Chapter Text

2375 – HOME

The lines of bent-backed, dust-covered Cardassians move slowly. Some carry bags, some carry nothing – all carry the burden of a home destroyed. The makeshift kiosks manned by glum government workers cause the lines to inch forward, each one offering an assignment for the rebuilding.

An exhausted-looking middle-aged woman wish a name-tag that says ‘Zollat,’ stamps the assignment order on a factory worker’s transfer to the rebuilding efforts in what was left of Cardassia City. “Next!” she calls out.

The man that steps up next is middle-aged also, heavyset, carrying a small satchel. Something about him makes Zollat pause. “Former military?” she asks, tone flat.

“Excuse me, Madam?”

She looks up at him, raising her brow-ridges. “I was asking about your profession.”

He pauses. “Ah, I see. Not quite.”

Zollat shrugs. A defector, then? She’s seen a few of those come through, and though it is a great shame to the State, at least the defectors did not work for the Dominion. She is willing to give them leniency, if they have come back to rebuild. “…What would you like me to put down, then, Citizen?”

The man pauses, giving her a long, sharp look. His eyes are very pale blue, and Zollat feels as though he can see through her flesh, right down to her bones. Her claws dig into the table, involuntarily.

“A gardener,” he says.

It is the most obvious lie she has ever heard.

“…Name?” Zollat asks, trying to gather herself. Her voice comes out reedy and frightened. She refuses to look up again.

“Garak.”

A ridiculously common surname. No first name. She doesn’t care. He could’ve said ‘Corat Damar, himself,’ and it wouldn’t matter. She stamps a transfer form for ‘Misc. Worker’ to Uedec Province. As far away as possible – on the edge of the deserts, with nothing for miles and miles around. Avoiding his gaze, she hands the paper to him and calls out, “Next!”

--

2374 – THE FAULT

Julian is thrown back into the communal cell by the Jem’Hadar guard, and his knees buckle as the door slams shut behind him. Immediately, Martok is at his side, pulling him up by the arm, and guiding him to sit on the floor, by Tain’s cot.

“Doctor. Are you alright?” the Klingon asks, sinking down to sit beside him.

Julian tries to give a reassuring smile, but all that appears on his face is a grimace. “I’ll be alright,” he says. “It was just… Well, solitary. Quite odd. I never thought I’d get sick of hearing the sound of my own voice, and yet…” His stomach grumbles and he sighs.

“How are you, General?” Julian asks.

“Able to fight another day,” comes the gruff answer. His heavy hand rests on Julian’s shoulder a moment – brief reassurance.

Tain coughs weakly, and Julian looks over at him, just to realize the old Cardassian is laughing.

Julian frowns. “You shouldn’t be laying on your side. Get on your back, it’ll take the pressure off.” There isn’t much he can do for the old Cardassian without any real medicine or supplies, but he’s still a doctor, damn it, even here.

Tain shifts slowly onto his back, still chuckling quietly.

“What’s so funny?” Julian demands.

“You, my dear Doctor,” Tain rasps. “So chipper, aren’t you?”

The mockery of Garak’s affectionate appellation brings a bitter taste to Julian’s mouth. “You shouldn’t talk so much,” he says coldly. “Save your energy.”

“How long do I have?”

Julian doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Maybe a week,” he says. “Maybe less.”

The old spymaster sighs. “How… Frustrating.”

Martok grunts in assent.

“‘The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves,’” Tain murmurs distantly. “…My body is failing me…”

“Just rest, Tain.”

“You hate me, don’t you.”

There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

“But I like you, Doctor. I really do. No wonder Garak is so fond of you… Your influence is greater than you know, boy… I would tell you to use it well, but I doubt you’ll take my advice…”

“Don’t talk,” Julian grits out. “Just rest.”

“Garak will come,” Tain breathes. “Because I summon him…” He drifts out of consciousness, shallow, raspy breathes evening out slightly.

--

2378 – REUNITED

Dr. Bashir’s face is streaked with dust, rivulets of moisture running down from his forehead. His hands are quite steady as he washes them clean of dark, Cardassian blood. Nearby, the burly young worker with his arm bandaged sits on the ground, leaning heavily back against a large piece of rubble – a part of the building’s old facade.

From where he stands at the side of the dusty road, the aging administrator watches the alien with a fond gaze.

The construction crew have already resumed work around them. Dr. Bashir wipes his hands on a rag and tells the injured worker something, brows furrowed sternly. The boy nods meekly in answer and rises shakily to his feat, sketching a polite bow.

“…And no strenuous work with that arm for at least a week, you hear? When I signed in this morning, Madam Alet told me she needs someone to help with inventory and accounting, you go and volunteer for that, instead.”

The administrator smiles to himself as he approaches – filled with deplorable sentiment. How well the young doctor understands. How well he looks, under the warm Cardassian sun. How very efficient his movements are as he begins to put his instruments away.

The worker sees him over the doctor’s shoulder and gives a deferential bow. “Administrator Garak!” he greets.

“Leyal,” the administrator says mildly. “Injured again?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Bashir turns. He is momentarily frozen, and then his expression lights up with a grin of such blinding brightness that Garak cannot help but preen under it – that smile is for him alone.

“Take better care. Go on.”

Leyal rushes to obey.

Dr. Bashir takes that moment to surge forward, as if to embrace him, and then, at the very last moment seems to stop himself. He claps Garak on the arm. “Garak!” he exclaims. “Long time no see!”

Garak’s answering smile is far too revealing of the warmth within him, he knows, but he can do little to prevent it. “My dear Doctor. Too long.”

Garak can see the doctor’s bright, golden eyes quickly assessing him – the modest cut and color of clothes, the dust on his boots, the new scars. But Julian Bashir himself has changed very little in the interim, if at all.

“It’s not the same, the letters. I have missed you, Garak.”

A little more sincerity would not hurt, surely. “As have I, my dear Doctor.”

Dr. Bashir shakes his head. “You know, I had been assigned to Cardassia City Hospital, when I arrived – but the local administration told me I was more needed in the countryside. I met with Professor- Er, Minister Lang, too – she seems to be doing well, despite… Well. So, here I am, a week later.” He bumps his shoulder gently against Garak’s. “Apparently my transfer was rerouted to Uedec Province, somehow.”

“This is the countryside. The frontier, even,” Garak needles. “In fact, I’ve come to tell you about another change in your itinerary. Your new quarters are in the old factory workers’ building two blocks down.”

“Can’t say I’m not relieved. I’ve been staying with a trio of Vulcan doctors for the past week and I think I might bite someone if anyone says the word ‘logic’ one more time.”

“Ah. I shall be very careful, then.”

“Who are my new roommates?”

“Just the one roommate, actually. An old acquaintance of yours, I believe.” Garak smiles slyly.

Dr. Bashir blinks, then his eyes narrow. “This roommate, he wouldn’t happen to be a former tailor, would he?”

“The very same,” Garak says ruefully. “Do you think you could suffer his company again?”

“Only if he can suffer mine. Not sure who’s going to suffer more.”

“We can keep score, if you like.”

Dr. Bashir grins.

--

2376 – THE FIRST LETTER

The first transmission comes after six months of Garak’s departure.

Mainstream news from Cardassia is sparse – slowly, they are beginning to rebuild. The government is mainly provisional, the death toll immense, and environmental damage severe.

The new Security Chief, Jarot Pren, has thrown his lower back out, moving crates around to his new quarters. He helps deliver a healthy pair of Bajoran twins. A visiting Wadi merchant is examined for a sore stomach. One of Quark’s dabo girls comes in, complaining of a sore shoulder.

Her name is Elara, she’s obviously flirting with him, but when she puts a hand on his shoulder and asks him about sharing a meal some time, he only can offer a pained smile and say he’s busy then, but maybe next time.

Life goes on. No word at all, for six whole months.

By this point, Julian had already despaired of hearing from Garak again – and had found often himself sitting, reading and re-reading Preloc by the window in his quarters.

That night, at Quark’s, Julian peers thoughtfully into his half-finished synth-ale. “Quark?” he finally asks, draining it in one long chug, “Do you have anything…” he trails off. “Oh, I don’t know.”

Quark is wiping a glass, looking thoughtfully into the middle distance. “You know, Doctor?” he says, “I have just what you’re looking for.”

He reaches under the bar and pours Julian a glass of something blue, a little thicker than wine. Julian sniffs it.

“Kanar?”

“The good stuff, too,” Quark says. He pours himself a little bit as well, with an almost wistful expression.

Julian sips it, then puts his head in his arms.

“Hey, don’t look so depressed,” Quark scolds. “It’s bad for business. Everyone is going to think it’s my drinks that’re making you look like that.”

Julian looks up with a faint smile. “No, no, it’s good. Quite nice, really. It’s just been a long day.”

“Miss him, don’t you.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t give me that, Doctor.” Quark leers. “You know.”

Julian does know. He savors his kanar in silence.

"I can't believe you turned down a date with Elara."

Julian looks up sharply from his kanar. "Quark. Did you put her up to-"

"Re- lax , Doctor. All I said was the station's doctor, that awfully handsome young war hero who happened to know the Emissary , was newly single and very depressed."

Julian can't really argue with any of that.

"Face it, Doctor. You're hot real estate. Half the station wants to make a bid."

"I'm not for sale."

Quark grins. “Everyone has their price, Doctor. You just haven’t had an offer in the right currency, yet.”

At the end of a triple shift in the infirmary, a sudden outbreak of the Andorian flu, and the aftermath of a fistfight on the promenade, Julian trudges back to his quarters and sits down at his terminal, dropping into his chair with a loud sigh.

He has two messages.

One is from his mother, likely giving another falsely over-cheerful update from home. The other has no additional information, and when he selects it, he sees that it has come from Cardassia.

“Computer, display message,” Julian orders, heart in his mouth.

My dearest Doctor,

I trust you are doing well. I suspect you did not expect to hear from me so soon, but I will admit, I have been uncharacteristically impatient. Perhaps soon, we will have the opportunity to resume contact in a more regular manner.

Most of Cardassia is a desert (much more of it now, than it was before.) It was a beautiful place, nonetheless. The it’pach trees are dotted around the landscape like narrow pillars, always alone, with nothing else growing or living around each one for quite a distance. The roots of these trees release a toxin into the soil to be rid of any competition for the sparse amounts of water and nutrients they are able to receive.

One must very carefully recognize the seeds of these trees, dispersed as they are by the wind, and destroy them. If they are allowed to take root, they completely ruin the vegetable gardens. As an experienced gardener, I have found much to occupy my time now that the desert wastelands have expanded, and the it’pach have begun to encroach on new territory

I have a small garden plot of my own, now. I hope it will yield something other than dry sand.

Extend my greetings to Councillor Dax, Colonel Kira, and the others.

Yours,

E. Garak

--

Chapter Text

2369 – ON THE NATURE OF SACRIFICE

“I thought you would have liked ‘The Legate's Sacrifice,' Doctor. After all, it is a very romantic adventure story. I picked it out especially for you.”

Dr. Bashir takes a swig of tea and swallows everything down quickly just so that he may respond with the same speed that his indignation is rising. “Garak, 'The Legate's Sacrifice' was a tragedy . Legate Retan’s wife hates him, and everyone dies at the end!”

“ In service to Cardassia, the highest honor. And Retan’s wife does not hate him,” Garak treads carefully here, for depictions of Cardassian love are something he doesn’t need the good doctor to understand too d eeply, “Or did you not notice her faithfulness to her husband, the hairpin she keeps from their first meeting, and her final act being to protect him?”

“ Well, yes… But when Gul Karat reports Retan for treason, she says nothing to defend him, and she has plenty of opportunities!”

“She is a Cardassian, Doctor. Do remember that. It is unthinkable that the justice of the State could be tampered with.”

