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Garak is shocked to learn that he is an exiled Cardassian spy, the conniving son of a political titan, and a ruthless Obsidian Order operative, all rolled into the clever guise of a simple, unassuming tailor.
“Well,” he says, in turns perplexed and intrigued by the rumors being spread about him. “That is quite a… colorful fiction. I had no idea my life was so thrilling.”
Odo scoffs from across the table.
“Those were my sentiments exactly. Kira couldn’t stop laughing. No offense.”
Garak, who can only imagine Kira’s gleeful cackle at the words ‘Garak’ and ‘ruthless’ in the same sentence, replies, “None taken. Still, I suppose one of those stories is true. I am the son of a political figure, albeit a dead one.”
“And good riddance to him.”
“Indeed,” Garak agrees, holding up his cup of tea in a mock toast. He takes a careful sip before peering around the Promenade, now bustling with newly arrived Starfleet personnel. He feels like he is positively drowning in garish uniforms. (Marigold for the engineering staff? Who chose such a color and why?) “If our new human friends are quick to believe such ludicrous rumors, I hesitate to trust them. They do seem... gullible.”
Odo offers his trademark grunt—a sound somewhere between disbelief and disgust—which comforts Garak. If Odo has the time and energy to even be disgusted, then surely the situation can’t be too dire. After all, it wasn’t long ago that fear was the only emotion any of them could dredge up.
“Gullible or otherwise, they’re preferable to the alternative.”
The alternative. Garak promptly forgets the silly spy rumors as he exchanges a silent, sober look with Odo. He’s sure it must be difficult for their new Federation friends to imagine the utter hell Terok Nor had been just six short months ago: dark and fetid with grimy, blood- spattered floors that had not been properly cleaned. Where Quark now hocks alcohol to fresh-faced Starfleet officers, Quark had once nervously served Cardassian soldiers. Where the new captain now overlooks repairs, Dukat had once overlooked Bajoran prisoners. Where Garak now watches waves of incoming crew members, Garak had witnessed soldiers dematerialize corpse after corpse, Bajorans who had died of illness or hunger or abuse. No corner of the station was spared a dead body, left for days until the smell prompted its removal.
Before Garak can reply, Odo catches sight of something behind him. He sits impossibly straighter; Garak, taking the cue, immediately lifts his cup to his mouth, pretending to drink even though the cup is now empty. Captain Sisko finally appears at their table, a cross-looking engineer beside him.
“Constable Odo,” Sisko says. “And the infamous Mr. Garak, I assume?”
Garak offers his most genial smile and bows his head. “Indeed. But please, there is no need to be so formal. It’s Garak. Plain, simple Garak.”
“Is it?” The Captain’s attempted smile falls short. “You’ll forgive me. That’s not what I’ve been hearing.”
Garak can practically feel Odo’s urge to leap to his defense—but he doesn’t. Good. During the Cardassian occupation, circumstances demanded that Garak’s public interaction with Odo, Kira, and Quark consist of shallow, brief conversations. Garak sees no need to change that now. Feigning a hollow acquaintanceship had spared them Dukat’s suspicious eye and, with any luck, will continue to spare them until Sisko’s trustworthiness can be ascertained.
“However,” Sisko continues, “I’m assured by both the Constable and Major Kira that those rumors are unfounded. I’m sure as we all get to know each other, idle gossip won’t be so easily believed.”
“I hope so,” Garak blandly responds and takes another sip of nonexistent tea to signal the end of the conversation. Sisko, more than happy to take the hint, turns to Odo.
“Constable, our Medical team is arriving. I was hoping you might show Chief O’Brien to the infirmary. He has some equipment to install before our doctors can begin setting up their stations.”
Odo nods and rises from his chair, not offering a goodbye to Garak.
“Follow me, Chief," he says. O'Brien does so, but not without first shooting Garak a rather unfriendly look. Garak grits his teeth and returns the look with another smile.
That's the secret of surviving Terok Nor: one must simply keep gritting one's teeth.
---
While Garak tepidly hopes that time and exposure will erase the rumors regarding his presence on the station, the realist in him acknowledges that the situation isn't, and probably won't, change.
He’s right, of course. One week later, neighboring Promenade shops have more business than they can handle while Garak’s showroom remains empty. He is side-stepped at Quark’s bar, avoided in the replicator line, and outright ignored at the receiving dock where he picks up his supply shipments. With Odo and Kira busy adjusting to their new duties, Garak finds himself going days without uttering a single word to anyone.
So it’s with a great deal of suspicion that he regards the young officer who approaches his lunch table. By now, Garak has made peace with his pariah status and is frankly annoyed by the interruption. Can this man not see that Garak is in the middle of a book?
“May I help you?” he asks, hoping the tone will make his feelings clear: You are disturbing me. Go away.
“Well,” the man says, unsure. “Yes. No!” A beat of silence passes before he seems to arrive at a decision. “Yes,” he says, confident.
Oh, how tired Garak is of being looked upon like a caged animal! The spy, the politician, the operative, gossiped about by wide-eyed officers who simply refuse to believe that all Garak has ever been is a tailor.
“Doctor, is it?” Garak clarifies, gesturing at the man’s blue uniform. He notices a small white device on the left sleeve, but does not wish to extend the conversation by asking about it. In any case, it probably has some medical use Garak won't fully appreciate.
“Yes. It’s Bashir. Doctor Julian Bashir, EMH.”
EMH? The Federation does so love its abbreviations. How Kira and Odo keep track of them is beyond Garak’s understanding.
“Well, Doctor Julian Bashir, if you are trying to determine whether the rumors are true—whatever rumor it might be—I suggest you find another dining companion. I am not in the mood to indulge you or anyone else.”
“No! No, those stories are… quite settled, as far as I’m concerned.” Bashir gestures towards the empty chair opposite Garak. “May I sit? It’s terribly crowded here.”
There are clearly two empty tables a short distance away, but for the sake of good manners, Garak offers his permission with a nod.
“I must admit you piqued my interest,” Bashir says as he takes a seat. “Odo and the Major seem extremely fond of you. Protective, even.”
“I'm sure you are mistaken. I hardly know them,” Garak snaps and then promptly regrets it. Geniality is, after all, the one behavioral standard to which Garak clings. It’s what separates us from the flayers, Mila used to say. It was easy for her to believe such a thing, having never witnessed the atrocities her own species could institute under the guise of higher ideals.
“Forgive me,” Garak apologizes. “You have introduced yourself, but I have not.”
The man smiles at the obvious peace offering.
“You’ve no need. You’re Elim Garak. Best tailor in the sector, I hear.”
“Ah, my reputation precedes me. And you’re Doctor Bashir, EMH.” Garak struggles momentarily to keep pace with the conversation. “Tell me, what kind of doctor is that? I assume it’s a specialty of some sort.”
Bashir blinks, as though the question has thrown him. Garak supposes EMH doctors are common on Federation planets and rarely require explanation.
“You’re quite right. It is a specialty of a sort. It means I’m a... well. A traveling doctor, sort of. I go where they need me. I’m also first in line in the event of a station emergency.”
“A traveling doctor? Then I take it you won’t be with us for long if your location is so often changed.”
Bashir, seemingly eager to correct Garak’s misconception, quickly answers, “No, not at all. My role does require me to accompany most of the away teams, but Deep Space Nine is my permanent residence when I'm not on a mission.”
