Work Text:
Day One
You are loved and worthy of being loved.
Elim Garak stared at his console, his rokassa juice forgotten. The message stared back at him unblinkingly, innocent of its own absurdity. There was no sender name, no explanation, nothing beyond the one, impossible sentence.
Garak shook himself; it was a mistake, meant for another, lost in the communication pathways of Deep Space 9. He checked the address—but there wasn’t one of those, either. The message came from a repeating code he recognized as a relatively low-level skip around the identification numbers assigned to every console on the station.
That was decidedly more ominous. An unknown sender could mean any number of things, but such a ridiculous message from an unknown sender to an exiled Cardassian could only mean trouble. It had only been a few days since Tain’s information about the wire had saved Garak’s life; who knew what cost such intervention could incur, no matter how Tain had said it was payment enough to watch Garak suffer in exile? This was certainly an additional suffering, but then Tain rarely did anything by halves.
Resettling on his seat, Garak got to work tracing the electronic pathways of the message, deftly sidestepping the various internal checkpoints set up by Odo and his security cohort and Commander Sisko’s overarching Starfleet authority. There was no immediate identification of the skip; not as low-level as it looked, and underneath his growing worry Garak appreciated the skill of misdirection the sender obviously had.
After an hour, Garak admitted to himself that he had to open his shop and that he was no nearer discovering the origin of the message than he had been. His admiration was now pure annoyance and the thing he was calling worry coiled coldly in his stomach.
Day Two
You are loved and worthy of being loved.
It was a new message—Garak had made sure to delete the first one, erasing it and any viruses it might hold from his console and from as much as he could get to of the entire communications network. But here it was again, sent from the same code that had led him nowhere yesterday. The skip number was different but similar enough that Garak felt he would be wasting his time trying to trace it again.
It was the cruelty of it that alarmed him more than the anonymity—since it was obviously sent in sarcasm and bad faith, the taunting nature of it ran sharp along his scales. He was neither loved nor worthy of it and anyone claiming either—especially from behind the cowardice of a hidden sender’s address—had merely taken the usual gibes of the Bajoran population to a new level. It had been years that he had been trapped on this cold station that mocked him daily with its Cardassian façade and Federation soul, years he thought had inured him to hateful idiocies like this.
Apparently, it had not been enough years.
He checked for any hidden viruses on the message before deleting it, scowling at the console as though it was the computer’s fault for lying to him.
Day Three
You are loved and worthy of being loved.
“Problem, Garak?” came the voice of Odo at the front of the shop as Garak banged around his setting-up process.
“Why, Constable,” replied Garak, keeping his back turned so that his frustration could be on his face rather than in his voice, “whatever would make you think such a thing?”
“You are not usually this loud.”
“And you are not usually this nosy.”
Odo grunted in tacit acknowledgement. “Have trouble sleeping?” he asked, his voice too sweet to be sincere.
I have trouble with a skoo in my home inbox, Garak thought to himself. “I do fear I was up rather late with the latest tale of fairies that Dr. Bashir has assigned me. It is far easier to understand the naivete of humans once one realizes they are bathed in it from birth, I must admit.” He turned around, finally able to school his features into bland geniality.
Odo shrugged. “Humanoids all want to believe that things will turn out right, I find.”
“All? My goodness, Odo, what a sweeping generalization. Surely your experience with Cardassians has taught you that not all of us believe everything has a ‘happy ending.’”
The downward flick of Odo’s eyes told Garak he had scored a point, though he knew it was a low trick to do so. Neither of them wanted to revisit the reality of Terok Nor any more often than was necessary. “I don’t believe a Cardassian would know what to do with happiness if he should find it,” said Odo, catching Garak’s gaze and holding it.
Point to Odo, Garak thought grimly as he broke the hold first and turned back to his desk.
Day Four
You are loved and worthy of being loved.
“You know, Garak, I’m not entirely convinced you’ve just heard a word I’ve said.” Julian Bashir’s pouting face brought Garak back to their table with a blink.