“ But it is! ” Dr. Bashir exclaims. “Gul Karat fabricates all the evidence!”

Garak hums in assent.

Dr. Bashir’s eyes narrow. “I suppose this book is terribly scandalous by Cardassian standards?”

Garak smiles widely – it is answer enough.

“Well, then I have a problem with the title,” Dr. Bashir says.

Were he a Cardassian, such blatant grasping at straws to continue arguing would be such a clear indication of reciprocated interest, that it could not be misinterpreted for a moment. But he is an alien, and so Garak only watches him with amusement, waiting for Dr. Bashir’s justifications.

“Every time you recommend me a book, it’s somehow even more depressing than I thought possible – and then I read the next one . Cardassian literature seems to talk so much about sacrifice, and yet the more I read, the more it seems like none of it matters – everyone is so dutiful, they don’t really seem like they care about the things that they’re apparently giving up.”

“What a painfully Human viewpoint,” Garak sighs. “Just because Cardassians don’t fall into histrionics at the first sign of discomfort, does not mean they feel nothing . It is subtle. Implied. What would be the point of outright telling the readers what every single person is feeling, if they can discern it for themselves?” He shakes his head. “The title is apt enough. And yet, sacrifice is expected, as you say. Duty is all. We are but mere instruments of the State. What are love and personal interests in the face of empire?”

"Well," Dr. Bashir says slowly, as if gathering his thoughts, "In that case, it wouldn't really be a sacrifice if it's so normal and expected of everyone, would it? A sacrifice means that something precious is being given up. Which means!" Dr. Bashir's voice rises with excitement, "That love and personal interests are considered precious!"

Very good, Doctor.

“I suppose that is one way of interpreting it,” Garak huffs theatrically.

“And I suppose it’s a happy ending, then, because everyone dies doing what they love – sacrificing everything for the State,” Dr. Bashir finishes dryly. “ It’s some form of political masochism.”

--

2378 – THE MORE THINGS CHANGE…

The old factory workers’ building is in a comparatively less sad state of disrepair. The apartments are not very large, but relatively comfortable – and there are, on average, two families in each.

As Administrator, Garak has a small apartment, next door to an old matron and her three grandsons; two are adolescents, while the third is the Cardassian equivalent of a four-year-old toddler. The old lady and the boys share their kitchen facilities in a communal area between their separate apartments. Their other neighbors, across the hall, are a group of workers of various ages – a husband and wife with two adult children, and an uncle with three nieces.

With the Vulcans, Julian had been sleeping on the floor of an old granary, all four of them in sleeping bags in a row, rather like camping, or a hostel of some sort.

At this point, Julian recognizes that what Garak offers him is the height of current Cardassian luxury – and he accepts whole-heartedly. Here, he has a fold-out sofa to sleep on, complete with pillows, and a thin blanket.

“Madam Asinn,” Garak introduces, “And young Tirus.”

Julian sketches a Cardassian-appropriate bow. “Doctor Julian Bashir.”

The matron squints at him, the child on her hip blinking large, dark eyes and not taking his fist out of his mouth. “Well, I suppose you’re an alien,” she adds, with a resigned sigh. “With Administrator Garak’s approval, Doctor, we greet you.”

“Er, thank you.”

She makes a ‘hmf,’ sound and Julian is relieved to find that she isn’t planning on spitting in his face or snarling at him, in the manner of some other Cardassians (though to be fair to them, no matter the species, most people are hard to get along with when in pain; as a doctor, there is some sample bias . ) The workers have been rather decent to him, especially the younger ones – but he’s found out that former military personnel and older people have all mostly despised him.

Garak bids Julian sit on the sofa and pours him a glass of water from the refrigeration unit.

There is some gray in his hair now, and Julian wonders whether it is something new, from stress, or simply due to the fact that he doesn’t have the time and resources to be dyeing his hair anymore, as he may have been, on the station. There is a new scar, faint and pale on his right cheek, that Julian cannot take his eyes away from.

His blue eyes twinkle at Julian when he notices him looking, and Julian is caught between the urge to make some sort of inopportune joke, or to quickly look away and chug his water. He does neither.

Garak speaks first. “How long do you intend to stay?”

“Here? I mean, as long as you’ll have me, I suppose,” Julian says, rubbing some excess moisture away from the corner of his mouth.

“I meant on Cardassia, Doctor. You are quite welcome in my home.”

“Oh, er, thank you, Garak.” Julian suddenly feels terribly awkward. “Well, my application was for a year’s work, but the lady at the desk said I could keep getting it renewed indefinitely, every year, so long as I had a Cardassian official to vouch for the work I’m doing. But she also said it might change, depending on if the government changes their stance on alien influence.”

Garak nods, then gives a slow smile. “Well. No need to worry on that account, then.”

Julian squints at him. “You know something about that?”

“My dear Doctor, I know many different things, on many different subjects.” He waves a careless hand. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

It’s a difficult question. “So long as I’m necessary, I suppose,” Julian finally says, hoping it’s the right answer.

“And Starfleet?”

“I’m on sabbatical. Indefinitely.” Julian nibbles on his lower lip. “I, er, may have given Admiral Nechayeva a bit of an earful about the ideals of Starfleet and the Federation.”

“Did you.”

--

2376 – THE DOCTOR’S REPLY

Garak’s makeshift Administration office is dimly lit, even by Cardassian standards – and the few bars of light passing through the narrow windows throw into relief the swirling dust motes.

He finishes compiling his resource assessment, rubbing at his aching temples. There is barely enough food to last through the dry season, and the stormy season will quite considerably slow down rebuilding. At the current rate of repair to the industrial replicators in the urban centers, and the few convoys that pass this far out into the countryside, the burden of production will not significantly decrease until at least this time next year.

He had returned to Cardassia as a penance – to rebuild what he could, to disappear into the gray-faced crowds once more, for the wind to obscure his heavy bootprints in the sand. And yet here he is, Administrator to an entire town and agricultural development sector – only because he had helped fight off the marauders.

It speaks greatly to the fortitude of his people that most of Cardassia still intends to serve the State, (or what is left of it) instead of turning away from civilization entirely. The bandits were a worse problem in the most damaged areas – but even months later, the shockwaves are still spreading. Desperate military types, especially those who were used to power, are the worst kind.

Most of the would-be warlords have been suppressed. The former Gul Reucec and the ragged remains of his forces are still at large somewhere – but after the way Garak had them driven off four months ago, he doubts the opportunistic son of a sand-crawler will be returning any time soon. Garak still wishes he’d been able to kill Reucec, but he takes comfort in knowing he’d at least blown the bastard’s leg off.

Service to the State has taken on a new meaning to Cardassians everywhere, now that the ‘State’ is being held together by former political dissidents, young hopefuls, old soldiers, and other, less savory creatures like Garak himself. The State is survival. The State (however blasphemous it may have sounded even a year ago) is in each other.

He expects the message from Lang as it pops up on the cracked screen of his terminal – a single line: Started planting yet?

His reply is immediate, Only yesterday.

Garak rubs at his temples again.

The second message, he does not expect so soon, but he opens it as soon as it arrives to him, carrying the name of Dr. Julian S. Bashir, CMO DS9.

The young doctor must have written a reply as soon as he had received Garak’s message.

Dear Garak,

You have no idea how good it is to hear from you! I hope you’re doing alright – or as well as possible, under the circumstances. I heard that shipping lanes are opening back up to the Cardassian system again – obviously I won’t be able to come to Prime or send anything to you for a while, but I’m glad you got back in touch!

Kira didn’t say it outright, but she’s quite relieved to know you’re alive. She’s been incredibly busy, and I know it’s taking a lot out of her, but she’s so good at what she does. I admire it a great deal – that sense of purpose.

Ezri, unfortunately, hasn’t gotten back to me yet – she got herself re-assigned to a starship a month and a half ago, but I’m sure she’ll be thrilled when she gets my message. We’ve kept in touch, of course, but it takes a while for subspace messages to get through – she’s on a five-year exploratory mission and enjoying the hell out of it, from what I’ve heard.

The Cardassian ecosystem sounds absolutely fascinating! It must be incredibly difficult to eke out a living in such a harsh environment, but I suppose that just speaks to the wonders of adaptation. I know some of my ancestors were desert people – but I’ve only ever been to Cairo, and that was when I ran away from home for a week as a teenager, and just got on a random shuttle. Bit of luck, really. I did some sightseeing before I got dragged home by the ear.

Don’t laugh, but I re-read The Never-ending Sacrifice the other day. It was still just as dull as I remember it, of course, but I think I understood a little more – the nameless young Gul that narrates the beginning and end of the book is really Serur Baroc, isn’t he? It makes sense once I think about his relationship with Archon Prusar – he’d loved her from the very start, and that’s why he understood she had to leave him. It’s a little sacrifice all of their own. Actually, the more I understand, the more depressing it is. But I feel like that’s always the case with your Cardassian literary recommendations.

I hope your garden plot is doing well! I’ve never really gardened before, so I don’t quite know what sort of encouragement to give. But if anyone were to succeed at what you’re doing, it would be you. If that makes any sense at all.

I’ve been mostly doing the same things as before – nasty outbreak of Andorian flu, recently, just wrapped that up. We have a new security chief, who I hope will last a little longer than the first one we had after Odo. With Odo gone, I think Quark seems to be lashing out for attention, bordering on the ridiculous. In his own way, I think he misses Odo terribly.

I understand him. It hasn’t been the same here, without Captain Sisko, and Miles, and Odo, and Worf, and Dax, and you. It’s like some integral part of the station is just gone – as if someone had removed the whole Replimat or something. You know what I mean.

Your old shop is now a Bajoran tourist trap, you’ll be no doubt amused to find. Overpriced baseball merch, miniature sun-ships to hang in front of your shuttle’s view-screen, and jackets with ‘I visited DS9 and all I got was this lousy jacket’ printed on the back and such.

Anyway, I know I’m rambling. I hope you’re staying healthy, and that you can write me back whenever you can.

Sincerely,

Julian Bashir

P.S. Quark is asking for whatever news you may have of professor Natima Lang.

--

2378 – HALF AGONY, HALF HOPE

Uedec Provincial Hospital is understaffed, undersupplied, and he is the only alien there – as it seems, he is in the whole town. The two doctors he works alongside are both severe, irritable Cardassian women – the very young Dr. Gelor, and the elderly Dr. Laipar.

While Dr. Laipar turns her nose up at him and treats him with such a cool, removed professionalism that it is as though he is not in the room if she doesn’t need him for anything – Dr. Gelor seems to want to nitpick every single thing he does, to the point of abject frustration. The nurses are like shadows, watching him carefully and saying little to him – though he can hear them chattering most enthusiastically amongst themselves. But Julian doesn’t crack and continues with his work.

Eventually, he hopes, the Cardassians will see that his skills as a doctor outweigh any alien characteristics they find unpleasant.

When the old osteo-regenerator they have at the hospital breaks down, Julian decides to stay behind a little longer than usual – to see whether he can fix it. It’s a standard enough model that even with the particular quirks of Cardassian industrial technology , he sees that he only needs to replace the energy coils, and redistribute power flow to increase efficiency.

When he comes back to Garak’s, walking down the dark, dusty roads back to the old factory workers’ building, Julian notices that there are very few people out and about. One elderly Cardassian smoking takla root in a doorway gives him a beady stare as he walks by the stoop where he sits. Across the street, heading in the opposite directions, two construction workers hum a song as they carry a large length of metal pipe. On another apartment building’s balcony, someone is cooking spiced meat, and there is the sound of muted conversation coming from an open window.

But the streets are otherwise bare of traffic, and the lights in the windows are sparse. Energy rationing, Julian supposes.

He trudges up the stairs, comes to the landing and pauses before the door. Garak had given him a key-chip, but it still feels strange to use it, even after two weeks.

