Work Text:
Elim Garak – once the right hand of Enabran Tain – has never noticed how very long the hallway of the Habitat Ring actually is, or how many patterns – overlapping, glittering, chipped, porous – the stony floor actually contains.
Of course, he has never before had occasion to crawl to his quarters, either. His fellow Cardassians left in the night, Gul Dukat handing the station over to Captain Sisko of the Federation, but a few of them had stopped off to pick up their tailoring on the way out – and to remind Garak of precisely where he rests in their esteem. The first blow had scarcely been a surprise. After all, it had taken Odo to keep the Bajorans from garroting him behind his own counter.
There had been a great many blows.
Suffering each, Garak had thought: for Cardassia – and leaned into it.
A few more meters, Elim, he tells himself, then you can collapse decently inside your cage.
Garak doubts anyone will look for him in the hurly-burly of the station changing hands; even Odo will have far weightier concerns.
So now you understand at last, Tain says in his mind, as if from behind him, the true depth of your exile. No one will spare a thought for you if you bleed to death alone on the floor. No one will even know. The Federaji can sweep your bones into an airlock like so many vole droppings.
Being swept away and released into the dark doesn’t even sound that bad. Don’t bodies freeze in space? Perhaps, if he was cold enough, he wouldn’t hurt so much.
And perhaps Tain really can still reach him, or is really keeping tabs on him, because Elim Garak’s suffering is suddenly, drastically increased by the opening of a door.
“Oh!” says a gentle voice in an accent Garak cannot place.
Then the door closes and Garak imagines that whoever had decided to wander the halls in the middle of the night has been scared back inside.
Scared away by the last Cardassian. The Monster. The ghost of the Occupation.
If he lives, maybe he can give up tailoring in favor of being kept and exhibited at Quark’s. Hadn’t he read that Terrans had once displayed oddities for profit?
For only two strips of latinum, you can gaze upon Cardassia’s greatest assassin! See his terrible eyes! His terrible claws!
“It’s Mister Garak, isn’t it? Of course it is. The only Cardassian left on the station. I’ve so wanted to meet a Cardassian and here you are, right on my doorstep. Won’t you come in for tea?”
A Terran in very ugly night clothes is kneeling by his shoulder.
Garak thinks that the man must be completely mad: can’t he see the blood? But then he lifts his eyes enough to see the man’s face and realizes that this charade is for him. This stranger is trying to preserve his dignity. Garak wonders if they are on camera even now. Once, he would have been certain to disable any surveillance; he has lost a step.
“I have also heard that Cardassians enjoy intricate patterns,” the Terran tries. “I imagine you were examining this stonework, yes? Maybe looking for inspiration for your clothing designs?”
Garak tastes blood when he breathes. “Just… just so.”
“I’m Julian Bashir. Let’s get you upright so that you can come in for tea.”
Garak wonders if he is suffering from a fever. This young creature is beautiful; he seems to almost shimmer, a golden sheen to his skin. He considers resisting, but he can’t even find the strength to stiffen his muscles when… what had the Terran said his name was? Some exotic thing. Garak fights for it and finds it through the pain: Julian. Julian helps him first to sit up, then to stand, his slender arm around Garak’s waist.
Then, without Garak quite understanding how it has come to pass, Julian has deposited him on a couch. “It has a nice pattern, too,” he offers with a little grin. Then he steps into the hallway, commandeers a small cleaning bot, and sets it to erasing the line of blood Garak’s crawl has left.
Clever, Garak thinks, grudgingly. Then he is being served tea and wrapped in a blanket. The latter makes him blink in wonder.
“The station must feel very cold to you. I am given to understand that Cardassia is temperate in most places, dry in others, but hot everywhere.”
“You have… studied… my people?” Garak doesn’t see how that can be possible.
“I read all I could once I got this assignment. There wasn’t much, not compared to the Bajorans, but I wanted to know about the people that built this place.”
“That is… very kind. You are newly arrived to the station, I see.” He gestures at a few unopened crates labeled in a pretty hand.
“Yes. That’s why I was awake to see you studying patterns so late at night. I haven’t adjusted to the schedule just yet.”
Garak marks – and appreciates – the lie. Things become muzzy for a moment as he thinks that this strange, young creature seems so very familiar, and then Julian is standing at his side.
“Would you let me help you? I’m a doctor. The CMO for the station, in fact.”
Garak thinks that such a thing cannot be possible. This man is… well, right now, with blood drying on his clothes and scales and probably on the nice blanket Julian has wrapped around him, Garak can’t remember how Terran age actually works, but surely this man – this boy! – is too young to be the chief officer of anything.
While Garak is thinking this, though, the very young Terran who cannot possibly be old enough to run an infirmary produces a host of regenerators (Garak knows regenerators; he used to have a fine black market collection precisely for days like this) before replicating a bowl of steaming water and sprinkling some dried leaves in it. Garak likes the smell of them.
“There was less information available on Cardassian anatomy than there was on architecture and history, but the way you’re breathing tells me your ribs are bruised.” He holds up the regenerator. “Please? Helping you might get me off on the right foot for this place.”
Garak doesn’t understand the expression, but he isn’t made to fight such vibrantly green eyes. The Bajorans in this place won’t meet Garak’s gaze, but Julian beseeches him with nothing but a look.
“As you wish, Doctor.”
Garak has always been enamored of competence.
He has rarely experienced competence like this.
Julian prattles as he works, voice bright and chipper despite the hour. Garak feels his ribs knit beneath his tunic; he sees the water going pink as blood is wiped away. At the last moment he thinks about the wire and lies and says that he must see to the scales around his eyes himself. He doesn’t want the implant showing up on a scan.
Julian acquiesces, telling him he’s grateful to have met “such an interesting new friend, today, Mister Garak!”
“Oh, it’s just Garak. Plain, simple Garak. And I should allow you to rest, Doctor.” Then he notices something. “Those are actual books.”
“Yes. My favorites. Seventy seems a high number to tote across the stars, I suppose, but it’s infinitesimal compared to the number of books that exist.”
Garak is puzzled. This young thing has not unpacked his clothing or kitchen utensils (Garak has seen the labels), but he has unpacked and lovingly arranged seventy beloved volumes?
Such a man is worth knowing.
“I - I apologize, my dear Doctor, but I do not recognize the titles. It seems that my grasp of Terran culture is very slight.”
Julian’s eyes light up. “You like to read? I’d be happy to lend them to you. And as for slight – I don’t know any Cardassian titles at all. Maybe you could point me to something in translation I might understand? We could even meet up and discuss if you like.”
“Doctor, you wouldn’t suggest such a thing just to oversee the progress of a patient, would you?”
“Not just. I could use a friend here.” But he does do something with the replicator that allows him to press a hypospray into Garak’s hand. “In case the pain flares up. I would tell you to comm me, but, since you have studied the patterns nearest my door, I don’t know that I have anything to lure you back with.”
Garak thinks that the currents and patterns in Julian’s eyes well deserve continued study – perhaps a continuous, devoted lifetime of it, in fact. “I shall comm you if I require further assistance, Doctor. And I do look forward to the forthcoming inauguration of our book club.”
As he departs, Garak thinks, with soft wonder: A friend? Even Enabran Tain’s derision, long internalized, doesn’t quite dim his excitement. Safe in his quarters, pain quelled, Elim Garak cracks the security surrounding the command files as a Ferengi might crack the shell of a snacking beetle and sets out to learn all he can about Doctor Julian Bashir.
Maybe, he thinks, observing a holo image of the beautiful young man, occupation isn’t such a bad thing after all.