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…
Bashir comes to a dead stop just two steps into his quarters, drawing in a startled breath. “Garak.”
“Doctor,” Garak says evenly. He remains staring straight ahead, sitting prim and upright on the ugly sofa, hands crossed (and, more importantly, visibly empty) on his lap. “I find myself in need of your medical expertise.”
“But not at the Infirmary, during my shift,” Bashir says, and sighs. Garak can smell his tension adjust from shock to concern. “What seems to be the problem?”
They both know and accept that this is Bashir’s fault. Garak can’t trust anyone. He’s a Cardassian alone, an exile in hell, beset by enemies on all sides. Bashir made himself Garak’s only ally and succor of his own choice — had Garak been physically capable of stopping him, he would have.
“I can’t tell a lie,” Garak says simply.
Bashir stands still for another fifteen seconds, and then swears quietly under his breath. Garak rather likes Federation curse words. Starfleet officers tend to be bland and inoffensive — which he understands, without appreciating in the slightest — but every once in a while, a crack will appear in the shell. The curse words highlight these crucial moments. Also, Garak found an entire book on the usage of the word “fuck,” and he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to test just how well he understood it.
Small victories; simple pleasures. Just another silly hobby for the plain and simple tailor he has purported himself to be.
Bashir is going to the little cabinet in which he keeps supplies, specifically for Garak. Because, if asked, Garak will have to admit that he will never of his own accord go to the Infirmary when he’s truly in trouble. He’ll be here, in the dark solitude of Bashir’s quarters, waiting however long until he can consult the man privately. At least he won’t be found trying to drink himself to death in Quark’s bar again.
“So you can’t lie,” Bashir repeats, pulling out a black bag with various supplies Garak likes to think he’s pilfered from the Infirmary. “When did — I would assume you noticed that today, while attending to customers in your shop.”
“You’re asking me when I realized I was thus afflicted,” Garak translates. “You don’t have to dance around questions, my dear doctor. I’ve been unable to lie for at least two hours.”
Bashir sets the bag on the sofa next to Garak and gestures for Garak to turn his head and lift his chin, leaning close to examine his eyes with determined focus. “I don’t want to ask you questions if you’re unable to answer like you normally would.”
“You’re asking if I feel compelled to answer questions. Yes, even those that are implied.”
Bashir actually stops examining him for a moment to fix him with a vexed glare. “If I have questions, I’ll ask them, Garak. Until then, just take my comments as, as comments.”
“This is a very subjective experience, Doctor. You should be asking me questions.”
Garak can see him biting back a response; Bashir’s jaw twitches twice before he finally says, “But if you couldn’t answer, I could still run tests. There are approximately twelve chemical compounds I can think of off the top of my head that could affect your ability to communicate —“
“To lie, Doctor. Specifically. To lie.”
“So why don’t you shut up for a minute while I take some blood samples and see if I can identify anything strange in your system, hm? And please don’t answer that.”
Garak rolls his eyes and his sleeve. “I know a rhetorical questions when I hear one.”
“That hasn’t stopped you before,” Bashir says, with just a hint of cheek. He takes a sample and carefully does not look Garak in the eye again. “I will have to go back to the Infirmary to run the tests, though. Do — you’re welcome to stay here. If you like.”
“I would like to,” Garak almost whispers.
…
Garak has what one could call a “complicated relationship” with truth. There tend to be as many variations of it as there are witnesses to it, and the more you look into it, the more complicated it becomes. So it’s as the Terran poets say: if truth is beauty, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then each witness has their own truth and there is no one, singular, overarching Truth to be had. Everything is a lie.
But now there is one witness, and one truth. And one mouth compelled to spill it all over, blots of indelible ink.
Bashir returns with a tricorder, padd, and very grim expression. “Tell me, Doctor, is it fatal?” Garak asks, simply to be annoying.
