. He thinks about telling him he makes his exile bearable. He thinks about telling him that, horrifyingly, inconveniently, against his will, he appears to have fallen in love with him.
He doesn't tell Bashir any of those things, in the end. But he thinks about it.
3.
Julian is on his way out the door, headed for the runabout pad to wish Garak goodbye, when he spots the box of Delavian chocolates sitting on the table. He hesitates, staring at it. If something happens to Garak— If he doesn’t make it back, and this is the last thing Julian will have to remember him by— He swallows. Suddenly, the box looks more terrifying than appetising. He thinks about Garak, stuck in that runabout with Odo, who will argue with him not because he enjoys it but because he’s actually angry with him.
He picks up the box.
The look Garak gives him when he hands over the chocolates makes his heart flutter—the undisguised wonder with which he stares at Julian, like it’s inconceivable that anyone would do something kind for him.
“I thought you might need them more than I do,” Julian says with a smile. Garak inclines his head gratefully.
“Thank you,” he says.
Julian thinks, suddenly, that he should tell him. Garak may not make it back. This may be his last chance. If he’s going to his death, he deserves to know that someone loves him. Then again, perhaps that’s a selfish thought. Perhaps Julian simply wants closure for himself. Whatever Garak’s reaction to such a revelation might be, it would surely cloud his mind, which is the last thing he needs before such a dangerous mission. All things considered, it might be better to wait. Let Garak focus on the task at hand.
“Good luck,” Julian says. It feels entirely inadequate. Afterwards, as he waits anxiously for Garak to return, he knows he made the wrong decision.
4.
They don’t have much of a chance to talk when they get back from the camp. There’s far too much happening on the station. Perhaps it’s for the best; Garak has too many conflicting emotions to sort through to even begin attempting to articulate them. He’s grateful to Julian for helping him through his humiliating claustrophobia. He’s touched by the discretion he’s shown regarding Tain. He’s heartbroken at having found out that Julian spent so long alone in that horrible place. And above all, like a knife in his heart, he is deeply, profoundly ashamed of not having noticed he was gone.
He scours his memory over and over for anything he might have missed. Certainly the changeling’s actions in the runabout were suspicious—the real Julian may well have intercepted his surreptitious attempt to leave the station, but Garak doubts he would have done it at gunpoint—but that was too little, too late. The fact remains that he had lunch with this impostor many times without realising that it wasn’t Julian. It was an impressive reproduction, he’ll give it that. It argued very convincingly with him about Cardassian literature. It smiled the way Julian does, unguarded and infectious. It said his name in the same way, with that slight endearing overemphasis on the final plosive. Still, surely, surely there was something. Some clue he missed; some imperfection he overlooked. He needs to find it, so that he can point it out to Julian and prove to him that he knows him too well to be so easily duped by a facsimile. He needs Julian to know that he’s not replaceable.
The fact that Julian’s other friends were equally unobservant is no comfort. They may know him, may even love him, but they are not members of the Obsidian Order. They can be forgiven for any lapses in attention. Garak, on the other hand… Garak is a spy, a man trained practically from birth in the art of careful observation, and he has spent the last month sharing meals with a changeling without ever once noticing it wasn’t Julian Bashir. His shame threatens to consume him.
Garak knows with awful, unshakeable certainty that he has lost the right to claim to love Julian. How could he, when he can’t even tell the man apart from a cheap replacement? There was a time to let Julian know how he felt, and it was before he allowed him to spend four weeks wasting away in a prison camp out of sheer ignorance. No. He knows, now, that he must swallow this feeling. He must keep it locked away in his chest, where it will only hurt him and not Julian. He can handle its jagged edges; he can let it sink its venomous teeth into his heart. He has kept worse secrets. This one will not destroy him.
5.
“You’ve been such a good friend,” Garak tells him. “I’m going to miss our lunches together.”
Julian’s heart clenches. This can’t be it. It can’t be.