Deep Space Nine? Is that what they're calling it now? If Starfleet thinks a sloppy rebranding will erase the horrors from this station, then they truly are naive.
“I see. And you’re a trained emergency physician as well. How interesting! I must admit I don’t have the nerves for that sort of thing. I work at a much slower pace.” Garak turns and points towards his storefront, the sign of which is barely visible through the milling lunch crowd. “My shop is right over there. Perhaps you’ll do me the honor of popping in sometime.”
“You can plan on it. I would like to see your work.”
“And I hope never to see yours,” Garak retorts, earning him a surprised laugh. “Now, you will have to excuse my frankness. Even I know the ‘nowhere to sit’ pretext is flimsy at best. What is the real reason you wished to meet me? I doubt it’s for a suit fitting.”
Bashir is delightfully flustered by the direct question. With an awkward shrug, he answers, “You seemed in short supply of company. I don’t have many friends myself. I thought we might remedy that.” He manages to rally a brave smile. “In any case, someone as lovely as you has no business sitting alone.”
Lovely? Oh, that is simply too much. Bashir has overplayed his hand.
Garak shoots up from his chair. While he may be a fan of flirtation—despite having little opportunity to indulge in it—he at least has the decency to use it honestly. Does Bashir really believe that Garak is so starved for intimacy that he’d buy a young, attractive doctor’s interest in a middle-aged tailor? What does Bashir hope to achieve with this ruse? Garak has no intention of allowing the deceit to continue.
Bashir, alarmed, jumps up from his own chair and asks, “Where are you going?”
“Back to work. My break is over. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Wait, why—Garak, have I offended you in some way? If so, I’m sorry. My social skills are… not always adequate.”
At Garak’s hesitation, Bashir continues, “Please, if I made you uncomfortable, I’ll go. You should stay. It was my mistake.”
Garak is conflicted. Bashir does seem genuinely embarrassed about the remark. Either he’s an admirable actor or, as he claims, tragically ill-socialized.
“It really is the end of my break,” Garak insists, though his apologetic tone only seems to worsen matters. Bashir is shuttering before Garak’s very eyes, distancing and disassociating himself from the situation. Garak recognizes the signs. Years spent on Terok Nor taught him the same skill.
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you. It was wonderful to make your acquaintance. I’m sorry if you can’t say the same for me.”
Garak weighs his options and, with only the slightest hesitation, comes to a decision.
“If the shop isn’t busy—” And who is he kidding, it never is. “—I take my lunch break at 1300. Perhaps tomorrow we might meet here again?”
Bashir brightens immediately at the offer.
“Yes! I would appreciate the company.” Anyone else would have ended the exchange there, but Bashir, in a clear attempt to establish interest in Garak’s life, continues. “What book have you got there? I can download a copy. Perhaps we could discuss it.”
Dryly, Garak replies, “Doctor, ‘The Manual of Advanced Beading, Volume Six’ is not a tome one breezes through in a single evening.”
“Two evenings, then?”
Garak scoffs. Bashir laughs.
And while Garak doesn't necessarily expect Bashir to skip their arranged lunch meeting, a small part of him is still surprised when the doctor plops down on the other side of the table the following day.
“Peyote stitch patterns,” Bashir says. “Let's discuss.”
---
Garak, Odo, Kira and Quark have spent so long communicating with signals and codes that it’s become a habit.
Habit? No. That’s not the right word.
Their secret language has become… second nature: a thing they do without thinking, a chronic condition they’re in no hurry to cure. Borne from fear and paranoia, their communication methodology was perhaps the most vital instrument when it came to smuggling food and medicine onto Terok Nor while smuggling Bajoran children right back out.
But five months into Starfleet’s presence, a small part of Garak wonders whether they should at least attempt to shed this arguably unhealthy behavior. It’s not as though Benjamin Sisko hasn’t proven himself to be a capable leader, deftly navigating the station through numerous technological and diplomatic disasters. Odo and Kira trust him. Even Quark, whose skeptical nature rivals Garak’s own, believes the Captain a capable and honorable man.
Still.
A much larger part of Garak can’t help but reject the very notion of dropping his guard. What happens when Starfleet tires of the cost and resources required to run such a station? When they bequeath it to the Bajorans? When Cardassia inevitably reasserts itself and begins the nightmare anew?
At the end of the day, Garak feels the risk is too high: they must not become susceptible to distraction.
This, Garak knows, is where he has made a critical error.
Julian is a mistake, an unforeseen cog in Garak’s mental and emotional machine. After their initial “starting over” lunch, Garak had reluctantly agreed to share an afternoon meal with Julian once a week. It felt like a safe schedule: enough to satisfy his ravenous appetite for Julian’s company, but not so much that Garak would become dependent upon it. Julian, however, was not interested in maintaining such strict order. Their lunch appointment (if one can call it lunch, as Julian claimed to snack throughout the day and was never hungry for a proper meal) became a daily occurrence and, to Garak’s great distress, the highlight of his waking hours.
And then lunch became inadequate.
Garak is deeply ashamed of the way his heart leapt the first evening he spotted Julian loitering around the showroom. I was just curious to see your designs he'd said, but was lounging on Garak’s work table not one hour later, legs crossed and back against the wall, recounting a genuinely hilarious story from Starfleet's past (Tribbles! How extraordinary!) while Garak tried to add a final row of beads to the neckline of a ball gown. Struggling to sew through his laughter, Garak had finally given up on his task and decided to finish it the following morning. It wasn’t as though Julian would visit again, because if you've seen one ball gown, you've seen them all.
But he did visit again. In fact, he visited the very next evening. And every evening after.
To Garak’s chagrin, the routine becomes an intimate, comforting escape that he cherishes and despises, loves and loathes; for all he adores Julian, he abhors himself, angry at his own heart for allowing Julian to make a home there. The feelings confuse him, distract him, infuriate him—he, whose prudence helped save the lives of dozens of Bajoran children, becomes little more than a pining fool in the presence of Julian’s charming words, sharp mind, and pleasant features.
He tells himself to get rid of Julian, to explain that he is distracting Garak from his work, that he is taking liberties that Garak did not invite him to take. He knows Julian will honor his wishes on the matter and would not return… but the very thought makes him ill; indeed, the mere imagining of Julian’s wounded expression is enough for him to discard the idea entirely. But what other options are there? How does he disentangle himself from Julian’s snare?
It’s proof of Julian’s adverse effect on him that Odo peers across their table, a simple breakfast of fruit and tea between them, and asks, “So will you share whatever dark thoughts have been brewing, or will I need to pry them out of you?”
Alarmed that Odo has noticed his distraction, Garak aims for the bland, pleasant expression that got him through the Occupation. Odo scoffs at his efforts; Garak’s expression becomes a scowl. How rude.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe I’m calculating the measurements of a four-legged pair of trousers.”
Odo’s mouth does a strange thing that resembles a human smile.
“Aside from the fact I would be the first to know whether an Osakar was on this station, I highly doubt you could even find one in this region of space.” At Garak’s sullen silence, Odo sighs. “Stick with that absurd story if you wish. But I hope lying to one another is not a habit we’ll take up with any regularity.”
Julian, Garak thinks, what have you done to me?
