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Julian Bashir was no artisan, but he prided himself when it came to mending broken things—patients and fabrics alike. After all, he’d always managed to repair any damage to Kukalaka with his healing hands and some thread. Compared to sentient beings and treasured possessions, simple repairs to garments were nothing. He leaned back to survey his work—pooling fabric of navy and burgundy sitting in his lap. An asymmetrically patterned civilian shirt of his was badly torn and he was intent on repairing it, unwilling to surrender it to the replicator for recycling. He owned so few civilian pieces and, of the ones in his possession, this shirt was his favorite. Each stitch was a challenge as he tried to keep even tension on the thread, but with any luck it would be hardly noticeable and ready just in time for lunch with Garak on his day off.
His brows knit together as his needle came out at the edge of the defect. The fabric edges were apposed with nary a wrinkle in sight. He secured it with a surgeon’s knot and pulled a pair of old suture scissors over to trim the ends short. Bashir exhaled a bated breath as he turned the shirt inside out. The rip was hardly noticeable, well-concealed near the garment’s seam. “Computer, time?” He folded the shirt over his arm and went to his side closet for a pair of slacks.
“The time is 1200 hours.”
He cursed under his breath and hurried to remove his pajamas. He was already at the door of his quarters just as he slipped his shirt overhead, buttoned his trousers, and stepped into his shoes. The door clicked closed behind him as he hurried to the replimat.
***
Garak sat at their usual table with a tray of hasperat souffle by the time Bashir arrived at the replimat. He was reading something on his PADD and judging by his lack of response he hadn’t noticed his friend’s arrival. Bashir nearly ran into Morn on his way to the replicators in his haste but came away unscathed balancing a bowl of Plomeek soup in one hand. When he sat down quickly across from the Cardassian, the tailor pushed aside his PADD and their eyes met in a steady gaze. “I was beginning to worry that you encountered an emergency on your way here, Doctor.”
Bashir shook his head and winced. “Not at all, I was just distracted.” He turned his attention to his soup and took a small tip to test the temperature. How long would it take, he wondered, for the tailor to take note of his repair job?
Garak appraised him, looking up and down with a quirked brow. “How odd. Members of the Federation are usually so punctual, yourself included.” Bashir struggled to sit still and shoved down the urge to fidget under the intensity of Garak’s stare. Eventually, his friend’s focus shifted to his shirt, though it was hard to tell which part of his clothing stood out. Bashir rubbed his neck around, concerned for a moment that somebody might be watching. He found that they were alone in their corner of the room. The station’s occupants had been long inured to the odd friendship between the Chief Medical Officer and the only Cardassian resident, it seemed. Still, Garak said nothing, and silence rested between them for a long moment. The tailor smiled innocently. Bashir swallowed.
The doctor finally surrendered to the silence with a half-truth. “I’ve been working overtime, hence the distraction.”
“I see,” Garak responded, though the pitch of his voice made the statement sound more like a question. “So, does that mean that you haven’t progressed with your reading of The Neverending Sacrifice?”
Hearing the book’s title was enough to elicit a grimace. “No, I’m afraid I’m stuck at the same point in the epic cycle as I was before. And what about yourShakespeare?” The volley landed and his dining companion offered a pained expression.
“It doesn’t seem fair that I’m expected to read the complete works of a florid playwright while you read only Cardassia’s central epic.” Garak scoffed. “I read ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream last night. Human literary critics called it a comedy and I have to say, it wasn’t very funny.”
“It’s about the folly of romance! I thought that would be universal.”
“The Queen’s true love made her fall in love with an ass. That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s why it’s funny!”
Garak waved a hand absently and refocused on Bashir’s shirt. “Terran humor escapes me. But I must ask… what happened to your shirt?”
