Chapter Text
It’s been two years since Garak’s departure from Deep Space Nine, almost to the day. Where he once would have slippers on the cold floor of his tailor shop, he now stood with claws in gently warming sand. He was looking out on the horizon where the sun was lowering itself, standing at the side of the house he is slowly, but surely, putting back together. In his hands was a pot made of terracotta with a sprout shooting right from the cozy soil of its origin. The breeze was a whisper, and the moon was full, and Garak was home. His claws scrape against the pot as his muscles flex to clutch it in his hands. The banished man has returned to rebuild his home.
So why is there a hollowed-out part of his chest, so deep that you can hear your own echo? Why does he feel as if something is missing when everything he had been missing before was now all around him? What is missing? What did he leave behind?
Garak walks on and off the path of stones leading to his garden as he pretends to not have all of those answers.
In the span of those two years, the Cardassian government had begun rebuilding themselves; the planet of Cardassia Prime, the path of Cardassians. Slowly, his people were beginning to act like true Cardassians again, instead of just a military. Instead of a race that killed and maimed, they built homes. They cherish their families; care for their young in a way that assures Garak that, one day, across the space in which Cardassians held, there will be peace. There are parts of homes with bricks missing and arguments still scream from high towers, but generations ahead are the peace his people need.
The stone path towards Garak’s garden wraps around the side of the house to the front, blending into the pathway to his front door and leading all the way behind the house. Building a garden… takes time. His childhood was a garden, his childhood was Cardassia, and he was making something new out of it. So, now, he has decided to grow vegetables. He’s had one decent harvest so far, but he knows he cannot take all the credit. Chatty calls to an old friend Keiko O’Brien was truly his reason for success. On Deep Space Nine they had talked very often— mostly when both of their companions were too busy playing pretend with each other and leaving their other halves to sulk around the Promenade. They had contacted each other much more frequently when they both were making the moves to their respective planets after their lives on the space station. Now those calls are usually reserved for birthdays or anniversaries of important events or when the other feels lonely. Not that Garak had grown any less lonely as the years stretched on, but Keiko is a working mother with two children. Garak is a busy man in an empty house. However, again, he is beginning to grow his own produce. Perhaps that is a start to something, he thinks as he drops to his knees in the sand to set his pot aside.
Crystalized sand and dust surround a slightly uplifted patch of soil. It works as a barrier, though it looks more like a small flower box than something that is growing edible crops. Garak’s knees press against the scratchy garden wall and his claws begin to dig a hole in the dirt. His yaranada plant has begun to outgrow its pot and, with Keiko’s instructions always repeating in his mind, he is moving it to where it could breathe. Sunlight would reach it much better from this spot. On the ledge of his makeshift garden box is a spade. Garak had already detached the soil and roots from the pot, but he gently ran the spade around the shell of the dirt once more for good measure. Then his claws caringly lift the plant. The hole is a nice fit and Garak is pleased with himself. He has a long history of having to set plants back in their pots, digging again, just to find it was too deep, and having to start once more. It feels very rewarding to have something succeed on the first try is all that is on his mind while he peacefully pulls the dirt back over the young plant. Garak realizes, then, that the moon has already begun to pull itself over the sky, and when he looks up, he sees the pinpricks of stars slowly poking through into his perception. He sighs and stands, and dusts off his knees with the heel of his palm. It’s only a few paces to his well, where he picks up a dish and reaches into the water. He tilts it to one side to fill it up just enough that he could fit his palms in, before walking back to his plants and crouching down. The dish rests gently on the wall for him to set his hands into, just for him to pat around his newly planted stem.
Garak was about to stand back up and take the dish with him. He had many other plants that required the amount of water he had gathered, but something else sprouting from the soil caught his eye. He squints and lowers himself again, tilting his head to get a better look at the small, curled sprouts that are growing from the soil. Recognition of what they were made him scoff and stand upright, frustratingly patting his hands on his robe. Weeds— quite infectious ones, too. Ones he definitely should have found sooner than now. Garak picks up his tin of water and goes about his business anyway. He fusses in his mind about such a careless mistake, something he should’ve noticed at a glance. It’s small moments like this where he wishes for another set of eyes; two large dark ones, that loom over him and nitpick when he finds the time in between breaths. Someone who would’ve already made sure the soil was the best of quality, running tests, doing experiments. There would not be a single parasite in Garak’s garden if Julian Bashir was on this planet.
Loneliness is an odd thing. On Deep Space Nine he felt as though he was the only person walking around a giant space station without a single soul. The station had the ability to house over ten thousand people but Garak felt that the only person was him. He was alone. Until he spotted a branch of ivory at a table. Until he sat down with Dr. Bashir, and talked, and talked until his life had been thrown into his hands again and again. Dr. Bashir single-handedly lifted him away from something terrible— from what exactly, Garak still does not know— and showed him how to live. And then, on that space station built for ten thousand people, the two of them began to pick out weeds in a very messy garden. They had gotten pulled away before they could complete that task.
