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Chapter Text

Garak had been away from the station for two weeks: a “business holiday”, he had called it. He’d been meaning to go to Trill for a while (Jadzia Dax was one of the few crew members who actually knew how to dress off-duty). So when the occasion had presented itself –

The occasion of his wanting desperately to take a holiday from Deep Space Nine, the place where he had spent the last five years of his life because of Enabran Tain.

Tain, who was now dead.

Garak got another cup of tea from the replicator, then resumed his seat by the window, watching a tiny speck slowly turn into the station he so loathed. He groaned quietly to himself.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been happy to leave Trill again. Two weeks had really been enough. Their fashion industry was, as he had hoped, very interesting, and he had left with dozens of new rolls of fabric in tow. But, oh God, the people – all that frankness, all that peaceful friendliness, and then the occasional telepath who would turn his head as he passed and give him one of those infuriatingly compassionate looks.

So now he was going back to the only place where he had some purpose. The irony of it did not escape his notice – a Cardassian space station under Bajoran and Federation control, and it was the only place he did not feel entirely unwanted, or worse, ignored. Here, at least, he could enjoy the speculation about who he was, or had been. And people were friendly for the most part, even the Bajorans.

Stop it, he told himself. It’s a nice lie, but it won’t hold up under your scrutiny. He didn’t feel comfortable here, and he never would.

There was only one person on the station whom he had begun to think of as a friend, and it turned out that person was so interchangeable that Garak hadn’t even noticed he had been replaced by a Changeling for a whole month.

How had it escaped his notice? His notice? It was embarrassing. He had made it one of his rare hobbies on the station to find out what made Julian Bashir tick, and he’d been sure he had him mostly figured out. And yet, a Founder had been able to trick him.

Perhaps Garak had simply been wishing for a companion who could match him in intelligence and wit, and had projected a lot of his wishes into a mostly empty shell. A boring, nondescript human. Courageous, of course, and moral, and everything humans prized in themselves.

But really, the Founders had been more perceptive than he had, and chosen a proper average Joe.

“Docking in five minutes,” the captain of his freighter announced over the intercom.

Garak frowned. This gloomy mood he was getting himself into wasn’t going to make the readjustment to Deep Space Nine any easier. Time he returned to thinking of all the excellent new clothes he would be making with his Trill fabrics. Perhaps he could get Lieutenant Dax to model for him. Yes. He was sure she would be delighted.

***

Transporting all the rolls from the dock to his shop had taken longer than Garak had expected. He tipped the ensign who had helped him generously, then busied himself with tidying up the shop.

He was a little surprised that Doctor Bashir hadn’t shown up to say hello yet; they’d nodded at each other as he’d walked past the infirmary, but he had been too busy to step in. The doctor, though, hadn’t looked overly busy.

He’d thought, in his assessment of the other man’s character, that Bashir was one of those dutiful friends who went out of his way to be warm and welcoming. Hadn’t the human noticeably increased his efforts to be nice to him ever since he’d found out about Garak’s implant?

Oh well, he might just as well go down for his routine check-up, which was compulsory after off-station trips.

When he arrived at the infirmary, however, Doctor Bashir had already gone off duty, as one of the nurses informed him. How strange.

Strange, also, how cold she appeared when she said the doctor’s name.

Every single one of Garak’s former-spy’s senses seemed to be screaming at him that he had missed something big.

***

He went to Ops to report back to Captain Sisko. The Captain had seemed wary of letting him out of his sight, something that Garak had to admit to himself secretly pleased him. However, one of the Captain’s terms (thinly veiled as requests) had been to report back immediately, and Garak was nothing if not obliging.

“I hope the station fared well in my absence?” he asked in his usual cheerful manner, after Sisko had welcomed him back in his own way (which was more like grumblingly acknowledging that the other man still existed). “Any news?”

Sisko raised his eyebrows. “Anything particular you are interested in, Garak?”

Ah. There was something particular, then. Otherwise there was no reason for him to be asking this question.