“For you? Seems like it.” He settles himself on the sofa near Garak, setting the padd down first. “You’re in shockingly good health right now, according to your labs, so I ran them twice. Cortisol is a bit high, but stress will do that to you.”
Garak flicks a disinterested eye over the results, but memorizes them nonetheless. “No foreign substances, then?”
Bashir sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “No, that would be too easy. In the same vein I’m sure you haven’t hit your head at all, recently.”
“I would have mentioned it, if I had.” Garak turns to fix him with a stare. “Doctor, as I said before, you can ask me questions.”
“May I have your permission to scan you?” Bashir holds up the tricorder. “I’d like to get some imaging of your brain, skull, and neck.”
It’s barely a question, but Garak is still forced to answer. “Yes, of course.” He closes his eyes against the faint light as Bashir moves the sensor around.
“I’m looking for inflammation, cysts, other fluid buildup,” Bashir explains, and Garak fails to control a flinch when Bashir takes his chin in gentle fingers and moves Garak’s head around to facilitate the scan. “Any foreign object that might have been introduced to your body, that’s now causing problems.”
“No more wire,” Garak sighs, and if he’s not entirely grateful, Bashir will likely forgive him that, too.
Just a small hum, and then the light flicks off. Garak opens his eyes to see Bashir frowning down at the tricorder.
“Nothing to see, then?” he asks, as lightly as he’s able.
“One more scan,” Bashir says with some authority, tapping at the device. His lips are tight.
“If it isn’t a drug or an injury—“ Garak cuts himself off, wincing at the light as the tricorder begins its scan again. He’s silent until Bashir curses again. “Have you found it, then?”
“You won’t like the answer.”
Liking it means nothing. There are a great many things Garak doesn’t like, and being at Bashir’s mercy is one of them. “Tell me.”
Bashir settles back, turning the tricorder off and biting his lip — a most distracting habit. “Orb Shadow.”
For a moment, Garak is almost cold with surprise. “I’m not Bajoran.”
“I don’t think they care.” Bashir is staring into the middle distance, fingers dancing over the tricorder but not pressing anything. Garak plucks it from his hand and tries to read the results himself, though medical jargon has never been his area of study — beyond what is necessary for a political poisoning.
Ridiculous. There is no reason for the so-called Prophets of Bajor to visit a curse on him. Has he not been cursed enough, to reside on their battle-won station, under their jurisdiction, under their law? He’s even saved their damned station, given information and more to aid in their accomplishment of their goals.
“It tends to be visions,” Bashir says slowly. He’s tapping his fingers on his knee now, fitfully and without rhythm. “Or, I guess, moving people out of linear time. I wonder why they would make it so that you’re unable to tell a lie…”
“Perhaps it’s not them, but something like them,” Garak offers, even as his scales rustle in disquiet.
Bashir is shaking his head. “This is dangerous. I don’t care if you’re just a simple tailor; your understanding of Cardassian society and psyche is still important. If you’re unable to barter that knowledge, you risk your position on Deep Space Nine.”
“You know that I’m not —“
Garak shuts his mouth a split second before Bashir’s palm presses against his lips.
“Shut up, Garak,” Bashir says, an incredible dismay in his face. Garak’s heart is beating so hard and so fast he can feel his pulse even in his feet. “Just shut up.”
They stare at each other in the ensuing silence, the weight of it crushing anything else they could say.
…
In the end, Bashir diagnoses him with an unknown viral infection and Garak elects to close his shop for a minimum of three days. It seems the neatest solution.
“I think we ought to leave it ’til tomorrow,” Bashir says, setting aside his tricorder and padd. He pauses, and gives Garak a small smile. “We’ll figure this out. I promise you.”
“I believe you,” Garak says, and wishes that Bashir had kept his hand over his mouth. But he does believe him. Bashir had gone to Tain and come back again. He didn’t think it beyond him to go to the wormhole and find the aliens therein.