Despite living with him, Julian sees little of Garak, other than at dinnertime. During the day, he is at the Administration Building – which is a small, square metal structure that used to be a barn. There is clearly much to be done, and sometimes, laying awake on the sofa, Julian listens for the tell-tale creak of Garak’s wardrobe door, as he changes for bed. Sometimes, it never comes, and his eyes are shadowed in the morning.

Julian sleeps well on Garak’s sofa – it gets too hot for the blanket, during the nights, or maybe it’s just the flannel pajamas he brought, but there’s something comforting about going to sleep and knowing there’s someone else in the house with you. He wonders if when Garak comes out of his own room (which doubles as his home office) whether he looks in on Julian sprawled with Kukalka under one arm and finds him utterly ridiculous.

Before Julian can lift the key-chip, the door opens and Garak stands with the light behind him. “Ah, Doctor. I was afraid you would miss dinner.”

Julian smiles. “Not for the world. Sorry, I forgot to tell you I stayed later – just did a little repair-work.”

“Ah, yes, the fabled Starfleet Academy engineering extension course.”

“Well, at least I didn’t overhear how to fix it while hemming trousers.”

Garak’s smile widens.

They sit down at the small table, and Julian is reminded of nothing so much as those long lunches in the Replimat, suddenly feeling so nostalgic his stomach starts to hurt.

“And how are your esteemed colleagues treating you?” Garak asks.

“Er, alright,” Julian says. “Dr. Gelor might snap and murder me one of these days, but otherwise, quite alright.”

Garak chuckles. “Ah, Setrel Gelor. I doubt you have anything to fear from her,” he says, piling Julian’s plate high with some sort of steaming vegetable dish. It smells savory, and spicy, and Julian has been furiously hungry all day. An enhanced metabolism certainly has its downsides.

“You seem in a good mood this evening, my dear Administrator Garak.”

“Yes, I am,” Garak beams. “Our province finally has an industrial replicator coming down from Cardassia City tomorrow morning, as well as five ground transports for public use.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Julian says around a mouthful of food.

“Are you enjoying your meal?”

“Very much,” Julian says. “…Don’t tell me you cooked this?”

“Not only that – I grew this. I will show you the gardens, next week, if you have the time. I intended to from the start, but…”

“…But you’re running and rebuilding a whole town and agricultural sector, and don’t have time to take me sightseeing,” Julian finishes. He playfully shakes his head. “Shame on you, Garak, where’s your sense of hospitality?”

The look Garak gives him is painfully fond. “Oh, deepest apologies, my dear Doctor.”

Julian looks up to meet his eyes and feels as though a bucket of cold water has been emptied over him.

His huge, ridiculous crush on Garak had been there from the star t, their friendship had been both comfortable and exciting – just so easy to spend time with him. Love seems like a natural progression, if a little inopportune.

Yes, Garak had surely been flirting with him since the beginning – but that could’ve been anything from a way of simply amusing himself, to a way of allowing himself some familiarity of home to seep into his exile on the station, surrounded by alien social mores. Now that he’s back home on Cardassia, in his element, of course, he simply continues out of habit – his insinuating manner has remained the same, no matter who he talks to.

Julian had always been fascinated by the enigma that Garak presents, yet now, more than ever, he wishes they could speak directly, entirely truthfully, for a few moments, just enough to ascertain that they want the same things from each other – that they mean the same things to each other. And even as there is more and more that he’s found out about Garak, that feeling of fascination changes from the eagerness he’d had initially, to something calmer, the hope that he’ll get to discover something new about Garak every day.

J ust little things. How he likes his tea. The floral scent of his scale oil. What he thinks of Julian’s latest literary recommendation.

But if Garak had wanted anything more from Julian, surely, in some roundabout way, he would have asked for it, years before.

“Doctor?”

Julian recognizes that he’s been frozen, staring, food lifted halfway to his mouth for a couple of seconds, and quickly shoves it in his mouth, looking down. “Sorry, just had a thought,” he mumbles.

“Oh, dear,” needles Garak, “Whatever shall we do?”

Julian regains his composure and rolls his eyes. It’s not like anything’s changed, really.

--

Chapter Text

2374 – A PLAIN, SIMPLE HABIT

The night air is cool, and the strongest scents are of the sea and smoke from the camp-fire within the cave. Living on a space station for so long, ever moment spent planet-side, even if it is this backwater death-trap they have crash-landed on – the air must be savored.

Out there, among the sharp rocks and whispering of the waves, not a thing moves. The phase rifle Garak carries sits easily on his shoulder as he keeps watch at the cave mouth.

Inside, the others should be sleeping – until the next watch falls to O’Brien, at least – but Garak hears the slight shuffle of clothing and soft Starfleet boots over rock, as Dr. Bashir comes to stand beside him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he whispers, giving a faint, awkward smile and a shrug.

“I would recommend it anyway, but you are the doctor, you know better.”

“I don’t need sleep as much as… Normal people.”

Garak accepts this with a shrug. Perhaps it is true. Perhaps it is not. The important thing, it’s true for the moment – and clearly, the doctor just wants company right now.

“How is Commander Dax?”

“Resting,” Dr. Bashir only says. He rocks from heel to toe a few times, before perching on a little outcrop in the rocks by the cave mouth, an arm resting on one bent knee, while his other leg dangles, kicking slightly back and forth.

In the faint, silvery light of the planet’s moon, the bright sheen of his eyes and the tension in that smooth, fine-featured face make him appear as delicate as a holo-projection. If Garak were to reach out and touch, even with the very tip of a claw, the young alien looks as though he will simply distort and melt away.

“…Thirty-two-point-seven percent chance of survival, was it?” Garak breaks the silence.

Dr. Bashir’s mouth twitches. “Less, now.”

“Ah. Forget I asked.” Garak holds up a mollifying hand, scanning the coast-line.

“…It’s quite beautiful here,” Dr. Bashir sighs.

“I wouldn’t recommend a moonlit walk along the beach right now, Doctor.”

“Beautiful, despite everything,” comes the annoyed revision.

Garak hums in acquiescence. “There you are right, Doctor. ‘Despite everything,’ is the key, I think.”

“You know, Garak, we’ve been friends for years now; close to death, I don’t know how many times; and you still call me by title.” Dr. Bashir pulls both legs up, and hugs his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them. He tilts his head to the side, the moonlight changing his eyes from gold to gray. “Is it a Cardassian thing, or a ‘you’ thing?”

“Do you object? After so much effort in gaining your medical license…”

“Well, no, it’s not that – but all my other friends call me ‘Julian,’ at one point or another. I suppose I just wondered.”

Garak watches him wordlessly for a moment. To say his name now, by the sea, an uncertain tomorrow looming over them – it would be far more frighteningly intimate than usual. It would set a dangerous precedent. More to the point – with even the first syllable falling from his mouth, Garak would reveal himself more surely than if he were to kneel before the young alien right this moment and pull him down onto the cold rock beside him. To call it ‘fondness,’ would be self-delusion. To call it anything else, even to himself alone, would be ruin.

“Simply habit, my dear Doctor,” Garak says. “My Cardassian sensibilities would balk at calling even the closest of companions by name, if there were a more appropriate title to refer to.” When he gives Dr. Bashir a wide smile, the doctor cannot help but laugh.

“I thought it must’ve been something like that, Mister Plain-Simple-Garak.”

“Now, now,” Garak chides half-heartedly, “I simply object to foreign titles. And as for Cardassian – I have none.”

--

2378 – THE TIES THAT BIND

When Julian gets back that evening, he finds Garak on the sofa, repairing a school uniform jacket, as a Cardassian boy barely into adolescence sits cross-legged on the floor with a cup of something warm and steaming in his hands.

“Ah, Doctor,” Garak says, without looking up from his work. “This is one of our neighbor’s other grandsons, Ssymec.”

The boy gets up and inclines his head. “Doctor,” he greets quietly, then sits again.

“Hello!” Julian greets, going to the kitchen to was his face and hands free of dust. “How was school?”

Ssymec is silent. Then, “We learned a lot, Doctor.”

“Ah, yes. Wonderful,” Julian says, for lack of anything else. He’s never been particularly good with children – Molly and Kirayoshi had been energetic enough that he could hold a spirited, if not-entirely-sensical conversation with them, and Jake Sisko was older. “Er- That’s good.”

Garak chuckles quietly. “Recite ‘The Reeds at Tlaimsec’ for the doctor, won’t you, Ssymec? Your grandmother tells me you do very well with poetry.”

Ssymec stands up, puts his hands behind his back and obediently begins reciting. Julian listens for a bit, realizing that he may have read this before – a poem praising the author’s home-town, its hard-working people, and beautiful minutiae: reeds by the river, and birds nesting under the eaves of houses. The lilting, melodic tone of Cardassian recitation is pleasant to listen to.

“Well done,” Garak praises, and Ssymec’s stoic little face lights up at the praise. Julian smiles to himself. Garak shakes out the school uniform jacket with a flourish and presents it to the boy. “Good as new.”

“Thank you, Administrator. I’ve imposed.”

“Not at all, young man,” Garak says. “Go on, don’t be late. Your grandmother’s already cooked dinner.”

Ssymec inclines his head to Garak, then to Julian, and runs out, pulling his jacket on.

Garak dusts off his hands and rises from the couch with a quiet groan as he stretches his back. For a second, Julian has the brief, insane image of Garak as a father – and then he turns away, busing himself with setting the table.

“Ssymec and Tirus look nothing alike,” Julian says, for lack of anything else to say. “It’s funny how these things work sometimes, isn’t it? I once knew a friend in the Academy who had a twin sister, who couldn’t look more different… Genetics, eh?”

Garak brings a pot off the stove. “The explanation is far simpler, my dear Doctor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I doubt they are related at all.”

“I thought you said they’re Madam Asinn’s grandsons.”

“Oh, they are. In matters of record, certainly. In truth, I believe they have no surviving family.”

“I thought Cardassian society had no regard for orphans.”

“Before the war. There is always a cousin, a grandmother, a distant uncle, a friend of a friend whose blood ties could, perhaps be proved with extensive research. Now, records are damaged, boundaries are blurred, and the children are, and have always been Cardassia’s future. When the majority is at stake, all we can do is change our ways. But, you understand, it isn’t spoken of. It is simply accepted, as though it is the way things always were. Odd, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it’s the Cardassian way.”

“Exactly, Doctor.”

Julian picks at his stew, lips pursed. It leaves an odd taste in his mouth – this bitter restraint, even now, when people should cling to each other in the aftermath of unthinkable horrors.

Garak’s voice softens. “…In fact, Madam Asinn has informed me that I, too, am a relative to the boys. A second uncle, thrice removed, or something of the sort. Hopefully, my relation to them will not have to be made use of for many, many years.”

Julian looks up and can’t say anything, but hopes that his expression speaks for itself. Something has changed. Cardassia has changed, surely, but perhaps Garak has too.

--

2372 – A FLESH WOUND

The dermal regenerator hums by Garak’s ear. Dr. Bashir squints in concentration, one hand on Garak’s shoulder as he focuses on healing the bullet graze on his neck ridge.

Dr. Bashir steps away. “That should do it for now, but come back in a day or two and I’ll give you hypo to make sure it doesn’t scar.”

Garak smiles. “Ah, that won’t be necessary, Doctor.”

A frown. “What do you mean?”

“Something like a reminder,” Garak says, resisting the urge to touch the healing wound again.

The doctor’s frown deepens. “Garak…”

“A reminder for myself,” Garak clarifies. “Though, I should think you would like the reminder as well – of your own ability to do what is necessary for the greater good. A badge of honor.”

“I might’ve killed you.”

“Oh, yes,” Garak says with relish. He glances at Dr. Bashir’s hands – graceful and steady – just as they had been when he’d shot that gun.

