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Sometimes they would walk together on the promenade. Garak would gesture as he talked about books or people who had come through his shop, station gossip, never anything political, and Bashir wondered if he had lost interest, or was guarding himself around him, and didn't know which he would prefer.
They never held hands in public. At first Bashir had thought that Garak spoke so animatedly to avoid touching him altogether, but he came to realise that Garak did it in order to keep from touching him all the time - whenever they rounded a corner or hit a flight of stairs, Garak would move him by his elbow or touch his shoulder, lingering just a bit longer than necessary. Every so often he felt Garak's hand drop to his backside when no one was looking. When he cast a look of indignation his way, he never caught his eye, but did catch the sly grin on Garak's face.
They didn't often go for walks, but when they did, they always took the same route. It wasn't until the third time that Bashir figured out why Garak sat at the same window, fingers on the pane, looking towards the same mess of stars. He chided himself for not having done the mental calculation earlier: from this vantage point, once a week, Garak picked out the brightest star in the sky.
"Cardassia?" Bashir asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
It was a moment before he realised that Garak had stopped talking. He always had such a great deal to say about things of little importance. Garak smiled.
"Do you know where Earth is?" he asked.
"Never even tried to find out," Bashir bristled.
"I don't understand that," Garak murmured wistfully, fixing the star with his gaze.
"You want to go back."
Garak shook his head but didn't say a word. After a moment, he snapped out of his reverie.
"You lied to me," he said as a matter of fact.
Bashir's eyes went wide with alarm.
"What?" he stammered, mind swirling with all the minor things he had been hiding. "I haven't! No! About what?"
Garak patted his hand.
"Too many questions, my dear, too much hesitation - you've given yourself away without even knowing." He sighed. "I'm keeping you here."
Bashir's face fell.
"When did you find out?" he asked, cutting straight to the chase.
"After you refused your second transfer. And then your first promotion."
"Those files were top secret. I thought you promised not to keep doing that after... us."
"On my word, I did nothing of the sort," he said with uncharacteristic softness. "Word travels quickly when you're meant to hear."
"Garak... I'm sorry. I should have said something. But," he scrambled, "it wasn't - I mean, the assignments, they - they weren't in my area, I still have important work to do here and - "
"Please," Garak winced, "don't continue to lie."
Colour rose to Bashir's face - he couldn't keep himself from rambling, for covering his guilt with excuses, but he knew he could never take Garak far from his home, even if he were never allowed to return.
"You're not keeping me here," he told him, "I'm staying."
The look of consternation on Garak's face made Bashir brace for another rebuke, but it faded as he watched Garak concentrating, as if he were trying to say a word he hadn't used before and was worried he might do it incorrectly.
"I'm... glad," he said, and held Bashir's hand in his own.
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