He dips his head in acknowledgement and no small sense of shame.
At Odo’s expectant silence, Garak admits, “I have been distracted.”
“And this distraction is of a personal nature?”
“I suppose that classification is appropriate.”
“The doctor,” Odo guesses, as Garak suspected he would. “I’ve noticed you’re often in each other’s company.”
“We are. I’m… not sure what to do about it.”
“Do about it?” Odo echoes, seemingly surprised by Garak’s choice of words. “Has he been harassing you in some way? You should have come to me sooner, Garak. I can settle the matter immediately.”
“No!” he hisses, casting a quick look around to ensure there are no prying ears. Fortunately, it’s still too early for the Replimat to host anything resembling a crowd. “That is the exact opposite of my predicament.”
Odo’s face shows a rare semblance of surprise. He leans back into his chair.
“I see,” he says after a moment of consideration. “And the doctor is… receptive to you?”
And that’s the question, isn’t it? Some days, Garak is sure Julian must be interested. Why else would he dedicate so much time to Garak? It’s not as though Garak is a valuable source of information or even particularly interesting. On the other hand, how could someone as charming as Julian settle for Garak’s company when the station offers a vast and varied array of fascinating occupants and visitors? Garak can make no sense of it.
“He seeks me out,” Garak vaguely replies. It’s not so much that he wishes to avoid a direct answer, but rather he isn’t quite sure what the direct answer is. “He appears during lunch and again after his shift. Daily. I never go to him.”
“He seeks you out? How interesting. I hadn’t realized he had the ability to socialize.”
Ability to socialize? Garak can’t think of a creature more desperate for friendship than Julian Bashir, and he opens his mouth to say as much before Odo cuts him off.
“Have you considered discussing this with him?”
Garak’s unspoken answer—don’t be absurd—hangs heavily between them.
Odo seems ready to say more, but rolls his eyes at something he spots behind Garak. Having been trained out of such obvious behaviors as peering over one’s shoulder, Garak waits until their mystery guest appears in his eyeline.
Ultimately, it’s Quark who plops down next to them. That explains the eye roll, then.
“You know, it amazes me you two idiots—” (“Watch it,” Odo warns, while Garak can’t stop an offended, “I beg your pardon?” from escaping his mouth.) “—got away with so much under Dukat. The way you’re huddled over here makes me think you’re up to no good.” He lowers his voice. “I want in. Are we importing? Exporting? I can get you a discount on transport.”
Odo sniffs. “We are doing nothing of the kind. But rest assured you’ll be the first we notify should we ever elect to engage in a criminal enterprise.”
“No need to get huffy with me, Constable. It wasn’t too long ago we were all breaking the law.”
Quark is right, of course: Kira siphoned her rations to children, and Garak hid those children behind storeroom panels, and Quark paid Ferengi smugglers to get those children off the station, and Odo manipulated the security footage to hide it all. Illegal, all of it. According to Dukat, at least.
“We were discussing a personal matter. I didn’t think it would be of any particular interest to you,” Garak explains, adding the last statement as an apology.
Quark places a theatrical hand over his chest.
“That hurts. As a bartender, I’m uniquely qualified to offer advice on personal matters. Frankly, it offends me that you think Odo would make a better counselor than yours truly.” Quark leans forward. “Did you steal buttons from a loan shark? Cheat a lace dealer? Blackmail your silk supplier?”
“Quark,” Garak dryly states, “you flatter me.”
“Hey, it’s not like you’re giving me much to work with. Forgive me for not knowing the kinds of scandal tailors get into.”
“Not everyone’s personal business involves legal misconduct.”
Quark casts an assessing eye over Garak, who feels utterly exposed. How many times, he wonders, had Dukat publicly stated that Ferengi were too stupid and greedy to figure things out? In Garak's experience, Ferengi in general and Quark in particular were crafty and perceptive. It never takes Quark long to put the pieces together.
“The doctor,” Quark guesses.
“The doctor,” Odo confirms.
“Well, what happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Garak hastily replies. “And you would have my sincere appreciation if you kept this to yourself.”
“Nothing? You mean to tell me you and Bashir have spent all this time boring us all to death, and nothing’s happened? By the Nagus’ ears! Bashir may have forever, but you’ve only got, what, a hundred years on the outset?”
Garak bristles. Julian may be younger than Garak, but ‘forever’ is a bit generous in terms of any human lifespan.
“Thank you, Quark,” Garak curtly says. “Your advice on matters of the heart is, as always, completely unhelpful. If you will excuse me, I have orders to complete.”
"Garak,” Quarks snaps, “keep him if he wants to be kept. Stop making things so difficult. Life is finally good here. Enjoy it!”
Garak can’t help but consider the advice as day becomes evening and he finds himself in the shop while Julian occupies the table space Garak purposefully keeps clean for him. Julian is scanning a medical article on his PADD, occasionally protesting a conclusion with which he disagrees. Garak sits close by, carefully stitching a lace ruffle onto a cuff as Quark’s words loop through his head: keep him if he wants to be kept.
Garak’s eyes betray him: he glances up to where he expects to find Julian reading, but Julian is gazing at Garak from his perch.
They stare in silence until Garak asks, “If the current medical literature isn’t to your liking, why not submit your own articles for publication?”
Julian doesn’t answer right away. Finally, he murmurs, “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”
In the low light of his shop, in the quiet evening of the station, Garak has never wanted anything so fervently as he wants Julian Bashir. He blinks, tears his gaze away, and returns to his work.
Prudence, he desperately reminds himself, and by some meager miracle finishes sewing on the lace trim.
---
A shout—a happy one, though he will not recognize it as such until moments later—wakes him.
Garak lies frozen in his bed, waiting, listening as the rousing noise passes his door and fades down the corridor.
Realizing it’s only Morn talking loudly and drunkenly—presumably to his paramour for the night—Garak releases a breath and slowly sits up. His body is sore from the unconscious seizure of panic; his temple sparks with a small headache, as it always did when Terok Nor’s terrible sounds disturbed his sleep. The noise was often the cry of a child or the sharp orders of the night patrol. Once it was the scream of a woman who had vanished despite Garak’s swift investigation. Eventually, Garak had stopped sleeping altogether. It’s only now, with Captain Sisko at the helm, that Garak has attempted to sleep with any regularity or success.
“Computer,” he croaks, “time.”
“The time is 02:31.”
02:31. Too late to be early, too early to be late. In any case, he’s fully awake now.
While a casual stroll is hardly the cure for Garak’s insomnia, it’s certainly preferable to staring at his ceiling for the next three hours. He tiredly casts off his heavy blankets and pulls on yesterday’s wrinkled clothes. Under normal circumstances, Garak would never risk being seen looking less than wholly put together, but the night hours inspire a strangeness in him: he feels hopeless during this time, envisioning his life stretched before him in an endless cycle of sleeplessness and sock darning. In this mood, he hardly sees the point in bothering with such menial concerns as fashion, especially among Starfleet crew members who insist on wearing jumpsuits every day.
As he steps into the corridor, Garak can’t help but wonder where Julian’s quarters are located. It seems strange not to know.
He imagines where Julian is sleeping. He imagines going there right now. He imagines Julian happy to see him despite the awkward hour. He imagines having someone present during these times when the past all but engulfs him, when the ghosts of a thousand Bajorans follow him down the corridor, up the turbolift, past the arboretum, a trail of spirits who arrived alive on Terok Nor but did not leave the same way.