“To the contrary, Doctor, you’ve been spouting the same kind of Federation nonsense with which you began our conversation,” replied Garak as he took another bite of his stew.
“Nonsense!” said Bashir, flailing at the accusation and launching into yet another passionate defense of their shared story. His diatribe covered Garak climbing back into the conversation that he had, indeed, stopped listening to—sometimes he would tune out just to watch this human bundle of energy and enthusiasm go. Bashir lived with his whole body, limbs going helter-skelter as he defended some point or refuted another, his face alive with a thousand expressions that Garak never stopped trying to catalog and memorize. The ache of the now-daily message from whatever mysterious sender hurt more acutely here in the Replimat as he sat across from the one person by whom he wanted to be loved—and one of the many people would never see him that way. But he could watch, oh could he watch, feasting on the vitality of this man as much as the lunch between them.
“So what do you say to that, Garak?” Bashir finished, taking a victorious bite of his salad.
“Oh, Doctor, how woefully you have misread your own literature!” said Garak, grinning slyly as he tore apart the argument just for that sparkle in the hazel eyes that seemed as warm as a fire to his cold heart.
Day Nine
You are loved and worthy of being loved.
Garak no longer opened the messages; they were short enough that the text was in the preview, anyway. He deleted them as a matter of course, telling himself that he didn’t read them, that he didn’t feel their mockery. He sighed just before he tapped “erase” and paused, realizing that he had stopped looking through the message for any hidden viruses.
He inhaled sharply in self-recrimination. What a clever trap; sending the same painful jab over and over would wear down his defenses until he no longer paid attention and then, lulled into security, any trace could be embedded in the message. Clever, if rudimentary. Scowling at his lapse of judgment, Garak set to work combing through the coding. It was nearly twenty minutes later that he allowed a triumphant “aha!” to escape into his quarters; he still couldn’t trace the sender, but he could trace that it was set on an automatic repeat. The sender wasn’t even watching over the message, which clearly said to Garak it was set to go on for some time, breaking him down with the sheer repetition of it. The first week of messages hadn’t had this instruction tag and Garak wondered if the sender had been waiting, monitoring when he had stopped opening them—but no, he had far too many protocols on this console against that. Not all his Order training had left with his common sense.
Tucking the piece of information away, Garak continued picking apart the message until he was assured there was nothing else. He picked up a padd as he headed out for the shop, meaning to finish the latest novel before Dr. Bashir returned from his away mission.
Day Eleven
You are loved and worthy of being loved.
It was startling to realize that the automatic coding was no longer in the message. Did that mean that the sender had realized Garak had noticed it? Was the sender being more careful now? Surely it had to be someone on the station to keep up this kind of regularity, timed always in the early morning before even Garak was awake.
“Earth to Garak,” said Bashir with a chuckle.
“Why is Earth part of anything?” Garak asked.
Bashir grinned. “It’s an old idiom, like Ops calling out to a ship to make contact—it means you were drifting somewhere in your head again.”
Quite egregiously, if Dr. Bashir had noticed. “My apologies, Doctor. I have a commission that I simply can’t quite iron out.”
It was simply not possible for the humanoid eye to sparkle like that, but Bashir somehow managed it and nearly made Garak smile in return every time. “Need some help?”
“My dear doctor, the day that I allow you near any fashion design is the day I shall expect a return invitation to brain surgery.”
Bashir put a hand over his heart in mock woundedness. “Oh, Garak, however could you suggest I would put my poor, vulnerable patients in anything but the best care?”
“And how could you expect me to unleash your particular colorblindness on my poor, vulnerable customers?” Garak returned.
“I’m not that bad,” Bashir muttered with a slight scowl.
Garak suppressed his own grin. “I agree,” he said, waiting for Bashir’s eyes to catch his again before dropping the second half. “For an eyeless Trill symbiont, I would call your fashion sense quite charming.”
The scoff did nothing to dampen the wide smirk that took up the entire lower half of Bashir’s face, his eyes crinkling with the stretch of it. Whether or not Garak ever outsmarted this infernal messenger, at least he knew how to make Julian Bashir laugh.
