Chapter Text
As miserable as Terok Nor under Dukat’s administration used to be, at least Garak wasn’t so cold all the time. For all their warmth in both physiology and demeanor, humans have the nasty habit of turning every space they inhabit into a freezing hell. Garak spends his days restrained by layers upon layers of thick clothing, his muscles sore from shivering and huddling up against the cold. Combined with the splitting headaches from the harsh fluorescent lights, it’s as if the station itself is hostile to his presence.
The deactivation of his neural implant made this constant discomfort even more acute, even if it did bring him some unexpected respite in the form of one Doctor Julian Bashir. After being subjected to Garak’s semi-delusional rants, the good doctor took it upon himself to make Garak’s stay in Deep Space Nine as pleasant as possible under the circumstances. As per an official request by the station’s Chief Medical Officer, the upper temperature limit in Chamber 901, Habitat Level H-3 was to be raised to 40°C to prevent health complications from long-term exposure to temperatures below the patient’s tolerated levels. Garak had protested at first, angry that this vulnerability of his had been made public. After his first full night’s sleep since the humans took charge of the station, however, he had to admit it was a tolerable price to pay for warm quarters.
That warmth seems like a distant memory right now, as Garak phases in and out of consciousness. An ion surge from the wormhole has caused several of the station's main systems to overload; to Garak’s chagrin, one of those systems was weather and temperature control. As soon as the announcement came through the emergency comms system, he gathered every blanket, coat, and thermal undershirt he owned and constructed a “nest” to bury himself in, hoping this would offer at least some protection from the freezing temperatures. After two hours, however, he realized that it wouldn’t be enough. As the unforgiving cold from outer space seeps through the bulkheads, Garak faces the increasing possibility that he might freeze to death before the Engineering crew is able to restore the systems. How ironic , he muses, to think of the countless assassination attempts I survived as an agent from the Order, only to succumb to the elements as a plain, simple tailor. I suppose Tain will get his wishes after all…
Through his cold-induced haze, Garak hears the door chiming. He can’t gather enough wits to offer a response and hopes that his silence is enough to deter this unwanted visitor. No such luck. The chiming only grows more insistent, until it stops. Then, a muffled voice is barely heard from outside his quarters, followed by a whoosh as the door opens.
He comes back into alertness as his training takes over. His instincts tell him to fight, to defend himself, but he’s too weak to move. He’s vulnerable, completely at the mercy of his intruder. Now would be the perfect opportunity for an assassination; he knows from experience. But what kind of assassin rings the doorbell before breaking in?
His answer comes as a lanky figure appears through his bedroom door. His intruder is none other than Doctor Bashir, wearing the ugliest coat Garak has ever seen in his life. The abomination is of a bright red color, covered with green stripes, and, by the Guls , are those pom poms ?
Seemingly unaware of his sartorial crimes, the doctor takes in Garak’s huddled form with an amused smile.
“Well, hello there, Garak. Don’t you look cosy.”
“L-l-looks can be d-deceiving, d-d-d-doctor.” He fails to hold back the shivering. “Now is r-r-really not a good t-time, s-s-so if-f you’d b-be so k-k-kind as to…”
“This isn’t a social call, Garak,” Bashir interrupts with an eye-roll. “I’m here to make sure that my most stubborn patient doesn’t suffer from the ill effects of acute hypothermia, just because of his thickheaded refusal to seek help of any kind.”
“S-sound-d-ds l-l-l-like an i-i-i-inf-f-furiating ch-ch-charact-t-ter…” he says, struggling to make his voice resonate.
“Oh, you have no idea. The man’s a pain, though he’ll never admit to being in pain. He also happens to be extremely susceptible to below-freezing temperatures, so you can imagine my concern when the weather systems go down and I don’t see hide nor hair of him.”
