Work Text:
What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
long and long at the lonely moon.
- Two English Poems, Jorge Luis Borges
Garak hadn’t meant to be here.
He watches the mingle of Starfleet personnel and Cardassians move and weave in their elaborate dance at the edge of the field, passing padds and documents back and forth. Strangely upbeat voices carrying over the open space, mixing seamlessly, now, with the tired, subdued replies of colleagues who have spent too long sorting through rubble, looking in vain for still-beating hearts.
The spaceport is not really worth its title, in that it is more a patch of relatively flat earth cleared of debris than any type of infrastructure. Still, it is good enough for Starfleet’s relief shuttles to make their landings - should the magnanimous empire decide to send entire ships, Garak assumes he would have to speak to city planning. Again.
He hadn’t meant to be here.
But Ghemor had all but volunteered him, citing Garak’s interspecial expertise as the primary reason. The boss wants what the boss wants, and Garak will do his best to fulfill his duty. It’s how it always has been, always will be.
He watches the shuttle touch down with bile churning in his stomach, watches red dust rise up and envelop the metal frame like an embrace, a kiss. The dust will settle into every seam and crevice of the shuttle, be carried off again through the stars. Cardassia does not let go of what she has once claimed as her own.
The aft door opens with the whizz of depressurisation, and Garak swallows, hard. His hand comes up, without his permission, to brush nonexistent creases out of his kaftan. Brush some of the dust away.
Then -
“Oh, bloody hell, that is worse than I thought.”
The first time that Garak lays his eyes on Bashir after the end of the war, the doctor is bent over at the middle, coughing his lungs out, covering his mouth with his elbow. His assistant shoves a water bottle into his free hand, and Bashir twists the cap off, taking greedy sips.
Even from this distance, Garak can see the small tendril of water running down from the corner of his mouth, a stray drop hitting the shuttle’s off-ramp.
Don’t you know, Doctor, that every drop of water is a precious resource, these days. Shameful to waste it like that - typical Federation, ignoring the collective for the individual, as you are wont to do.
At least, that is what he would have said, had this been a year ago. Had Garak not flayed himself open over blank pages - used too many words, as usual, to express the only wish he had left at the end of the world - come, please come - only to be met with nothing in return.
Well - Bashir is here, now.
Not to see Garak, of course, to fling himself into his arms and declare his eternal love, no. Research on the effects of radiation poisoning on Cardassian infants, and the search for a cure. Good work, of course, necessary work - but.
But.
He shakes himself out of his reveries. There is a job to do.
It is time, Garak thinks, to make an entrance.
He stalks over to the shuttle on quiet feet, leaving a trail of deep red footprints in his wake. He’s glad he no longer has to wear the heavy boots he used to keep the chill from his bones on Deep Space 9. His thin-soled, cross-strapped sandals make for easier prowling.
Bashir startles when he sees Garak at his elbow, more water from his bottle sloshing onto the shuttle’s aft ramp. If there is a flicker of perverse delight in Garak’s chest at this, he chalks it up to professional pride.
Not that he is an agent, anymore. Clean and honorable, a close and trusted advisor to the Castellan. If someone had told him about this shift when he was twenty, scrappy and famished for his father’s approval, he would have laughed. If there was no Obsidian Order, there was no Cardassia.
There was no Cardassia.
“Doctor,” he says, finally. His voice is even, steady. He allows himself some pride at this, too. “Welcome to Cardiassia Prime.”
“Garak! You?” Bashir manages to croak out between coughs, before taking another big gulp of water. It has splattered down his chest, Garak notices idly, staining the ugly uniform dark in spots. Messy, always messy.
“Me,” he confirms, lightly. He nods with utmost politeness to the assistant still hovering by Bashir’s side. “The Castellan thought it would be suitable for someone used to Terrans to welcome your research party to the capital.”
Clipped, efficient, proper. He’s doing well.