“Oh, not me,” he said, smiling and performing one of his little head-bows that he knew humans found so irritating. “I have a simple businessman’s interest in what goes on in my customers’ lives.”

Sisko stared back at him, then almost smiled. “Of course you do.” He paused. “Have you seen Doctor Bashir yet?”

Oh, the Captain was really not as stupid as he sometimes pretended to be. “Not yet, no.” His upward intonation implied that he was open for any news regarding the doctor.

“Well, if you haven’t been following the Federation news, you might want to enter his name into the news search.” Sisko shrugged. “Or you could ask him. But he’s been a little withdrawn lately.”

Garak nodded slowly. “Thank you, Captain.” He made to leave, when Sisko called him back.

“Do me a favour,” he said softly, “and don’t make this any harder on him than it already is.”

Garak smiled. This was really very intriguing. “I will do my best, Captain.”

***

Garak closed the article he had been reading with a tap of his finger and leant back in his chair, staring out at the stars. A chuckle escaped his lips, then another. It wasn’t very long before he laughed out loud, a real, proper belly laugh. He couldn’t even remember his last one.

Well now. Who would have thought. To be surprised at his time of life, and with his experience, it was a rare treat, and the dear doctor deserved some special reward for this.

But first, he would have to think about how to proceed.

Chapter Text

Garak sat at their usual table, reading the last chapter of a particularly gripping novel (old Earth crime from the 20th century). He would never admit this to Doctor Bashir, but he did enjoy the simple-minded, yet concise and clever approach of Agatha Christie. If the doctor should happen to catch a glimpse of what he was reading, however, Garak would claim immense boredom with its predictable plots and witless dialogues.

The Doctor entered the Replimat through his usual entrance, at his usual hour, and Garak caught himself thinking how obvious the young human was –

No, he would really have to revise his preconceived opinions about him.

“Hello Garak,” his usual greeting, as well. Garak looked up into his face and saw the usual friendly naiveté, today tinged with a pleased smile. There was also a hint of that schooled doctor’s compassion that whispered ‘I know you’ve lost a member of your family, but I’m going to try and treat you just the same as always’.

Nothing else out of the ordinary, though. Was it possible the doctor assumed that Garak hadn’t heard?

“So you’re back, then,” said Bashir, sitting down. “Had a nice time on Trill?”

“Very nice, thank you,” Garak supplied his usual half-truth, and smiled back. “And how have you been?”

“Good,” said Bashir, nodding as if having to emphasize it.

Garak wasn’t much in the habit of asking direct questions (or giving direct answers, for that matter), but he thought he could risk it, this time: just to see how his long-time lunch companion would react.  “Any interesting stories to tell from my absence?”

One of the doctor’s eyelids fluttered slightly, for a second. Garak might have missed it under normal circumstances. This time, he laughed inwardly.

“Not really,” Bashir shrugged. “Read some interesting stories, though. Have you read any of Kamal’s novels?”

And before Garak could ask another leading question, Doctor Bashir had expertly steered them towards a discussion about an old 17th century Cardassian author.

Oh, he was good. And Garak couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this excited. He’d been wrong about the doctor, entirely wrong, and he should feel frustration at his old Obsidian Order skills seeping away for lack of use, but instead he was thrilled to find that there was actually someone here who could keep up with him.

***

The next morning, to his delight, he discovered a pretext to go see the doctor in his infirmary. It looked like he’d developed an allergic reaction to something or other he’d brought back from Trill.

Doctor Bashir agreed with his hypothesis and came back with him to the shop to scan for the compound he’d identified inside some of Garak’s cells. They soon found that inside of half a dozen of the rolls he had brought back, tiny blue spiders had been happily living in the hundreds, and biting the tailor whenever he’d cut some of their house off.

“What will you do with them now?” asked Bashir.

“Ah well, I’m afraid it’s either pest control or angry red pustules all over my hands,” said Garak. “I think I’m going to opt for the former.” He tilted his head, looking at the doctor quizzically. “I seem to dimly remember a quote by your man Shakespeare that befits the occasion. Something about sewing and spiders?”