The station becomes different at “night”. The hallways are clear, the crew a bit slower, the work pace more relaxed. Quark’s Bar is closed and the Replimat is mostly empty save for a scattering of night shift personnel gathering for their break. For the sheer illusion of purpose, Garak replicates a cup of tea before wandering towards one of the large, leaf-shaped windows. He doesn’t expect much of a view, and when he looks out of it, that’s exactly what he gets.
In the window’s dark reflection, he sees himself, his wrinkled clothes, the tea he doesn’t particularly want, and then:
“Garak.”
Garak remains utterly still.
He makes no move to acknowledge Julian’s presence. That’s who it is, of course; Garak suspects he could pick out Julian’s voice in the largest of crowds, and yet part of him doesn’t believe Julian is really here. How could he be? It’s so late—early—that Julian must be sleeping. Perhaps Garak is dreaming him. Or, worse yet, perhaps Garak’s yearning for him has pulled Julian into wakefulness, and he has come to ask Garak to stop.
Julian only smiles when Garak finally wills himself to turn Julian’s way. It is him, still in uniform, though his sleeves are rolled up and his collar is open, leaning against the wall just feet away, close enough that Garak could reach out and touch him. He grips his teacup even tighter to prevent his hands from making such an untoward gesture.
“My dear,” he says, the endearment slipping off his tongue before he can stop it. Garak’s reflexes must be getting rusty; he’d neither seen nor heard Julian approach. “Your shift ended ages ago. What reason is there to be awake at this time?”
As with other questions Garak has posed in the past, Julian requires a moment to consider his answer.
“I’ve never needed much sleep,” he finally admits. “I often spend these late hours running tests we can’t prioritize during the day.” He gestures towards the empty space by Garak. “Would you care for some company?”
Garak’s true answer—your company, always—sits cowardly on his tongue. Instead, he merely nods and watches Julian move towards one of the small loveseats that dot the area. The loveseat faces the Promenade, but Julian gracefully descends to the floor, choosing instead to sit behind the loveseat's tall back. After a moment of consideration, Garak joins him. He can see why Julian chose this spot: they feel sealed away, utterly hidden.
Julian quietly says, “I could ask you the same, you know. What brings you around at...” He checks the PADD in his hands. “...02:49?”
“Bad dreams,” Garak answers, because it’s easier than explaining he’s honestly too apprehensive to sleep through the night. Terok Nor has robbed him of that simplest of pleasures.
For fear that Julian will inquire about the particulars of Garak’s neurotic sleep patterns, he quickly changes the subject by asking, “Where do you live?”
Julian blinks at the abrupt change in topic. “I’m sorry?”
“Your quarters,” Garak clarifies. “Where are they? On my way here, I couldn’t help but wonder.”
“Planning on dropping in on sleepless nights?” Julian teases.
“I would never,” Garak hastily objects, scandalized that Julian would think him capable of such audacity. “I am a firm believer in invitations.”
Julian laughs before replying, “Garak, I invite you to come see me anytime, day or night, for whatever reason. But the truth is, most nights I sleep in the infirmary. Should you ever… need me.”
Need me.
Julian’s tone sounds so much like a proposition that Garak’s answering silence is heavy and uncertain, but surely it needn’t be. Surely Garak is misreading the message. After all, the infirmary is hardly an ideal place for a social call, much less any other sort of call. Still, Garak can’t help but feel he’s let an opportunity slip away when Julian glances out the window and adds, “For medical emergencies. Who knows what harm may befall sleepy tailors during these late hours?”
In the reflection, Garak sees himself and Julian sitting together, and behind them stand the Bajoran ghosts who followed him here. But when he turns to face them, they are all gone and all that remains is starlight and Julian.
“You’ve asked me a question,” Julian quietly states. “Now it’s my turn to ask you something.”
“We’re taking turns? I didn’t realize we were playing a game.”
“You don’t have to answer, if you’d prefer not to. It’s just… I’ve heard so many reasons why you live on this station rather than on Cardassia. Each one seems more unlikely than the last.”
“Oh, that old story? You disappoint me, Julian. You’re wasting your question on something that you could easily uncover on your own.”
“I prefer to get my facts directly from the source.”
Garak waves his hand as though to say if you insist, although the performance is less for Julian’s benefit than for his own: he is trying to convince himself that this story isn’t difficult to tell. And anyway, this is all his own fault. Had he not sent the stars a prayer for Julian’s company? Had the stars not generously answered? They’re hardly to blame that the topic of conversation has veered outside of Garak’s comfort zone.
“You will recall,” he begins, “that there were a number of outlandish rumors about me when Starfleet first arrived.”
Julian chuckles, as though the memory is from years past rather than the six months it’s actually been.
“So there were. My favorite was that you were actually a Bajoran resistance fighter who had undergone cosmetic surgery to appear Cardassian.”
“Oh my.” Garak tries to fathom who on board would even have the time to fabricate such an elaborate tale. “Cosmetic surgery? That one is new to me. Be honest: do I look like a transmuted Bajoran? I will accept your truthful opinion.”
Julian smiles.
“You look like a handsome tailor to me,” he responds. “You look like Elim Garak.”
“Doctor, you ought to choose your words more carefully. I could get the wrong idea.”
“It wouldn’t be the wrong idea. But continue. I want to know everything.”
With a carefully contained sigh, Garak does as Julian asks. As though he would do anything less. As though he could.
“Outlandish as they were, one of those rumors happened to be true. My father was an extremely powerful figure on Cardassia. I was his bastard son. Unfortunately, my illegitimacy turned out to be the least of my… abnormalities.”
“Your parentage hardly makes you abnormal,” Julian protests.
“My dear, I must insist you save your outrage until the end.”
Julian clearly wants to argue, but seems to sense that doing so would impede his quest for the truth.
At Julian’s reluctant nod, Garak continues: “Tell me, do you know the two ideals my culture values the most?”
“Commitment to state and family. I'm afraid that's quite the open secret.”
“Indeed. So imagine, if you can, my father's great shame when I expressed little interest in either of those ideals. Throughout my youth, I had watched the state endorse his political games and wars. It was all so... wasteful. Counterproductive, even. When I reached adulthood, I could not bring myself to support them.”
“Opposing certain government policies hardly means you oppose your entire culture.”
“On Earth, perhaps. Cardassia is not so relaxed.”
“And I assume the fact you didn’t immediately marry and father a dozen children was another strike against you?”
“The final strike, you might say. Wives and children are a source of great pride among Cardassians. The fact that my romantic preferences lay elsewhere brought no small amount of shame to my family name and therefore my father.”
“But…” Julian frowns as he tries to puzzle out the logic. After a lifetime of trying to do the very same thing, Garak doubts Julian will have much success. “If your illegitimacy was such a scandal, then what did he care about the family name?”
“That is a question I have categorized under ‘unexplained phenomena’. It is something we will never know. What I do know is he could have done away with me and no one would have challenged his decision.”
“Done away with you? You mean outright murder?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Whatever his reasons, he elected to send me here instead.”
“Why did you never try to escape?” Julian demands. “Surely there must have been some way. He couldn’t have had eyes on you every hour of the day!”