Bashir seems to gather himself then, screwing the cork back on the water bottle.
“Well, that’s… Good, that’s good!” Bashir says, nodding a bit too enthusiastically at his own words, eyes wide.
For a moment, there is silence. They look at each other properly, taking in all the time and space that has come and gone between them. He watches Bashir watching him, the way he scans Garak up and down with his clinical - yes, professional - eye. Taking in his frame - thinner now, less muscle and padding, thanks to the rationing. His hair - longer, thanks to the business of his schedule, and the traditional military cuts falling out of favour with the general populace. His clothes - thinner, too, thanks to the blessed warmth of the sun. His shoes - light and useful for clambering over fallen ruins, should they happen to block his way.
“I’ve never seen Cardassian toes before,” Bashir says, and it’s such a silly statement, so absurd, that Garak can’t help but smile. He promised himself he wouldn’t smile.
“First time for everything,” he says. “May I take your bags? I’ll show you to your hotel, such as it is.”
-
There is only one tram line functioning in the city, the old spiderweb of tracks torn apart and broken. Luckily, it is enough to take them from the spaceport to the city centre. The tram rattles along the river towards civilisation - what would have been the scenic route, back in the day.
And Julian is as beautiful as he has always been.
The Cardassian sun loves him - Garak knows this immediately. The warm orange glow slanting through the windows strokes his cheek as if it has always kissed his skin, as if he were one of Cardassia’s own, coming home to her again after only a short time away. His face almost seems to glow from within.
Garak forces his eyes away.
The tram is nearly empty. At this hour, more people are going out of the city than in. Back to the scattered suburbs of hobbled-together buildings and Federation materials, to hunker down and wait for the morning. Still, Bashir chose to stand, holding on to one of the top railings, swaying back and forth with every movement of the car. He’s deep in conversation with his assistant, something about equipment set-up that Garak doesn’t care enough to follow.
If he didn’t know better, didn’t know that it had already happened, he would have thought that he had gotten the brush-off.
This is work, he tells himself. I am taking a Terran research unit from one place to another.
He clears his throat to get Bashir’s attention, and the human duo stop mid-sentence to look at him.
“Next stop,” he says, and Bashir smiles at him, the treacherous sun cupping her hands around his still-boyish face. As if Midas from that silly old story Bashir had read out loud to him in the Replimat had stepped out of legend to bless and curse him with his touch.
“Great,” Bashir says, and Garak nods.
-
Through the eyes of an off-worlder, the full scale of the destruction comes into focus once more.
It’s strange what you can get used to, given enough time.
Garak watches Bashir’s eyes widen, his jaw slacken, as he takes in the fallen buildings, toppled monuments, the bridge that has crumbled under its own weight to fall, unceremoniously, into the dark river below.
“It used to be worse,” Garak offers, and Bashir meets his eyes.
“I can imagine,” he says, and Garak thinks - can you? Is it possible, if you were not here to see it?
The hotel, used by visiting dignitaries and diplomats and everyone else of some kind of high standing, is just across the street from the tram stop. He ushers the two humans as far as the reception, and exchanges a few words with the woman behind the counter. Keycards in hand, he prepares himself for retreat.
Bashir takes the keycards out of his hand, gingerly, and passes them off to his assistant.
“Would you mind terribly taking the bags up the stairs?” he asks. “I’ll just be a moment.”
Nodding her assent, the assistant disappears around the corner.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Garak asks, the old mask of the ever-polite customer servant slotting into place. Safe, familiar, unshakeable.
He knows what Bashir is trying to do, and Garak’s not going to have this conversation. Not now, hopefully not ever. The lack of communication is answer enough, and he certainly doesn’t want to stand around waiting for Bashir to flounder through some sort of explanation of his disinterest.
“Garak -”, Bashir starts, but Garak is ready to parry.
“I imagine the Federation has given you a stipend of leks to use?”