But his statement — true, blast it, entirely true — eases something in Bashir’s face, lets his muscles loosen. “Let me walk you home.”
He doesn’t necessarily want to demure, but there must be some honesty in doing so, because he is allowed. “Surely that isn’t necessary, Doctor. You’ve barely made it home yourself.”
Bashir’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’d hate for you to encounter someone on the way who might ask your opinion on their outfit.”
“It was a trying afternoon,” Garak sighs, and stands. Bashir, in all his awkward solicitousness, lets his hand come to rest on Garak’s lower back as they move to the door, and Garak can’t not allow it, can’t not let some tension ease from his shoulders as he does.
They encounter no one on their journey, and Garak wishes Bashir a quiet good night before he is left to his own devices. He goes to the mirror near his wardrobe and faces himself, wincing a bit at the visible strain in his expression.
“My name is Elim Garak,” he says aloud, and bites back a groan. He had meant to give his name as Julian Bashir.
Three days won’t make or break his custom. He has projects to work on, and a willing accomplice, if not actual friend, to get him the tools and supplies he might need. But right now, Garak is almost unfairly tired.
And yet sleep, for the most part, evades him. He has snatches of the usual sort of nightmare (Cardassia gleaming behind a wall of ice he can’t break; the walls of his shop toppling in) and stranger, more unsettling dreams (Bashir, who isn’t Bashir, looking at and somehow through him, declaring a shared objective). If anything, by morning, he looks the part of a Cardassian under siege by a virus.
Bashir sends him a brief message to let him know that he’s posted a sign about the shop being closed and promises to check on him during his lunch hour.
“Thank you,” Garak says aloud, so that he doesn’t have to write it.
But before the lunch hour can roll around, an alarm blares, and a very familiar, very detested voice begins to sound over the station’s alert system.
…
“Attention all personnel: report to your assigned evacuation route.”
Garak has wrapped a length of cloth loosely around his lower face, all the better to simulate a viral condition while discouraging anyone from speaking to him. As the panicked residents of Deep Space Nine notice him, they give him space, eventually allowing him to progress to the Promenade, where Doctor Bashir hooks his arm and pulls him into an empty doorway.
“You’re supposed to stay at home!” he scolds, but worry and compassion twist his expression as he looks Garak over.
Garak gestures upward and says drily, “But Gul Dukat is telling us evacuate.”
“You’ve never listened to him before.” Bashir pauses, attention drawn by something in the Promenade, and then he grips Garak’s arm more securely. “I have to go to Ops. If I can get you access, I suppose you’d be able to find out what this is all about.”
“I’m sure I could, but what do you mean by get me access? Should I not go with you to Ops?”
Bashir is chewing his lip. In all of the chaos, it’s an anchor for Garak’s attention.
“I don’t want to put you in any danger,” Bashir finally says, and Garak knows an instant before his own mouth opens what he is compelled to say:
I want to kiss you.
But Bashir is talking over him, asking a question before Garak can be forced to share his deepest truth. “Do you think I can talk over any questions, just keep up a chatter, to kind of drown out anything you shouldn’t be saying?”
“I — I think that might work,” Garak stutters, and as he does, the compulsion around his confession fades away. Hope rises in its aftermath, and he says again, more confidently, “I think that will work.”
“I’m sorry for forcing you to answer,” Bashir says, “but I had to know immediately. Here’s Miles.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Garak snaps as Chief O’Brien steps into the doorway.
“Ops,” he says tersely, and looks hard at Garak. “What’s wrong with you?”
“He has a virus,” Bashir snaps back, hand squeezing tight on Garak’s upper arm. “Do you think you can help with this, or will we be seeing Dukat again?”
Words trip over themselves in Garak’s mouth, and he ends up stuttering again. “I can— I’m fine right now; I can do something. Who can say if we’ll see Dukat? He’s like a vole; he turns up when you least want or expect him.”