“Bloody hell, Garak, are you suicidal, or something?” Dr. Bashir bursts out, clearly having picked up that colorful turn of expression from Chief O’Brien.

“Not at all. I prefer to save my own skin whenever I can. That’s how you gave me this, isn’t it?”

“Then, why?”

Garak looks at Dr. Bashir in mock affront. “Now, now, Doctor, you don’t actually expect me to tell you. What do you think?”

Dr. Bashir sighs and sits down on the edge of the bio-bed next to Garak. “I think I’m tired of games for the day,” he says. “I think you’re being purposefully perverse, and I really think you want me to reveal some ruthless, cynical side of myself, just so you can poke at it and see what else you can find.”

Garak can’t help but smile. “Oh, my dear Doctor,” he chuckles, “You forgot one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“That I admire your resolve,” he says truthfully, relishing the way Dr. Bashir squirms in embarrassment.

--

2378 – FALLING OUT, FALLING IN

Julian grins as Miles’s face pops up onscreen after a few seconds of buffering. “How are you? How are Keiko and the kids? How’s Earth? And how’s teaching going? I haven’t heard from you in ages !”

“Let a man think, won’t you, Julian?” Miles laughs, shaking his head. “We’re all doing fine here – same old, same old. One of Keiko’s research projects broke containment and we had Aldebaranian Kudzu all over the house for a week, but otherwise, nothing new and exciting.”

“Students not getting on your nerves?”

“Eh. They’re just kids – it could be worse. Nobody as sharp as Nog, but that kid’s one-in-a-million.” Miles squints at him. “How are you?” he nearly demands. “What’s Cardassia like?”

“I don’t think you’d like it, Chief,” Julian says solemnly. “It’s very hot, and you’re not going to believe this, but it’s full of Cardassians.”

Miles rolls his eyes. “How’s Garak treating you?”

Julian blinks. “Uh, well?”

“That’s good,” Miles says awkwardly. “Just, ah, you know. Didn’t know if you two…” He gestures vaguely. “If you’re getting along any better,” he finishes lamely.

“We never fell out,” Julian says slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind, never mind,” Miles says. “That’ll teach me to listen to them.”

“Who’s ‘them?’”

“Well, Keiko. And Kira. And Ezri. And Quark joined the call at some point, but I have no idea how-”

“Hold on, hold on,” Julian cuts him off. “What’s all this about? You all thought I fell out with Garak?”

“No, the opposite. Keiko suggested you, uh, ‘fell in’ with him.”

“‘Fell in’ what?” Julian asks, then immediately bites his own tongue.

Miles shrugs. “I think they’re a bit bored,” he offers. “You two were always close – and then after Ezri dumped you, you were all mopey and drinking kanar… At least that’s what Kira and Quark said-”

Julian holds up a quelling hand. “I’m calling you from his terminal,” he says. “I bet you anything he can probably watch this.”

“Jay-zus, Julian-”

“I mean it is his terminal.”

“You’re defending the Cardassian surveillance state?”

“No, just Garak. Miles, he lets me live here with him.”

“You know what? Forget I said anything. You two are perfect for each other. Fair amount of insanity, between the both of you.”

The back of Julian’s neck warms.

--

Chapter Text

2375 – THIS TOWN AIN’T BIG ENOUGH, ETC.

Garak shoulders the old military-issue disruptor rifle and skirts around a fallen chunk of masonry. The small group of young students and factory workers crouched behind the charred, inoperable ground shuttle all stare at him. He’d armed them as best he could, but the young fools barely know how to hold a disruptor, much less fire it. No wonder Reucec’s bandits had the run of the town. “It’s clear,” he says. “Reucec’s group have cleared out of the industrial sector.”

“Then they’re headed for the agricultural warehouses,” says a very large young worker, downcast. Leyal, Garak remembers. “They’ll take everything.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Garak says with a smile.

“What’s there to grin about, old man?” snaps a young medical student, rising up from out of cover.

Garak gives her a look. Now is not the time. He holds up a hand, counts to five, and-

The distant explosion disturbs the dust on the ground. The young student grabs hold of the ground shuttle to regain her balance.

“What happened?”

“Reucec’s group has had a small accident,” Garak says. It was an inelegant solution, and they would have to fix the road later, but with the very limited resources he had, it was the best he could do. “Come. Do try and look frightening.”

His makeshift militia follow him.

The main road leading down to the barren fields and miraculously still-standing warehouses has a large, smoking crater in the middle.

Around it, about two dozen male Cardassians in very scruffy military uniform are sprawled in various stages of death and near-death. Several are missing integral body parts such as heads or limbs.

There are gasps and murmurs from the young people, most turn away and don’t dare approach any further to look upon death – but the young medical student jogs to catch up with Garak. “You did this?” she asks. “How?”

“Just something I picked up, gardening,” he says absently. “Ah, the things you can do with fertilizer…”

“Will you kill the ones that are alive?”

“Do you object, young lady?”

“My name is Setrel.”

Garak raises his brow ridges.

“Setrel Gelor,” she says, mollified. “And I do object to giving them a quick death. They would have left us to starve. They should die on the road, from exposure.”

Garak can’t help but to smile. An earnest young woman. “Well, Student Gelor, I have one issue with that. I want one of these traitors to live and bring word back to their camp – that we are too dangerous to be easy targets.”

Gelor nods, and goes around, looking over each one. When she stands up, she is frowning. “None of these is Reucec,” she says. “And I don’t know if I can save any of them without lots of help that I don’t have.”

Garak takes out his scanner and has to hit it a few times to get it to work. He takes a reading of the area and curses quietly. “…Reucec had a personal transporter. The energy signature is weak. He isn’t far.”

Gelor pops up at his side like an overeager child. “There’s a leg here that doesn’t belong to anyone,” she tells him. “It must be his.”

Garak smiles as the scan confirms it. “Oh, good.”

--

2377 – DUTY

“…What do you mean no official relief effort can be sent until the Cardassian government makes certain concessions?!” Julian explodes. “They barely even have a government right now! How can we expect them to want to co-operate with us, when we seem like such bloody opportunists?!”

The station commander’s office door is shut, but Julian is yelling loud enough that everyone working in Ops can faintly hear him. Starfleet and Bajoran officers are muttering amongst themselves.

“Doctor, might I remind you-” Admiral Nechayeva begins.

“There is no way in hell I’m not going to Cardassia, Admiral! These people need our help! What the damn do the Federation and Starfleet stand for, if we’re not willing to-””

“Julian.” At Kira’s stern tone and firm grip on his shoulder, Julian catches his breath, finally shutting his mouth with a snap of teeth.

On-screen, Admiral Nechayeva’s lips have thinned to almost nothing. “Doctor,” she says coldly, “I suggest you take a leave of absence, before you are relieved of duty for insubordination. Starfleet out.”

The screen goes dark.

Julian deflates, sinking down to sit on the edge of Kira’s desk. “Damn,” he growls, rubbing his face with his hand.

Kira sits back in her seat, looking at Julian with raised eyebrows. “ That could’ve gone better.”

“Yes, it could’ve,” Julian agrees. He sighs. “I, er, might be leaving, soon.”

“I gathered,” Kira says. “But I’d rather have found out differently. Seriously, Julian – I have to find out that my CMO, my friend is planning on leaving the station because you let it slip while yelling at an admiral? I thought that was my wheelhouse, not yours.”

“I’m sorry, Nerys.”

“Well, I can’t say I wasn’t expecting it. You’ve been wound tight all year.” Kira puts on a slight, crooked smile. “Going to practice some more ‘frontier medicine’?”

Julian cringes. “Ah. I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Look, Julian, Nechayeva might be right about one thing – we don’t know what direction Cardassia is rebuilding in. Even Bajor had its problems, after the Occupation. Lots of bitter, angry, wounded people left unmoored… Think about the Circle, Julian.”

“And that’s exactly why it’s our duty to help! Officially, I mean. Federation aid, not private organizations or individual volunteers. At this point, only the Vulcans have a relief program set up, and it’s very small.”

Kira waits for him to continue.

“…Look, seven years ago, Garak was dying. I had to basically force him to accept treatment, to cure him. If I hadn’t done that…” Julian trails off. “Well, he’d be dead, obviously – but it’s more than that… I think… I think he came to understand something of what I was trying to say. That I was a doctor, he was my patient, and no matter what he’d done, no matter who he was, it was my job to cure him, come hell or high water. And because he understood that, in his own way… It wasn’t like he thought he owed me, I don’t think – at least, not entirely. It made him understand that at least I didn’t just talk a big game about my values, I actually stuck to them. Honor, really. The kind of honor a Cardassian could understand, I mean – that I was willing to do whatever it takes to achieve my goal. Without that, I don’t think he would’ve been on our side, later on. I mean, he wouldn’t have been alive- You know what I mean. That it wasn’t only Cardassians that could be single-mindedly devoted to their values.”

“Not all Cardassia is Garak, Julian.”

“I understand that, obviously,” Julian sighs impatiently. “But Garak is, in some ways, the perfect, quintessential Cardassian. He’s given me a lot of insight into… Things.” He swallows, remembering Garak’s downcast eyes in the airlock when they’d said their goodbyes. “…Sacrifice.”

Kira gives him an odd look. “I’ll bet he has,” she mutters. “Alright. Well, I better go and find a new CMO.” She points at him threateningly. “And don’t you dare leave without a proper goodbye. That’s an order .”

Julian grins. “Yes, sir!”

--

2378 – TRADITION

“…You have to understand,” Garak begins, “This is what people respond to. The Order’s propaganda department has taught me a great deal – and while you do have a great deal of experience recruiting people to your cause, Minister, we’re not talking about a handful of angry intelligentsia. We’re talking about exhausted, frightened people who know nothing but plain, simple traditional values and just want life to go back to normal.”

“A complete return to traditional values would destroy us again and again,” Lang says, carefully restraining her frustration. Garak can see, through the screen, the way her lips pinch out every word. “You were against the reformation of the Order last council session, but now you sound like an old Gul.”

Garak winces at the comparison. “No need to get personal , Minister.” He raises a mollifying hand. “I’m talking about propaganda , Minister Lang. Not a complete return – but a new Cardassia simply… Wearing the clothes of the old. Enough comforting familiarity mixed in with the radicalism.”

“Not all of us find familiarity comforting.”

“That may have been the case when you were a dissident professor, Minister. Yet things change. We all serve the same State. Have I given you any bad advice, so far?”

Lang frowns.

Garak watches her think – he’s right and she knows it, and her stony expression only tightens.

“Thank you for your insight, Administrator,” she finally says. “I’ll contact you again, later.”

Garak watches the screen of his terminal go blank with a sigh.

In the main room, he can hear the doctor arriving – the open and shut of the refrigeration unit, and then a loud sigh and creak of the sofa. When Garak comes out of his room to see him, Dr. Bashir is inexactly the sprawled position he’d imagined, long legs akimbo and head lolling to the side as he leans back. He has a glass of cold rokassa juice in his hand, nearly entirely finished.

“No pre-made dinner tonight, I’m afraid. I had a great deal to discuss with the provisional government.”

Dr. Bashir turns back to him. “That’s alright,” he says, “I’m not hungry, anyways.” His stomach growls audibly, immediately, and Garak chuckles.

“You are a terrible liar sometimes, Doctor.”

“Only sometimes?”

“Only sometimes,” Garak agrees. “I’ll replicate you something.”

“Oh, Garak, you don’t have to use any replicator ration credits on me,” Dr. Bashir rushes to assure him.

Garak ignores him and keys in the sequence for a plate of Yigrish cream pie, and a hot, sickeningly sweetened Tarkalean tea – then a glass of warm fish juice and plate of zabu stew for himself. A rare indulgence – a serving of nostalgia.