Day Twenty-One
You are loved and worthy of being loved.
“Garak, you cannot break into my security system and expect me not to be bothered by it!” growled Odo as they stood in Odo’s office.
“I never said you shouldn’t be bothered,” said Garak, altering his posture to look less like he was standing attention at a schoolmaster’s desk, “only that you really shouldn’t have had me dragged to your office like Quark.”
Odo rolled his eyes. “If you were Quark, I wouldn’t need to trouble myself with making sure you were contained."
"Ah, am I to be incarcerated, then?" said Garak lightly.
"What were you searching for?”
Garak rested his eyes on the wall just behind Odo. “I needed to make sure an incoming shipment was still on time.”
“That is not one of your better lies.”
“Clearly you’ve never seen the reaction of a Bularian realizing their new suit will not be finished on time for the next social unveiling.”
Odo sighed. “Garak, I do not want to put you in a holding cell. Just tell me why you were accessing my database.”
Garak shrugged dramatically. “I can’t help it if you won’t believe the complaints of a simple tailor, Odo.”
Rubbing his smooth forehead, Odo wondered for a moment if he should start watching Garak like Quark—and quickly dismissed the thought. Quark was a criminal, but not often particularly dangerous—at least, not on purpose. Garak, on the other hand, was on the wrong side of Odo’s security far less often but was never simple or safe there.
“Consider this a warning, Garak,” said Odo in his lowest voice. “Stay out of my systems.”
Garak tilted his head in acknowledgement and Odo motioned to his officer to let the Cardassian go.
Day Twenty Six
You are loved and you do not deserve to suffer.
Garak inhaled sharply at the message in its first variation. Was it a code? Was it a cipher? What had changed on the station to cause a change in the wording? He thought through all that had happened lately; it had been nearly an Earth month since that disastrous business with the wire, but that was hardly useful knowledge. Dr. Bashir had assured him he had kept Garak’s confidentiality and Garak had ensured it by checking for any records in the infirmary’s system. It was true that Basir and Major Kira had yesterday returned from some away mission that, Garak gathered, had not gone to plan, but that was hardly news enough for this message-sender to change after weeks of sameness. Or was it?
Garak’s door chimed and Garak tilted his head in confusion. No one visited him, but especially no one visited him this early. “Computer, identify visitor,” he said.
“Garak, it’s me,” came Dr. Bashir’s voice as the computer’s response. “Just—would you let me in?”
It was certainly a day for surprises, thought Garak as he gave the permission. Bashir tumbled in looking none the worse for wear until Garak looked at his eyes—those dancing hazel eyes looked exhausted and worn, and Garak suddenly wondered if there had been quite a lot of wear that the infirmary had erased last night.
“Good morning, Doctor,” said Garak. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Bashir simply stood there and looked at him for a moment before taking a step forward, hand outstretched. Garak automatically stepped back and Bashir stopped, letting his hand fall. Garak cursed his reaction and stepped forward. “Doctor?” he asked.
“Do you know that I love it when you call me your ‘dear’ doctor?” asked Bashir, and Garak just barely stopped his jaw from falling open in shock.
“I—had not realized, no,” Garak said into the silence. “Doctor, what is wrong?” Was there a concussion the infirmary had missed? Surely nothing less than neural damage would inspire such a statement.
“There’s so much I can’t tell you, of course, and God but this isn’t going to make any sense without the context,” said Bashir, staring at the floor and pulling on his neck.
Alarmed, Garak stepped into Bashir’s space, attempting to herd him to the couch. “Perhaps a cup of tea, Doctor, and then you can explain—”
“You are loved, Garak, do you know that?”
Garak stopped dead with the second shock. They were standing so close together, too close, Bashir’s narrow shoulder almost brushing Garak’s chest, their faces close enough that Garak could see the darker skin under Bashir’s eyes that meant exhaustion in humans. It could just be a coincidence, Bashir appearing with the same line as the message on the very day it had changed, but Garak did not trust coincidences.
“What makes you say such a thing, Dr. Bashir?” asked Garak, aware that his voice was much colder than it had been.