“Oh, I considered the possibility. But where would I go? It seemed simpler to bide my time.”
“And haven’t you? I don’t mean to be insensitive, but your father is long dead. Aren’t you free to go back home?”
Garak considers the question. With Tain gone, no one really cared what his illegitimate and effeminate son did with his life. Garak could probably return without much trouble, but to tell the truth, he’d never really cared to go back. For one thing, he could no longer reconcile the home he once loved with the cruelties he’d witnessed on Terok Nor. For another, he has no friends, family, or career on Cardassia. At least Odo, Kira, and Quark are nearby, plus the shop offers some professional satisfaction.
“I suppose I could. But my life wouldn’t be any easier on Cardassia than it is on the station. And to be honest, I much prefer the company here.”
The compliment, clearly intended for Julian, nearly inspires a smile. Nearly. But he’s too preoccupied to allow the smile to fully materialize. His gaze crests over Garak’s face, assessing.
“Your father’s logic baffles me. How is living on DS9 worse than death?” he finally asks.
“Because I didn’t live on DS9. I lived on Terok Nor.”
Comprehension passes over Julian’s features.
“He wanted a miserable existence for you,” Julian murmurs. “Surrounded by those who despised you for being… you.”
“I rather suspect he thought life here would whittle my strangeness away. Nothing puts you off military men and sewing more than having to deal with them day in and day out.”
“And did it work? Did it put you off sewing?”
“Certainly not. On his deathbed, I hope my father was positively tormented by the fact that my reputation for masterful beading had reached the next quadrant.”
Rather than the laugh Garak expects, Julian’s gaze becomes sharp and focused.
“And did it put you off… men?”
The question, while not unexpected, still manages to blindside Garak. His entire adult life on Terok Nor had been spent with two groups of people: Dukat’s men and terrorized Bajorans. The first group he found repulsive; the second group found him repulsive. In any case, Garak witnessed too many encounters of sex being traded for basic necessities that his stomach had begun turning at the very thought of it. It’s been years since he engaged in intimate activity.
Realizing that Julian is waiting for an answer, Garak carefully replies, “For many years, I thought the Occupation had stripped me of all desire. But…”
“But?”
Garak borrows a human gesture: he shrugs.
How can he hope to explain it? Elim Garak, barren on the inside, until a young doctor sat across his lunch table and never left? That is perhaps too much honesty for a single conversation.
“What were you reading?” Garak asks instead, gesturing towards Julian’s PADD. Julian, seeming to sense Garak’s discomfort, accepts the redirection with ease.
“Poetry, if you can believe it.” At Garak’s delighted look, Julian laughingly adds, “Even doctors need a break from the latest news on the genetic makeup of Vulcan fingernails.”
“Earth poetry, I assume? I admit I’ve not had the opportunity to read much of it.”
“T.S. Eliot, from twentieth-century Earth. Britain, to be precise. His style was unusual for the time, but it paid off. His works have enjoyed a long shelf life.” Julian reactivates the PADD, which has shut off from lack of use. “I’m just finishing up East Coker.”
“How does it end?”
Julian’s gaze settles on him like a heavy blanket. Garak feels warm beneath it, comfortable, and shakes off a sudden wave of sleepiness. He wonders if this balmy, intoxicating feeling is what it’s like to share a bed with Julian. Not even for sex, but for sleep, for a safe place to rest his head.
“‘There is only the fight to recover what has been lost,’” and Julian’s voice is a spell cast over Garak, who finds himself quite powerless to break it. “‘And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions that seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss. For us, there is only the trying. The rest,’” Julian concludes, “‘is not our business,’” and when Julian looks up, Garak realizes it all must be written on his face: his devotion to Julian, the love that will surely be the greatest and only of his unremarkable life, because Julian tosses the PADD away and bridges the friendly gulf between them.
There, crowded against Garak’s side, Julian places his hands on Garak’s face and murmurs, “You called me ‘my dear.’”
“Did I?” Garak faintly wonders.
“Garak.” Julian's gaze sweeps Garak's lips. “Please. Tell me. Is that what I am to you?”
That’s Julian’s power: Garak, who has spent years surviving exile by cultivating graceful manners, careful misdirection, and well-crafted masks, is suddenly boiled down to his weakest, ugliest parts, the truth falling from his mouth before he can stop it: “Surely you know.”
“I would prefer to hear it. I would like you to say it, Garak.”
Garak quickly stands and moves a few steps back, creating vital distance. Without it, he knows he’ll say yes to Julian, to whatever he wants, to anything, to everything, and that is the danger. He cannot love Julian, because Julian will be gone sooner or later, along with Starfleet and the fragile peace treaty they’d brought with them. And when Julian goes, Garak can’t go with him. He can’t leave this station in Dukat’s cruel hands.
“Garak.” Julian slowly rises to his feet but doesn’t move closer. “Don't run from me. You’ve shared so much.” He pauses. “And now there’s something I must share with you.”
Yes, Garak thinks. Please, tell me. Don’t let me stop you. Please.
Julian takes Garak’s stillness as permission to continue.
“Do you remember the day we first met, when you asked what an EMH was?”
Dread builds in the pit of his stomach. He knows instinctively that he will not leave this conversation the same way he entered into it.
“My answer wasn’t a lie,” Julian continues, though this disclaimer tells Garak there had been a lie, buried somewhere amongst the hundreds of conversations they’ve shared since then. “I am a traveling trauma physician. That’s what I was... designed for.”
“Trained for,” Garak clarifies, knowing very well that’s not what Julian means at all. Julian has always been very specific; he does not rely on lazy vocabulary.
Julian shakes his head. The motion is minute, as though he’s still afraid Garak will flee at any sudden movement or sound.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and careful.
“Designed. I am... I am a hologram. Emergency Medical Hologram. Designed for disaster situations and deep space missions, when starbases are too far to provide care.”
The words don’t register with Garak. Surely Julian must be having him on. If such a thing were true, how is Julian’s personality so unique? How are his interests so diverse? Julian is an individual. Of this Garak is certain.
“I should have corrected you that first afternoon,” Julian continues, panic beginning to flavor his voice. Garak’s silence is provoking desperation in Julian; he would be flattered if he weren’t so stunned. “But you treated me like a real person. I thought, what's the harm in enjoying it for a few days? I was sure someone would have explained it to you by then. I had no idea this would go on for so long. Words can’t… Garak, I can’t begin...” Julian tosses up his hands, frustrated by his own lack of eloquence at such a vital time. He turns his tired, melancholic eyes towards Garak. Say something, he seems to ask, but what is there to say?
Julian is a hologram.
Garak is a fool.
There is little reason to voice either of these truths out loud.
The past six months begin rebuilding themselves in Garak’s memory, but they don’t configure themselves in the way Garak remembers living them—he had been too dazzled, too distracted by Julian to recognize something wasn’t right. Hindsight, however, offers him a clear view, and suddenly the questions (Bashir may have forever, but you’ve only got, what, a hundred years on the outset?) and statements (I hadn’t realized he had the ability to socialize) make a striking sense. Quark had known. Odo had known. The entire station had known.
All except the old tailor who’d been so in love that he could not see the obvious truth right in front of him: Julian’s lack of appetite, the fact that he "slept" in the infirmary.