Dr. Bashir’s eyes light up. “My goodness , Garak! Is that…?”

“Oh, just some quick little re-programming,” Garak waves him off. “Come, join me.”

“Thank you, Garak.”

Garak only nods. “…And how was work today?”

“Nothing crazy, just a few routine inoculations for schoolchildren, and a few workplace injuries. The nurses are warming up to me, I think.” He sighs. “Dr. Gelor seems to hate me more than usual, which is… Well. It’s what it is.”

“Tell me about it. Perhaps it’s not hatred, but a cultural misunderstanding.”

“Well, that thought did enter my head, but I’d think she wouldn’t be interested in me. From what I’ve heard… I’m not her type.” Dr. Bashir avoids Garak’s eyes, and Garak has to bite his lips to keep from laughing. So the doctor has heard about that, has he.

“Not at all. What Dr. Gelor seems most infatuated with is mystery.”

“Oh… Well, in that case… No, I suppose that makes sense. But I’m not a Cardassian, so I always feel as though I must be missing something, but I do think that either she wants to rip my clothes off or rip my head off, and it’s rather awkward that I don’t know which.”

Garak slowly sets down his glass. “Is that so. Tell me, Doctor. Perhaps I can help you determine.”

“Well, professionally, we seem alright – we’ve both got the same priorities. But as soon as we’re in the break room, she’s… Oh, how do I explain it. It’s as though she blankets herself in this air of smug superiority – as though she’s trying to mentor the poor, naive little Federationer! It’s infuriating – I must be ten years older than her! And another thing – she criticizes every little thing I do or say! Even stupid things like what I dip in my yamok sauce.”

Garak’s pleasant and mild expression doesn’t change. “I see. Well, she’s always been… Rather direct.”

Dr. Bashir shakes his head. “I mean she is very pretty, and it’s rather flattering, but I don’t know her well enough to take that sort of treatment from her. And besides, it’s not as though we have anything in common, none of the same hobbies-”

“Your obvious alien status should be enough for her to realize you’re not understanding her advances, if you don’t respond,” Garak says dismissively. “This sort of thing may happen again. Cardassians may be xenophobes as a general rule, but there are outliers that might… Find you attractive.”

“Even if I don’t have any scales?”

“It may add a sort of exotic charm,” Garak tries to sound even more dismissive, if possible. “Besides, times are changing. Cardassia will have to broaden her perspectives in order to thrive. Or so I’m told.”

“Right.” Dr. Bashir pokes thoughtfully at his meal. “You know, I’ve always wondered, how does one go about returning a Cardassian courtship?”

Garak’s brow ridges rise. “Well,” he says. “If you aren’t the one initiating courtship by antagonizing your prospective partner, it really all comes down to reciprocation. Arguing back. Pointing out flaws. From there, it really depends.” He shakes his head. “But as an alien on Cardassia, no courtship you involve yourself in will ever be entirely traditional. After all, there are certain allowances to be made for your cultural understanding of courtship. A fact which, Dr. Gelor unfortunately, seems not to be aware of.” He cannot help a snide smile. “No matter. She is young.”

“Right,” Dr. Bashir repeats. He looks rather downcast

“Doctor, you seem troubled. Is she really making you suffer all that much?”

“No, no, not at all. I can ignore it. I, er, just wanted to make sure I wasn’t misinterpreting anything, You know, just in case she really does hate me, decides enough is enough, and comes at me with a laser scalpel in the staff room.”

Garak laughs. “My dear, you do have the most vivid imagination.”

“Sometimes I really think I must,” Dr. Bashir mutters.

--

2372 – ASSESSMENT

“Would you believe, Doctor, that as part of my rehabilitation, your Federation wants to psychologically assess me?” Garak laughs. He sits on the bed in his cell with his feet crossed at the ankle, a half-finished tunic in his lap. “What the Federation could possibly do with my psychological profile, I cannot imagine.”

Julian watches those broad, gray hands nimbly unpick a few stitches at the collar. He sits on a fold-out chair at the very edge of the force-field, head propped on his hands. After the first few daily visits, Odo had simply started keeping the chair in the security office for him to grab on his way in to visit Garak. “I’m aware, Garak,” he says. “Because I’m the one supposed to assess you.”

Garak gives him a wolfish grin. “And what is your professional opinion?”

Julian pretends to read off his PADD, not even bothering to turn the screen on. In fact, he’d finagled his way into being the assessor. “…Patient is a pathological liar with anti-social tendencies and a penchant for petty conflict.”

“Doctor, you wound me.” Garak clicks disapprovingly. “‘Petty conflict?’ Really. Where is the flair? What of my obvious megalomania and propensity to genocide? Surely that would better fit the Federation’s views on non-member species. How are they to accept the legitimacy of your report, otherwise?”

Julian rolls his eyes. “I see you’re taking this very seriously.”

“I have been promised six months of captivity – and here I am. The Federation’s dedication to humanitarian amenities makes imprisonment nearly enjoyable. I’ve heard I may even be released early, if my behavior is good.” His mouth twists into something not very like a smile. “Ask Chief O’Brien what Cardassian imprisonment is like, sometime, won’t you?”

“All I really need to know, Garak, is whether you regret it.” That’s what the Starfleet questionnaire really boiled down to, all ten pages of it.

“Oh, yes,” Garak says quietly. “I regret it.”

“…Regret not succeeding, you mean?” Julian pushes.

“Is that Starfleet asking?”

Julian considers lying. “…No,” he says instead. “It’s your friend asking.”

“My friend,” Garak repeats, shaking his head. “Your capacity for forgiveness astounds me, truly.”

“I understand it,” Julian says. “I don’t agree, but I understand.”

Garak sets the tunic aside before he answers, and Julian sees the brief ghost of a pained smile on the Cardassian’s shadowed face. “…I think you know the answer, my dear. What a sacrifice it would have been…”

--

Chapter Text

2374 – PRESUMPTION

Garak pushes past Dr. Bashir, not even bothering with a greeting. His expression is carefully neutral. “Doctor,” he says without preamble. “If you need passage off the station, I happen to be shipping out a collection of new sun-dress commissions to the Bajoran capital. I’m sure the freighter captain wouldn’t mind an… Extra package.”

The young doctor blinks, then clears his throat a few times. “Thank you, Garak,” he says, trying to regain his composure. “But I’ve decided to stay.”

“Then you are a greater fool than I had thought,” Garak hisses, advancing on him. “Would you be imprisoned, then?”

“I- I don’t know. Maybe.” Dr. Bashir swallows again. “It’s all finally caught up with me – I won’t make it any worse on myself, or my parents.”

“For all that the Federation touts tolerance, I see little of it here.” Garak’s teeth are bared. “What a secret you have kept all this time,” he says, mocking cheer in his voice. “And you think this is justice?”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Bashir says, forcing out a sigh and shutting his eyes. “But I became a doctor under false pretenses. I joined Starfleet under false pretenses. It’s all just catching up with me, Garak.”

Garak wants to shake the doctor. “So, that’s it, then?” he asks, trying to needle him as much as he can – throwing Dr. Bashir’s own words back at him, “You’re just going to give up, and let them win?”

Dr. Bashir looks stricken. “I’m not giving up , I’m guilty !”

Garak takes a breath, swallowing his anger for the moment. He changes tactics.

“Why should you be guilty, my dear Doctor? You have served your Federation and Starfleet well, and now they will throw you aside because of your origins.” He takes him by the upper arms, careful not to grip too tightly, yet trying to impress the point upon Dr. Bashir. “I will not have an opportunity like this again. You must leave within the hour.”

“I can’t,” Dr. Bashir chokes out. “And I’m sorry I lied to you about being… Being what I am, but-”

“You should be sorry for one thing only,” Garak tells him. “And that is for accepting the friendship of someone who you suspected of being a spy. You think you would be immune to blackmail, if you were found out?”

Dr. Bashir is clearly taken aback, laughing suddenly, as though even the idea of it is ridiculous to him. “Were you going to blackmail me, Garak?”

Garak gives him a sharp look. “You think a desperate, aging exile would not jump at the chance to buy his way back to his beloved home planet?”

Dr. Bashir looks away. Garak can read him easily, the flitting shadows in his eyes like plain questions. Would Garak have tried to use his secret against him? Buy Federation secrets for his silence? It seems as though it really hadn’t occurred to the young doctor that anyone would find out.

“Don’t tell me you trusted me.” Garak’s heart aches.

“No, of course not,” Dr. Bashir says. “Why should I trust the one man who tries to offer me a way out of my predicament, when all my other friends can barely look at me?”

This challenge is far too much.

“Perhaps I want to keep you as an asset,” Garak shoots back. “And your other friends are far too afraid to hurt your delicate feelings by intruding upon you in this time of difficulty.”

They’re nearly nose-to-nose at this point.

“Perhaps you should take your cue from them!” Dr. Bashir hisses through his teeth, in a way so nearly Cardassian that Garak feels the blood go to his neck-ridges.

“Perhaps I should!”

A few more moments, a few more bitter jabs, and Garak would take the young alien in his arms and devour him right then and there. Throw him onto the transport bodily if he had to. For a moment, he even entertains the wild possibility of coming with him.

But, as usual, when it comes to the doctor, Garak is wrong.

All the fight suddenly goes out of Dr. Bashir, and he clears his throat again. He looks away, unable to stand Garak’s heightened emotion. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he says quietly. “This might be the last time we see each other… I don’t want to part on bad terms.”

“Ah.” Garak steps away. Of course. Clearly, the young man wants gentleness, comfort of a different sort. “Very well,” he says. “…Then, a peaceful, Human goodbye it shall be.” He offers a faint smile and inclines his head. “I’m sorry I could not help, Doctor. I wish you the best of luck with your Federation.”

“Thank you, Garak.” Dr. Bashir smiles back, a little tremulously. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to forgive, my dear Doctor.”

--

2378 – BRÜDERSCHAFT

The morning after a long, grueling night shift spent trying to help a new mother through a difficult birth, Julian doesn’t even fall asleep when he comes to Garak’s dark apartment – he just drops down onto the couch and watches the sun rise over the horizon through a gap in the curtains. Even after the birth, they didn’t know whether the child was going to make it – it took hours for her to break through the egg shell.

Dr. Gelor had nearly cried when the baby finally broke through, and had impulsively grabbed him by the arm in relief. He’d absently patted her hand for a moment, grinning tiredly as they watched the baby cling to her mother for warmth. Dr. Gelor really was quite young. Julian guessed that she had only become a doctor very recently.

When Garak comes out of his room, neatly dressed as always, he wordlessly pours Julian a cup of something cold from the refrigeration unit, pressing it into his limp hand.

Julian drinks – the spicy chill startling him awake. The light seems brighter suddenly, and his nose aches from the sharpness. He blinks a few times and looks up at Garak. “What is that ?” he asks, when his throat stops burning.

“Takla root juice. Outside of Cardassia, colloquially known as ‘Cardassian coffee,’” Garak says smugly. “How do you feel?”

“Like I just drank four raktajinos,” Julian says, clearing his throat a few times. “And got my sinuses forcefully cleared. Wow.”

“Excellent. In that case, let’s go to the agricultural sector.”

Garak ushers Julian into the new ground transport (‘new’ in the sense that he’d not seen it before – the vehicle seems to be older than him, possibly even older than Garak, whatever that number may be) and starts it up, all the while describing the various properties of Cardassian plants.

“…Takla root is what you Humans would call a ‘super-food,’ if you bake it or fry it, it’s full of protein, and, of course, in any form, it acts as a natural stimulant. It’s a traditional hangover cure, in fact. It requires very little water to grow…”

What Garak had modestly called his ‘garden plot,’ is actually fields upon fields of grains and vegetables, tended to by various workers. Garak points out the various crops as they drive by, and then pulls up to one of the warehouses.