Bashir looked away, rubbing his neck again. “I wanted you to know. I’ve wanted you to know every day since I visited Tain and I thought I could leave it at that but I—the other—it wasn’t enough.”
Garak stared as he untangled the admission. “The messages—they were you?”
Bashir shrugged. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out sooner; I feared I was embarrassing you with how much I was fawning.”
“You foolish—Dr. Bashir, what on Prime prompted you to send an anonymous repeating message to me of all people?” Garak didn’t raise his voice in his frustration, though it was a near thing.
Bashir looked at him curiously and Garak could almost watch the realization dawn in his mind. “Ah,” he said. “Right, yes, sending an anonymous message to a spy right after I met Tain was probably not as reassuring as I wanted it to be.”
Garak nearly bit his tongue in half to stifle the degree to which the infuriating message had not been reassuring even while a part of him glimmered in interest that the naïve Federation doctor had been able to code a message in such a way that Garak could not untangle it. Clearly, Julian Bashir had hidden depths.
He wrenched his mind away from any imagery that particular idea could uncover before this conversation derailed.
“Doctor, setting aside the wild disregard such an activity evinced and the absurdity of the message itself, why are you here this morning admitting to it?”
Fire flared in those hazel eyes. “It was not an absurd message, Garak. I meant it, every word, every day.”
Such an idea was somehow even more cruel than the anonymity had been—he had wanted to hear such an idea from this human’s lips, oh how he had wanted, but no; that was not how the universe worked. “I’m sure your Federation compassion could have been better directed elsewhere.”
Bashir snorted in disgust, stepping away from Garak and suddenly he felt the lack of heat he hadn’t realized Bashir’s body had been so strongly emanating. “This isn’t Federation, Garak,” said Bashir. “This is me. This is me, having almost watched you die, having fought with you, having listened to you decide that dying was an acceptable option no matter what anyone else thought. This is me having listened to Tain, of whom you spoke with such reverence, talk about how much he wanted you to suffer. You are so ensnared to the man you were and I—I want to set you free to be the man you are now, the man I see in you—”
“Molding me to your Federation ideals one simpering message at a time?”
“No, molding you to your Cardassian ones! You are good, Garak—”
“I am not—”
“No, wait, hear me out. Please? I don’t mean you’re perfect; not by a long shot, for sure. I have no idea of the blood on your hands, I know, but I’ve met the villain you might think yourself to be and I know that I can’t, Garak, I can’t watch you twist yourself into that, not without telling you that it doesn’t have to be like this.”
Garak’s eyes narrowed. “Met the villain?”
Bashir scowled. “I can’t—” He stepped forward, reaching out to Garak and letting his hand fall. “I can’t tell you,” he finished softly. “You know I can’t tell you. But you, this you, here in this universe, does not deserve suffering, is worthy of being loved…is loved.”
An unpleasant scoff ripped its way out of Garak’s lips. “I realize you’ve had us reading several fairy stories of late, Dr. Bashir, but you should remember that the villain is defeated in the end, not loved.”
“You’re not the villain!” returned Bashir.
“How can you possibly still be this naïve?”
“Because I have seen you be the hero!”
Garak stared at him, almost amused.
“Or have you forgotten?” asked Bashir. “Have you forgotten the way you reacted to the Cardassian orphans, or the way you made sure I knew about Lursa and B’Etor, or every time you talk about Cardassia and your face softens just the smallest bit? Have you forgotten that you, only you, took the time not only to introduce yourself to me when it’s usually me making the first move in every possible relationship but then listening, actually listening to me over lunch even though you tell me you think I’m a fool? You are no Starfleet officer, that’s true, and you’re no Prince Charming, either, but that doesn’t disqualify you from being good, or worthy. And even if you were the worst person in the quadrant, you don’t deserve to suffer. No one deserves that.”
The pair glared at each other in silence for a moment, deadlocked in their sense of righteousness. “You have no idea what I have done, Doctor,” said Garak at last. “A few acts of something less than violence does not tip the balance.”
