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A human Starfleet doctor and a Cardassian tailor wander aimlessly through the Bajoran marketplace on an average autumn day. There is no particular mission or destination to pull them forward or drag them away, so side by side they meander from stall to stall with an unhurried pace. Elbow to elbow and occasionally hand to lower back, they wander and weave as if they have all the time in the world.
At one vendor, the pair studies trinkets of several varieties, pointing out interests and oddities, lifting up statuettes and pottery to examine at eye level before passing them off for further scrutiny. Fingers brush, eyes crinkles, lips raise in irrepressible humor and glee.
At another booth, the tailor holds up an ornate swatch of cloth, steps back with an appraising gaze, then drapes it over his companion’s shoulder and gathers it about his waist. The doctor tilts his head playfully, spins around in a pirouette, then ends with a flourish and dip. They haggle with the proprietor and each other about the price of the fabric, about who’s going to pay. In the end, they come to an agreement, split the cost, and leave with the length still in place. The tailor pauses to tuck it in and adds a safety pin to ensure it stays. The human waits patiently, fondly, face soft with a warm smile until his companion pulls away in satisfaction.
They’re next distracted by a fresh fruit stand, and both purchase small bags with hand-picked selections, eagerly digging in as soon as they stroll off in a new direction. The doctor sinks his teeth into a plum-dark moba, pretends to swoon at the juicy sweet and lush flavor, nearly careens into a passing family. The tailor chuckles merrily at the antics, but his eyes are on the doctor’s mouth, pinned in place by the sensual lips as they begin to share a tale, and a drop of nectar at the corner sparkles in the rays of the sun.
Further along is a street performer, and the pair stops to watch, standing shoulder to shoulder and almost toe to toe, and they lean close to exchange comments and critiques over the murmur of the crowd. More than once they turn at the same time and find themselves face to face, so near their noses almost touch. There’s shy laughter and a shuffling of feet, a shift apart, and then they force themselves to turn away.
As the end of the performance draws near, the tailor holds fingers up to his temple, and the other hand shields his eyes, the midday sun finally having taken its toll on his sensitive Cardassian corneas. They break away from the crowd to search for a comfortable place, take a seat at a quaint little wooden table beneath an orange and red shade.
There’s a noise from the other end of the marketplace: a yelp, a crash, the unmistakable raised voices of a heated debate. The altercation fades into cross words and dissolves almost instantly with the help of an arbitrator, and everyone around them returns to what they’d been doing before.
The seats at the covered table are now bare.
Worf turns to Jadzia. “Where did they go?”
The Trill science officer shrugs. “Beats me. I was watching the fight.” She cranes her neck, searches where they last saw Garak and Bashir. “I wonder what they’re up to.”
“They better not get us into trouble.”
Jadzia rolls her eyes and bumps the Klingon with her hip. “Garak promised he’d be on his best behavior for this trip, remember? Besides, I think he’s got other things on his mind than espionage.”
“He’d better. He’s been exceptionally deferential and charming with the Bajorans today.” The Klingon’s suspicion is plainly evident. “Do you think it’s genuine, or is he trying to impress Dr. Bashir?”
Jadzia shakes her head, unconcerned. “I couldn’t even begin to guess. But I think he’s definitely having fun.”
Worf nods in agreement, and his face softens. “It was very generous of the Captain to give us a day off. Things have been… tense on the station lately.”
“Yeah, I didn’t realize how much I needed it until we got here and I stepped out into the sunshine and fresh air.” Jadzia sucks in a deep breath and throws her arms out. “Isn’t it lovely?”
Worf nods, but his eyes are on his partner, not the scenery. “It is indeed.”
Sensing his change in focus, Jadzia breaks out in an impish grin and steers him away from the crowd. “Let’s give Julian and Garak a little breathing space. I can think of a thing or two to keep us occupied in the meantime.”
Elim refrains from reaching behind himself, despite the fact that his back tingles where Dr. Bashir pressed him several times throughout the day, guiding him forward and around corners, and once out of a rickety cart’s way.
His cheeks are sore, too, stretched farther and more often than they’re accustomed. He hasn’t smiled so much in- Well, he can’t actually remember the last time he smiled like this, nor had such an idyllic and enjoyable time. He must remember to thank Captain Sisko for permitting him to come along when they return.
Elim still can’t believe that Dr. Bashir has accompanied him for the entire trip, and was the one who suggested “losing their chaperones” back there with gleaming eyes and a smirk on his lips. The plan they devised together had been inspired, nothing short of genius, and brought them to this bank of the river, perched on the hillside beneath a silvery willow with the first hints of gold. The branches hang around them like a bower, and the noise of the humanoid throng has long since faded back into the marketplace, all but a whisper on the breeze.