“I’m afraid I’ve not been completely honest with you, Doctor,” Garak says as Julian hops out of the transport.

“What else is new?” scoffs Julian.

“There is a small town gathering scheduled for this morning, during which we will taste this season’s first batch of kanar – the first, in fact, for three years.” Garak escorts Julian into the warehouse with a hand at his back.

Inside, Julian sees a few dozen local people, among them Madam Alet, leaning on her walking stick, and Leyal, his arm no longer bandaged. He recognizes Dr. Gelor, who meets his eyes, then demonstratively looks away, turning her nose up. Julian sighs.

Garak chuckles quietly, but Julian doesn’t have the time to explain, because an old Cardassian man comes out of the tall rows of containers, wheeling in a steel barrel with a tap. A stack of small bowls are passed around the crowd – but when the stack is to reach Julian, the woman gives him a dirty look and passes the last two bowls to Garak.

“Ah, thank you, Teacher Thrainiya.” Garak accepts them with a beatific smile. He takes one, and puts the other aside.

Julian watches as he pours a bowl-full of kanar from the barrel for himself, and toasts the small crowd.

“The season’s first batch of kanar,” he says cheerily, taking a deep drink from the small bowl, then making an approving sound. “A taste that is fresh and clean. How appropriate.”

He holds the half-drunk bowl out to Julian, and Julian reaches out to take it, suddenly aware of the stares and murmurs from the surrounding Cardassians. He gives Garak a questioning look, but Garak simply motions for him to try it – and Julian takes it.

The stares he is on the receiving end of are a tangible weight on his skin. He drinks deeply, just as Garak had.

It’s not quite as thick and syrupy as the stuff he’d tried before on the station, but he feels the spreading warmth almost immediately from the first sip. “Oh, that’s nice,” he says.

Garak’s approving smile is at sharp contrast to the horrified look he sees Dr. Gelor give Madam Alet. Julian puts the empty bowl back into Garak’s beckoning hand.

Julian raises his eyebrows at Garak. “…Why do I feel like I’ve just taken part in some sort of ritual?” he asks in an undertone, as the rest of the crowd line up to try the kanar themselves.

“I’m just demonstrating hospitality to my guest,” Garak says. “Setting the example, as it were.”

Somehow, Julian isn’t sure that’s it, but he doesn’t press the matter.

--

2377 – SENTIMENT

The surveillance Garak had been able to set up in the Administration Office is cursory at best, but he is able to tell, by the very grainy image, when the young Setrel Gelor lingers in front of the door, then seems to pluck up the courage to go in.

“Administrator,” she greets.

“Just on time. There is a package here, waiting for you since this morning.”

Gelor bites her lips. “Yes?”

“Congratulations on passing the State medical exam, Doctor. May you serve the State well. I heard that you were in the top-fifth percentile on Cardassia Prime.” Garak smiles and hands the folder with the diploma to the young woman. “Ideally, there would be a larger ceremony, but as there is no place to hold one…”

Gelor beams. “Thank you, Administrator Garak.”

“Our hospital is in sore need of another doctor – Dr. Laipar will be very glad to have you.”

“And, I suppose, you’re glad to be rid of me?”

Gelor looks a little hopeful. It’s a mild attempt at needling him, some sort of last-ditch effort to make herself seen to him. Her determination is admirable, he supposes – if only it was directed elsewhere – not toward an aging former operative with no real prospects, basically forced into administration due to lack of other choices in the area. With a twinge, Garak thinks of Ziyal – a very different girl, a very different set of circumstances, but the same odd light in her eyes.

Garak shakes his head. “Dr. Gelor, your contributions to our little militia, and to rebuilding our town have been incomparable. Your dedication to the State has always been excellent. I know it will be the same at the hospital. We will all depend on you.”

Gelor deflates slightly. “I understand, Administrator.”

“I look forward to seeing the development of your career,” Garak adds gently.

Gelor manages a smile, dips her head and departs. She is young and resilient – Garak has absolutely no doubt that she will recover quickly and find some other focus for her interest.

In an odd, nostalgic sort of mood – all the while wryly acknowledging that he has truly become the kind of sentimental old man he has always despised, Garak finds himself beginning another letter to Dr. Bashir.

My dear Doctor,

I hope you are doing well on the station, and that you are giving that genetically-engineered mind of yours some well-deserved rest from time to time.

Yourself and Colonel Kira will no doubt be very amused to know that I have recently been elected Administrator of a small agricultural province in the far reaches of the Southern Continent. The new government has been experimenting with democratic elements, and I cannot help but wonder if I am the stock of some joke in ill taste…

--

2378 – GIRL TALK

What Julian has decided to call ‘the kanar incident’ at the warehouse has slipped to the back of his mind for a while (and by a while, he means he doesn’t think of it until Garak looks at him from across the dinner table, or every time he takes a drink of any sort out of any vessel).

But the meaning of it completely escapes him – even when he tries to recall all the Cardassian literature he’s read, there’s nothing concrete in there about it. Really, it just seems a bit… Intimate, but only very slightly. If one was reading too much into it. Which Julian is.

Julian thinks he’s settled into a rhythm, at work – earnest politeness met with coldness by Dr. Laipar and pure bloody-minded argumentativeness by Dr. Gelor. The nurses, however, seem to have warmed up to him – as much as Cardassians can, he supposes. Sometimes he even gets a smile. It’s a welcome change.

Unfortunately, Julian can’t help overhearing the nurses chatting, giggling among themselves behind the door of the staffroom, as he intends to grab himself a cup of water to wet his throat. They’re all good-natured Cardassian girls, really, he thinks – but he knows they’re terrible gossips, so he pauses when he hears one of them mention a name he recognizes, and doesn’t open the door.

“…Alright, alright, I’ll do a serious one – Administrator Garak,” one of them says.

There is a wave of giggles. “Ular, you’re terrible ! Of course it’s a would , but he’s the Administrator !”

“You know he rejected Dr. Gelor, two years ago,” someone else pipes up.

“He what?”

“She would always argue with him, but he never once snapped back. He was very gentle about it, though – very kind.” There’s some more giggling. “He’d make a good father.”

“You know he could probably be Dr. Gelor’s father.”

“I know… He’s so dignified.” A dreamy sigh.

“Don’t you always go for younger ones, Kela?”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Alright, I have another one. Atil, shut up, it’s a good one, a really good one.” More giggling. “How about… Dr. Bashir.”

“The alien!” Atil nearly shrieks, and then quickly quiets down. “Ular, do you want to give me a heart attack?”

“Just answer it!”

“Well… He is an alien… Probably a wouldn’t.”

“It’s a would from me, just to see what it would be like, you know?” A stifled giggle. “You know what I’ve heard? That Humans have fur down on their-…”

“Oh, Ular!”

“It’s a would from me too. He’s just so… Cute. He’s always kind, even when no-one likes him. And having him here definitely serves the State – otherwise Administrator Garak wouldn’t like him so much.”

“I heard they live together.”

“They do! My intended lives one floor down from them!”

“Ooh, your intended,” Ular says in a sing-song voice. “Soon you’ll be a serving the State as a married woman, and where will all these games go?”

“Do you think the Administrator and the alien… ‘Regularly quarrel?’”

“They ‘drink from the same cup,’ Atil. What do you think?”

Julian quickly steps back from the door and covers his flaming face with his hands. Drinking out of the same bowl is clearly some kind of euphemism – but if Garak had wanted to spare him the judgement of the townsfolk by tying them together in their eyes… Was there no other bloody way he could’ve done that?

As soon as he gets home, he’s going to give Garak a piece of his mind!

The thought brings him to a sharp halt.

First – since when did he start thinking of Garak’s apartment as ‘home’? Second – if he were to go in, guns blazing, picking a fight with Garak over this, wouldn’t it seem incredibly flirtatious? Was Garak baiting him into something? Perhaps he really wants Julian… Or did he purposefully arrange the situation so that Julian wouldn’t bother asking and jeopardizing their friendship? Or did he simply never intend for Julian to find out – seeing as Garak was the only Cardassian Julian talked to about anything other than absolutely necessary work-related things.

And when he does get home, he dithers for so long that the moment passes, and he simply lays awake on Garak’s couch, trying not to think about missed opportunities and mixed signals.

--

Chapter Text

2370 – CRUEL TO BE KIND

Garak awakes to a bright light above him. His mouth is dry and his body heavy. His head is agonizing. For a moment, he wonders where he is being imprisoned – likely either Humans or Bajorans, for who else enjoys such blinding environments? Certainly not Romulans or Klingons.

Odd. He is not restrained. He-

The light dims as a beautiful alien leans over him – and he finds himself hoarsely laughing to himself as he finally gets his bearings. The Federation year is 2370. He is on the Bajoran-Starfleet occupied Terok Nor. This is the infirmary.

“Doctor,” he croaks.

Dr. Bashir is still keeping him alive, then. Stubborn boy. Nearly Cardassian in his single-mindedness. Perhaps, in some alternate universe… What a thought that would be. What possibilities.

“Garak!” Dr. Bashir grins at him. “How are you feeling?”

“Not quite up to another story,” Garak says.

A warm hand rests on his brow, smoothing his hair back for a moment as Dr. Bashir smiles ruefully down on him. There is a quiet hiss as a hypospray is pressed against his neck, and he suddenly feels as though he is floating, sent careening through his own mind and the bright lights of the infirmary, the deep ache in his head blissfully gone.

“That’s alright,” Dr. Bashir says. “I think I’ve had enough of those stories, for now.” His mouth twitches. “Tain was… Illuminating.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Garak chuckles. What a ridiculous thing to say, really. Then, he freezes, his sluggish brain catching up. “…You met Tain?”

“I met Tain,” the young doctor confirms with a sigh.

Garak struggles to sit up, but Dr. Bashir’s hand on his chest prevents him from doing so, in his weakened state, and Garak desperately scrambles to grip his wrist. “Foolish, self-important Federation boy- You have no idea how lucky you are to be alive-” he finds himself coughing as his dry throat spasms.

“I think both of us are lucky, actually,” Dr. Bashir says mildly, taking Garak’s hands and gently folding them back across his stomach. “You’re going to live, Garak.”

“Oh…” Garak shuts his eyes to the light, and to the sight of that alien face he has so stupidly developed a fondness for. He is going to live. The doctor had faced Tain to save him.

His grip on wakefulness is slipping. Above him, Dr. Bashir remains at the side of his bio-bed.

“It’s alright, Garak. Just rest now, alright? I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Garak’s attempts at eliciting fear and disgust, his attempts at shri-tal , even his fond goodbyes – all disguised as the story of Elim and himself, still hang between them. And he will live, it turns out.

Before unconsciousness takes him, there is only breath behind the movement of Garak’s lips, no voice: “You are too kind, Doctor…”

It is both courtesy and condemnation.

--

2378 – NEXT OF KIN

When Julian finds Madam Asinn in his office upon arriving to the hospital that morning, he is surprised. Cardassians don’t tend to seek him out for treatment. The old lady admires the small holo-image of DS9 he has on his desk, and doesn’t immediately turn when he comes in.

“Madam Asinn? What can I do for you?”

She gives a quiet sigh and puts the holo-image back on his desk. “Dr. Bashir. I need you to examine me.”

Julian pulls out his medical scanner. “Are you sick?”

“That is for you to determine.”

“Fair enough. Would you please sit?”

Madam Asinn goes and sits down in one of the chairs, silently submitting herself to his scan. Julian checks the readouts, then scans again, but the results are the same.

“You have Yarim Fel syndrome,” Julian says quietly, slowly lowering the scanner and putting it aside. “But you knew this already, didn’t you?”

“I was diagnosed before the bombardment. Last I heard, I had about a decade left. I suppose, it’s less, now. The past three years have not been easy on me.”