“Yes, but - “
“There are plenty of good restaurants around this area. Well, I say plenty - there’s a few, but I’m sure you will find something befitting your tastebuds. There are a lot of Starfleet personnel around nowadays, and they don’t seem too keen to adapt to our cuisine.”
“That’s all well and good, but -”
“There might even be somewhere to find yourself a raktajino, should the need arise. Well, I think that’s all.”
“Garak -”
“You know how to reach me, should you need anything else,” Garak says, and hopes acid hasn’t dripped into his voice. Work. This is work.
“Yes. Thank you,” Bashir mumbles, staring down at the floor, not unlike a chastised child. “Thanks for your help.”
With that, Garak turns on his heel and flees.
-
He retreats home in the evening, the monuments outside like ghostly spectres in the dark. He makes himself dinner out of whatever rations he has left to cobble together, and sits staring out at the view, the tiny pinpricks of lights below.
Alone in the darkness, he thinks of the way Julian’s face looked on that tram, and of how it fell when they stepped off into the devastation that was once Garak’s home. He still looked beautiful, then, in his despair.
Maybe he hadn’t wanted Julian to come at all.
He is used to choking down shame, letting it scorch the back of his throat and ache the whole way down. And there is a shame in letting outsiders see their clawing and scrabbling for survival, rebuilding this place brick by painstaking brick. The gardens and monuments of old might have inspired awe, not pity, in Bashir.
No matter. His job here is done - he was polite and courteous to the visitors, which is what Ghemor had wanted from him. Mission accomplished, on to the next.
-
In the morning, there is a message on Garak’s personal comm.
Dear Garak,
Did you know that many years ago, on Earth, it was customary in parts of the world to have a Bible (an old religious text) in the nightstand drawer of every hotel? I’m not sure why. Maybe it was a comfort to travellers, to read something familiar. I opened the drawer of the nightstand of this room, and was surprised to find a copy of The Neverending Sacrifice. My question to you is - did someone leave it here, or is it custom on Cardassia to leave tomes of repetitive epics in each hotel room?
Bashir
He ponders the message for a long while, trying to determine whether to feel bitterness or joy. And olive branch, yes, but extended so late in the day. Quite literally - the message is sent way past midnight.
The warmth of the words wins, in the end, and Garak types his reply before heading downhill to the Castellan’s office.
Doctor,
No such custom that I know of. I’m afraid the previous occupant has lost a prized possession in your room. Please look after it in their absence.
Garak
The reply comes almost immediately.
That depends on whether or not this occupant held my opinion of Corac, or yours. Maybe it was a relief to get rid of it?
Despite himself, Garak smiles. Then, another buzz.
Since I’m here, do you have any reading material to recommend? When in Rome, et cetera.
He takes his time choosing a collection of poetry. Nothing romantic, only descriptions of the Cardassian desert written in a careful hand. Neutral, but evocative. He sends it over without further comment.
-
In the evening, Garak loses another battle with his self-control. It is becoming a disturbing habit, of late. Then again - maybe he never had as much control as he pretended to, skulking around in the shadows, pretending he couldn’t hear his own heart beating in his ears.
“I’m sorry to pull you away,” Bashir says, standing awkwardly at the edge of the hotel lobby, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Back and forth, back and forth. “From… “
From what, yes, that is the question. Another quiet evening of tasteless rations and staring out at the craters of his world.
“From your work,” Bashir concludes, lamely.
“I usually end work around five,” Garak says. It’s a lie - he has spent more nights than he can count catching glimmers of sleep on the torn-up old sofa in the Assembly building. A collection of tiny little Federation pre-fabs, playing pretend at being the seat of democratic power on Cardassia.
“I see,” Bashir says, and looks down at his feet. “It’s just.. I don’t really know anyone here, and Miles and Keiko are all the way out in the desert, and my assistant isn’t really the talkative type, and the fan in my room is really loud… Well. I’m blathering.”