“Weaving spiders, come not here / Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence,” quoted Bashir, without so much as a second of hesitation. Garak smiled, and the doctor shot him a quick look. There it was again, that flutter of the eyelid.

Bashir shrugged. “I don’t remember the rest.”

Garak’s smile grew a fraction wider. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your other patients. I appreciate your help in this inquiry.”

“No problem. Good luck with the pest control.” And his friend smiled that seemingly carefree smile again and left his shop.

***

For another whole week, they performed this routine. Garak knew Bashir was wondering more and more why Garak had apparently not heard, but also saw clearly that the doctor enjoyed spending time with someone who ‘didn’t know’ yet.

For his part, he hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in five years. He couldn’t help teasing the doctor at every opportunity: making him quote things incompletely, remember historical dates incorrectly, draw illogical conclusions from an argument made by Garak while discussing a novel – it was all simply delightful.

The young doctor, Garak was beginning to realize, was such an expert at subterfuge that he’d even managed to hide most of his character under something new. With Garak, everyone knew that he was a liar, and he did enjoy the exasperation he knew he often caused, especially with Starfleet personnel. But even he had to admit that it was something else entirely to make up a whole persona. To create innocent, naïve, silly Doctor Bashir, because the real man was too dark, too calculating to be able to bear himself – that was true art.

Chapter Text

One week after his return from Trill, Garak was closing up his shop, whistling to himself. He was meeting the doctor that evening at the holosuite for another one of those spy adventures. It had been his, Garak’s, suggestion that they reattempt a similar program to the one they’d played last year, except perhaps this time with stricter security measures.

It was such an amusing idea, he thought as he strolled down the promenade towards Quark’s, smiling at everyone who passed, that a man who had obviously been hiding his true nature his whole life had a fantasy about being a secret agent. He couldn’t wait seeing him playing it out again.

“Garak,” called Quark, in the welcoming tone only a man of his calibre managed to extend to everyone who walked into his bar, be they friend or foe, pretty or ugly, well-dressed or –

Ugh. There was, as usual, an astounding number of badly dressed off-duty Starfleet personnel grouped around the Dabo tables. (Those sitting down were no exception, but at least you couldn’t see their entire bodies.) The Bajorans fared slightly better in this area, Garak thought, taking a seat at the bar and looking around, but not by much.

A hand on his shoulder and a certain voice immediately lifted his spirits, however, and he turned to face the doctor instead.

“You, er, look nice,” said Bashir, his eye travelling down Garak’s dark green suit. Garak had found himself ridiculous in that old Earth tuxedo the last time, so he’d opted for Cardassian formal wear this time: long trousers, loose around the ankles, a longish tunic, all in that rough Cardassian half-silk that was so hard to obtain. He’d worn this at his admission ceremony into the Obsidian Order.

“Likewise,” he said, smiling. If it were up to him, the doctor could wear a tuxedo every day.

“Listen to you girls,” commented Quark, handing them their usual. “Where are we off to then, the catwalks of Casperia Prime?”

“Very funny, Quark.” Bashir took a sip of his root beer. “It’s a holoplay based on the James Bond films. He’s a fictional secret agent from the Earth 1950s.”

“Oh, great, so you’re planning on nearly demolishing the holosuites again!” exclaimed Quark. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Rom knows,” said the doctor, and Garak winced as Quark looked disgusted. They hadn’t really enhanced his social skills, had they. “He’s on close watch.”

“Ah.” Quark sniffed. “Well, I guess you could find your way out of there anyway. If,” he added meaningfully, “you made an effort this time.”

Garak, who had been watching the doctor closely, saw a tiny blush creep up his cheeks, which was gone just as quickly. Bashir looked at him, and Garak looked back, smiling slightly, expectantly. It was only a fraction of a second, but what had passed between them was clear to both.

“You’ve known all this time?” Bashir muttered as they made their way up the stairs.

“Ever since the day I got back,” replied Garak, still smiling.

“I see.”