“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” he says, attempting a smile.
“I’d like to think so,” Garak says. He looks perfectly composed. He always was a better liar than Julian. “But one can never say. We live in uncertain times.”
Julian can feel the moment slipping away from him. The realisation sends cold panic rushing through his body. They're going to have this stilted, inadequate conversation, saying none of the things that matter, and then Garak is going to walk out of that door, and Julian will never see him again. Before he can gather his thoughts and try to think of something to say that would salvage the situation, Garak turns away. Julian wants to cry. What good is his genetically enhanced intellect if he can't even find the words to tell the man he loves how he feels about him? Couldn’t those bastards on Adigeon Prime have thrown in some emotional intelligence while they were at it? He can calculate dizzyingly complex statistics in his head, but he can't have an honest conversation with Garak. Absolutely pathetic.
Julian doesn’t turn around. He lets Garak leave, hating himself more with every step.
+1
Garak is reading—the last of the Earth novels Julian gave him; a sentimental and altogether foolish attempt to cling to what he has lost—when there's a knock on the door. He frowns at his PADD. It's been less than two weeks since the end of the war; Cardassia Prime is still in chaos. He's had few visitors, and none unannounced. There is too much to do in this ruined city for anyone to bother stopping by to see an exiled spy (formerly exiled, he reminds himself) living in a garden shed. Truthfully, with Mila gone, there is no one left on the planet he could call a friend. He tries not to dwell on it.
Garak sets the PADD aside and gets up from his chair, straightening out his clothes before approaching the door. He retrieves a disruptor from the table, just in case his visitor is an old enemy. (Or an old colleague, for that matter. The difference is nominal.) He holds it out of sight as he opens the door.
The polite smile he's affixed to his face falls away the moment the door swings open. Standing outside, outlined in gold by the afternoon sunlight, is Julian Bashir. He's out of uniform, which is a shock in and of itself; he's wearing a purple tank top and an absolutely hideous pair of patterned trousers. Garak wonders distantly if he picked the outfit specifically to offend his sensibilities. Equally puzzling is the duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the hefty case of what must be medical equipment sitting beside him, and the determined set of his jaw.
“Look, Garak,” Julian says, before Garak can pull himself together enough to offer a greeting. He pauses for a moment, then amends, “Elim. If you're satisfied with that ‘we may never see each other again’ crap, tell me so, and I'll leave. But I'm not. I don't want to spend the rest of my life hearing from you every few months, or— or years, over subspace. Quite frankly, I don't think you want that either. So stop it with this lonely martyr nonsense and let me stay. I want to stay. Here, with you, on Cardassia. I'll make myself useful; I'll help with the rebuilding. I'm sure you could use an extra doctor. If you think about it, it would honestly be selfish to deny your people medical aid just because you're hopelessly dedicated to suffering. So it's really your duty as a loyal Cardassian to let me move in with you.”
Garak gets the distinct impression that Julian has been rehearsing this little speech on the journey over. He faces Garak down like he's going into battle, daring him to turn him away. A ridiculous notion. He must know, he must, that Garak could never do such a thing. He must know that this is every greedy, selfish daydream Garak has ever had. It's charming beyond belief that he thinks he needs to bring duty to Cardassia into the equation, as though the miracle of his presence isn't enough by itself. Garak stares at the doctor for a few moments before managing to collect himself.
“My dear Julian,” he says. “If that's truly what you want, how could I deny you?”
A grin splits Julian's face, more radiant by far than the Cardassian sunlight Garak has missed so sorely. He drops his bag on the ground with a heavy thunk and takes several steps forward, crowding into Garak's space.
“If you have no objections, Mister Garak,” he murmurs, “I am going to kiss you now.”
Garak could not think of an objection if his life depended on it. He just about has the presence of mind to set the disruptor aside before he places his hands on Julian's waist and draws him closer, half convinced he's dreaming. Julian wraps his arms around Garak's neck. He's still smiling when their lips meet.
