Work Text:
Merchant ships carrying kanar to Deep Space Nine, as it was now called, were sparse during peace times, with the one Cardassian resident living off of a tailor's wages after all. And with the threat of the Dominion looming ever closer real ingredients were increasingly scarce, not to make mention of Cardassian luxuries. But for enough latinum there were loopholes to be exploited and journeys to be made as always. So Garak rationed his supplies, saving the indulgence for special occasions or after a particularly taxing day when his head ached in the spot where the implant should be. More often than not it was the latter that called for it, the only thing he had to look forward to on this station were his lunches with the good doctor. But how could Garak be expected to live off of the scraps of time thrown his way? They would never be enough to sustain him properly.
His hand slipped on the bottle.
The wound in his neck must be impacting him more than Garak thought for such sentiment to pass by unguarded.
It throbbed as Garak wiped up the droplets of kanar he spilled.
Humans do so love their fantasy, they get so effortlessly consumed by it that it was surprising they made it as far out into space as they did. The holosuite adventure was a fascinating study into the human psyche, it was a wonder they survived as a race if all it took was a moderately charming, well dressed man to liberate politicians of their long held secrets. Where was the push and the pull to it? The carefully crafted strategies, the toil and effort? Where was the art to their spy craft? Is that what all humans assumed or was that perception limited to Bashir?
With the kanar flowing freely on Garak's tongue and heating his chest Garak could allow himself to admit that he wanted that perception to be shaken. He wanted the doctor to know the extent of the crimes he forgave each time he graced Garak with a genuine smile, to know the cruelty that lurked beneath, to warm his hand once more and-
Perhaps this kanar was stronger than Garak thought.
It would not do to overindulge, not when he had a shop to open in the morning and not when he had the last few chapters of a novel to experience.
The Great Gatsby did not live up to its name unfortunately, Garak thought snidely as he pulled up the padd beside him. It was a tale of overindulgence and disloyalty both to the family and to the state that led to disastrous consequences for others but no real repercussions for the perpetrators. It would be succinctly banned on Cardassia as it should want to be.
When a gun was brought into play Garak's injury flared to life. Shot me, he actually shot me, Garak thought, his fingers gently stroking the scales bordering the lesion, he recalled the warm caress of Bashir's hand moments after the act had been carried out. He was so impossibly warm right down to his fingertips, what did Garak have to do to feel that warmth all over?
But that train of thought was not conducive to finishing the novel so he simply let it go.
What if he missed?
The Federation types were all soft, warm bodied creatures, but none of them exuded light the way Ju-Bashir did, almost akin to the way the mother sun graced Cardassia with her benevolence after a merciless winter. Garak thought Bashir incapable of causing harm, to do so would go against his very nature, his personal creed, and yet he fired that shot. The shot that confirmed his competence, his ability to enact difficult decisions, to put aside his feelings, his Federation ideals in service of saving what remained rather than avoiding bloodshed, in service to the majority. To shoot his friend to save the others, well, it was almost Cardassian of him.
There was no one in the room to witness the way Garak groaned at that realisation so it simply did not happen.
He was a simple tailor reading a pitiful human novel.
Garak did not toy with tender scales while thoughts of honeyed eyes swirling with mirth or righteous anger filled his mind. He did not envision diligent sun kissed hands tirelessly working in search of their goal.
Simply ridiculous, Bashir clearly did not, could not understand the basics of spywork if he thought he could save their skin by exploring the inside of Lieutenant Dax-no, Professor Honeybare's mouth. Such disloyalty, such unprofessionalism, Garak certainly would not have given in so easily.
Bashir would not call Garak beautiful nor would he attempt to seduce Garak into betraying his employer, yet Garak would be seduced all the same.
Bashir would laugh, a low rumble that Garak yearned to press his cheek against to feel the vibrations of it throughout his skin. There would be no way to stop Dr Noah, no way for Bashir to be free, Garak could allow himself this one indulgence before the light was extinguished from his eyes.
"What is it about your current predicament you find so amusing, Agent Bashir?" Garak would ask with the appearance of casual disinterest as he checked the status of their equipment.