***

They threw themselves into the action of the holoplay, without much apparent enthusiasm from Doctor Bashir at the start, but his mood seemed to improve as the play went on. It was all rather predictable, of course, but not bad in the way of shallow entertainment. There was a typical mad villain with a pet rabbit, there were a lot of car chases, and they also acquired what Bashir termed “a Bond girl” at some point into the story.

The Bond girl left them after a while, however, because she wasn’t thrilled at the way 007 ignored her, and she muttered something like “You two obviously don’t seem to need me” as she stalked out. 007 pretended not to hear this, while Garak smiled to himself.

It was therefore just the two of them who found themselves locked in a cell by the villain, who cackled at them madly through the peephole, promising he would come for them soon and bring his Pit Bulls with him, and then left them alone.

“You all right?” asked Bashir, that doctor’s compassionate frown on his face again.

As it happened, Garak was not, but remembering that this was a holosuite helped, and keeping busy would as well. “I’m fine,” he smiled. “Now, let’s see if we can get that door open, shall we?”

From a hidden pocket inside his tunic, he took a traditional tailor’s kit (pins and needles of various sizes) and started inspecting one of the many locks on the door. Bashir stared at him, surprised, then laughed. “Garak, you are a marvel.”

“Surely no more than you, my dear doctor.”

He saw Bashir’s frown out of the corner of his eye and knew the doctor had understood his full meaning. For a while, they worked quietly side by side on the locks (Bashir having his own Bond kit, of course).

Bashir finished the first lock, then turned to the tailor. “I’m sorry, Garak.”

Garak looked up. “You’re apologizing for lying to me about your background for five years?” He smiled. “My dear doctor, you must know how much it pleases me to find out that you are far more devious than I thought.”

Bashir held his gaze for a moment, then laughed. “Well, you’re definitely the only person so far who’s happy about this.”

He fiddled with his lock for a moment, looking very serious again. “Actually, though, that’s not what I meant. You must have wondered about internment camp 371 ever since you found out about me.”

“371?” This time, Garak wasn’t teasing; he genuinely had no idea what Bashir meant.

“The Dominion internment camp, the one that you helped us get out of. I mean, I’m not saying I could have done it as quickly as you, but…”

Garak stood back, his first lock finished, and nodded slowly. “Ah. You’re feeling bad about leaving me to suffer in that confined space, when you might have managed to do it yourself.”

“I might have.” Bashir shrugged. “I’m not an expert at it as you are, but if you’d explained it to me, I would probably have been able to do it.” He’d cracked the last lock, and the door clicked. Garak couldn’t stop himself from taking a deep breath of relief.

“You know, doctor,” he said, smiling again, as they stood side by side in front of the door, “that might never have occurred to me hadn’t you brought it up.”

 “Right.” Bashir looked stricken.  “Another lesson in where too much honesty can get you.”

“You live and learn, my dear doctor.”

Bashir smiled, pulling the door open.

The villain, grinning maniacally, stood outside. Three huge men stood grouped around him, their weapons pointed directly at the prisoners.

“Good, gentlemen,” said the villain. “Very good. Now, let’s see how you fare without your companion, Bond.” In a swift motion, he grabbed Garak and pulled him away from Bashir, pointing his own gun at the tailor’s head. “Build me a bomb to blow up Buckingham Palace. You have three hours, or your lover dies.”

Bashir stared.

Chapter Text

Elim Garak wasn’t exactly suited to the role of damsel in distress. He was neither helpless nor hysterical, and he was far too good at getting out of tight spots by himself. However, if he could inflict even a small amount of torture on Julian Bashir by playing along with the idea that he was this story’s Bond girl, he was damned if he wasn’t going to milk it.

“Say goodbye,” the villain said to him, when they’d arrived at the lab where 007 was supposed to build the monarch-terminating bomb, “say goodbye to James Bond while you can.” He leaned towards Garak and stage-whispered into his ear, “Because it is impossible to build a bomb that size in three hours, which means that you, my darling, will never see him again.”

Garak, released briefly by the villain, rushed past the security guards to embrace his Bond, who looked very taken aback.