“There was an… incident in the infirmary.” Bashir began eating hot soup by the spoonful before he was pressed for an explanation. Garak’s raised brow urged him to continue. He swallowed heavily and groaned. “You know that I can’t talk about the specifics of medical cases. The only thing I can say is that there was an outbreak of a certain type of range virus when I happened to be off duty. They called me in to help control the situation and I happened to be wearing this when a patient attacked me.” Speaking about the ordeal brought an unpleasant ache to his side. He was lucky that his shirt had protected him when an unnaturally strong, rage-empowered Bolian transport worker had attacked him with the jagged remnants of a food tray.
“You should have told me that. Had I known, I would have offered to do the repair myself!” Garak took a delicate bite of souffle. In a reversal from their usual routine, Garak had nearly finished his meal while over half Bashir’s soup remained. “I never thought that I’d chide you for not eating, doubtless because of your tardiness,” he noted. “If I’d known you only needed to be fifteen minutes late to take your time and enjoy your meals, I’d have suggested it sooner.”
Bashir continued with his meal and replied, “I appreciate that you would repair it, Garak, but I’m quite accustomed to mending my own clothing.”
Bashir began eating faster. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m quite accustomed to mending small things like this.”
“Even so, you know me—a consummate professional, dare I say.” His lunch companion leaned forward with a nod. “We each have our talents, my dear doctor.”
“Right,” Bashir nodded, seeing the opportunity for batter. “We’re both professionals with unremarkable backgrounds. I’m a doctor who has no reason to mend fabric, and you’re a tailor who’s never subverted computer security routines.” He showed his teeth the next time he smiled.
“Do you need a demonstration?”
Bashir quirked an eyebrow at the challenge, and his companion’s smile never wavered. “I can’t fathom which demonstration you mean by that.” Garak’s enigmatic expression sharpened in its focus, enough that Bashir felt subtle heat building under his collar.
“Well, I mean—” he paused. “Certainly, you won’t mend my shirt here, will you?” He allowed his voice to quiver slightly, all a part of the calculated routine in their usual dance number.
“Of course not! But, if you find yourself at my shop this evening, say, around 1900 hours, I might find some time to help you. Good day, doctor.” Garak leaned forward, just enough to enter Bashir’s personal space, and nodded in farewell. Something about his absence left a gnawing void at the corner of Bashir’s mind.
***
The crowds on the promenade began to thin by 1830 hours as the station’s occupants left for their quarters or for Quark’s. Judging by the raucous chatter that echoed through the hallways, the bar was full tonight. By the time he reached Garak’s shop front, the space outside was empty. The sign outside the store indicated that it was closed for the evening, and a creeping feeling of uncertainty crawled its way up under his collar. He rubbed at the back of his neck. Between the empty hallways, lunch this afternoon, and a closed door between him and Garak, something felt scandalous. The only proper thing to do was knock on the door, but there was no response and, to his surprise, he found the door slightly ajar.
After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped into the shop and shut the door behind him. There was no way to be certain about whether Garak wanted him to saunter inside or not, though it was hard to believe that the door was open by chance alone. Everything was brightly lit and tidy. There were a few bolts of loose fabric sitting on the counter up front. There was no sign of Garak—perhaps he was working in the back storeroom.
“Garak,” he began to call his friend’s name in his search. The moment the name left his mouth, a cool hand wrapped around his shoulder in a gentle squeeze. Despite his augmented senses, he didn’t see or hear it coming. His heart leapt into his throat as his federation training took hold. He spun around and seized the cool wrist in his own hand, ready to throw off his attacker with lightning reflexes. Yet, there was no enemy—just Garak, the tailor and his friend. Plain, simple Garak.
“Doctor, it’s a pleasure to see you! Are you feeling well? You look like you’re ready to faint.” The Cardassian continued to smile knowingly in the intervening silence. His hand was still resting on Garak’s ten seconds later.
“I’m fine, thanks.” He pulled his hand away and Garak’s touch vanished from his shoulder. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”
“Perhaps it’s all part of the demonstration.” The corners of Garak’s eyes wrinkled with amusement as he spoke. “A simpler answer is that I was working on a display here in the corner when you entered. I apologize if I startled you.”
Bashir exhaled. His pulse hadn’t returned to baseline, so it was difficult to find a response. “Oh.”