"Oh, nothing much. I very simply take joy in my prayers being answered at the eleventh hour." Charm dripped from each syllable he spoke, charm which Garak tried to ignore was being focused on him.
"What, may I ask, were these prayers?" Initialising the final diagnostic, Garak turned his gaze to Bashir and what a mistake it was, that achingly soft smile hit him like a blow to the chest.
"Prayers are an exceedingly private matter, but I suppose I could make an exception for the subject of my prayers. If he came a little closer, that is." Bashir said with a wink that muddled Garak's head.
The timer for the laser read 3:56, Garak had time to indulge a little further.
Stepping close enough to smell the sweat and spice that emanated from Bashir, Garak leaned in conspiratorily. "I am listening, my dear agent."
"I prayed I would see you again and that..." Bashir shook his head, dragged his teeth across his bottom lip like Garak longed to do and looked up from under his long lashes at Garak. "I prayed I would not die before drinking of the sweet nectar that stems from your lips.”
Then Garak would laugh and leave Bashir to his demise like a professional agent should.
Yet theory varied vastly from practice. Garak knew if he had even an inkling that Bashir was genuine, he would sink his teeth into smooth human flesh while freeing him of his constraints. Then Bashir would convince Garak to come with him and after all had been said and done, Bashir would go gallivanting into the sunset with Colonel Komananov and leave Garak with nothing but his treacherous heart and his duty to the state shattered to pieces.
Something in his chest tugged at the thought, it was far too close to the truth. Garak could provide adequate entertainment, an exile who used to be a spy, and a Cardassian at that, what fun for the human doctor! Bashir could wile away his hours with Garak in moderate contentment, until something better came along. Garak could hardly blame him for it, he couldn't be very good company even on the days he was less than morose.
But the best lies always contained a kernel of the truth, it made it that much harder to decipher a truth from a lie. Thus, it was of no difficulty to act the role of a concerned friend arriving to the holosuites to check on the doctor, not when there was genuine concern mingled with a healthy dose of hurt. Oh how Garak burned upon entering only to be greeted with the atrocious sight of Bashir locked in the embrace of a holographic woman. It pained him dearly to see his friend chase after fictional partners in lieu of the many options that surely awaited him just outside the holosuite, such a display spoke of a mind that must be deeply disturbed. Garak could distract, he could entertain, he knew the scripts well and oh how they worked wonders that night, Bashir's attention was fully aimed at Garak for the first time in months, but once again, how long could that interest really last?
The scent of the synthale off Bashir's breath, sweet and cloying was palpable, and if Garak leaned in a little closer, well it was only to aggravate the intoxicating doctor in front of him.
"Privacy, indeed. I think it goes far deeper than that, Doctor." Garak rumbled he hoped Bashir could feel it in his chest too. "Ever since you received this new programme, you've spent virtually every free hour in the holosuite." Hours that should have been spent with me.
Bashir quirked an eyebrow but he didn't back away. "Am I supposed to?"
"No, no, no. But you're such a, forgive me, a talkative man and it's so unusual for you to have secrets." Were you always so skilled at keeping secrets? Why won't you share your problems with me?
"I must have picked up that habit from you. Now, if you will excuse me." Oh he was picking bits of Garak and stitching them into his own self, the thought both thrill and delighted yet terrified Garak. He did not wish to taint Bashir's unconditional light and yet the idea of being woven into the fabric of who Bashir was, well, it was a pleasure unbeknownst to him.
Bashir stepped back, taking his warmth with him allowing the chill to seep into the places where they touched. But, instead of accepting it, this time Garak grabbed Bashir's waist and tugged him closer, limiting the space between them until they could only be described as flush against one another.
"Is this fantasy of yours really truly revealing of your inner psyche?"
An enthralling shade of dusty rose painted Bashir's face and Garak growled in desperate want, in need to cement the doctor as his and his alone.