“Come on, then,” Bashir says, and they’re in the thick of it: pushing through the crowd in the Promenade, the crowds pushing towards the docking stations. Garak stays close to Bashir’s back, trying not to be overwhelmed by the sheer mass of people.
…
In Ops, Major Kira is the next to demand, “Garak? What’s wrong with you?”
“He’s sick,” Bashir flares again, “and still willing to help us, so—“
“Too many people,” Garak manages to gasp out, trying to focus on the relative openness of Ops. Bashir steers him to a chair and none-to-gently forces him to sit.
“You’re fine, just breathe,” he says in a low voice, catching and squeezing Garak’s hand. “Just breathe.”
“We have multiple phosphine leaks in upper pylons one and two,” Dax announces, and Garak freezes.
In most Cardassian refineries, a great many possible phosphine preparations and occurrences had been phased out of use due to the sheer toxicity of the gas. More immediately harmful to Cardassians than Bajorans, it was considered too risky in that, while Bajorans could be used to find and dam a leak with limited losses, they could also utilize a leak to poison the Cardassian overseers. It took mere minutes to cause a Cardassian significant respiratory damage, leaving them choking and gasping ineffectually on the floor. At similar levels, healthier Bajorans could manage for close to an hour.
Of course Gul Dukat had spent too much of his political capital to get a full reconfiguration of Terok Nor before the end, and of course he was too proud to beg Central Command for it.
“Toxic and flammable,” Chief O’Brien notes, crossing his arms. “Evacuation isn’t a bad idea.”
“The computer is taking this very seriously,” Dax says. “Top threat level. Evacuation of personnel is mandatory.”
“Cardassian personnel, I bet,” Captain Sisko says, coming into Garak’s field of vision. “Mister Garak, what would you say?”
“The concern—“ Garak pauses to cough, his voice raspy and his throat tight— “The concern would be Cardassian personnel, yes.”
“We could probably fix the leaks within the hour, two tops,” Chief O’Brien says, and Garak shakes his head. Bashir is still crouched in front of him, watching what he says with concern and pretending to check his pulse.
“It’s in high enough quantities to affect humans, I assure you,” Garak rasps. “You’ll need to swap— swap people out—“
Suddenly, the force field at the door flashes to life and an alarm blares within Ops. Bashir pulls Garak to his feet and bullies him up the stairs, pulling the cloth from his face. “Breathe,” Bashir instructs, and Garak realizes belatedly that his head is beginning to ache.
“All personnel, report to your evacuation routes,” Dukat’s voice intones.
“It’s in here already,” Kira says, dismayed. O’Brien orders everyone to stay out of the pit and soon, all personnel in Ops are joining Garak and Bashir in Sisko’s office on the upper level.
O’Brien, at the door, says, “The force field just switched off.”
“It’s cutting the gas off from Cardassian personnel,” Bashir says, swallowing hard. His hand remains steady on Garak’s wrist, still ostensibly checking his pulse. “Garak can’t leave that way.”
“But the rest of us can.” Sisko straightens up, looking sternly at his command. “And we have a few phosphine leaks to dam.”
…
Bashir briefly descends to Ops and then comes back up to Sisko’s office, carrying a tricorder and a steaming mug. The second he hands to Garak with a stern look that eases as Garak gratefully takes it; the tea soothes his throat wonderfully.
He clears his throat tentatively and relaxes when it fails to throb. “You don’t have to stay with me, Doctor.”
“Sisko would hardly have me leave you in his office unattended.” Bashir scans him with the tricorder, frowning at his readings. “You’ll have to come to the Infirmary when this is over. There’s already inflammation along your respiratory tract.”
“Who’s attending to your Infirmary now?”
“No one should be,” Bashir tells him, leaning on Sisko’s desk. He looks down at Garak from that greater vantage, as Garak is sitting like a civilized person on a chair. “Odo and the security team are heading the evacuation. Dax and Sisko are each heading a team to upper pylons one and two, and Chief has thirty something hours of oxygen for their use. You and I, we’ll wait around here to be useful.” He pauses, then says softly, “It’s going to be fine, Garak.”