“With treatment, about three years.” Julian sits down across from her. “Have you seen any of the other doctors about this?”

“No.” Madam Asinn fixes him with a piercing look. “I wanted to see a Federationer doctor, because I have heard that you are sworn to secrecy in these matters.”

“So, your grandsons don’t know?”

“No-one but you.”

Julian nods. “I’ve treated Yarim Fel before – a far more advanced case. I can start you on a standard treatment plan of hexadrin therapy immediately – but it would require you to come to the hospital more often.”

Madam Asinn nods. “There is one more thing I wanted to ask you, Doctor.”

“What is it?”

“How long do you plan to remain on Cardassia?”

Julian blinks. “At least a year,” he says slowly. “Beyond that… I’m not sure.” He pauses. “If you’re concerned about confidentiality, I’m sure if you explained the situation to Dr. Gelor, she would understand.”

“That is not my concern. I’m sure the Administrator has made you aware of the blood connection we have?”

“Er, right – second nephew thrice removed on the boys’ mother’s side, was it?”

Madam Asinn snorts. “Something like that. You’re making an effort, I see.”

“You want me to keep this from Garak?”

“I will be the one to tell him, when the time comes.”

“Alright,” Julian agrees. He pauses. “As… As your neighbor, not only as your doctor, let me know if there’s anything you need me to do for you.”

He finds himself on the receiving end of another piercing look from Madam Asinn, but her expression softens uncharacteristically. “Thank you, Doctor. You may be an alien, but we are well-served by you.”

Julian inclines his head in the Cardassian manner. “I’m honored to hear that from you, Madam.”

--

2377 – SELF-SERVING

The connection is tenuous and the image quality atrocious, but even with the second or so of delay, that is Dr. Bashir’s face on the screen before Garak, grinning widely and waving exuberantly.

“…-rak! Hello! How ar-…-ou?”

“Doctor! It is very good to see your face again.”

“…-an’t see you ver-…-ell.”

“Interplanetary communication relays are still being repaired.”

Of course, it’s not just that – it’s his own ridiculous vanity keeping him in the shadows. His appearance has not changed so greatly, but whatever questions, comments and concerns the doctor would be sure to express would be best saved for a different time. New scars, new lines, a great deal more gray in his hair… A true Cardassian would be proud of these marks before another Cardassian, but Dr. Bashir is very Human, and Garak has not been a proper Cardassian for an awfully long time.

“How have you been?”

“Alright, I sup-…-se,” Dr. Bashir says, waving a dismissive hand. “Listen, I have-…-ell you someth-”

Garak winces and strikes the monitor with the flat of his hand. Sometimes a more direct approach is in order. The image of Dr. Bashir’s face on the screen freezes, but the audio improves markedly.

“…-oming to Cardassia with the Vulcan Medical Directorate’s relief program. For whatever bloody reason, I can’t leave directly from DS9, I have to go to Vulcan first – but in about a month or so I should be there.”

Garak freezes with his hand over the terminal. “You what?”

“I’m coming to Cardassia!” comes the doctor’s cheerful voice. On the screen, the image of Dr. Bashir’s bright smile flickers, but remains frozen, glowing up at him, nearly mocking in its warmth. “I should be there by the new year – new Federation year, I mean. I just thought I should let you know I’m coming.”

“…You’re coming. To Cardassia.”

“Yes, Garak. Damn, am I breaking up again? Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you, my dear,” Garak says faintly. “For how long?”

“At least a year, I think. Well, I mean, if I can get it squared away with the Cardassian side of things – whatever consulate there is for that-”

“There is nothing to worry about on that front,” Garak cuts in, already going over the conversation with Lang in his head.

“Oh?”

The State would of course be best served by Dr. Bashir’s presence – his augmented mind, his experience with practicing medicine on Cardassians (certainly far more than any other alien!), the positive political implications in such a time of uncertainty… All this is true, certainly.

Garak clears his throat. “Cardassia would be well-served by your presence.”

“Well, thank you!”

“I am only regretful that you will have to see it as it is.” In a moment of boldness, he continues, “But perhaps you will have the chance to see what it will become.”

Dr. Bashir’s voice is solemn and gentle. “It would be my honor.”

“Then Cardassia would be glad to have you.”

The wry chuckle from the terminal brings back to mind so many long lunches in the Replimat – sub-par, replicated fusion food, a spirited discussion over one novel or another, and that bright spark in Dr. Bashir’s golden eyes.

“Garak, I’m not entirely sure all of Cardassia would be glad to have me, but thank you. I only hope I can do enough.”

--

2378 – SOCIAL STANDING

Shipments of supplies from the cities don’t come in often – in fact, the last one had been before Julian had arrived to Uedec. The ‘wagon-train’ of ground transports arrives in the early morning, right as Julian is getting out of a night shift. He watches them go down the main road from the window of the staff-room.

One of the nurses, Ular, hands him a chilled cup of Cardassian coffee as he signs out. “Thank you.”

“My duty,” she says mildly. “Dr. Laipar said not to allow you to return until tomorrow evening. She fers you will collapse.”

“I don’t need as much rest as normal Humans,” Julian counters mildly, gulping his drink down.

“Dr. Laipar is well aware of this,” Ular laughs. “Go – see if you can snag something new and tasty from the supply train for yourself and the Administrator. Last time there were whole bags of ketel berries from the western territories.”

“Thank you.” Julian decides not to argue further, put into a better mood by the nurse’s friendly manner and the chilled drink.

Outside, he joins the gathering Cardassians around the stopped transports piled high with crates. Julian notices that one of the transports has a passenger, a young man with a scar on his neck ridge going up the side of his jaw.

When he shifts to look around, Julian notices the slight jutting of something at his hip, hidden under his tunic. A disruptor, he is sure – even at this distance.

When he notices Julian looking at him, the young Cardassian gives him a dirty look. He hops off and joins the crowd – and Julian loses sight of him.

“Do you know that man?”

Julian jumps, finding Dr. Gelor right by his shoulder. “Er, no. I think he’s armed, though.”

“Not everywhere is as safe as Uedec is now,” Dr. Gelor says. “Especially if he came from further north.”

“Yes, I was wondering about that,” Julian says, curiosity getting the better of him. “What happened here, before? I keep hearing things were pretty bad before Garak’s Administration.”

Dr. Gelor’s lips thin. “The Administrator doesn’t tell you much, does he.”

Julian feels the odd urge to defend Garak. “Well, I mean, it’s sort of just his way,” he says. “Besides, I’ve only been here a short time. I knew you had some problems with former military, I just didn’t know the whole of it. Garak told the story mostly in gardening metaphors. He said something about weeding poisonous plants.”

“Of course he did. A Gul Reucec ran the area before the Administrator came – he and his men were the only ones who were armed. The rest of us could do little. Administrator Garak… Well, he wasn’t the administrator then – he blew up most of the bandits, which scared them off enough they didn’t return.”

Julian can’t help a wry smile. “Garak does like his explosions.”

“What was he like, before?” Dr. Gelor wants to know, suddenly sounding quite a bit younger. “You’re… Old friends, aren’t you?”

Julian isn’t quite sure he likes the pause before ‘old friends.’ “Well… I suppose he was very much the same as he is now,” he says with a shrug. “A real patriot,” he adds.

Dr. Gelor seems to smile a little. “I see. You really are…” she trails off, then shakes her head. Visibly, she gathers herself. “Do you have any other questions, Dr. Bashir?”

“No,” Julian says with a quiet laugh. “Thank you, Dr. Gelor.”

“Just Gelor will be fine, if we’re not working,” she offers.

“Then, feel free to do the same, please.” Internally, Julian is doing cartwheels – if he can get Dr. Gelor to warm to him, maybe his social situation on Cardassia isn’t quite as hopeless as he’d thought!

“If we are so familiar, then, Bashir, I must tell you – the Rising Season festival gathering is in a few days. You should come, and improve your social standing.”

“Oh. Thank you! I’ll make sure to come, then. I’m sure my social standing could do with some improving.”

Gelor cracks another smile. “Yes.”

--

Chapter Text

2373 – STRANGE IDEAS

Garak closes his eyes and breathes in the rare, bone-deep warmth of the stone beneath him. He lays on his back, hands folded across his stomach, legs crossed loosely at the ankle.

Across from him, laying on her stomach, with her chin resting on her folded arms and her legs absentmindedly kicking, Ziyal hums quietly – Garak recognizes most tunes as Bajoran ‘Top 30 Seasonal Hits,' including ‘The Prophets Sent You to Me,' 'Dakhur Sunrise,' and 'Springwine Kiss.'

“You seem to be in a good mood.”

“I’ve been painting all day. This feels so nice, it's like my shoulders are melting.”

Garak hums.

"I don't suppose you know any Cardassian massage techniques?"

Garak winces. What an awfully blunt, Bajoran approach. "My dear, I'm a tailor, not a massage therapist. I'm sure Quark has plenty of holo-programs with that function."

Ziyal sighs. "Right. Well. This is always nice – I'm glad we make time for these… Meetings."

Perhaps it's not even Bajoran of her. Culturally, yes – but that inherent bluntness, sullenness at rejection, then immediate bounce-back to her previous insinuating attitude… Perhaps dear young Ziyal has inherited more from her father than gray, scaly skin. She manages to be endearing however, something Dukat had never succeeded at being, even in his distant youth.

Garak hums in the affirmative, again.

There is a silence, and then Ziyal bursts out, "Oh, Prophets! I wish I could think of something to argue about with you, but we just get along too well!"

Unable to stop himself, Garak laughs. He sits up, looking down at Ziyal, who has buried her face in her arms and allowed her legs to drop limply down. "My dear – perhaps that should be a lesson to you. Most people find me absolutely insufferable."

Ziyal looks up, a little flushed, and avoids his eyes. She pouts slightly. "It's that I'm not Cardassian enough, isn't it. All these subtleties, all this intrigue – you can lead me around like a child, but can't connect with me on any other level. I'm trying to learn, you know."

"I know," Garak says. "And you're quite Cardassian enough – you're trying to bait me right now."

She flushes more deeply and hides her face again.

Garak switches to Bajoran – smooth, un-accented. This sentiment is best expressed in a foreign tongue with gentler words. "It's my pleasure to expose you to the elements of culture you missed, and my honor to be kept company by a bright young mind."

Ziyal mumbles into her arms. "Thank you, Garak…" She takes a breath and looks up, swinging her legs a little again. "You know I'll keep trying."

"Oh, you'll stop eventually," Garak promises her. "You're sensible enough to realize when to give up. I'm an old exile with nothing to give but a few lessons."

"'Old.' You keep bringing that up. That's not a Cardassian sentiment – being old is just fine. It's, like, hot."

Garak snorts. Slipping Bajoran slang into formal Cardassi – how perfectly Ziyal. "Ah, but you're not entirely Cardassian."

"Well no Bajoran would want me either."

"You're quibbling. There are plenty of open-minded young Bajorans in the art world – and we happen to be on a station where you have access to all sorts of different people, many of whom would surely find you interesting. Broaden your horizons."

"…Maybe a Human wouldn't mind me."

Garak snickers. "Humans are quite indiscriminate."

Ziyal squints into the distance, then seems to come to some sort of shocking realization. "…Oh," she says. "Of course. Dr. Bashir."

Garak blinks. "Certainly more successful and age-appropriate," he manages. "I didn't know you liked him, Ziyal."

There’s a pause, and then Ziyal giggles. "He's quite attractive, isn't he."

"Certainly."

"I don't think he likes me very much, though." Ziyal sits up and brings her knees to her chest.

Gathering himself, Garak lays back down, onto his side to face her. "He thinks I am putting myself in danger by associating with you, and putting you in danger by leading you astray," he says diplomatically. "Personally, he doesn't dislike you at all."

"Doesn't he trust you?"