He kisses him like— well. Like he's been waiting for this as long as Garak has. Julian is sun-warm against him, pressing their bodies together. There's a desperation to the way he's touching him, and Garak wants to soothe him, to reassure him that he'll happily spend the rest of his life kissing Julian if that's what he wants.
He has no idea how much time passes before Julian pulls back, flushed and happy. Garak rests their foreheads together and breathes in the strange human scent of him, rich and earthy and so different from his own.
“You always did have a flair for the dramatic, my dear,” he says quietly, smiling.
Julian makes an offended noise and pulls back a bit, though he makes no effort to remove his arms from around Garak's neck.
“Oh, that's rich coming from you!” he says. “ ‘No, Julian, there's no telling if we'll see each other again. I certainly couldn't invite you to visit me every once in a while. Now leave me here to live out the rest of my life miserable and alone, please.’ Give me a break!”
Garak laughs and kisses him again.
“A failure of imagination,” he allows. “I certainly couldn't have pictured anything half so lovely as this. You never fail to surprise me, Julian.”
Julian bites his lip, smiling, and brushes their noses together.
“I like that,” he says quietly. “Hearing you use my first name. Though I hope you'll keep calling me ‘my dear doctor,’ too. I'm rather fond of it.”
Garak presses a kiss to Julian's cheekbone, lingering just a bit.
“I'll call you whatever you like, my love,” he murmurs. “Will you come inside?”
Julian releases him and steps back to pick up his things. He grins at Garak.
“Of course. I do live here.”
The shed is small, and there's some awkward shuffling as Julian maneuvers his luggage inside and out of the way. He doesn't raise an eyebrow at the disruptor on the table, but he does lean over to peer at the discarded PADD, shooting Garak a pleased smile when he recognises Wide Sargasso Sea.
“There's only one chair,” Garak says apologetically. “We can go out and look for another tomorrow. I know there isn't much space, and I only have a small bed…” He trails off, feeling suddenly ashamed at having Julian see him in this state, living in a space that was never meant as a residence, sleeping on a rickety cot, eating like a beggar. It must show on his face, because Julian steps closer and puts a hand on his cheek, trailing his fingers over the ridge around Garak's eye. His gaze is soft.
“Elim,” he says. “Come on. It's me. I've seen you go through withdrawal. I've seen you in a cell in the brig. I've seen you have a panic attack in a Dominion prison camp.” He shakes his head. “I would have come here even if you had nowhere to live at all. I'm here for you.”
Garak finds himself momentarily at a loss for words. He doesn't know what to do with this sort of unconditional devotion; he's always had to fight for everything. Now here Julian is, handing him his loftiest dream with no strings attached. For lack of an adequate verbal response he pulls Julian into a kiss, chest aching.
Once Garak has calmed down enough to brew them both some red leaf tea, they end up sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that their sides are pressed together. Garak sips his tea and watches Julian. Now that the danger of rejection has passed, the doctor looks perfectly at home. One would never know to look at him that he'd just left his entire life behind to go live in a shattered mess of a city with an equally shattered mess of a man. With a sigh, Garak steels himself for the question he's been trying to avoid asking.
“My dear,” he says cautiously. “Not that I'm not glad you're here, you understand, but I must ask—Ezri…?”
Julian looks… embarrassed. Not the reaction Garak was expecting.
“Would you believe she broke up with me?” Before Garak can say anything, he holds up a hand and shakes his head, smiling faintly. “No, Garak, I'm not here because Ezri broke my heart. She…” He sighs. “She sat me down a few days after I came back to the station. Said she didn't think she was what I wanted. She, um. She may have… offered some insights into my feelings about women.”
Garak tilts his head in puzzlement.
“Your feelings about women?”
“Or lack thereof, as it were.” Julian takes a sip of his tea. “We had a lengthy conversation about my need to, ah, ‘perform normative romantic behaviours.’ Her words. She suggested that there may be a reason my relationships with women tend not to last. And… and I think she was right.” He takes a shaky breath. “I think I'm… gay. I don't think I'm attracted to women.”