“Are you sure that you’re well, my dear? May I interest you in tea?”
“Right. I’m fine. Tea would be lovely.” He nodded vigorously and stopped halfway through the third nod, feeling that perhaps he appeared too eager.
Garak disappeared to the back room and returned moments later with two mugs of replicated tea. Bashir took a mug when it was offered with a small nod and sipped—Tarkalean tea, with the perfect amount of sweetness. His friend sipped from his own mug for a while before he set it aside and walked around the shop, gathering loose fabrics into his arms. The Cardassian stood next to him and held each one up to Bashir’s face one by one. “I was hoping that you’d allow me to make modifications to that shirt I made for you. Think of it as a way of making that torn thing magnificent.”
“Why? I think it looks excellent.”
“It does. However, the way you damaged that shirt, it’ll be difficult to hide the repair unless I trim the damaged fabric and add something new in. I’m afraid that my supplier discontinued the fabric, and I haven’t found any shade that matches that dye lot.” He raised a folded piece of magenta fabric to compare with the colors of his shirt.
“I’m not sure how I feel about more colors,” Bashir offered reluctantly.
“Trust me when it comes to fashion, your shirt will look better than it did before.” He paused. “I believe the human saying for my suggestion is to ‘take the leap’.”
The doctor sighed in resignation and looked between. Garak set aside most of the fabric, aside from two sheets—one was a vivid shade of magenta while the other was shimmering gold. “Garak, that shirt was a gift from you. If you want to modify it, who am I to stop you.” His friend’s expression was appraising, thoughtful.
“Do you have any preference of color?”
“Are you sure that it wouldn’t be better to use the same color as before?”
Garak clicked his tongue. “Quite the opposite, I think that bolder is better in your case. I had an interesting conversation with Mrs. O’Brien the other day. She told me about this ancient human art where old pottery was repaired with gold! What do you call that?”
“Kintsugi, if I remember correctly.”
“That!” He inclined his head and went back to comparing fabrics with Julian’s skin. “I know it isn’t a perfect analogy, but Mrs. O’Brien said something about embracing something broken, and accentuating its beauty. It’s a lovely sentiment, don’t you think?”
“When you say it like that, I agree.”
Garak hummed and looked between the gold and magenta fabric. Finally, he set aside the shimmering fabric and said, “Magenta goes very well with your complexion, yes?” The corners of his lips curved upward again. Garak always smirked like there was a secret joke or riddle that only he could answer. It was vexing at best but was often nothing short of infuriating. This small smile was different. This small expression felt different—more genuine. Warmer.
“I—well, if you say so.” Bashir conceded. Garak’s smile widened and his arm was around Bashir’s shoulder before he could speak, whisking him into a dressing room and offering him a clean white shirt on a hanger.
“Excellent. Remove that shirt and put this on. I’ll get started on it right away.” A moment later, the curtain was closed behind him and Bashir was as alone as he could be with a thin fabric barrier separating him and the Cardassian tailor-spy. Garak had already cleared his workstation and was setting out a pair of fabric scissors by the time Bashir changed and pulled back the curtain. The way the light caught the tailor’s eyes made them glimmer.
“You don’t have to do this, you know?” He walked over to where the Cardassian worked, the rhetorical question lingering on the tip of his tongue. “But, I do appreciate it.” He slid his shirt onto the table. Garak took it, his fingers lingering on the warm spots where Bashir held only moments before.
Garak brushed aside the sentiment. “I should get to work. Would you like to get lunch again tomorrow?” He began to undo Bashir’s earlier work, fingers working each stitch out with gentle and practiced speed. “Perhaps you can tell me more about your interpretation of The Neverending Sacrifice?”
“You’d like nothing more than to correct my opinion just as much as my sewing, wouldn’t you?”
Garak’s lips pressed together, and his expression softened with amusement. “Nothing more. Goodnight, my dear.”
The gentle squeeze of Garak’s hand on his elbow in farewell was enough to carry him home.