"Oh how odd, your lovely companion seems to have lost interest in you. I wonder what could have scared her?" Garak smirked as he trailed his fingers across Bashir's chest. "I do apologise, I would be incensed if I were in your shoes, I would grab a bottle of champagne and shoot me right through." Garak would act surprised as Bashir walked him against the wall, as he shoved a leg between Garak's thighs and grabbed at his shoulders.
Lips grazing the shell of his ear, Bashir would whisper, "we'll have time for that later, for now, we have a game to play."
His discipline must be waning with age if Garak had to underline each sentence of this novel with his index finger to keep his attention on the page, a technique only utilised by younger children who had not fully learned to read yet.
Supple lips trailed kisses down Garak's jaw, his neck to his collarbone with a smirk that belayed he knew exactly what that meant to Cardassians.
Where has your resistance gone? A voice that sounded remarkably like Tain's echoed in Garak's mind. One measly little scratch and suddenly you're lusting after him like a vv’kheri’tas’vess, you truly are without goodness.
But it wasn't some measly shot, was it? It was a conscious choice led by many other conscious choices. But if that was so, it brought to light a revelation that Garak would very much like to keep locked up in the back of his mind and out of reach. Bashir chose to be kind to Garark. He chose those soft smiles and lingering touches that made the station a little more bearable. But why? It was true that Bashir was enthusiastic as one could be about a hands-on learning experience with new cultures and alien species, and that perhaps Garak had not conjured up the attraction he felt kindling between them. He could have Bashir for a night, or even two, be a distraction, a story to tell for a little while.
Perhaps, if it were two years ago Garak would have settled for a taste of the doctor, something to sate the painful urges he repressed. But now...
No.
Garak threw the padd to the side, he didn't need the glaring screen staring up at him, mocking his lack of restraint any more than it already did.
If Garak was granted a taste, a night of unadulterated bliss with Bashir, to have his woeful dreams meet reality only to have it rudely snatched away from him come morning, it would be a torture worthy of Tain himself. Worse still, nothing about their relationship would change, Garak would be shackled with the knowledge of such sweet sounds and how to extract them and yet forbidden to even think of such things ever again. It would be sitting not even a foot away from him at the replimat table and yet forever out of his grasp, forever taunting him as if he were a figure from the Greek mythology his doctor so passionately discussed and this was his punishment. That is, if Garak did not give in to one of his far too frequent bouts of sentiment and confess the depths of his heart to Bashir and unequivocally destroy their friendship beyond repair.
So no, Garak would not confront Bashir, he would not be another notch upon his bedpost as the human expression went.
Because Garak wanted so much more, more than he could ever rightly have.
"Itzik'ess."
Unbidden the word slipped from his tongue but once out into the open he could not pretend to deny it any longer.
Juli-Bashir would never be Garak's enjoined even if he did take control of their little game, even if Garak wanted to give in to sentiment and allow himself to be courted the Cardassian way. Even if he was hopelessly, painfully in love with the doctor, it would never be.
Perhaps fantasy would be serviceable to a healthy mind after all, if it rid him of this condemnation of his own making. At least for the night. Garak never could resist sentiment for very long, not truly.
Though the Bajoran clientele was steadily picking up pace in his little shop, their fear waning as Garak lost more and more of the lustre of the prime of his life, they were hardly enough to sustain the organic cotton he imported from Bajor. Replicated materials had such a false sheen to them, as if they were intended for dolls or the wrapping of presents rather than living beings. Yet each time his pockets grew empty, Ambassador Troi passed by to place several extravagant commissions, as if her Betazoid senses extended across the quadrant. Once he was finished beading the bodice he could investigate if her abilities really stretched so far.
Thus the ache in his neck had gone ignored until the door chimed and Garak had to stretch it out to see who it was.
"Doctor, is it time for lunch already?"
"This is a business visit I'm afraid," Bashir lifted up his medkit, a guilty set to his jaw. "I really should have tended to you yesterday-and I am terribly sorry I suppose I was distracted-not to say that's an excuse, rather more an explanation than anything."
Tended to you, did he have to say it in such a way that breathed life into more delusions?