There is very little stigma attached to sexuality in Cardassian society, but Garak has spent enough time around humans (and enough time hearing about the doctor’s romantic exploits) to know that this declaration has weight to Julian. He takes his hand.
“That can't have been an easy conversation,” he says. Julian gives him a small smile.
“It wasn't,” he says. “It— it helped that she'd, um, come to a similar realisation herself. Apparently having all those memories in her head to compare with her own experiences made her realise that what she'd taken for attraction to men was… not really attraction at all. I think she has her sights set on Kira now, actually.” He huffs in amusement. “Anyway. Never date a counselor. Far too much insight.”
Garak smiles slyly.
“Don't worry, my dear,” he says. “I plan to stick to doctors from now on.”
Julian ducks his head, grinning. He shoves Garak lightly with his shoulder.
“You're incorrigible.”
Dinner, when it comes around, is a meagre affair. The shed has no kitchen, and of course nothing as luxurious as a replicator; Garak has been doing his cooking using a single portable hotplate on the floor. He has repurposed one of the cabinets into a makeshift pantry, stocked with a small reserve of vegetables, roots, grains, a few spices, and a single precious tin of tea. Garak makes them each a modest serving of savoury keru porridge topped with sliced bilek root. They eat on the floor, with their backs against the edge of the cot, and once their bowls are empty Julian surprises him yet again by pulling a bottle of kanar and a box of Delavian chocolates from his duffel bag. Given the circumstances it feels almost illicit to be allowed these little luxuries, the greatest of which, of course, is Julian's company. (He tells him so, and is rewarded with a brilliant smile and a very fetching blush.)
Julian clearly has yet to develop a taste for kanar; he has a small glass, but grimaces with every sip. Garak smiles fondly at him over the rim of his own glass.
“You know, my dear,” he says, “you could have brought a beverage you actually enjoy.”
Julian huffs.
“No,” he says stubbornly. “It's not for me. I thought you'd want something familiar. Something comforting.”
Garak reaches out to caress his cheek; Julian leans into the touch with a pleased hum.
“Whatever did I do to deserve you?” he murmurs. Julian smiles.
“Well, you kept giving me discounts on alterations.”
Garak laughs, surprised and delighted. He sets his glass down and leans in to kiss Julian, who smiles against his mouth and cradles the back of his head to pull him closer. He tastes syrup-sweet and tangy from the kanar. Garak wonders how long it will take him to get used to this—having Julian here, warm and open and in his arms. He hopes he never does. He hopes that, in ten, twenty years, when he wakes up in a real house on a rebuilt Cardassia with Julian Bashir sleeping beside him, it still takes his breath away. He suspects it will.
The bed can just about fit both of them, though it creaks in protest. Julian, unaccustomed to the Cardassian heat, has stripped down to his underwear, and Garak takes a moment to luxuriate in his beauty as they settle in. Julian smiles at him as though he knows exactly what he's thinking.
“Tomorrow,” he says, tracing one of Garak's neck ridges lightly with his finger. “You can— well, I was about to say you can do whatever you like to me, but I do have some ideas of my own.”
Garak wraps an arm around Julian's waist and kisses him, smiling.
“I'm sure we can find a compromise, my dear.”
Julian chuckles and tangles their legs together. They kiss languidly, sweetly, trading soft sighs and gentle touches. Garak has had years to imagine what he might do if he had Julian in his bed, and in the morning he certainly intends to take him up on his offer, but for now he finds that he's quite content to simply bask in his presence. They have time.
Eventually, Julian pulls back just a little, watching his face in the dark. His fingers stroke idly through Garak's hair.
“I love you,” Julian says softly. “You know that, right?”
Garak smiles and kisses him.
“I had gathered,” he says. “But even I must admit that it's good to say things out loud sometimes.”