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Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt - ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold that stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I will say.
- "Ask Me," William Stafford, 1975.
The rain sparkled in heavy droplets and in slow streams against the window, illumined from the outside by a streetlight far below. The room was sparsely furnished - a bed, a table and two chairs, a lamp, a small bureau in the corner. But it was warm and secure and comfortable; the floor was carpeted, the bed was mounded with pillows and blankets, the heating system kept up a comforting tapping in the floor vent, signifying all was well downstairs on the chilly night.
All was well upstairs too, although the evening had not started out that way. The trip to Bajor had been Julian Bashir's idea - leave the station for a while, just for a while, leave the accusing glances he was sure were aimed Garak's way, leave the cleaning up and the rebuilding and the taking stock and the - yes - the reconsidering. Garak was back, Odo was back, their lives were back. But where were they, really? Were they still somewhere in Dominion space dancing endlessly through that ritual of advance and retreat? Were the rumors true? Kira had been only too happy to tell him. Garak had tortured, they had nearly lost Odo, Garak had returned on the transport and had shown no remorse, only a faraway look in his eyes and a determined set to his jaw that never wavered.
Bashir went to talk to him then. Nothing. Monosyllables in reply, a stated wish to be left alone, a sudden glimmer of compassion when he had thought he had hurt Bashir - but then it was gone and he had retreated once again. Bashir talked to Odo. Monosyllables, a slightly less challenging look in his eyes, but then again, his eyes weren't real, his eyes were only an image of what he believed eyes should be, should reflect. So would anything revealed by those eyes be the truth? He professed no ill will toward Garak; he, in fact, professed nothing at all but a wish to put the incident behind them both.
Bashir asked to read the report. Sisko refused, stating that Bashir had no medical need to see it, as Odo's changeling body was already healed, completely repaired. Bashir repeated: there were things that couldn't be seen to repair, minds that needed healing in both Odo and Garak. Sisko curtly told him that he wasn't a counselor and sent him back to his infirmary. Like a child sent to his room, Bashir mused, like a child who had been reprimanded for prying and was told to "go out and play" and to stop concerning himself with grownup things.
Garak met him for lunch a day later. The structural damage to his shop was still being repaired, so there was really nothing he could do until the walls and the floor were made sound again. He had been spending the long days in his room, ordering supplies, examining patterns, reacquainting himself with the ebb and flow of station procedures he had neglected ever since his suspicion had first taken shape, days, weeks ago. Back to normal life once again. Or so he told Bashir, still with that vague expression and that faraway look.
Lunch had never been so quiet. Was that why people stared? Was it unsettling to see the pair, normally so voluble, so animated, so enthusiastic, in uncomfortable silence with hooded eyes? Or was it that Garak's deeds were more widely known than even Bashir suspected - was the mood of the station now irrevocably turned against him, now that he had harmed the irascible but beloved chief of security in some way that only the two of them fully comprehended?
Or was it simply that Bashir felt glances where none existed, accusations where none had been spoken... He only knew that the quiet shell that used to be his Garak was sick, was hurting, in ways that not even Odo shared. Odo, after all, was the victim, by all the terse and scattered accounts Bashir could tease out of the Starfleet records. Garak was the - what? What had Garak been? He had been forced - hadn't he? Forced to attack Odo or else watch him suffer and then possibly die? How would Odo have died? Did Garak do what was necessary to keep him alive, no matter what the cost to himself and his own mind?
Was that why his eyes themselves were so dead now - had he suffered in Odo's place, with no way to escape his own suffering?
Or - had he done something willingly, committed some unspeakable act, watched Odo suffer and taken pleasure in it? After all, wasn't that Garak's past? Wasn't it? Would Garak have done the same to him? Would he, Julian Bashir, have died, not possessing Odo's strength or ability to withstand physical agony? Was Garak playing those scenarios in his mind as he ate his now-cold meal and drank his lukewarm tea, his blue eyes darting to the doctor's face and then, just as quickly, darting away as soon as Bashir's eyes met his?
