Work Text:
He makes dresses for Cardassian women. Long and flowing, with wide open neck lines. He makes them in all colors, all fabrics, for all seasons. No one buys them. He has only seen one Cardassian woman in four years, and her situation had hardly been conducive to clothes shopping. Garak makes the dresses anyway.
The Doctor likes to watch him work. He comes by the shop often, before and after shifts, when he’s on call and wants to be near the infirmary. Sometimes they talk: their conversation is much more idle than their lunch debates, like wildflowers along a roadside instead of a carefully cultivated garden. Sometimes Garak can convince the Doctor to read to him while he works and, for a little while, sipping tea and stitching seams, he doesn’t feel so lonely.
They are sitting in companionable silence while Garak cuts pieces from a bolt of deep purple Vulcan cotton (perfect for desert heat) when the Doctor asks, “Whose measurements do you use?”
Garak glances up, sees the Doctor is just making a casual inquiry, and plays dumb, “Why, whose ever I’m creating for, of course.”
It’s possible the Doctor rolls his eyes. He’s gotten better at seeing through Garak’s lesser deceptions. But the tailor doesn’t look up to see, just cuts a fine, straight line. Either way, the human clarifies, “I mean, all these dresses you make. They’re not for anyone in particular. Not a customer, anyway.”
Well-observed, Doctor, Garak thinks to himself. Out loud, he misdirects without a second thought, “Oh,” he sighs, sitting back and looking around his shop, “No one specific. Perhaps I try to bring to life my own vision of ideal feminine beauty.” He smiles, no teeth, then adds, “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Hm,” the Doctor replies. He’s not entirely convinced, but he lets it go. The Doctor has also learned when Garak will give, and when he won’t.
Besides, Garak muses, his lie is not so far from the truth, this time. The woman he thinks of is so far gone from him she may as well be some imagined ideal. He turns his gaze to the thin young Human across from him. The Doctor is nothing like she was, all arms and legs and undecorated face, all innocence and optimism. But then, they do both like to smile.
“Perhaps,” he says, bringing the Doctor’s attention away from his dresses, “It’s time I made a few suits instead.” He smiles the way she taught him long ago, absent of truth but full of promise. His alien companion smiles back and Garak thinks, yes, it is indeed time for something new.
-End-