"Up to a point. He's a very wise young man." Garak gives her a piercing look. "Why him?"

"He dates outside his species all the time," Ziyal says. "He's handsome. Cultured. Intelligent. Funny. Why not?" She gives him a very sharp look. "So, you wouldn't mind?"

Garak laughs. Oh, she's good. "I would, very much! Can you imagine what kind of difficulty I would be in after the breakup? Each of you complaining about the other, and myself, stuck between my two dear friends, unable to take a side?"

That is clearly not the answer Ziyal had been expecting and she pauses, then rallies admirably. "What makes you think I wouldn't last with him?"

"Nobody lasts with him, my dear. He's what Humans would call a 'serial monogamist.'"

Ziyal mouths 'serial monogamist,' then giggles quietly. "Who do you think would last with him?"

"Wise and experienced as I may be, some things are a mystery to me, too." Garak shrugs with a flourish.

Ziyal begins to smile slyly. "I won't, then. Since you think I shouldn't. You think I'd get hurt."

"Oh, on the contrary, I think the doctor would let you down quite kindly. Perhaps he'd even try to annoy you into breaking it off with him first."

"You know him very well."

Garak sighs long-sufferingly. "Oh yes."

Ziyal pinches her lips together, then directly asks, “You and him…?”

Garak bursts out laughing again. He prides himself on how wonderfully natural it sounds – pure warm, gentle amusement with nary a hint of tension. "You are full of strange ideas today, my dear. No, certainly not."

This, at least, Ziyal seems to accept.

--

2371 – WAITING GAME

If he’s a little too exuberant when he meets Garak for lunch that week, Julian knows it, but can’t really help it. Even if the Garak that had died in his arms was simulated, the experience itself was jarring. To put it mildly.

Even as they exchange the first little pleasantries over the first bites of their meal, before getting into their customary literary discussion, Julian finds himself trying to log and catalogue the differences between the simulation’s Garak, and the real man across from him.

Garak gestures expansively. “…For all that the Federation, and you Humans especially, seem to place so much importance on the inherent goodness of the ‘Human Spirit,’ your literature seems to suggest the opposite. Why, this Charles Dickens writes of greed to rival Ferengi, violence to rival Klingons, and without a strict code to guide either.”

“It’s not really supposed to mean that. Anyone can be corrupt and violent – it’s that there are people who are good, and want to do the right thing, despite society at the time being far less than ideal. It was a dark time in history for a lot of people, then. Dickens was a moralist – he wanted to contrast the goodness of his protagonists with the evil of their antagonists.”

The Dominion’s simulation had built upon the existing patterns in his mind – the Garak that Julian had built for himself in his own mind out of all the interactions he’s ever had with the Cardassian. A pattern turned into a predictive algorithm, which had fooled even him.

“Oh, I’m sure. But the morals leave something to be desired.”

“You always say that,” Julian snorts. “I thought you’d like the books – they’re almost as verbose as Cardassian literature.”

“My dear Doctor, the two are incomparable.”

Of course, he’s sure Garak would be insulted at the very thought of Julian presuming to know him well enough to feel so strongly about it all.

“I thought you’d like ‘A Tale of Two Cities,’ at least.”

Garak sighs. “It was… The least objectionable book, out of the many,” he acquiesces. “The politics are somewhat clumsy, but taken as a story of relationships… It’s almost romantic. Almost.”

“Right. Of course. Sacrifice,” Julian sighs.

“Indeed.” Garak’s gaze sharpens, but he looks just slightly past Julian as he recites, “‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’”

For a moment, Julian feels cold. He thinks of the imminent threat of the Dominion, a firefight in a dark hallway, and dark blood staining the front of Garak’s tunic.

“Doctor? You seem preoccupied.”

Julian shakes himself out of it. “I’m sorry,” he rushes to explain. “Just… Been a busy week.”

“Ah, yes. Classified, I’m sure.” Garak’s eyes glint as he takes a sip of his rokassa juice.

Privately, Julian suspects that Garak has been hacking into Starfleet servers to read their mission reports not the least out of sheer, bloody-minded curiosity – and knows a great deal more about the whole thing than he’s letting on. He’s baiting Julian, surely . “Yes, actually,” Julian says, a little sniffily.

There aren’t many ways of saying, ‘You died in my arms in a simulation, and it’s been bothering me very much because I care about you a very, very great deal – and you’re probing me for information I won’t give, even though you don’t need to ,’ that sound casual and off-handed. Besides, with Garak, it’s all in what both of them don’t say.

“Of course, of course. I wouldn’t dare ask. You have your duty.” Garak takes another demure little sip and casts another little glance over at Julian.

“Reverse psychology won’t work on me, Garak.”

“My dear Doctor, I would never attempt such a crude method.”

“What method would you attempt, then?”

Garak smiles. “On you?”

Julian smiles back.

“I would simply wait for you to tell me.”

Julian has to look away, taking a quick sip of his raktajino .

--

2375 – WHO WE LEAVE BEHIND

In these next moments, he allows himself to think of Dr. Bashir as Julian – for soon, there will be no danger in that. Who knows whether he will survive Cardassia a second time?

And here they are, standing by the airlock doors, a step apart. Garak finds himself uncharacteristically lost for words – only truth comes to mind and slips from his tongue like a dulled blade.

“You've been such a good friend. I'm going to miss our lunches together.”

What has it been, all this time? Julian’s fascination, Garak’s amusement, some very mutually enjoyable arguments. But it’s not just that, not really. The incident with the implant, Camp 371, the whole of the Dominion War, years and years of friendship, respect, some form of love, even, perhaps – everything they’ve experienced together only bringing them closer and closer, opportunities both taken and missed – culminating in Julian barely able to meet his eyes, voice just a little too hoarse as he says, “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“I’d like to think so. But one can never say. We live in uncertain times,” Garak says kindly, allowing his hand to curl around Julian’s shoulder.

Julian has always understood well enough.

Garak turns away, but Julian awkwardly opens his arms, round golden eyes shifting from their downcast position to a hopeful look up.

The embrace is tight, but not too long.

Garak doesn’t look back at Julian – a final kindness.

And when the docking clamps disengage and the transport pulls slowly away from the station, Garak watches the graceful arches of Terok Nor, no, Deep Space Nine, and the stars all around. It is pure sentiment, this one remaining conceit of his , as if those downcast golden eyes were still before him – when he finds himself whispering against the window, “We both have our duties, my dearest.”

As the fog of his breath fades from the window, so, too, does the station fade from sight.

Garak’s thoughts turn to the ashes of Cardassia.

--

2378 – CARELESSNESS

“You have assigned yourself to another night shift?” Gelor asks Julian as she readies to leave.

“Well, Garak commed me that he was going to be in a Council meeting for most of the night, so it’s not like I’d be coming home to a warm meal,” Julian jokes.

Gelor shakes her head. “You should hear yourself, sometimes,” she mutters, then gives a little wave. “Alright, comm me if things get out of hand.”

“Good night!”

Julian does his rounds, tells Nurse Atil that he’ll be in his office if anything, and begins to run simulations on various forms of Yarim-Fel Syndrome. There’s a particular enzyme that seems to be affected by gentle delta radiation therapy, and though he’s far from a breakthrough, the findings are not insignificant.

He’s immersed in his work, when the swishing of his door makes him jump, and the presence of Garak in the doorway startles him further.

“Good evening, Doctor,” he says. “I’m afraid I’ll have to impose on you.”

Immediately cataloguing his slightly hunched posture, the hand pressing against his side, the dark blood soaking into the thick fabric of his tunic, and the tense little smile on Garak’s face – Julian doesn’t have to be genetically engineered to know that something is very wrong.

“What happened?” he demands, already flicking on his scanner and waving it over Garak, supporting him under the elbow with his other arm.

Garak’s gray face has taken on a slight sheen and when he speaks, he’s a little breathless. “I believe I’m getting careless in my old age,” is all he says. “The knife went in about six or so centimeters, here-”

Julian doesn’t wait for Garak’s annoying non-explanation – he’s pressing a solvent hypospray to Garak’s neck and setting the internal tissue regenerator to the highest setting, letting it charge up for a moment as he bats away Garak’s bloody hands and rolls the hem of the tunic up. It’s sticky with blood, and Garak hisses through his teeth as it peels away from the wound.

Garak is oddly pliant as Julian clinically strips him of both tunic and undershirt. He throws the offending garments to the floor and helps Garak rest back against the biobed. The ray from the regenerator makes slow but efficient work of the internal damage. According to the scanner, the knife had hit mostly muscle, though any higher, and it would have been his liver.

Garak’s shallow breathing evens out and Julian uses a dermal regenerator to seal the wound, though the scales around it come back a little discolored and shiny. He presses another hypospray to Garak’s neck, a painkiller.

“You shouldn’t move too much for a few days, but you’re no longer in any danger of dying,” Julian says sternly. “You didn’t lose quite enough blood to need a transfusion, but there are some pills I will replicate for you that should stimulate blood production.” He glares Garak down, hands on his hips. “Now, Garak, mind telling me what this is all about?”

Garak’s eyes are closed and his hands, dark with his own drying blood, are folded loosely across his broad, gray chest. “I can’t believe my favorite tunic is ruined,” he says mildly, voice still a little weak.

“Tough luck,” Julian grumbles, but is already rooting around for a disposable medical gown in the drawers of his cabinet. “The last gowns are in the maternity wing,” he says, coming up short. “I’ll replicate more tomorrow, when the government credits come in.” He comes to sit at the side of Garak’s biobed and runs a hand-held sonic cleanser over his hands and torso to get rid of the blood.

“Ah, I see.”

“Garak, if I have to ask what happened one more time, I am going to be very upset,” Julian says through his teeth.

“Oh, we can’t have that, can we, Doctor,” Garak chuckles quietly, eyes still closed. “I believe it was an assassination attempt, poorly carried out though it was. Unfortunately I found nothing out from my erstwhile assassin – his disruptor was set to ‘vaporize,’ and I had little time to adjust the settings before I was forced to use it on him.”

“However shoddy you think he was, he did get you pretty good.”

“The knife was an unexpected last resort, after I thought I had disarmed him.” Garak sighs. “Now, ten years ago, I would have never…”

Julian grows cold. “He didn’t, by any chance, happen to have a scar on his neck and jaw?” he interrupts.

“Why, yes.” Garak cracks one eye open, then the other.

“I saw a young man like that. He came in with the supply transports, the other day. I thought he was carrying a disruptor, but I didn’t think too much of it – so many travelers do, now.” Julian rubs his forehead. “Oh, this is my fault, I should’ve-”

Garak stops him with a hand on his arm. “None of that, my dear. That is quite useful – the supply depot manager and the transport workers may know something of him.”

Impulsively, Julian lays his hand over Garak’s.

“Don’t worry, this sort of thing happens sometimes,” Garak attempts to reassure him, ultimately having quite the opposite effect. He looks softly up at Julian. “I suppose in my current state, I cannot overstate to you the importance of being on one’s guard. But I think there is little to fear. It’s likely some personal vendetta – an amateurish attempt such as this… I doubt it will be repeated.”

“It better not be.” Julian wags a finger at Garak. “If you die, I’ll kill you myself.”

Garak’s eyes crinkle slightly. “You should know better than to trust any promises of mine, my dear – but let my long and unlikely survival up until now speak for itself.” He then makes a face and shakes his head slightly. “…What did you give me?”

“Vertocedrin. Has it not kicked in yet?”

“Oh, no, no,” Garak says. “It’s working, alright. I’m just a little…” he waves a hand, “Discomposed.”

“It does make you a little loopy and sleepy. You should stay the night here.”

“I suppose I should.” Garak’s eyes close again. “Goodnight, my dear,” he murmurs, then adds, as if in afterthought, “…Doctor.”

Julian tries not to let his heart flutter.

--