“Don’t tell me this is the last time all over again,” he muttered, holding Garak at arm’s length. “Are you really Garak or is this another holosuite malfunction?”

“How can you ask me such a question, James?” Garak tried on his best sulk. “Surely your enhanced secret agent senses can work this out.”

Bashir’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled a little. “You’re really going to play along with this, aren’t you?”

“And why shouldn’t I?” replied Garak, smiling (he hoped) a little suggestively. God, his flirting was rusty.

He thought he saw a glimmer of a reply in the doctor’s eyes, then the villain dragged him away.

***

Time, for holographic characters, passed more quickly than normal time, as otherwise most people wouldn’t be able to play out the storylines inside the limited holosuite time they could afford. Garak therefore had to endure only half an hour of shallow, chauvinistic banter before the three hours were officially up and the villain (who to Garak’s amusement was actually called Dukov) took them back to the lab.

“Well, Bond,” drawled Dukov, holding Garak by the arm, a gun to his temple. “Show me my bomb.”

Bashir, who had regained his cool (but lost the suit jacket, Garak noted appreciatively), smiled and held up a small device he appeared to have just finished.

“Micro-detonator. Explosive force of a cannon blast, blows up an entire building the size of Buckingham Palace. Or, as it happens,” and here he cocked his head to the side ever so smartly, “this one. Catch!”

And he threw the device directly at Dukov, who caught it at the same moment that Garak and Bashir jumped out the window.

The blast tore apart the entire second floor of Dukov’s mansion, and Garak and Bashir scrambled out of the pool they’d landed in and ran from the scene as fast as they could, just in time before the fire reached the rest of the building and generated an even larger explosion.

“So how did you like my bomb?” asked the doctor, as they lay on the grass at the far end of the mansion’s garden, gasping for breath.

“Crude,” said Garak, “but effective.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Bashir smiled.

They made their way out of the holosuite and back into Quark’s for a nightcap. Both, Garak noted, were trying not to stare at the way the other man’s wet clothes clung to his body.

***

Two hours later, their clothes dry, they were still sitting at a table upstairs, far removed from any of the other guests. They were on their fourth glass of root beer and kanaar respectively, and although they were both working tomorrow, neither man appeared to be thinking of leaving.

“But Talek is a perfect example of what I’m trying to say.” Bashir was gesticulating wildly in between sips from his drink. “He thinks that duty and honour are all that matters to him, but in the end he’s lying to himself.”

They were discussing The Flower That Bloomed in the Third Autumn, a Cardassian film they had watched together last year, Garak having suggested that perhaps a screen adaptation of one of his favourite novels might facilitate the doctor’s access to Cardassian literature as a whole. At the time, Bashir hadn’t appeared overly interested and Garak had been sure he’d soon forget the thing altogether. As it turned out, he could quote entire passages, and had obviously thought about the film’s message at length.

“You must not think I do not value the time we spent together,” the doctor quoted, and his intonation and body language were an almost perfect imitation of the main character. “But you must remember there are more important things than friendship. And yet, he sacrifices himself for his friend in the end!”

“Not for his friend,” Garak corrected. “For what his friend stands for. And the act itself of giving up his own life, it’s what ends up inspiring his whole town to stand together against the Farillian invasion.”

Bashir smiled, shaking his head incredulously. “But what about when he and Melaran are hiding in the factory, waiting to strike? You have always been the first one I went to, my friend, when all else was lost, and you always will be.”

Garak smiled his best condescending smile. “You think that is evidence of friendship being more important to him than the greater good? I think it more likely that he is trying to encourage Melaran to continue helping him in this war. After all, Melaran is not so keen on fighting against the invaders at first.”

“And by encouraging, you mean manipulating,” Bashir replied, smiling wryly. “I’m not finished, though. Melaran replies: For you, I would go up against anyone who stood against us, be they Farillians, Klingons, or even Cardassians. A man who takes into account the possibility of fighting his own race, and that’s whose life Talek saves? You know what I think? I think this novel is actually secretly subversive.”