Bashir asked him back to his room. Garak hesitated but agreed, and followed behind him as one on his way to his execution. Bashir nestled him into a corner of the sofa, sat near him, placed his head on his shoulder, held him - Garak closed his eyes, slowly breathed in and out, and let one glimmer of a tear linger at the corner of his eye. But nothing more. Bashir sighed and held him even closer - the two slept but, in the morning, Garak had gone, a blanket neatly arranged over Bashir's shoulders.
"I'm taking you away from here," Bashir finally said, to the Cardassian's startled surprise. "We're going away - just until your shop is ready. We're going to talk. If you choose. You're going to talk, I'm going to listen. You're going to try to heal." Garak shook his head. "Yes, you are. You're going to heal. Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault. You made a mistake. Odo told me it wasn't your fault. He's better now. I need you to be better too. I need you."
Garak again shook his head, but there was no conviction in it, no real protest. Bashir packed a bag, just one bag, with warm garments for the two of them, with a padd containing the thoughts and the prayers of many cultures when healing was required. With a message from Odo - "Be well. My friend." He would share that with Garak when he needed to. Not before. He didn't think Garak would believe it if he shared it before he needed to.
They had journeyed in virtual silence, walked from the transport to the ground terminal in silence, shivering against the early-spring damp and cold. Maybe this had been a mistake - maybe the warmth and security of the station were best, maybe the station was home to Garak and he would fare better in his home, no matter what memories assailed him there. But Bashir didn't fully believe it. He wanted to take Garak off of stations, off of ships, off of artificial shells filled with recirculated air. He wanted to take him to green plants, to rebirth, to the smell of rich soil and of nearly undetectable sweetness from pale shoots emerging and buds opening, and rain, real rain, falling.
Their room was on the top floor of the inn - Kira after all had been very grudgingly but penitently helpful and had recommended a small, quiet and secluded retreat, where the two would be made welcome and left in peace. They climbed four flights of stairs - each step creaking underneath their boots - and then ate a small meal at the tiny table near the window as rain began to fall. Bashir's conversation - monologue, really - ranged over several minor but amusing incidents from their short journey. Garak began to smile - almost smiled, then as quickly grew serious and withdrew into himself.
Bashir grasped his arm and guided him to the bed. They undressed in silence, but each continuing to wear the warm undergarments in which they had traveled. This was not going to be a night for passion - Bashir wanted only warmth and comfort for his friend. He drew him under the blankets, coaxed him into his arms, pulled the blankets around Garak's shoulders, and held him. Silent. Not moving. Eyes closed, listening to the raindrops patter more loudly and hypnotically against the glass. Bashir, in fact, nearly fell asleep until he was startled by a sound - the faintest whisper, against his ear. Garak.
"Julian."
Silence. Bashir barely breathed.
"Julian - please help me. Please forgive me." A pause. "You forgave me once."
"I forgive you again." Bashir was instantly awake.
"You don't know what I've done this time."
"It doesn't matter what you've done. You're sorry for what you've done."
"How do you know?" Bashir opened his eyes to see Garak's eyes glittering in the flickering light. "How do you know I'm sorry?"
"Because you're sick, my love. You're almost dying with sorrow. You're not proud. You need to heal. You need to forgive yourself."
"Oh Julian... I can't." He shuddered against Bashir's side; his whole body shuddered and Bashir felt the cold inside him. "I can't. Not ever."
"You can. I can." He shifted in the bed and pulled Garak against his chest, then settled back against the pillows and whispered to him in the stillness, "I can. And I do. But you must tell me. I need to ask you what happened, what you did. I need to know only because you need to tell me."
"I can't tell you." Garak was still shivering but had reached out and drawn Bashir's body even closer; he clung to him and was cocooned inside the blankets as in a sanctuary against the night and the rain. A sanctuary of forgiveness, of peace. "If I tell you, if you know, then..."
"Then?"
"Then -" Silence.
"Then I suppose I'll just continue to love you. The same as always. The same as before."
"You can't know that."
"I do know that. Nothing will change. Whatever you did, that's not your life. Your life is here. With me. Please let me know what's wrong. Please tell me."
"Oh Julian." A small sound, very quiet, but loud in Bashir's mind and loud against the raindrops. The two drew closer, so close it almost hurt, so close that their two breaths mingled and the warmth of the room and the security of the embrace pushed everything else away. "Oh my love. You know you had only to ask me. You always have only to ask."
The End