Work Text:
One would think, upon observing the lascivious displays of Cardassian flirting displayed brazenly in the Promenade Café for all to see, that the first time Doctor Julian Bashir slept beside Elim Garak it was following some of the most intensive and exhausting sex that either man had ever experienced. One would think that Elim Garak had simply pushed the exuberance of youth past its limit with pleasure only befitting the comprehensiveness of experience, until the Doctor had simply been unable to remain awake. One would think that even someone as trusting and naïve, as the Doctor Julian Bashir was believed to be, would not be so foolish as to make himself so vulnerable within reach of Elim Garak, late heir to the throne of Cardassian Intelligence.
As was often the case with speculation based upon rumor and libidinous desire, you would be incorrect.
The first time Doctor Julian Bashir slept beside Elim Garak, it was an ordinary day, in an ordinary month, three years into their extraordinary friendship. Before they had even begun any sexual aspect of their relationship, they were meeting almost daily. They met, as hereto mentioned, in the Promenade Café for lunch.
Ostensibly, to discuss literature.
Anyone, with eye to see or ear to hear, would know this as the excuse that it was. They would bicker; spitting insults with their points, an amiable fondness and heated frustration competing within their eyes and tones. Neither would ever give ground as their debate peaked and fell like waves upon the sea. The horizon would hold no quarter for them and the ocean stretched long into the distance. Sailors upon a ship built of paper and sublimated desire.
Sometimes, not often, when the viral winds blew just right, the good Doctor would not be called away and instead find some cause or another to follow Garak back to his shop. Sometimes, when custom was low, neither man would find it in himself to reach the appropriate moment to end the discussion.
So, they would talk.
Late into the night, they would talk beneath the soft Cardassian lighting. The shadows dripping down long, lithe limbs as Julian draped himself about Garak’s domain. Laying along couches and atop tables, as he refused to concede the argument and Garak quipped retorts, as he absent-mindedly ruined an alteration in his attempt to not fervently trace the fine lines of Julian’s point.
This night, the argument did not find consent to end and time slipped between their fingers like the finest silk. Until a soft computer chime signaled that it was time for Garak’s Clothiers to close. The end of Julian’s shift had come and gone without either noticing. At this realization, Julian had flushed in embarrassment and begun to apologize.
When he reflected, Garak would blame the fatigue of such a spirited, lengthy debate. He would tell himself he was simply too tired to deny himself, after such lengthy denial. He would tell himself he was simply overcome when he found his mouth getting away from him.
“Think nothing of it, my dear,” Garak replied lightly, “I always enjoy your commentary, however erroneous it may be.”
Bashir had given him that boyish, crooked smile. His eyes sparkled with everything that had gone unsaid in Garak’s admission, “That’s awfully kind of you, Garak.”
Garak’s stomach clenched and swirled as his treacherous eyes followed the lean contour of Bashir’s sternocleidomastoid, “Yes, well don’t tell Quark. I’d hate for it to get around.”
Bashir eyes dropped to his mouth, then his hands, before finally catching Garak’s gaze again beneath entirely-too-pretty eyelashes, “Still, I should be letting you get to your rest. I would hate for you to be too exhausted to continue our debate tomorrow.”
“State forbid,” Garak declared with a flamboyant flourish and again, despite his better judgement, found his mouth moving of its own accord, “Although, you’re welcome to accompany me for dinner.”
Bashir brow furrowed in a manner too becoming for Garak to withstand, “Oh no, I’d hate to impose-”
“I’m afraid I must insist, Doctor,” Garak interjected, his smiling mask firmly in place as he held Bashir’s soft gaze, “I’d hate to let you go and find out tomorrow you neglected to feed yourself again, simply because I’d left you too tired to eat.”
Bashir studied him a moment beneath the heavy shadows and Garak found himself entirely too exposed despite the darkness, “If you’re sure?”
“When have you ever known me to doubt?”
So, he led Bashir back to his quarters.
They walked in sync, standing so close their arms continuously brushed and Garak could feel Bashir’s heat sinking into his ever-frozen scales. Their hands bumped once, then twice on the way. The simple, soft touch landing like lightening on Garak’s long-deprived scales, sparking a fire up his limbs and into his mind.
Heat answered back in Bashir’s gaze as they entered the room, though they did not touch as their ate their meals. A simple thing of comfort foods, their gazes soft and voices hushed; Bashir spoke of his research, without the grandiose boasts and flourishes he included when peacocking for some young, pretty thing in Quark’s. He spoke in plain, technical terms that gave the impression he saw Garak as his equal, despite any clarifying questions the tailor might interject. He spoke of his hopes, of its impact and the fear that it would be for naught. Some great emotion lingered in Bashir’s expression as he did so; some tragedy that could not be named.
Garak did what he did best; he listened.
Until the meal was gone. Their drinks were empty. The hour was late.
They both knew it was time to say goodnight but, without either man saying, they instead moved to the couch to read.
A long hour of quiet passed as they read together in tandem. Garak felt the other man moving, as he sank deep into the pages of his novel. He felt the couch shift as Bashir kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket across the back of the couch. Ever in movement, Bashir fidgeted even now. He bit his nails and swung his legs. He turned and twisted himself into a myriad of positions before, suddenly, Bashir took the initiative to drape himself along another of Garak’s couches, resting his head firmly in Garak’s lap.
Garak froze a moment, terror shooting up his spine at the unfamiliar touch. Bashir tensed in response and made to move, when he found himself stopped by gentle fingers tangling in his hair. Both men relaxed as Garak indulged himself, running his finely filed claws lightly through the soft, human mane.
Bashir sighed. His eyes drifted closed. His face relaxed, every worry washing away beneath a wave of exhaustion.
Finally, he stopped moving.
Garak continued to read. He absent-mindedly continued touching, his stomach clenching at the way Bashir’s breath hitched when he ran his claws along his scalp. He softly let the pads of his fingers drag along the soft nape of Bashir’s neck, feeling the touch tingle down his arm and up his spine.
And, if Garak felt warm protectiveness shoot through him as Julian softly began to snore, it was no one’s business but his own.