Work Text:
The shop was closed. As a tailoring establishment, the place had been closed for several months; the racks bare, the fabrics recycled, the mannequins grouped together by the wall like mourners at a funeral. The swatches and buttons, the scissors and scanners, the needles and bright thread had disappeared completely from the workbench, replaced by stacks of PADDs, a bank of monitors, the remains of half-eaten meals, and many empty cups carrying the scent of rokassa juice. About a month ago, a camp bed had materialized in one corner. The only constant fixture had been the Cardassian, ill-tempered and unrested, and even he was not here tonight. The lights were off; the door was locked; the sign said: Closed until further notice.
“Computer,” said Bashir. “Locate Elim Garak.”
“Elim Garak is in holosuite 2.”
Bashir headed to Quark’s. Inside, the barkeep, watching him head in the direction of the holosuites, said, “You looking for Garak?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell him I want my holosuite back? He’s been in there for hours—”
“You know there’s a medical need—”
“Sure! And I’ve been keeping that suite available twenty-six hours a day for months now, but I’ve not seen any sign of improvement in his condition—”
“Claustrophobia doesn’t really work like that, Quark.”
“And I sympathise with his troubles. No, really! But what I want to know is – who’s going to settle the bill? That shop’s been closed for months, and I bet Starfleet isn’t paying consultancy fees for whatever it is he’s been doing for you—”
“Look, charge it to the infirmary, all right?
“If you say so.”
The holosuite, when Bashir entered, opened onto a bleak and empty country of windswept grassland. There was a path of sorts, which he followed gently but steadily uphill. The day was hot, but there was a faint and salty breeze. Cresting the hill, Bashir saw the shore and the sea. A vast, bright blue ocean; a stretch of orange sand that went on and on into the distance – no end that he could see, only huge and shifting dunes. There were no trees, but here and there, stark and black and writhen, rose up the bones of huge animals and the battered wrecks of great ships.
Bashir followed the path down onto the sand. At the place where the grass gave way to the shore, he found Garak, lying with his eyes closed, a PADD in one hand. He was propped up on a big pillow, worked in a complex and abstract design. Red and brown and orange; stripes and zigzags. Bashir stood, his shadow falling over him. Garak opened his eyes and looked straight back.
“Well. Fancy seeing you here.”
Garak moved over to make space on the pillow. Once he was comfortable, lying down, Bashir said, “Feeling any better?”
“A little,” said Garak. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry you’re still struggling.”
Garak shrugged.
“Ezri didn’t really help, did she?”
“No,” said Garak. “But please – don’t tell her that I said so.”
“No, I won’t…” Bashir sighed. “When do you leave?”
“In about six hours.”
“Will it be all right?”
“What specifically do you mean by that, doctor?”
“I mean – having to work with Damar.”
“It will have to be,” muttered Garak.
“How about working with Kira?”
“The commander,” said Garak, “will have my unequivocal support.”
“She’ll appreciate that.”
“We’ll see.”
“It won’t be easy, though, will it? Working with Damar—”
“I wasn’t expecting it to be easy,” said Garak. “But I’ll do what I have to, if it means Cardassia will be free of the Dominion. It’s… the least I can do.”
A shadow passed over his face. He looked older, suddenly, filled with regret. What have you done, thought Bashir, for Cardassia? I doubt I know the half of it… “I went past the shop earlier,” he said. “It was strange to see it closed. It’ll be good to see it open again.”
“Open?”
“When this is all over.”
“When this is—Doctor, you do realize that I’m not coming back?”
“What?”
“From this mission—”
“Well, of course you’re coming back! You of all people will be back—”
“I don’t mean dying. I’ve no intention of dying—”
“Well, no—”
“I mean, I’m not coming back. Here. To the station.” Garak twisted the PADD round in his hands. “Doctor, if I survive this, if Cardassia survives this, I’m staying. I won’t leave Cardassia again. I won’t let them make me leave Cardassia again. They can imprison me if they want, or execute me—”
“It won’t come to that, surely?”
“Well, I hope my efforts will have earned me some parole.”
“That’s if we win.”
“If we don’t win,” said Garak, “the whole question of my exile becomes moot.”
“Oh,” said Bashir. “I see what you mean.”
They lay, side by side, untouching, and contemplating the view. On closer inspection, Bashir saw, the place was considerably less barren than one might think. There were patches of yellowy grass here and there, and he thought he saw the movement of some creature within. The sand, when he ran it through his fingers, turned out to be a mosaic of many different colours – yellow and white and orange and gold and brown. Even black. Far down along the shore, as far as even his augmented eye could see, the huge bones stretched out, like beads on a cruel necklace.
“What is this place, Garak?” So much he had never asked, about Cardassia. No time; not now.
“It’s part of the long coastline that runs down the western edge of the southern continent on Cardassia Prime. The region is called Tessenekh. I think that translates as ‘Skeleton Coast’.”
Bashir swept out his hand to encompass the bones of the animals, the bones of the ships. “And all that—”
“Extinct megafauna. Remnants of fallen republics. ‘Look on my works’, you know, that sort of thing—”
“And this is where you choose to come?”
“Excuse me?”
“When you’re feeling anxious? Oh, Garak…”
“But doctor, there’s something so very calming about contemplating the futility of all endeavours, the inevitable extinction of all life—”
“Maybe,” said Bashir, rather sternly. “Though we can of course choose to slow down rather than hasten the process.”
“I suppose we can,” said Garak. He turned to lie on his side, propping himself upon his elbow. A smile was dancing across his lips. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you.”
“What?”
“On the Founders’ planet.”
“Oh,” said Bashir. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“I hadn’t.”
Bashir, mirroring his movement, came to rest again facing him. “If we’re doing apologies, then I’m sorry I shot you.”
“Hmm?”
“In the holosuite that time.”
“Oh! Oh, don’t give that another moment’s thought.”
Garak closed his eyes. He stilled, to the extent that Bashir began to think that he’d fallen asleep. But then he breathed out, and said, very softly, “Julian Subatoi Bashir... Do you know, you are without doubt the most beautiful, the most infuriating, the most delightful person that I never slept with.”
“Never say never,” said Bashir. Over the next few hours, a crimson sunset so vivid – so ravishing – unfolded that Bashir was left speechless. Then the shadow of night fell, and everything went dark.
When Bashir woke, the program had been ended. He was lying on the floor of an empty holosuite with the pillow still under his head. Up close, he could see every single meticulously wrought stitch. Look on my works. Garak was gone, of course, but the PADD was there. Bashir picked it up, to see what he had been reading – not the first book he’d lent him, it turned out, but one of the most successful. A small piece of text had been highlighted; perhaps for him to see, perhaps not. It read:
“All the privilege I claim… (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.”
Underneath that, Garak had written:
You know where to find me.
Bashir, with PADD and pillow, exited the holosuite. He settled the account with Quark and went out onto the Promenade. His route back to the infirmary took him past the shop. The lights were still off, the door still locked, and the sign on the door said: Closed.