“A bit, yes,” Garak says, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch. He promised himself he wouldn’t smile.
“Anyway, I thought, since you sent me that collection, that maybe we could talk about it. You know, for old time’s… like we used to.”
“If you like,” he replies, his tone blank and neutral.
Bashir, desperate, flicks his eyes around the tiny lobby, looking for - what? An escape hatch? A way to make the situation, this unpleasant tension between them, disappear?
It’s too late for dinner, and Garak won’t swoop in to smooth the situation over, suggest a café or a bar or any other place they could go together. He lets Bashir stew in his own nervousness instead, watching with feigned nonchalance.
I wrote you a letter, he wants to say, but doesn’t. Partially because it would be a gross underexaggeration - he tries to imagine, for a moment, what his own reaction would be, should he receive the equivalent of a memoir in his inbox one morning, and can’t.
Greetings from Cardassia, wish you were here.
He’s been so stupid.
What he wants to say, more than anything, is why didn’t you write back? Garak has faced his fair share of humiliations in the Doctor’s company - withdrawal, deathbed confessions, panic attacks that sent him to the floor in a heaving, gasping heap. But for whatever reason, this is where he decides to draw the line. He will not lower himself so far as to beg Bashir for sweet nothings and fabrications. It won’t happen.
He is no stranger to things unrequited, either. Mila had told him once that the two of them were alike. Falling, quickly and utterly, for the wrong person. It will ruin you, she had said. Well - she had always known more than she let on. But when he was a boy, and he saw Pythas’ slender frame and long eyelashes for the first time, there had not been anything he could do to stop his terminal-velocity collision with the dark waters below. Such was life.
“Let’s go for a walk?” Bashir says, and Garak, as always, folds like a house of cards.
-
”… and it’s frankly derivative,” Bashir declares, waving a hand in the air loosely.
“You can’t possibly claim that a work is derivative if you’re not familiar with previous works in the Cardassian poetic canon. You simply haven’t read enough to make that type of claim, I am sorry to say.”
They’re following the street running along the muddy river. It almost looks nice, with the last of the sunshine hitting the water, letting the edges of each brown wave flicker and sparkle as it laps against the banks.
“There was that awful collection you made me read, what is it, five years ago? The one about the statues…”
“The Imperial Garden of Legate Musol.”
“That’s the one. Even though it was about a park, not the desert, the descriptions of nature felt exactly the same. Clinical, objective. Where is the feeling?” Bashir says. “You know, the movement that we call Romanticism was all about how nature relates to our emotional selves. The sublime, they called it, a ‘delight that is consistent with reason’.”
“The sublime,” Garak repeats, thoughtfully, taking care to shape the letters in his mouth.
Out of old habit, Garak has slipped into Federation Standard. It’s what they have always used to debate literature, back on the station. Garak wonders if Bashir knows that he learned a whole language because of him? He must know. He must.
“I’m not saying that us Earthlings have always held a high regard for nature,” Bashir continues. “But the lack of care doesn’t do the poetry any favours. Specifically when that poetry is, primarily, about nature.”
“Yes, I admit,” Garak says, “That our regard for the natural world has been rather… lacking.”
“You could say that.”
“That was one of the major reasons behind the Occupation, you know. The lack of resources… well, you already know all about that. And now here we are, with soil too infertile to feed our admittedly much diminished population, and no Bajor to exploit for help.”
Bashir stops then, by the river’s edge, and looks across the water.
“I hope you have not been unsatisfied with the aid the Federation has provided,” he says, quietly.
“Not at all, doctor. Quite the opposite - your people have proved very helpful. Of course, we are not used to receiving, or indeed accepting, any sort of assistance from outsiders. It has been… difficult, for many of us.”
“I know,” Bashir murmurs. “I’ve read the newspapers. Saw you in a couple of them.”
Garak can’t help the way his face pulls into a grimace.
“I don’t like those holocameras,” he says.