If Garak called Keiko often, he talked to Julian Bashir all the time. Though, those communications were never long. Short, but frequent. Sick Bay in Deep Space Nine never closes it seems. It’s not surprising, though it always makes Garak huffy. But nowadays, communications were almost nonexistent. For the past eight months or so, Garak has tried very hard to not think about Dr. Bashir. When Garak truly began to get his footing into fixing his homeworld, and the good Doctor seemingly kept his feet glued to Deep Space Nine, unmoving, things seemed to be over. One day they had scheduled a specific day to talk and catch up, mentioned it so often, made sure the other remembered. Dr. Bashir never called. Garak waited until it was the next day. He still remembers the date, a Tuesday at 5:50 PM. He never apologized either. It appeared he just forgot. It took a lot of things to make Julian Bashir forget something, and whatever it was, Garak had recognized it as the ending point of their relationship. Not their friendship, no, that is something that could never be broken. But whatever laid betwixt that friendship had just… dissipated. Garak hung his head and laughed softly, sadly. All it took was one weed in his garden, and suddenly the sorrow of being far away from his Doctor fell down on him.
But before he goes inside, he looks up at the stars. He finds a bright one, a bold one, and decides that is where Julian Bashir is, that is Deep Space Nine. Then, he lifts his tail and begins combing the sand out of the long hair that resides beneath.
Garak’s house was large. It was where he grew up or, rather, what was left of it and what he could replace. He was sure the kitchen was much larger than it was now, and he does not think a couch of this size in his lounging area. Delicately put together, designed, cared for in the deepest ways Garak can manage, it is silent. The only noise is the door closing behind him with the lock turning automatically. There was hardly even a sound as his feet padded against the floor to the bathroom or as that door closed. He managed to build such a large home, but so much emptiness had filled it to where it felt like a closet. He felt locked away in his own home, even though he feels the sun every morning. He sighs, finally filling the room with noise, before making his way towards the cellar.
Hot rocks stand beneath a boiling pool of water. The moment he steps into the small, dark room, he is met with humidity that immediately calms him. Another robe is hung on the wall. It’s much more appropriate for slipping into bed. Garak slips his clothes off of his body and lets out another sigh at the feeling of the warm and thick air against his scales. Usually, Garak would lay upon the rocks that surrounded the water, warmed by the coals beneath. But today, he decides to slip in, arms reaching into the water before he is submerged. His eyes, nose, and the tip of his tail were the only things that appear above the water. The water is just deep enough for him to float, claws only gently scraping at the bottom of the pool. His eyes close. Here, he can forget everything about Deep Space Nine. Inside his sauna, Garak was never exiled. He never left Cardassia, and Cardassia never left him. Everything had always been the way it was and the way it should be. Cardassians were always kind, open, and fine people. The peace in this room was so heavy it was almost nauseating.
Garak’s hair feathers out in the water. The sand is lifted, the sun-scorched air is lifted and replaced with the boil and bubble of the water. To have his own sauna now, one to visit whenever he pleases, one that’s real, it feels more like home than the stones outside will ever feel like. It is not like a holosuite. It is far from the moment he shared with Ziyal.
His eyes open. Oh, poor Ziyal. Such a sweet, naive, tragic girl. His heart aches for her and it had since he laid eyes on her. A dear friend in search of a better world. She had the right ideals, she was heading and leading in the right direction, just at the wrong time. Garak looks down, at the water. Ziyal never had the chance to live as a Cardassian— Ziyal never had a chance to live. She was never able to feel a real Cardassian sauna. She never got to feel the air meant for her. Garak shuts his eyes tightly. No, no, no, this is the room where Deep Space Nine did not happen. He never met a woman named Ziyal, he never had lunches with her, he never watched her be amazed at the things Dr. Bashir would tell her over dinings, he never heard the stories of healing Bashir spoke of. Garak never witnessed Dr. Bashir give her hope. Garak grits his teeth. That did not happen. That did not happen.
Ziyal did not give Garak the encouragement to create a Cardassia where people like himself, and Ziyal, and his Doctor to be safe and comfortable in. He tries very, very hard to keep that in his mind. He ducks his head underwater in an attempt to escape past experiences.
“You are truly amazing,” Ziyal had told Julian over lunch, with complete amazement on her face.
“It’s just my job,” Julian said with a smile as he brought his drink to his lips. He had just finished telling a story that Garak had heard a million times, something about curing an illness no one had even heard of. Ziyal loved those stories of healing.
“Julian,” Ziyal had begun apprehensively, and Julian leaned in closer to show her it was okay. However, he threw a quick glance at Garak. It was suspicious, a tad on the nervous side. This made Garak draw all of his attention towards Ziyal with an interested smile. Her eyes had not left the table, and with a calming exhale, she finally looked up and asked, “why are you on Deep Space Nine?”