“Wishing it, my dear doctor, does not make it true,” Garak retorted and took a long sip of his drink to buy himself time. Okay. This was getting a little out of hand. Not only was the doctor clearly trying to provoke him – and taking into account what he knew about him now, his friend surely knew the possible consequences of arguing with a Cardassian in this manner.

But there was something else as well. He’d thought, when the doctor had started quoting from The Flower, that his friend didn’t exactly remember the gestures and tones of voice Talek and Melaran had used, and was therefore slightly off in his imitation. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Because what the doctor was doing effectively was to speak the quotes in a way that made all their exchanges sound like flirting.

There were several messages here at once, and Garak had to admit to himself that he was in over his head.

“However dearly you may wish it, doctor,” he continued, trying to save as much of his dignity as he could, “Cardassians are nowhere near as blindly loyal to each other as humans tend to be. Your romantic concepts just don’t apply to our society.” There, that should at least convey the message that he’d understood some of the multi-layered discourse that Bashir had been developing.

His friend smiled brightly as though content with Garak, who tried not to feel annoyed that he’d suddenly been cast in the role of the promising young student.

Chapter Text

Garak was not a morning person. He usually took at least half an hour to even get out of bed, and then another hour to get ready and make his protesting body ingest some breakfast.

That Monday morning, however, about three weeks after he’d found out that Doctor Bashir had been lying to him for five years, he awoke with a feeling of excitement in his stomach.

It was today that the doctor was getting his reward.

Garak got up and checked the time. About half an hour, he guessed, before the doctor would leave his quarters – or try to.

He’d obtained special permission from Captain Sisko to relieve the doctor of duty that day and had informed sickbay, but unless someone had mentioned it to him against Garak’s express wishes, Bashir didn’t know. Garak knew the station’s culture of gossip was legendary, but Sisko had seemed to approve of what Garak had called “an intellectual diversion for the doctor”, whereas the head nurse had just shrugged, looking like she didn’t mind having the place to herself for once.

Fifteen minutes. Garak hummed to himself under the shower. A special book or other material gift would have done well, too, of course; but something had told him that after all these years of hiding who he really was, the doctor would appreciate a real challenge.

From what the doctor had told him, it wasn’t as though he really enjoyed having everything out in the open; he still had to hold himself back with most of his friends, always scared of what they would think if he said something too clever or too perceptive.

“I thought finally coming clean about who I am would be a relief,” Bashir had told him as they had strolled along the promenade one afternoon. “But somehow it’s not as liberating as I thought.”

“My dear doctor,” Garak had smiled, “telling the truth never is.”

Five minutes. Bashir might have managed to hide the truth about himself, Garak thought as he dressed hurriedly, but he was still rather predictable. He always left his quarters round about the same time. As a matter of fact, Garak had soon noticed that his initial assumption had been wrong – the doctor wasn’t any less human in his actions or in his silly, silly beliefs than he had previously shown himself. However, this trait did not annoy Garak as it used to, or amuse him as a little child would. He now found himself admiring the many facets of Doctor Julian Bashir that managed to co-exist inside one human man.

Aha. There was a little chime on his PADD that told him Doctor Bashir had just tried to step out of his quarters and had, instead, been presented with the first conundrum of the day.

This one was fairly easy (a progression from simple to complicated was always good) but still pleasing to Garak as it referenced his favourite chapter from his favourite novel. He chuckled as he read through his little riddle again. His meter was probably off, but he was fairly sure he’d got the rhyming right. It wasn’t easy doing this in Standard.

It brought tears to the eyes of many a Gul
Yet some will call it ‘a little dull’
How to measure a thing like taste
Or indeed like the thing that the grandfather chased?

Oh, surely the doctor would crack this one very quickly. But perhaps not – one never knew which clues were easy for some people and difficult for others, as Garak remembered from a time when this game had been very popular on Cardassia.

Twenty seconds earlier than he had calculated, he got another message from the surveillance system he had set up that the doctor had cracked the clue and left his quarters in the direction of the holosuites.