“You should never say things like that,” Garak says tiredly, meaning to set the mug on the desk, but Bashir takes it from his hand.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says, and takes a sip of the tea himself.
Garak is inexplicably shaken by the act, but tries to rally. “If you say things are going to be fine, then obviously something will happen to prove you wrong.”
“Narratively, sure,” Bashir says. He puts the tricorder down and cradles the mug in both hands. “But this is reality, Garak.”
And then he stands up, abruptly, eyes going wide, and Garak doesn’t have to turn to look because he can smell the particular singe-ing of a transport beam. Bashir pushes the mug back into his hands and moves to the door, almost before Garak can push a phaser into his hand in return.
“Ah, the Doctor,” comes a singularly unpleasant, wildly detested voice. “I’m looking for Captain Sisko, however.”
Skrain Dukat.
Garak rises silently, not even thinking about it, depositing the mug on the desk and keeping just out of sight, coming around to Bashir’s left side. Bashir is standing stiffly, likewise keeping the phaser out of sight.
“I’m afraid he’s not available, but I’d be happy to pass along a message,” Bashir says evenly.
“Tackling this nasty phosphine issue, no doubt,” Dukat drawls, and Bashir’s jaw tightens — he’s approaching, then. “I thought I might offer some assistance.”
“I can assure you Chief O’Brien has it well in hand.”
“Indeed, but Captain Sisko should make that decision, as I’m sure you agree.”
Bashir’s eyes narrow and he steps forward, almost out of the door. Garak hisses and manages to snag a single claw on his sleeve. “You’re welcome to go and ask him. He’s working on docking pylon two.”
Dukat’s voice is upsettingly close. “I thought I might wait in his office while you fetch him.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Bashir snaps. “Bashir to Sisko! Gul Dukat is here in Ops.”
“Just offering assistance,” Dukat drawls again, and he must be nearing the top of the stairs.
Bashir, with comms still open, says firmly, “You will not enter Captain Sisko’s office in his absence.”
“Thank you for your offer, Dukat,” Sisko says over the comms, and Garak sags a little in relief. “But we are aware of how dangerous phosphine can be for Cardassians and I must ask that you evacuate for your own safety.”
“Ops seems well-sealed, Captain,” Dukat says mildly. Garak can almost smell him, he’s so close. Bashir has drawn himself to his full height, chin high, appearing wonderfully immovable. “Allow me to coordinate your efforts with the life support systems. I may still have overrides for air allocation and vents.”
“I doubt you would need my office specifically to access those systems,” Sisko notes. “Again, I must ask that you evacuate for your safety. Let it not be said the Federation would put a Union citizen at risk, when our staff is capable of handling this issue.”
“And was the tailor one of your first evacuees?” Dukat asks silkily. “Is he scrambling to board one of your transports now?”
Garak’s mouth is opening before he even realizes it, air drawing into irritated lungs, when a phaser almost hits his chest — Bashir has thrown it, behind his back, and stepped out onto the small platform outside of Sisko’s office, the door neatly closing behind him.
“I don’t understand how you think any of that is your business, and really, didn’t you hear the Captain clearly? Why are you still on this station? What is your actual aim in beaming directly into Ops? What if it was full of phosphine gas? We nearly had an issue earlier in here, which is, by the way, why I’m still in here, dealing with you rather than helping my commanding officer with the leaks in the pylons!”
“Doctor—‘
The sheer amount of questions overwhelms the curse again; Garak’s mouth gapes while his mind whirls, and the compulsion to answer gets scrambled. He covers his mouth and bites out into his palm, “I’m still here,” which, while petulant, seems to satisfy.