My dear doctor, your concern is appreciated but unwarranted. As you can see, I feel perfectly fine is what he wants to say, but all he can manage is a pathetic grunt. It seems that he’s used up the little energy he had left in trying to speak with the doctor. The last thing Garak sees before his eyes close on their own accord is Bashir’s expressive features shift from friendly exasperation to concern. Now all he feels is cold…
Someone approaches him. A touch of delicious warmth against his forehead. A hand? He leans into it, seeking more. There’s a soft noise in the background, its cadence shifting. A voice. “...Freezing…” is all he can make of what it's saying, so distant. He grunts in protest as the hand is taken away. Something tugs at his blanket. He wants to grab onto it, but his arms won’t move. “...sorry about this…” Warm hands again, brushing against his bare chest and since when has his chest been bare? and it's cold, so cold…
The sudden warmth feels scalding as it thaws the scales on his back. It burns all the way to his bones, and it’s painful but oh-so wonderful as it consumes him…
…the stars fade little by little, drowned by the first light of dawn. The pink horizon gives way to old-orange rays that cast elongated shadows as they hit rust-colored rocks. Dust clouds sparkle all around him, like tiny diamonds floating adrift. He closes his eyes as he feels sunlight against his skin, surrendering to its warm embrace…
…an arm reaching around his torso, silky-smooth skin against rough scales. A chest expands and retracts, its rhythm in tandem with the tiny puffs of air blowing at the back of his neck. That movement causes sparse chest hair to brush against the ridges on his back, tingling. A warm body surrounds him, solid but soft. He opens his mouth, allowing his tongue to scent the air: something alcohol-based and fragrant (post-shave, volunteers a small part of his brain); that musky, salty odor that is Human sweat (still present, even in this blasted cold); and…yes. That cocktail of pheromones that is unique to Doctor Bashir…
…and Garak finally feels content, embraced by both the Cardassian sun and his dearest Doctor Bashir… no, his dearest Julian . Because here, under this beautiful sunrise, they can be Julian and Elim, and their embrace can be a loving one. Here, he can turn around and wrap his arms around that slim frame. Here, he can raise his hand and caress that soft cheek. Here, his mouth can follow those puffs of air, bringing their lips together…
“Hmm… your temperature seems to be rising, and your heart rate is almost back to normal. It seems like we’re out of the woods. Phew! You got me worried for a minute there."
The doctor’s voice hits him like a bucket of cold water as reality dawns on Garak. Exile has made you soft , says the voice of Enabran Tain that has taken permanent residence on his mind. Too trusting. You let your enemies see you at your most vulnerable, you expose your back to them. Your weakness will be your downfall. And the arm around him, the many blankets he’s under, are too restraining, he can’t move, can’t breathe, his bare chest is too exposed, he needs to run, needs to… control himself. He’s embarrassed himself enough already.
Garak takes a deep breath, hoping he’s fast enough to hide his outburst from the doctor. He turns on his back, his shoulder now in contact with the other man’s chest. The movement causes Bashir to loosen his hold, leaving only an arm lightly draped over Garak’s stomach. This new position makes breathing easier, so Garak allows himself a moment to regain some of his composure before facing the doctor.
“Feeling better?”
“I feel as if I’d much prefer being trampled by a pack of riding hounds,” he answers, voice still a little raspy. “Which is very reminiscent of that time you imposed Shakespeare on me. If those rambly, self-indulgent excuses for plays are the best your Federation has to offer, I dread to see its worst.”
Bashir lets out a noise that’s halfway between a surprised laugh and an annoyed groan.
“ Rambly , says the man whose favorite book is 900 pages of the same exact story told over, and over, and over again.”
“My dear doctor, I do apologize for ever suggesting that you read The Never Ending Sacrifice,” Garak responds with a long-suffering sigh. “Not everyone is gifted with the sensibility required to fully appreciate such a masterfully crafted narrative.”
“ Not gifted with the sensibility!? ” Bashir splutters indignantly. His once-relaxed muscles are now defensively tense, but Garak can still hear the edge of a smile in his voice. “Let me remind you, my dear Mr. Garak, that you were the one who called The Metamorphosis ‘a pointless exercise in futility’!”
“And I stand by those words.” Garak does his best to appear unaffected by such a delightfully rousing argument. “There was no reason for the Samsa family to keep Gregor alive for so long. He was a waste of resources, unable to serve either family or state. That entire story is pointless, as the most reasonable course of action would’ve been to kill him as soon as he became such a nasty creature.”
“The cold must’ve damaged your brains because even you couldn’t be that obtuse as to get so close to the point and still miss it entirely. You know that the book is metaphorical in nature…” Garak realizes his mistake as soon as Bashir launches into a passionate speech about the merits of Franz Kafka’s work.
Usually, these types of discussions take place during their weekly lunches at the Replimat, where both the large table and the public setting serve as a damper for whatever… urges might arise. Now, however, the distance between the two men is almost non-existent, and there’s no one else in these dark quarters but them; not to mention their less-than-ideal state of undress. The doctor looks rather exquisite when riled up; that is, after all, why Garak insists on being so contrarian during their arguments. His eyes, already one of his most striking features, get an even more intense quality to them. His lanky arms emphatically wave around him. As he moves lightning-fast from point to point, his breathing becomes labored, and his face flushes in that endearingly human way. But, oh, now that Garak is seeing parts of the man’s body he wasn’t privy to before, he notices that this flush isn’t restricted to his face, but goes from his neck all the way down to his…
“...Garak?”