“Well, you’ve always looked very proper.”
“Thank you,” Garak says, slowly. “That is most reassuring. Still, I believe that you’re overlooking the quality of the rhyme pattern and focusing on what is between the lines rather than what the poems actually are.”
“You’re telling me that I shouldn’t read between the lines, Garak? You really have changed.”
“Do you think so, doctor?”
Bashir smiles, then, sadly.
“I don’t know. Yet. But your reading of this collection is as flawed as usual.”
There is a storm gathering on the horizon, the air thick with the smell of soil. Clouds are rolling in dark waves, chasing the warmth away.
”We should get inside,” Garak says, pointing a finger towards the darkening sky.
”On this point, at least,” Bashir says, ”I think you’re right.”
-
They duck into a nearby bar, a hole in the wall that seems to be cobbled together out of whatever rubble was left lying around. Much like the rest of this city. It is warm, at least, and dimly lit. They go up to the bar to order, only to find out that the only drink on offer is kanar, which Garak knows that Bashir has never liked.
He shrugs in apology as the bartender pours them two measures of the thick liquid.
“When in Rome,” Bashir sighs, and takes his glass.
They settle across from each other by a tiny table in the corner, Garak putting his back to the wall. He has a good view of the door, here. As he takes his first sip of the kanar - cheap, slightly cloying - the skies open themselves up outside and release the flood.
There is a moment of silence, broken only by the rain smattering against the thin roof above. Bashir studies his glass, the grainy top of the wooden table. Doesn’t meet Garak’s eyes.
I wrote you a letter, Garak wants to say, but doesn’t. He knows exactly what is running through Bashir’s mind at this moment, can see it in the tension of his shoulders.
He braces himself for impact. There is nowhere left for him to run.
“I wanted to come,” Bashir says, finally. “I really did.”
Garak senses the but hanging unspoken at the end of the sentence, and waits.
Bashir takes another sip of the orange kanar and makes a face. “It’s really not very good,” he says, and puts the glass down. He’s gathering strength, Garak knows, so he keeps silent.
“When I was a child,” Bashir begins again. “What a horrible start to a sentence. You just know that there’s going to be something awful at the end of it, don’t you? Well, when I was little, I used to get into these huge arguments with my father. Screaming at the top of our lungs. I’m surprised the neighbours didn’t make a scene about it.”
Another sip of kanar, another face.
“He always used to say… He used to say that I was selfish. Ungrateful. Ungrateful that my parents had changed my DNA, that they had given me this… this second chance at life. A chance to make things right, fix all of my mistakes from… From before. Back when I couldn’t - “
He smiles, then, a sad and gorgeous thing. Long lashes flicker down, looking at his hands in his lap.
“I wouldn’t be able to debate Preloc with you if they hadn’t done it. I’m not ungrateful for that. Anyway, that was his go-to card. Selfish. Ungrateful. I didn’t want to go to medical school, not really, but I did. Sometimes I wonder if everything I do is for someone’s approval.”
And Garak certainly knows what that is like - feels it still, nagging at the back of his head. Maybe this time, he’ll tell me I did well. Maybe this time, he’ll call me his son.
“I wanted to come,” Bashir says, “but it would have been selfish of me.”
“Why is that?” Garak asks, carefully.
“Because if I did, it wouldn’t be to save lives or to help rebuild this world. Or even to do research,” he adds with a wry smile.
“I don’t understand,” Garak says, but knows, as he says it, that it’s a lie.
Bashir sighs.
“I would have come for you, Garak.”
He knew it was coming, but it still feels as if the roof has opened up above to douse him in cold water.
”I see,” he manages.
”I’ve hurt you,” Julian says, glancing up to meet his eyes, and the genuine regret in his voice cuts like the shards of glass he keeps stumbling across during his excursions in the city.
Garak feels the corner of his mouth twitch. ”I’ve hurt you, before.”