Bashir sighed heavily. “And a lifetime of living in cruel situations ensures that you become cruel. I shot a man, I killed a friend—well, a version of a friend—because it was the only way out. I have sworn to uphold life in all its forms, to do no harm, and I killed—” He broke off, choking on the thought, clearly rocking against whatever was in his mind as he closed his eyes and stumbled slightly. Unthinkingly, Garak reached out to steady him, feeling the warmth of Bashir’s arms under his palms. Bashir opened his eyes again and searched Garak’s. “I’m not saying you have always done the right thing, and I’m not saying you’ve never done the wrong thing. I am saying that you are loved, and worthy of being loved, and I will keep saying that until you stop fighting me on it because it’s true, and for all your lies I know that even you need to hear the truth sometimes.”
“Doctor…” said Garak, trailing off helplessly.
“You don’t have to do anything with that information,” said Bashir, looking at their feet as his long fingers splayed across Garak’s chest. “I didn’t send you those messages to make you uncomfortable and I’m sorry that I didn’t think it through at all, that I didn’t consider your position, and I hope I didn’t force something between us that didn’t—that doesn’t—well, I just wanted you to know that you, Elim Garak, are loved in this universe. In all your infuriating you-ness. And that doesn’t have to be anything other than the fact that it is.”
Hearing his first name from the human should have been more surprising and perhaps surprise was there, somewhere, underneath the thick layer of pleasure at it. It had been so long since someone had called him by that name; longer still since it was used in the affection that covered the doctor’s expressive face.
“I should go,” said Bashir, gently stepping back from the hands Garak hadn’t realized he still had wrapped around the human’s arms. “I’ll stop the messages; I’m sorry, again, that I didn’t think through what it must have looked like to you.” He turned toward the door and Garak understood that something would break, something would be lost if he reached it, if this ended and Garak was tired of things breaking, of things being lost. He cursed his own heart for it not being the first time in his life that he fell to the power of kindness, cursed it and followed it anyway.
“Wait,” said Garak. “There—you did not force anything.”
Bashir turned back to him, his hazel eyes wary, his brow furrowed as he waited.
“I will break your heart,” Garak heard himself say, and surely he had read too many of Bashir’s insipid novels for that phrase to tumble from his mouth.
A half-grin lifted Bashir’s lips. “The thing is, Garak, it’s been broken before. It wasn’t fun, but I didn’t die of it. Despite what you think of me, I’m actually pretty resilient.”
You are the best and strongest of your species, Garak thought to himself. “I will never be your Prince Charming.”
In two long-legged steps, Bashir was back in Garak’s space, wrapping his arms around Garak’s neck and Garak almost forgot how to breathe this close to him, close enough to see the way Bashir’s eyes shifted color around the iris, to see the grooves of weariness cut across his forehead. “Good,” said Bashir, the breath of the exhalation washing across Garak’s lips, “because I make a pretty lousy damsel in distress.”
“Doctor, this is a terrible idea,” murmured Garak, protesting now out of habit and the remaining vestige of ingrained protectiveness even as his own arms wrapped around Bashir’s waist and pulled him even closer, their hips brushing against each other.
“You are allowed to call me Julian,” said Bashir, “and in point of fact I would prefer it.” He closed the last centimeter of distance, his lips skimming Garak’s and even his lips were warm and Garak wanted to envelop himself in this body and wake to the smile that was impossibly wide for such a narrow face and they kissed again, slow and deliberate, heads turning to slot together as Julian’s tongue tasted the seam of Garak’s mouth and Garak opened to him.
You are loved, Garak thought as he closed his eyes and gathered the doctor against himself, thrilling in the way the muscles bent to him. Julian, you are so worthy of being loved, and I will make myself worthy of you.
“You deserve to be loved well,” whispered Julian in between deepening kisses, and just because Garak didn’t believe him didn’t mean he couldn’t entwine his fingers in Julian’s rich, dark hair, letting himself fall into the warmth of this man, taking what was given so generously and drinking in every moment of it, set free for this moment to be in thrall to his beloved. It was more than enough.