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It was a slow day, an increasingly common occurrence in the Cardassian’s shop. From experience, Garak learned how to keep from being idle on days like today: rearrange the displays, watch the people on the Promenade, catch up on news from Cardassia, tap into his bugs, get a little infiltration practice with the station’s computers. Today, he opted for something a little more tame, something quiet to fit the mood of the day. In a corner, near the back of the shop, he stitched deep blue thread through a clear white. It was a personal project, a new skirt, handmade. Garak certainly valued the speed and efficiency of using a machine, something that was only trumped by feeding his design directly into a replicator, but neither could compare to the deliberate act of hand-embroidery. It took patience, finesse, and attention to detail— something Garak could appreciate. And, most of all, it kept it mind occupied, especially on days like today between the lone customers that would drift in and out like a lazy breeze, days like today when his mind was prone to wander.
A soft bell rung like a wind chime, alerting Garak to a customer in his store. He put on the charming smile he wore for all his customers, draping his skirt over a bare stool on his way to greet whoever it was. He paused, for just a second, when he saw them, before launching into his typical theatrics. “Ah, Doctor, what a pleasant surprise,” he said. Surprise was certainly one word for it. He ghosted a hand behind Bashir’s back, stopping just before it came into contact with his uniform, ushering him deeper into the store. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Looking for a new suit, or perhaps a dress?” He’s not here for you, Elim Garak reminded himself.
Bashir was glancing around, giving the air of a mildly curious customer looking through the wares, but Garak was painfully aware of every time Bashir’s gaze flitted just over the top of his head, avoiding all eye contact. “Uh, a new suit, actually,” Bashir said. Garak nodded and spun around, intending to showcase some of his more flattering selections, when Bashir interjected. “Not for me, though. It’s for Miles.” You see? I told you.
Garak’s eye ridges rose. “The Chief? What’s the occasion?”
“He’s joining me in the holosuites,” Bashir said with infuriating coolness.
“One of those ridiculous spy programs I presume? You must be becoming quite the operative.” It wasn’t any harsher than Garak’s usual jabs, the same as any quip thrown over a friendly lunch debate, but this time it wasn’t followed by any coy smile or knowing nod. A slip of bitterness found its way into Garak’s voice, which Bashir picked up on.
“We're going to enjoy ourselves,” Bashir said flatly, not taking the bait.
Bashir extended a PADD. “Miles’ already had his measurements taken. They’re in there.”
Garak eyed the PADD. “And you brought it down for him? The Chief must have asked very nicely.”
“Actually, I offered.”
The simple statement left Garak without anything to say. He swallowed, taking the PADD and activating it, but none of the information registered. Instead, he stood transfixed on the numbers, realizing, with startling clarity, that he hated those numbers, resented them, hated what they meant, hated who they belonged to, hated what they reminded him. He sucked in air, his fingers curling around the PADD, poised to snap it in half, as if that could erase all that’s happened, as if that could restore him to the one wearing the suit, as if that could restore him back into the man’s good graces.
“Is everything alright?” And it almost sounded like genuine concern.
He’s a doctor. It’s his duty to be concerned.
Garak looked up, forcing the tension out of his rigid body and schooling his expression back to the friendly charm of a businessman. He cleared his throat. “Perfectly.”
Bashir nodded. “So when can you have it done by?”
“Oh, it shouldn’t take much. You can pick it up by the end of the week.”
Bashir gave his thanks and started to leave, but stopped when Garak called to him. “Oh, and, Doctor.” And, for the first time since entering the shop, Bashir met his eyes, and Garak, embarrassingly, almost lost his nerve. But he pushed on. His formal, put-on tone dropped, along with his friendly, business-hours smile.
“It was good to see you,” Garak said.
Bashir paused and half-turned back. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and sighed. Silently, he nodded, then ducked out the door, his presence replaced by a shallow breeze.
Garak watched him go. After a minute, he walked back to his private corner, discarding the PADD in favor for his skirt. He sat, cross-legged, and returned to his work. It was days like today that he appreciated the focus hand-stitching took, days like today when his mind tended to wander.