Dr. Bashir cocked his head to the side. “Well… I’m stationed here. I was assigned here by Starfleet.” Once again, his eyes meet Garak. Every time that happens it’s as if everything around him goes silent, and there’s nothing but sight between the two. “I’m needed here.”
“But you must have had other offers to be somewhere else!” Ziyal sounded flabbergasted but all the Doctor could do was laugh as his head ducked down. Ziyal gently placed her hand on his arm, something she did very often. She was very affectionate. “I’m serious— you could change any world you went to, Dr. Bashir.”
All Garak could see were the carefully carved smile lines as he gave Ziyal a smile. It was very apparent how much that meant to him. That is all Julian had ever wanted to do, heal what was broken. Garak leaned his head onto his hand. He heals what is broken. “That’s very kind of you, Ziyal. Thank you.”
Ziyal turned to Garak with a knowing smile. “What about you, Garak?” She asked slyly, feigning innocence. Moments like those are where her Cardassian side shined through. Garak inhaled sharply and quickly picked up his tea to casually sip. Dr. Bashir’s eyes were on him now, expectantly, with a waiting and a rather cocky smile on his face. That expression was one Garak could never forget.
“I believe our Doctor can do anything he puts his mind to,” Garak said truthfully. Julian smiled.
“I’m inclined to say the feeling is mutual.”
Garak grabs the rocks surrounding the bath and pulls himself up quickly. He climbs out of the water in a frustrated manner, seemingly angry at himself. He dries himself off and quickly slips into his robe, tying it around his waist, and picking up his dirty clothes. It all happens in such a rush; the memories, the rage, the sadness. He stares at the water before heading upstairs.
Julian Bashir was inclined to say the feeling was mutual. Garak put his mind to fixing his home, and Julian believed in him. That feeling gripped his chest and made his mouth twitch. He was doing what he put his mind to, and he was seemingly succeeding. His eyes burned, and he decided it was time to head upstairs.
There were many more important things to think about than Dr.Bashir, he lies to himself. He must make himself dinner, and work on tomorrow's itinerary, and possibly do whatever else it takes to get his mind off of things. In his dining area lies a bowl of fruits, and he picks a few that he believes will be enough for the night. He brings them to the counter and begins to cut them up in silence. A part of him wishes he had some Terran fruit— a cantaloupe, to be exact. That was one of the only Terran foods he found himself liking. Julian had introduced it to him during dinner one night, and—
Garak brings down the knife loudly in the middle of his dinner when he decides he is not hungry. He packages the food to save for tomorrow. He decides he should work on his itinerary instead.
Tomorrow, he had a meeting to discuss local issues. Then, of course, there’s the weed problem, so he’ll have to head to the local market. Luckily, he was a gardener in his youth and had a wonderful mentor. He knows a very easy way to take care of these weeds; trado’p seeds. He remembers watching Tolan, whom he learned everything from up until Keiko, crush the seeds into a powder and just dust it across the soil. Something about how the weeds are formed and the acidity of the seeds; as he replicates his dinner, he does not feel the need to go over the entire process, unlike someone he knows. He groans. Why must the Doctor force his way into his mind at the smallest of things? Whenever there’s a problem that he can’t seem to solve, Garak can think of a thousand reasons why it could have been avoided if Bashir had been there.
Yes, Elim, Garak thinks to himself sarcastically way, and if Julian were here, surely, there would be peace on Cardassia.
His tail drags all the way up the stairs to his room. It is well kept; many old-fashioned books are on shelves with his computer area off in a corner. There’s a candle on his nightstand next to his circular bed. His window resides right over the head of his sleeping area for the sun to alert him it was time to move on with the day. Garak adds his day's worth of dirty clothes to the pile to wash. That’s something else he must do tomorrow; his last set of cleaning must be dry by now. After that, Garak has nothing else to do but crawl into bed.
A large blanket waits at the foot of the bed. It’s almost quilt-like, fluffed, and warm. He has four pillows, two beneath his head and two next to the others. Next to where he curls himself to sleep is a large book. It had been a gift from Dr. Bashir. It was a collection of ancient Earth poems by one of the greatest poets of their history. He had never opened it. His hand drags across the cover of the cursed thing, and he remembers the day he received it. His eyes squeeze shut. He will not think about the small argument the two had had about what truly made poetry. Julian’s endeared laughed and half-hearted frustrated sighs, his smiles. Oh, his smiles.
The blanket is grabbed by a claw and pulled all the way up to Garak’s chin.
“Computer,” he says lazily, “lights.”
It is now dark.
Garak closes his eyes gently this time. He relaxes his eyelids and shifts to his comfort under his large and warm blanket. His large and warm home. Tomorrow, he will talk to change his planet, and he will go to the market. His tail curls around the book at his side.
He falls asleep thinking of what to have for lunch the next day.