“Garak,” Julian murmurs, his expression a marriage of guilt and regret, “what is it you’re thinking? Tell me.”
“Is there a real Julian Bashir?”
As soon as the question passes his lips, Garak wishes he could take it back. It’s apparently a sore issue for Julian, not to mention hurtful: Julian looks away, jaw tight. Strangely, Garak understands: it is no doubt tiresome to be constantly compared to one’s living counterpart. In any case, he recognizes the answer will have no bearing on his life either way. Even if the human Julian Bashir is alive, he’s probably a husband, father, successful doctor, or any combination thereof. He’d have no interest in befriending, much less romancing, a discarded wretch like Garak in the cold, dark middle of nowhere. And Garak would not wish for it in any case. The human Bashir would be a stranger; this Julian is his.
“No,” Julian flatly answers. “He's gone. I was based on him but I am not him.” After a moment, his defensive posture becomes one of defeat, and it takes only a few motions to do so: the fall of his shoulders, the bow of his head. “I understand why you would wish to know. A living lover is ideal.”
“Is that what you wished us to be? Lovers?”
Julian miserably shrugs his shoulders.
“Yes, if it was amenable to you. Even if it wasn’t, I’ve never had a friend.”
“Is Dax not your friend? O'Brien? Odo?”
“They are my crewmates. No one is friends with a hologram, Garak.”
Another question answered, then. It had not escaped Garak’s notice that Julian wasn’t popular amongst the crew, but Garak could never understand why—or perhaps he had simply chosen to overlook the matter, considering how well the circumstances benefited him. It’s not that Julian was ignored by Starfleet staff, but the topics were always of a professional capacity and short in length. Julian is one of the crew, but he is not part of the crew.
Garak knows the feeling all too well.
“And even if they were, they wouldn’t be the sort of friends we are," Julian quietly adds before casting Garak an uncertain look. “Will I see you at your shop this evening? Or… may I see you this evening?”
Garak’s immediate inclination is to lie, citing deadlines as an excuse to cancel Julian’s usual visit. But the excuse is blatantly transparent and an insult to Julian’s considerable intelligence.
“Another time, perhaps,” he suggests.
While superficially open-ended, Julian takes the answer as it’s meant to be taken: no.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “Another time. I understand.”
Julian looks at him again. He’s hoping Garak will ask him to stay.
Garak doesn’t.
Julian reaches up to tap his comm badge and says, “Computer, end program.”
He vanishes between one blink and the next. When Garak looks again towards the dark glass of the window, Julian is gone; only starlight remains. He understands why even the ghosts chose not to linger. Perhaps they’ve endured enough heartache in their own lives without needing to witness Garak’s.
He doesn’t recall the journey back to his quarters. He has no idea if he spoke to anyone or if anyone spoke to him. He arrives with vague plans to ready himself for a day at the shop, but instead reaches for an aging bottle of kanar that Quark had sold him when Starfleet first arrived, under the assumption no one else would care for it. Quark is right: kanar isn’t popular with anyone except Garak, and even then, only in small quantities.
He sits on his couch and begins to drink.
He doesn’t open the shop. He misses breakfast with Odo. He skips lunch with Julian, though he doubts Julian had any real expectation that Garak would keep their usual appointment. He thinks he ought to put a notice of temporary closure on the shop door, but why? He receives most of his orders via computer. The station’s general population is still too skittish to patronize the shop of a spy, or operative, or whatever story is most popular these days.
By evening, he has gone through two bottles of kanar. There is a third somewhere.
He staggers to his feet in search of it.
---
Garak’s disbelief becomes sorrow.
His sorrow becomes anger.
He drinks more than he thinks is biologically possible. He sews less than he knows is financially advisable.
But by the third day, his anger shifts focus. Rather than being furious at Julian for lying, he is now furious at Julian for promising (at Garak’s request, no less!) to keep his distance. Academically, Garak appreciates Julian’s discretion in the matter, but how are they meant to exist in this unnatural state of separation? What is Garak to do with this sudden onslaught of solitude?
He’s nearly forgotten what a solitary lunch hour is like. He attempts to eat at the replimat with a novel for company, but doesn’t absorb a single word; as a result, he ends up taking his lunch in his shop’s storeroom, where he is at least spared the burden of feigning normalcy. And without Julian to occupy his evenings, Garak is able to reclaim the entirety of his work table, only to find it feels much too large. Had he actually used all this space before? It’s embarrassingly excessive.
It’s these miserable thoughts that run through his head when, a week later, he hears someone rustling around the shop’s showroom. His heart leaps at the hope that Julian has come regardless of Garak’s stated position, only to dip when Kira pokes her head into the storeroom where he is half-heartedly completing inventory. On the floor. Still drinking.
He fears the inventory won’t be entirely accurate.
“We’re closed,” he declares.
Without invitation, Kira collapses next to him, pressing herself against his left side and gesturing towards the bottle. He hands it to her and watches as she takes a gulp. She grimaces; he empathizes. It is replicated, a poor substitute for the real thing he finished off days before.
They sit in silence for a handful of minutes, only the swish of drink between them. Despite his troubles, Garak can’t help but feel humbled that Kira allows him to witness this weary, gentler side of her. Few others have been afforded such a privilege.
At last she turns to look at him. And of all the things Garak expects her to say—ranging from stop moping, you’re embarrassing yourself to sharing a morsel of political gossip unrelated to Garak’s personal circumstances—he is truly taken aback by the actual words that leave her mouth: “Odo is concerned about you. So am I. I’ve been so busy with the station that I’ve neglected to be a friend to you.”
For a moment, Garak isn’t sure how to respond. It’s no secret that life post-Terok Nor has demanded a great deal of Kira’s time. Odo’s too, in fact. But while Odo has carved out a morning each week for a small chat over breakfast, Kira has been too occupied by station duties to even fathom a moment spent with anyone not scheduled into her itinerary.
Garak doesn’t blame her. If anything, her drive is a quality that he deeply admires.
“Kira, I implore you not to take this the wrong way,” he begins, choosing his words as delicately as he can in his tipsy state, “but your friendship, while greatly valued, is not of the coddling variety. I had no expectations otherwise. Your expertise and leadership are in great demand. I would not think to hold you back from that.”
“I don’t think ‘checking in on a friend every six months’ constitutes holding me back, Garak.”
She turns to look at him, her gaze searching out his. It’s an unspoken challenge. If he looks away, he’ll be a coward, and there’s nothing Kira tolerates less than cowards.
“I heard about what happened with you and the doctor.”
“Yes,” Garak replies, tightly, unhappy with the change of subject. “I’m sure by now the entire station has heard that the stupid Cardie fell in love with an invisible man. Add it to my list of other reputations. I’ve so many now that I don’t bother keeping track.”
“That’s not fair to Bashir,” Kira quietly argues. “He wasn’t invisible. You saw him, you saw the real parts of him. That’s why you two were together.”
“We were hardly together, Kira. It was a simple friendship.” Garak closes his eyes before asking, “Have you seen him?”
“In the infirmary, like always. You could stop in. Say hello.”
At his silence, she sighs, crosses her ankles, and rests her head on his shoulder.
“We fought so hard,” she murmurs. “I don’t think any of us thought we’d get off Terok Nor alive. Now look at us. An entire future ahead and we don’t know what to do with it.”