Bashir continues to badger Dukat. “If there’s an override for air allocation as you claim, then why aren’t you working on it? I’ve been trying to find a way to get the medical tricorder to sense it! Can you get the computer to report on how much phosphine is in any given area of the station? Or even just how much is leaking in the pylons? Can you do something useful if you’re still refusing to beam out?”
From the sound of it, Bashir is forcing Dukat back down the stairs, towards Ops proper. Dukat isn’t generally one to be pushed about so easily, but Bashir can, when he judges it necessary for the good of a patient, adopt a rather… forceful personality. And he has clearly decided that Garak is his patient, and must be protected.
And, just as clearly, he has no idea how his current behavior translates into Cardassian culture.
Warmth and a sick, damp cold chase each other through his body. Appreciation and embarrassment. Garak holds onto the phaser and tries to breathe through it, through the increasingly desperate demand of his body to get out there and protect what is his.
Garak is the reason Bashir is puffed up, protective, and pushing a Gul around. Garak is the reason for the heat of his blood, the strident strength of his voice, the undoubtedly volcanic flash of his glare. But Dukat won’t know that; will assume that Bashir’s advance has something to do with him. It isn’t the first time he’s misunderstood another species’ signals. Look at how he reacts to Major Kira’s acrimony!
“Doctor, really. Don’t you have even a bit of shame?”
“What does shame have to do with it?”
The truth here is:
There is nothing for which Julian Bashir has to be ashamed. There is nothing for which Skrain Dukat does NOT have to be ashamed. And Garak’s shame is that he is only now leaving Sisko’s office, hearing Bashir’s startled gasp and seeing how he has stopped dead, halfway down the stairs.
Stopped, because Dukat, standing at the bottom, is facing Bashir, with one hand wrapping around the back of Bashir’s right knee, and the other reaching for his left wrist.
“The only one lacking shame is you, Dukat,” Garak snarls and Bashir jumps, twisting his head around to look up. With such a lovely long neck, and despite his predilection for the female of a species, Dukat’s eye is drawn to the expanse.
Garak could kill him. Should kill him. Itches to kill him.
“Sisko to Bashir.”
Bashir reflexively moves to activate his comm, but Dukat gives a sharp tug to his knee and Bashir must grab at the railing with both hands. He stumbles nevertheless, ending up nearly nose to nose with his attacker.
Garak has the phaser up and aimed.
“Bashir, come in.”
It’s Dukat who taps the comm badge and says, with oily charm, “Captain Sisko, please, update us.”
“Are you still on this station?” Sisko demands, and it’s Garak who grimly answers:
“He is.”
Bashir rights himself, managing to scramble a few steps higher and away. “Gul Dukat has yet to evacuate, sir.”
“Neither has your tailor,” Dukat points out. He backs away, releasing Bashir — but only for now, Garak sees with dismay, as the interested light in his gaze refuses to fade. Garak does not lower the phaser.
“Mister Garak is an exile and I will not be required to answer to the Union for his injury or death,” Sisko says evenly. “I must ask you again to leave, Gul Dukat. The leak in upper pylon one is all but sealed. Doctor Bashir, Mister Garak; Constable Odo awaits your coordination for a venting schedule.”
“Yes, sir,” Bashir says, voice shaking only slightly. Garak keeps eye and phaser on Dukat.
“Sisko out.”
The silence following the comm rings for a disconcertingly long moment. Garak is forced to remember that, despite his position, Doctor Bashir is very young and barely tested. To a creature like Dukat, he is preferred prey.
“If the situation is that close to resolving, then I must have jumped too quickly to your aid,” Dukat finally says. “Bravo to your Chief Engineer, and to the rest of the Command staff.”
“Goodbye,” Bashir snaps.
“Succinct.” Dukat smiles at him. “I like that. One to beam up.”
“Energize,” Garak growls, and can finally hide the phaser away as Dukat disappears.
