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The station's CMO and resident tailor both return from the replicator with their meals on school-lunch style trays: one main course with multiple sides around them.
Once seated and wearing a napkin at his collar, Garak stabs a chunk of zabu from his stew and drops it onto Bashir's tray. Dr. Bashir scoops a hunk of his mashed potatoes and gravy onto Garak's.
Garak peels a single boiled taspar egg and holds it out, a teasing smile gracing his lips, and Bashir accepts it gleefully, taking a delicate nibble before setting it down. He raises an eyebrow, points to the fluffy confection on his plate. Garak shakes his head ruefully, pats his belly. Bashir also shakes his head, but with exasperation. Garak huffs, then holds up his hand, fingers extended in the human symbol for "just a little." Bashir breaks into a grin, and uses his fork to slice off a small portion and pass it over.
They begin conversing animatedly, eyes gleaming, hands waving, occasionally leaning so far over the table they nearly knock over one of their drinks. Bashir offers a taste of his juice to Garak, and in return Garak shares his tea. The air around them crackles with repartee and camaraderie, the enthusiasm and passion palpable. By the end of the meal, they're both breathless, and glowing inasmuch as any non bioluminescent humanoid can.
They bid adieu with cordial nods and partial bows, stepping away repeatedly, only to get pulled back in for one last remark or response. It takes almost a full five minutes and a customer at Garak's storefront for them to finally part ways. Even then, there's regret written across their faces, downcast expressions, longing eyes, and they both glance back more than once before the curve of the promenade blocks their way.
One floor above, the station's Captain and Constable stand side by side, taking in the sights, observing the occupants and their afternoon activities. Two in particular.
Odo frowns. "Are you CERTAIN they're not sleeping together? That entire encounter mirrored a dozen courtship displays I've observed among solids over the years."
Captain Sisko sighs loudly. "Jadzia and the Chief insist Garak and the doctor are only friends. They're positive Julian would have told them if something had happened, and that they'd figure it out if he was hiding a relationship." He taps his hand on the rail, wishing he had his baseball to toss around in consideration. "Although maybe I'm just a fool for believing them."
Odo hesitates. He looks down at the replimat, over to the clothier's. "Dax and O’Brien may be right. I've yet to see any security footage of either of them making late night visits to each other's quarters. And while I may not have a sense of smell , per se, I have not picked up even the faintest hint of..." he makes an exaggerated face, "exchanged fluids, when I've talked to them."
Sisko's eyebrows fly up. "You can sense that?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
The captain blinks, tries to hold back a chuckle. “My condolences.”
Beneath the shiny black infirmary desk, Julian rolls his ankle. His foot is still buzzing where Garak brushed it with his own under the replimat table. Softly, deliberately. His gaze direct for once, warm and intimate, sentimental despite all assertions that emotion was a liability they are both better off without.
His weekly lunches with the tailor are... they’re everything to Julian, these days. With his haunting memories of the imprisonment, his outing as an augment, the ever-present war with the Dominion… Julian looks forward to their time together more than anything else- more than new immunological data, more than time in the holosuites with Miles, maybe even more than snuggling up with Kukalaka at the end of a long and difficult day.
What would it be like, he wonders, to curl up with Garak instead?
To rest his head on that thick shoulder, to stim lightly on those scales while they discussed their latest novel by candlelight and lounged in the corner of a sofa after dinner? Sated, content, nothing else to do, nowhere else to be, than right there in each other’s company?
To feel those strong arms wrap around his middle, lean into that firm and broad chest? Close his eyes, drape his legs over those plush thighs, breathe in the scents of rich fabrics and exotic hair oil, of Delavian chocolates and redleaf tea, to drift off in the intoxicating aroma that was uniquely singular to this one special Cardassian?
What would Garak think about that? What would he do and enjoy and feel?
Julian used to believe that what they had between them was a harmless flirtation, something to tease about with his friends, something amusing to help them pass by the days, to fantasize about alone by night.
But it's been six years now, six glorious and arduous and terrifying years, filled with delights and surprises and losses and trials, but with no signs of the symptoms abating. If anything, the attraction between them has only grown stronger.
Julian’s been considering taking things a step farther, making that first offer, that leap of faith into the unknown, but has thus far held back from making a move. Not due to fear of a misunderstanding or misread signals–as dense as Julian can be at times, Garak has been fairly obvious about his interest since day one–but because he doesn't want to lose what they already have: a solid, flourishing, fantastic, even committed… friendship.
What if something goes wrong if they become more serious? If they introduce a physical element, if they lay all the cards (and their hearts) on the table? What if Starfleet relocates him, or Cardassia takes Garak back? What if they grow bored of spending more time together, or what if they have completely different tastes in bed? What if, what if, what if?
Julian sets down the patient file he's been perusing and leans back in his chair, aware that not a single note he’s read has actually sunk in.
He imagines being moved to a starship, making subspace calls to his friends.
Sitting in front of a console, watching Garak's animated face and gesturing hands while thousands of lightyears away. The emptiness in his chest and the itchiness in his lonely fingers while listening to a wild tale of Ferengi fur traders trying to swindle the tailor, then getting intimidated by a Nausicaan leather worker who he "accidentally" scheduled to meet with at the same time.
Blue, blue piercing eyes.
Smooth and feathery black hair, with a hint of red under certain lights.
Gray scales that darken from intense emotion- from pain, from fury, from fear, but also from exhilaration, from affection, and desire.
A knowing smirk, a pointed sly look that makes Julian’s chest flutter with anticipation and shoots waves of giddy, gratuitous warmth straight down into his core.
He revels in the rising flood of endorphins, the hitch in his heart rate, the glow of oxytocin. Completely distracted from his work now (as if he was focused in the first place), Julian props his feet up on the desk, crosses his arms behind his head, and stares off into the middle distance.
And continues to dream.