”Perhaps. Once, you said you hated me.”
”Mm, yes.”
”And do you?”
”Depends on the day.” Garak allows himself a brief grin, and presses his knee into Bashir’s. He will, undoubtedly, catch his meaning. He always does.
There is a beat, where Garak drains the last of the kanar in the glass.
”Now, doctor, tell me - what is your view on selfish acts nowadays?”
Julian smiles back at him, eyes glinting.
”Well, if we’re to believe the traditional Cardassian model of storytelling, it’s one of the worst sins you could commit against the State.”
”Indeed.”
”Choosing your own personal wishes over that of the greater good? Treasonous."
”Undoubtedly so,” Garak nods, relishing the way the dim lights are reflected in Julian’s eyes.
”Then again…”
”Yes?”
”It’s a new Cardassia, isn’t it?"
”So they tell me. But doctor, isn’t your entire argument a moot point? You, my friend, are not a Cardassian.”
”Well, it never hurts to learn the culture of a place you’re intending to get to know better. Past and present.”
Garak opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by the bartender, loudly ringing a bell.
”Closing!” He yells, raising his voice over the patrons’ murmurs of haven’t you seen the weather outside? ”You’ve got five minutes.”
”Well,” Julian sighs, standing up to stretch his back. ”That’s that.”
They hover in the doorway for a moment, eyeing the pouring rain lashing itself against the stones below. Their eyes meet, briefly, and both of them smile.
”Let’s do this,” Julian says, slipping his hand into Garak’s.
And they run.
-
Julian doesn’t let go of his hand until they reach the hotel’s entrance, both breathing hard, both soaked through to the bone. Julian’s hair is plastered flat against his face, and Garak can’t imagine that his own looks any better.
”Come upstairs,” says Julian, panting. ”I’ll get you a towel.”
The room is nice, by post-war standards. Simply furnished, but clean, and with a working fan. For most Cardassians, nowadays, it would be luxurious.
Julian, after peeling off the outermost layer of his soaked uniform, disappears into the bathroom to fetch the promised towel. When he hands it over, Garak notices his nails. They have faint traces of red around the edges, where the dust has settled into his skin.
Cardassia does not let go of what she has once claimed as her own.
”Tea?” Julian asks, and Garak nods, rubbing the ends of his hair with the towel.
”Please.”
The doctor busies himself with filling the kettle with bottled and carefully rationed water, measuring out loose tea and dumping it into a waiting teapot. The water comes to a boil, eventually, and Julian pours the tea. He comes back to where Garak lingers, near the edge of the bed, carrying two steaming cups.
“It’s hot,” Julian says, unnecessarily, and places them on the nightstand, next to the old, battered copy of The Neverending Sacrifice that he has dug out of the drawer.
Garak sees the following beat of silence for the chance that it is, and seizes it.
“You said that you were intending to get to know my culture better,” he says, flippantly.
Julian smiles, almost to himself. “Well,” he says, “it’s a three month research project. I should be able to pick a couple of things up.”
Three months. A world of possibilities opening itself up before him, like a gift. But - he has to ask. He has to know for sure.
“Doctor, why did you come here?”
Julian is hovering near the nightstand, eyeing the cooling cups of tea.
He says, finally; “I believe I told you already.”
When Julian reaches out to pick up his cup, Garak decides it’s time to intervene.
He catches Julian’s hand, slowly pulls him in closer until they’re chest to chest. Julian’s hair is still a flat mess against his forehead, and Garak’s is dripping on the floor, towel abandoned on the bed. They’re both soaked through and shivering. It doesn’t matter.
”Your opinion on selfish acts, doctor?” Garak asks, his voice low.
For a moment, they only look at each other. Time and space, quashed into nothingness. The only sound is the patter of the rain against the windowpane, the howling wind following the path of the river through the city.
Then;
”I think,” Julian says, almost a whisper, ”that they have their uses.”