“Hhhm?” Garak forces his gaze back to eye level. Bashir is looking at him expectantly, his mouth forming into a smug grin.
“This cold must really be doing numbers, it’s not like you to let me talk for so long without disagreeing at least once,” the doctor teases. “I suppose I should take advantage of it while it lasts.”
It’s a small mercy that Bashir attributes his unusual behavior to the low temperatures. Leaning on it, Garak fakes a shiver and sighs.
“Forgive me, my dear. It appears my mental faculties aren’t up to standard at the moment. I’m afraid this cold has rendered me quite useless…” he says, feigning lightheadedness. He uses this as an excuse to close his eyes, thinking it best to get this beautiful man out of his sight before he does something unwise.
“Easy there…” whispers Bashir, voice laced with a tenderness that makes Garak’s chest ache. Garak’s show of weakness has apparently been too convincing; another mistake. You’re getting sloppy, Elim.
Garak feels Bashir shifting against him, positioning himself so that his face is hovering over Garak’s. The human’s warm breath feels like a gentle caress, and Garak can barely suppress a sigh of pleasure. He does, however, grab onto the doctor’s wrist as he hears the whirring of the tricorder next to his ear, finally opening his eyes again to display his annoyance.
“Doctor, is this really necessary?” he says, trying to muster as much irritation as his current state allows him. Bashir’s only acknowledgment is a sharp look as he shakes his wrist free from Garak’s grip and resumes his scan.
“Hmmm… your body temperature is almost back to normal, so no need for concern,” Bashir mutters. “What you’re feeling now is exhaustion from the shock your body went through. We should probably leave the literary debates, or any other exerting activities, for after you have a chance to recover,” he adds with a cheeky grin.
Garak can see the moment Bashir realizes the double-entendre in his words. He looks mortified (the touch of desire Garak sees in the doctor’s expression must be wishful thinking on his part).
“A pity,” answers Garak, trying his best to keep the innuendo out of his voice. He’s only partially successful. Garak’s mind is already supplying him with a myriad of other exerting activities they could engage in.
“Ahem… I mean…” Bashir trails off. Garak doesn’t know what he means. What he does know is that that pretty little curve the doctor’s upper lip makes is looking particularly appealing right now (he’s heard it being referred to as a Cupid’s bow , though he’s the faintest idea of who this Cupid might be). Garak licks his lips. The doctor’s gaze flickers at them.
THUNK
They spring apart as the station’s heating systems kick back online, blowing hot air through the vents. Just like that, it’s as if whatever it was that passed between them never happened at all. Garak tries not to act too disappointed as Bashir gets back on his ugly Federation uniform.
“Well…” says the doctor as he stands up and reattaches his comm badge. “Since you’re no longer at risk of becoming the first ever Cardassian ice sculpture, I should get back to the infirmary. I’m technically still on duty.”
“You humans are such odd creatures. Why would one make a sculpture that’s guaranteed to be destroyed after a short amount of time?”
“It’s all about the process, Garak, not the finished product. Building things out of snow or sand is also a common pastime among Human children. I’d assume it’d be the same for Cardassian children since you have a lot of desertland.”
It is.
“It most certainly is not. What would be the point of such a fruitless endeavor?”
“It’s child's play, the point is to have fun!” answers Bashir with fond exasperation. “And I see what you’re trying to do, goading me into an argument to keep me here. It won’t work, just so you know. I still have to go.” He moves to pick up his hideous coat.
Garak pulls a face of mock incredulity, putting on his “plain simple tailor” act. “My dear doctor! I could never dream of keeping you from such important work! I will not, however, allow you to leave my premises with that atrocity in your hands.” At Bashir’s apparent confusion, Garak gestures towards the coat. “What would my clients think, knowing that I associate with someone that commits such heinous crimes against fashion?”
Bashir smiles as he catches on. “Oh? And what do you suggest I do if the station’s climate control fails again? Not all of us are willing to die from hypothermia due to misguided pride.”
“I suppose there’s no accounting for class,” sighs Garak, feigning disapproval. “But fear not, my dear. Come by my shop the day after tomorrow, and I’ll offer you a more tasteful replacement. Free of charge, of course.”
“Oh... I couldn’t possibly…”
“Think nothing of it,” interrupts Garak. “You’ll be doing me a favor if I never have to set eyes on that monstrosity again.” Thank you for being the only source of warmth in this cold, miserable exile, he doesn’t say.
“Well, in that case, I suppose I can make this small sacrifice for a friend.” Given the way Bashir looks back at him, it seems as if he understands anyway.
Bashir leaves and Garak feels cold again.