“What the hell just happened?” Bashir wonders aloud, stumbling up the last two steps to the platform. He turns to Garak sharply, eyes wide and hand going up to cover his mouth, as Garak is compelled to speak:
“Among other failsafes, many Cardassian computer systems have a reset option that can be triggered following an absence of all Cardassian personnel. Upon the reintroduction of a Cardassian with system privileges, this reset should have wiped all Federation modifications to the Terok Nor computer.”
There’s another moment of silence in which Garak meditates on one particular meaning of his favorite Federation Standard word.
Bashir closes his mouth abruptly, blinks rapidly, and says, “I meant about Dukat.”
“I was answering about Dukat.”
“Right. I can — I can see that.” Bashir stares at him, then shakes his head suddenly. “Right now, we have to coordinate with Odo. I think we can handle the rest of it later.” Without making eye contact, he gestures for Garak to precede him into Sisko’s office, and Garak…
Well, he goes. Heart sinking, lungs aching for more reason than phosphine exposure, he goes.
…
Upper pylon two has its leaks sealed before they finish setting up the venting schedule. Truly, done within the hour. Chief O’Brien has once again proven his worth to the station.
Garak slips out of the way as soon as the force field in Ops disappears. He doesn’t want to know how Bashir relays to his superior the information Garak was forced to give up. But when he gets back to his quarters and faces himself in the mirror, he says, “My name is Whatta Jackass” easily and clearly, so the Bajoran Prophets are pleased enough.
He’s well within his rights not to think about it. They shouldn’t even allow such free movement into Ops; where is O’Brien’s skill now? Twice now Dukat has simply beamed in and caused havoc.
And why hasn’t the Federation done anything about the phosphine repositories? Clearly they aren’t using them; had they not even realized what they are?
Underneath it all, Garak knows he’s counting down. He isn’t an ally, but withholding such information might very well have made him a threat. And yet the chime at his door takes him by surprise.
“You really ought to come to the Infirmary,” Bashir tells him when he answers the door. “Your lungs suffered some in the phosphine leak.”
His expression is mild. Garak takes in the black bag — he brought his doctoring kit, then — and complete lack of security.
“I can’t do as much here as I might there, but if you let me in, I can help somewhat,” Bashir continues, innocent and implacable.
I want to kiss you.
He still doesn’t say it. “I suppose there’s no way of getting rid you, if I don’t let you have your way.”
Bashir’s smile is sunny as he steps inside. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
The door shuts. Bashir sets his bag on the low sofa, opens it and withdraws a tricorder. “May I scan you?” he asks again, and Garak feels a disorienting wash of affection.
“My lungs are perfectly fine, as if newly formed, having never known so much as a cough or a tickle,” he says primly, and Bashir almost whirls around, smile lighting up his whole face.
“You’re better!” he cries out, and scans without permission. Garak rolls his eyes, trying to hide his amusement at Bashir’s excitement, and holds still. “The Orb Shadow is gone. Oh, what a shame — I wanted to ask your honest opinion of Les Miserables!”
“I assure you, you did not,” Garak says, and can’t quite hide his smile when Bashir laughs aloud.
“Well, then, tell me your lies,” Bashir says, going back to his bag of tricks. “Tell me what that whole situation with Dukat was about. Was he trying to scare me out of Ops, so he could undo all of O’Brien’s hard work?”
Garak takes a seat, feeling a little miffed now that justice has come. “He couldn’t have reset the station with me still there, Doctor.”
“He did ask repeatedly if you were gone,” Bashir muses. He packs up his tricorder and holds out a small dispenser. “Care to try breathing this in?”
“I do not. Or perhaps I care too much to.”
“It’s a mild steroid, should help with the inflammation.”
“I promise you, it’s not bad enough to warrant a home visit,” Garak says, waving the dispenser away. Bashir sighs but duly packs it up again.
“Just what does Captain Sisko wish to know before I’m sentenced to the brig or worse?” he asks, because waiting is getting tedious.