“You think Julian is part of my future? He lied to me, Kira! A ‘traveling trauma physician’ indeed! And to let the deceit go on for as long as it did—”
“Can you blame him? All he ever hears is how…” She waves her hand in disgust. “Reconfiguring his program might increase the infirmary’s efficiency. But then you come along and start discussing politics and literature and his future. Who wouldn’t hang on to that for as long as they could?”
“It is unlike you to believe in such happy endings,” Garak sullenly states. “Tell me, what sort of future are you imagining for us? Will we cook meals together that he cannot eat? Share a bed he cannot sleep in?”
“It’s unlike you,” she counters, “to give up so easily. I’ve seen you fight harder for a bolt of Betazoid silk than you have for Bashir. He’s more than you think, Garak. And he’s alone. The only one of his kind. I’m sure you can relate.”
He’s inclined to purposely misunderstand Kira with a vague Cardassians are hardly a rare species, Major, but they have communicated so clearly for so long that it would only serve to irritate her. Besides, she’s hardly wrong. Garak has long since accepted that he is somewhat of a singular occurrence among his species.
“Kira,” he finally says.
She tilts her face up to meet the wretched expression that has surely spread itself across his face.
“What would I say to him?” he murmurs. He feels her shift: she knows what he is asking. How do I fix this? I hurt him so badly.
“You tell him the truth, Garak. You apologize. If you love him, tell him. And then you let him choose what happens next.” She pauses before cautioning, “It could be that nothing happens. That’s the risk we take.”
"Well," Garak says with a sigh. "Risk is not a concept I'm unfamiliar with."
Their eyes meet.
“I want you to have the happiest life, Garak. You helped smuggle so many children off this hellhole. You deserve whatever you want.” She takes his hand and squeezes it fiercely. “Go ask him what the hell is going on, and then sweep him off his feet. Get married. Apply for family quarters. Have little EMH babies. If I am not a godmother to at least one of them, I will never forgive you.”
A surprised laugh escapes him. Family quarters. Marriage. What a thought.
What a dream.
---
Garak, being Cardassian, has never required infirmary services due to his body’s natural hardiness. As a result, he has never seen Julian’s workplace for himself, though Odo had assured him that Starfleet’s facilities were far above those of Terok Nor. An easily accomplished feat, Garak thinks, considering Dukat’s idea of healthcare was a cramped room stocked with rudimentary equipment, run by a low-rung soldier whose elementary medical knowledge did more harm than good.
That said, Garak can’t help the sense of pride that washes over him when he steps through the infirmary threshold. It is a clean, bright place, impeccably organized and seemingly well-run, all hallmarks of Julian’s characteristically high standards. Two nurses are gathered near the back, but before Garak can inquire about Julian’s whereabouts, the man in question appears right in front of him.
“Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” Julian says. The request is clearly an automated directive of his program, but the way his eyes widen in surprise and concern has nothing to do with programming and everything to do with Julian.
“Garak, are you injured?" he demands. "Are you ill?”
And there it is, that intoxicating personal concern Julian regularly bestows on Garak when most others receive, at most, personable but professional courtesy.
Garak cannot help himself: he gazes at Julian in silence. He has never missed anyone like this. He has never had anyone to miss. The unfamiliarity of it all causes his words to form a ball in the back of his throat. Julian, for his part, seems prepared to continue his line of inquiry, only to think better of it, and settles on returning Garak’s stare with one of his own. They both wait in grim anticipation of what the other might say.
“I fear I am injured, in a fashion,” Garak finally answers, quietly, directly, for Julian’s benefit only. He is well aware that the nurses have fallen silent in hopes of picking up a snippet of conversation. “Forgive my coming to your place of work. I know it's uncouth. But I wasn't sure how else to speak to you."
"I don't mind you coming here, Garak. We aren't busy." After a beat of silence, Julian's mouth settles in an unhappy frown as he bitterly adds, "I wasn't even activated."
Garak takes a quiet breath. He wants to reach out and soothe Julian's unhappiness, but to do so would be presumptuous. Instead, he asks, "I was hoping you might be free for lunch? Or perhaps a walk? I do so desire a private conversation with you."
"I'm afraid privacy is an illusion for me," Julian curtly replies. "Starfleet can access my memory banks at any time. Spare yourself the effort of private conversation and say what you came to say, with the understanding it will be stored as an official record."
Garak can't help but shake the feeling that this moment is it: the slightest hint of cowardice or indifference will solidify Julian's current spin away from Garak's orbit. He feels halfway gone already, a layer of sullen pessimism coating his words. And to think Garak had put it there. It's difficult to imagine a more foolish creature than he has ever lived.
"All right, then. I simply wanted to tell you that I love you."
And oh, those three precious words are all it takes for Julian to abandon his air of detachment; his dark, serious eyes lock onto Garak's, a signal that he is fully and authentically engaged in the conversation.
“I don't care if that statement lives in Starfleet's records forever," Garak continues. "In fact, I hope it does. But I do care if my clumsy reaction has cost me your affections. Or, at the very least, your friendship. You caught me quite by surprise.”
“Well.” Julian's voice trembles, but he aims for a diplomatic tone: he senses Garak's olive branch but desires to accept it from a distance, where a painful strike cannot land. “I suppose surprise is to be expected. It was quite a lot of information to absorb at once.”
“I am not referring to the surprise of your EMH status, Julian. I am referring to the surprise of you," Garak corrects. "Let me speak plainly: I’m not practiced in planning for the future. For many years, I assumed I wouldn’t have one. And now the future is all I can think about because you have made it a thing worth wanting, but only if you are in it.” Lowering his voice, Garak asks, "Please, you must tell me: have I lost you? And if I have, how do I win you back?"
The question causes Julian's shoulders to soften, and he sounds like his earnest self again when he says, “Oh Garak, you haven't lost—well, except, I suppose I’ve—I’ve spent a good deal of time thinking this over. Realistically. I think we both know I can’t be part of your future. I would be a disappointment. For… obvious reasons.”
“A disappointment? That’s quite impossible. You’ve already exceeded all expectations. In fact, I thought perhaps you might join me for lunch. Perhaps we could plan what that future might look like.”
Julian pauses, seemingly unsure what the invitation could mean and whether he should accept it. Garak doesn’t blame him. Despite Julian’s lie of omission, Garak had still responded in a hurtful way. It would be well within Julian’s rights to reject him despite any declaration of love he has made.
“Or perhaps we might discuss T.S. Eliot instead," Garak suggests, his voice shaking on the last word. Julian's hesitation is robbing Garak of his bravery.
"You've read him?" Julian murmurs.
"It made me feel close to you. Although I'm afraid Prufrock's character hit too close to home. 'Politic, cautious, and meticulous; full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse.'"
Julian's resulting smile is uncertain as he adds, "'At times, indeed, almost ridiculous. Almost, at times, the Fool.'"
"A fool indeed if I let you go."
"Do you suppose…" Julian glances away. "Well. Would you mind if we met this evening instead? In your shop, like we did before? I would prefer to be alone with you, where it's quiet."
Garak releases an unconscious breath of relief. Blood rushes past his ears while his vision swims; he feels he has been spared a death sentence.
"Certainly. I would like nothing more."