Garak leaned back in his chair. This was going to be an excellent day.

***

At 19h00 exactly, Julian Bashir entered Garak’s quarters. He was looking flushed and a little exhausted, but Garak noticed with pleasure that he was still wearing a smile on his face, which widened when he took in the scene before him.

Garak had done his best to recall, and research, all of Bashir’s favourite foods. Some had even been prepared with fresh ingredients he’d obtained from Earth; others, he had replicated. All together they made up a rather splendid-looking buffet (if he said so himself) which, complete with lit candles that humans found so important, he had arranged in the middle of the room. He himself was sitting on the chair facing the door, once again wearing his formal clothes.

“Right on time,” he smiled.

Bashir looked a little wary of entering. “No trapdoors?”

Garak gave him his best innocent smile. “Trapdoors? Whatever gave you that idea?”

Bashir stayed where he was. “No psychopathic androids waiting to hurl themselves at me? No laser attacks?”

“What a vivid imagination you have,” Garak sighed.

A little smile was playing around the doctor’s lips. “Don’t tell me I can just step over the threshold without solving another puzzle or finding my way out of a seemingly impossible, life-threatening situation.”

Ah. It looked like he had traumatized the dear boy a little. Perhaps making him go without food for the entire day hadn’t been such a good idea; humans weren’t as sturdy as Cardassians, after all. Garak stood up and walked a few steps towards him, beckoning him into the room.

“No obstacles, my dear doctor. You have successfully, and if I may add very creatively, solved all the puzzles. This is your reward.” He’d put special emphasis on the last word, and he could see that the doctor understood his full meaning.

Bashir walked slowly into the room and studied the buffet. Garak saw his eyes, and his smile, widen as he recognized the dishes one by one.

“Well,” Garak said as the doctor remained silent, “shall we open the wine?”

He made to walk back to his end of the table where a bottle of red wine was waiting, when the doctor caught him by the wrist.

“In a minute,” said Bashir, and bridged the remaining distance between them.

Oh.

“Did I manage to surprise you?” Bashir murmured as they broke apart.

“I don’t think you’ll ever stop,” smiled Garak, and kissed him again.

***

The buffet had been thoroughly demolished and the second bottle of wine opened. At some point during the evening, Garak reflected, they must have found time to eat and drink, though it was difficult to imagine how.

Now, they were lying on the floor under the largest window, where they could see the wormhole whenever it opened. They were talking about the day’s tasks and Bashir’s solutions; Garak hadn’t had time to see everything on his monitor because of the food preparation.

“I also liked the reference to the first riddle in the fifth one,” Bashir was saying. “Those Cardassian voles really are disgusting creatures, though. I was almost put off trying to get through the maze when they came swarming out of that hole.”

“Yes, they are rather vile,” Garak agreed. “We were constantly chasing them when I was young. That’s why I love that description of the grandfather chasing one in the Never-Ending Sacrifice…”

“… providing the exact measurements of the creature, yes. Took me a moment to remember those.”

“Oh, I thought it would take you longer,” Garak said as he stroked Bashir’s hair. It really was extraordinarily soft. “But I suppose you didn’t linger on all the beautiful passages and went straight to the math.”

“I skipped all the long-winded bits, yeah.”

“Oh, shut up. You thoroughly deserved the vole army just for that comment.”

Bashir laughed and turned onto his stomach, supporting his head on his hands so he could look at Garak. “I still can’t believe you sent me on a poetic scavenger hunt.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it’s just so… romantic.” He laughed again as, in lieu of a response, Garak bit into his shoulder. “Anyway, I thought someone tried to teach me once that ‘sentiment was the greatest weakness of all’.”

“Whatever idiot told you that? Trust me, it’s a lesson you’d rather not learn.”

At some point in the evening, they made it to Garak’s bed, where a lot more exploration, mutual teasing and discussion took place. Very late into the night, the doctor finally fell asleep in Garak’s arms.

Garak had absolutely no idea where this was going, what he wanted or what Bashir wanted or even what their chances were of making this work, but he knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t ever let go of this man again.