Bashir sets the bag aside and sits down, expression again mild and eyes soft. It’s such a lovely look on him that Garak has to look away. “I asked Chief how it all went up there. He said that the leaks looked like sabotage to him, and I told him you said something about Dukat being able trigger a failsafe — and that Dukat had seemed very interested in getting me out of Ops.”
Garak snorts. “Very interested in something, for sure.”
“Why are you trying to distract me?” Bashir asks, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “I’m telling you that I didn’t give you up. And the whole Engineering crew is digging around now, looking for various contingency programs.”
“I’m sure they’ll have a marvelous time,” Garak mutters. It’s unlikely they’ll be able to fully root out something so integral to a Cardassian computer system, but here’s another awful truth: Garak will survive the Bajorans and the Federation on Deep Space Nine. He won’t survive Dukat taking Terok Nor.
“And even at his most conniving, you were still there to foil Dukat’s plans,” Bashir says, drawing Garak back to the present. So sweet, he could have been a dessert.
“Don’t assign some heroic motive to me,” Garak warns. “I tried to evacuate. You pulled me into the whole mess.”
“You were in this whole mess before I knew anything about it.”
The depth and simplicity of the statement gives Garak pause. “Why did you decide against giving me up, as you put it?”
Bashir’s mouth twists into a tiny moue. “Must be a day ending in y,” he says, bewilderingly. Garak stares hard at him, but Bashir simply tilts his head. “You know, if these were my quarters, I’d have offered you something to drink by now.”
“Is that a hint?” Even in this irritatingly opaque moment, Garak is — well, he’s delighted by the man. In that awful uniform, after a long and trying day, making himself comfortable on Garak’s sofa.
I want—
“A demand, even,” Bashir says, his eyes sparkling.
Garak rolls his eyes but gamely goes to the replicator, pausing with exaggerated affect. “And just what I can get you today, Doctor?”
“One of whatever you’re having.” Oh, he’s having a fine time now, laughing behind his hand.
“You know I don’t drink Federation replicated swill,” Garak tells him, simply to enjoy the way he continues to laugh. “You’ll have to match me shot for shot, with real kanar.”
“You’ll have to offer me a spot to bed down, then, if real kanar is all you’ve implied,” Bashir answers cheekily, sitting back and crossing one long leg over the other’s knee.
Garak turns his full body, affecting an expression of shock. “My dear doctor! You almost sound if you were flirting with me.”
At this, Bashir raises both arms in the air, head thrown back. “My god! He finally gets it!”
His shock is no longer feigned. Garak freezes, mind rapidly replaying the evening. “You’re flirting with me.”
“Is this not how Cardassians would do it?” Bashir asks, exasperation thick in his voice. He’s staring at Garak now, incredulity clear in the fine bright shine of his eyes.
Without his conscious attention, Garak’s hands have twined together. “Not at all, really,” he says, mind still awhirl. “We’re a far more disciplined people than Terrans. We alert each other to our intentions by more significant breaks in propriety.”
“What, by stripping down? Dirty dancing on the Promenade?”
Garak’s mind refuses to even contemplate such imagery. Not in company. “Arguments, my dear. Something more like you were exchanging with Dukat.”
Bashir’s shock is so profound that Garak has a much-needed minute to rally. “You— I— Dukat?”
It’s these little moments, wherein they surprise one another and exist outside of time, just for the moment, that have Garak thinking — well, why not? Why not take that moment, and stretch it, stitch however many of them together, take the seven steps to back to the sofa, put his hand on Bashir’s soft cheek, feel the warmth of him—
Bashir’s hand is on his own, pressing it tight to his face. “I was trying to protect you! Does Dukat think I was flirting with him?”
The dismay on his lovely face is delectable. Garak strokes his thumb along Bashir’s high, smooth cheekbone. “Absolutely he does.”
“Lie to me,” Bashir orders, color rising in his face.
“I have never wanted less to kiss you,” Garak says, with all the warm affection he can’t deny.
…