Of course, Garak immediately regrets his decision for the sole reason that the evening is much further away than the lunch Garak had originally suggested. Worse, his anticipation for their meeting seems directly connected to the passing of time—except they are going in opposite directions, and as his anticipation increases, the passing of time seems to decrease until it feels like the hours are running backwards. He attempts to occupy himself by cleaning the shop: tossing scraps, organizing beads, folding remnants. He makes space on the work table for Julian to sit. He refreshes the store display with new pieces.
Finally, at 1900, Julian appears in the middle of the showroom. He doesn't bother to use the door. He casts an uncertain look towards Garak, as though evaluating whether Garak found this ability off-putting.
At Garak's answering smile, Julian's expression morphs from uncertain to something a bit darker. Determined, perhaps. Starving.
"I'm going to kiss you," Julian says. "If you'd rather I not, now is the time to say so."
"I would be devastated if you didn't," Garak replies.
Julian walks over and wraps his arms around Garak's neck.
"You're sure?"
"Quite sure."
"We can wait. You can think about it."
Garak realizes that he, too, has the power to kiss, and so he does, pressing his mouth against Julian's in the way he has seen so often on the Promenade by human personnel. He is not practiced, but Julian isn't, either, so neither of them knows whether it qualifies as a good or bad kiss. Garak, for his part, can only assume it is wonderful because it makes him feel wonderful.
And that is all it takes.
Garak is surprised by the speed of which his own hands fly towards Julian's shoulders, the strength of which his own fingers dig into the back of Julian’s neck, the uncoordinated way he wrenches Julian towards him, or the wholehearted, ugly, revealing way he presses his heaving mouth onto Julian's in something that could be called a kiss but is, shamefully, much more of a sob.
"I have missed you," he gasps out. This act, he knows, will live within Julian's memory, accessible to any Starfleet personnel who care to look, and that is fine with him. If anything, he wants the whole station to know, for the entire Federation to know. Julian is the most precious thing that has ever been his. He could not be prouder to have earned him.
Julian returns the kiss with such aggression that Garak experiences a fleeting moment of shock.
"I want to be with you,” Julian says, fiercely. “I don't care what we do. I just want to be near you. Say you'll let me. Tell me I can see you whenever I want, stay every night, spend every meal with you. I will consume your life if you let me, so be sure."
"I am sure.”
"I love you, Garak." The confession comes out as a breath, something Julian seems to have been holding for a long time. "Starfleet said I wouldn't be able to experience emotions. But I don't know what it is that I feel, if not that."
"I am not wholly convinced Starfleet understands what an exceptional creature they've built, my dear. If you think it's love, then that's what it is. And I am honored to have it, and reciprocate it fully."
Julian lifts his hand and pushes Garak gently, just enough so that his back is against the wall. In any other circumstance, Garak's brain would be frantically calculating some method of escape, but there is no need with Julian. His usual plans for escape are replaced with a warm, low, comforting mental static. He feels drunk. Drugged.
Julian leans in but doesn't kiss him.
“Garak.”
Garak, who can feel the vibration of his name ghost across his lips, makes a primeval grunt of acknowledgement.
“You asked me once where my quarters were. I was too embarrassed to admit I didn't have any. But perhaps you might tell me where your quarters are. Perhaps even take me there and… keep me there.”
Another sound—something embarrassingly between a squeak and a moan—manages to escape Garak's throat. Keep Julian there? For intercourse? For marriage? Garak feverishly hopes Julian means the second but will accept the first. In either case, Garak doesn't dare ask for clarification. He doesn't want to scare Julian off just as he's managed to claim him.
“Yes,” Garak finally answers. “For as long as you wish. All my life, if it suits you.”
“Yes, it suits me,” Julian exhales, kissing him again. This time, he opens his mouth when he does it; Garak nearly dies with an unfamiliar, intimidating want. “Is there anything you need to finish up here, or can we go home?”
“I don't even remember what I was working on,” Garak feverishly admits.
Julian laughs and glances over to the work table.
“Sewing buttons onto a jacket, looks like.”
“Then it can wait,” Garak promises, not wanting to mention that he has completely forgotten how to even make a buttonhole. “But before we go, I should tell you—that is, there is only one thing… oh, how do I say this?”
“By saying it,” Julian answers. “Not saying things is how we ended up in this mess in the first place.”
“Before Starfleet came here, sex was an exchange. Or a bargaining chip. For resources. Sometimes for life. For years, the thought of it has revolted me. It is only since meeting you that I have felt any such interest.” He meets Julian's gaze, which has become dark in a sad, pensive way. Mood killer, Garak viciously thinks, but he can't imagine this is worse than arriving at his quarters and being unable to meet whatever desires Julian may have. “My greatest fear is disappointing you. Failing to meet your expectations as a partner in that... specific way.”
Julian exhales. Takes both of Garak's hands in his. Twists their fingers together.
“If you love me, Garak, then you've met my expectations. Everything else is just fuss.”
“Just fuss,” Garak echoes. Could it be this simple?
“Just fuss,” Julian promises. “What I really want is a home. I've never had one, and I want your quarters to be that place for me. If you take me there and let me stay, I will never be disappointed.”
Garak, so used to hiding his emotions in the savage world of Terok Nor, is horrified by the way his eyes mist. He makes a halfhearted attempt to hide himself by pressing his forehead against Julian's shoulder, but a handful of tears escape regardless.
Julian quickly unlinks their fingers and anxiously cradles Garak's face.
“Have I upset you? You must tell me if I have. I'll fix it, I'll fix it,” he whispers, pressing an urgent kiss against Garak's cheek, ear, forehead. His lips brush along Garak's skin as he moves, never breaking contact. Garak's body feels electric by what is, on paper, a fairly innocent gesture.
“Far from upset. But perhaps… overwhelmed,” Garak shakily admits.
Julian runs comforting fingertips along the shell of Garak's ears, and then along his scalp. An icy lightning bolt strikes along his spine. He has never been touched like this before. Never.
Finally, Julian says, “Anyone would be overwhelmed, Garak. You spent your life hated by your peers for reasons outside of your control. Your own father kept you alive on Terok Nor so that you would grow to despise your inner self. And it nearly worked, all that neglect and hardship chipping away at you until you almost wished yourself different. But you held out. You outlived Tain, and you outlived Cardassia's control of this station. You were never irregular, or unnatural, or whatever they called you. You were just a good person.”
The surety of Julian's words is a balm to Garak's frenetic heart, calming him to the point where he can meet and keep Julian's gaze. He takes a deep, soothing breath.
His words tremble only slightly when he replies, “It honors me that you think so. And it honors me further that you desire to make a home with me. It will be… ‘the place we'll start from. And the place we'll stay.’”
Julian smiles.
“‘Even if the world becomes stranger,’” he quietly recites. “‘The pattern more complicated.’”
Garak offers his arm, and Julian accepts it. They leave together.
Just outside the shop, the Promenade's great black windows tower above them like a city: in their reflection, Garak sees himself, and Julian, and the thousand Bajoran ghosts who have haunted this station for so many years. He stops momentarily to examine their faces in the glass.
They stare back, unsure.
It doesn't occur to him until now that he has been keeping them here, chained to this place by the power of his own survivor's guilt.
I'm sorry, he thinks. I'm so sorry. Forgive me.
When he turns to face them, they are all gone.
---
He does not see them again.
FIN.