Dr. Bashir is more lovely than ever, his ruddy skin glistening from the heat, hair just frizzy enough to have regained its wave, and his face has lost the lines that grace it more often than not due to the war on most days. He’s been so relaxed this afternoon, at ease and able to explore and laugh and play; it’s been a privilege to be here at his side and experience him as he truly ought to be: joyful and unencumbered, serene, content, carefree. Lying on his back amongst the weeds and wildflowers, closing his eyes and sighing in satisfaction, the dappled shadows of leaves dancing over his form as the boughs sway.
Garak yearns to watch him unobtrusively, to gather what glimpses he can without being seen, but his neck doesn’t turn like that and his ocular ridges block the periphery. Slowly, reluctantly, he rotates his shoulders to glance down, only to instantly be awash with regret as his breath is stolen away.
Bashir’s mossy eyes stare straight back up at him, too deep and vulnerable and wide; his mouth is parted as if on the verge of speech. Breaths shallow and uneven, his chest rises and falls in the same stuttering rhythm as Elim’s frantic heartbeat. He is ethereal, surreal, fantasy. Bashir blinks slowly but doesn’t avert his gaze. Some invisible force between them locks, and settles solidly into place.
“Lie down with me,” the human requests, firm yet throaty, his voice as warm and gentle as winter sun, and Elim could deny it no more than command the stars to cease to shine. Without a single hesitation or qualm about dirt or grass stains on clothes, he obeys. Perhaps he could afford to indulge, this one instance, this one day.
Elim settles down alongside, far closer than he has any right to, and exhales. He can feel his misgivings, his doubts, his worries about betrayal and conflict lifting out and drifting away, so that all he knows is the presence of his friend and the warmth of the surrounding hay.
The doctor stretches out beside him in a move that is laughably contrived, but welcome, and sweet, and they both scoot a tiny bit closer until their toes meet. It could be an accident, light enough to be ignored, but to Garak the darkness within him flares to life as if lit by a torch.
Chest aflutter and face afire, his fingers cautiously flex. They reach out, brush against smooth and heated skin. Bashir flexes back, slips underneath. Only their pinkies intertwine.
And it is enough.
Julian–yes, he can be Julian here–has been more than a mere background figure in Elim’s life for some time; he’s become a central figure, the main character. Throughout the intimacy of their lunches, the walks, their games, everything has begun to pivot about his presence. Even after the internment camp, and once more finding Tain…
No, especially after Tain. Denying Elim until the very end, asking nothing more from his only son than the assurance that his enemies were slain. And Julian had been there the whole time- for the confession, the reveal, and had shown only sympathy for Elim’s pain. Even having discovered that his friend was the child of a villain.
Julian is all Elim has, everything Elim has that is worth keeping amid his scant treasures in the galaxy. Elim has his shop, his tools, his memories and his skills, the few people he’s come to give some measure of trust to and who had learned to rely on him in kind . But it is Julian who holds his secrets dear, Julian with whom he’d entrust his life.
The finger beneath Elim’s gently withdraws, but it is only so that Julian can roll to his side and prop his head up on a hand with a solemn face. “Garak…” Their eyes meet, and the air around them stills like a held breath.
“Garak,” Julian begins again, but then frowns, distracted by a distant sound. “Bugger, they found us.” Disappointment flashes across his face, then annoyance, and chagrin. His shoulder slump. “It must be my badge.”
Elim prepares to rise, a tale explaining their disappearance all but arranged, but Julian holds him down with a simple push to the sternum, his hand pinning Elim in place. It’s faint, but direct enough to cause a visceral response, and for Elim to obey.
“Don’t look at them. Look at me.” Julian’s expression is fierce now, passionate, resolute. “Come see me tonight, in my room back at the hotel. 2400. I’ll wait.”
Barely able to breathe, Elim doesn’t speak. He dips his chin in what he hopes passes for agreement, words having completely failed him for once.
Worf and Jadzia close in now, and even Elim’s inferior Cardassian hearing can pick up their footsteps crackling through the grass and leaves.
All that matters in this moment, however, is the look upon Julian’s face: euphoric. Pleased. Hopeful. “Bugger it,” he mutters lowly, leaning closer than he’s ever been before. His breath is sweet like berries, and it ghosts over Elim’s lips. Elim, who must look like a regnar in sight of a dune viper, can do nothing but stare back in surprise.
Julian descends, and his mouth brushes feather-light over Elim’s from side to side, and Elim can’t help but chase his lips as he reluctantly draws away.
The two officers have arrived and stopped a few feet away, but Julian won’t look anywhere other than Elim. “I’ll see you then.”