Garak dismissed the explanation with a wave of his hand and put his mind to the present. "Pay it no mind Doctor, I have not experienced any discomfort."
Bashir sighed at that. "That is a relief, but it should still be treated to ward off infection."
Garak stepped aside to allow Bashir into the back of the shop and guided him to the couch he kept for consultations.
Bashir maintained a gentle firm hold on Garak's jaw as he positioned him in the way he wanted as he cleaned out the lesion that had begun to scab over. He moved agonisingly slowly, fingers brushing against the ridges of Garak's neck in ways he had only ever dreamed of, if he angled his neck just so Bashir's hand would rub against the scales on the back of his neck, a spot only romantic partners were permitted to touch. His gaze drifted to the bolt burgundy silk inconspicuously stashed amongst the cotton and less expensive silks. It was an impulse purchase, Tholian silk was difficult to come by and even more difficult to work with, but visions of Bashir clothed in a silk shirt of Garak's making flashed in his mind. The colour complimenting the undertones of his skin, while the deep neckline displayed a tasteful amount of collarbone, it was all but impossible to resist.
Garak needed a diversion. "What had you so distracted you neglected to tend to me?" He asked, trying to hide the slight breathlessness in his voice.
Bashir chewed his bottom lip succinctly mesmerising Garak to the point he missed half of the response.
"It was mortifying to say the least, but that's how Starfleet reports work." There was a notably strained quality to his answer.
"Ah, yes, those reports are so enthralling as to make one forget what they should be doing after all."
Painfully so did Bashir remove his touch and allow cold air to wipe clean the memory of his warmth on Garak's scales, just like it had in his dreams.
"There, it shouldn't cause you any problems now, but if you do experience any throbbing or pain come by the infirmary. Or rather comm me." He added after a beat.
"I will be fine my dear Doctor, your thorough treatment will ensure that to be true. I will see you for lunch later in Hong Kong.”
Bashir nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips as he departed, leaving Garak to his demise.
Like weeds that were allowed to plant their roots in and spread, so did the fantasies. Once Garak allowed himself the indulgence once or twice a day in private, it was ever so simple to increase that frequency at first by little and then by tenfold did it spring. Most shameful of all was the scenarios Garak favoured the most were not inherently sexual. Waking up to the smell of rokassa juice as Bashir prepared their breakfast, clad in a Cardassian robe that hung off his shoulders, or casually reaching across the table at the replimat to clasp their hands together. But most pitiful of all had to be the one where they did not talk, the one where after a tiring day of work Garak could join his beloved on the couch and curl his tail around him while they read their current novel in peace.
It was ridiculous.
And yet he needed more.
Garak wanted-no needed Bashir's attention to be solely on him, for him to take control once more to write the next chapter of the game they played. If anger was the only route to his desires then anger is what it would be.
That is why Garak found himself prodding at holes in Bashir's argument that did not exist over zabu stew. "Really Doctor, you cannot possibly be so blind to Ikar's motives throughout the first act." Adding an edge of pity to his tone was known to make Bashir flare his nostrils and today was no exception.
"Garak, there are no motives! The entire first act is spent listing the genealogies of each character and there are twenty of them!"
Bashir was correct, there was no motive to the first act, but he did not need to know that. He also did not need to know that deliberately provoking an argument on Cardassia in public was considered quite a lurid and indecent proposition.
Nevertheless, Garak settled into his seat with too little upper back support and allowed Bashir's impassioned speech to sink into his bones.
Weeks passed of Garak pressing the offensive, savouring the tenor of Bashir's voice, the way it rumbled when he was truly enraged and the fire in his eyes. But Garak was an inherently selfish creature and his desperate grab for attention only grew more and more flagrant.
"I wouldn't expect someone of your naïveté to understand the intricacies behind plotting one's revenge. Prometheus Unbound is a story of the consequences that follow your tender hearted Federation tendency to draw out the legal system. Cardassian justice is swift and decisive which curtails trouble makers before they can escape and repeat their crimes."
Bashir was not truly naïve, not anymore, but the word always succeeded in bringing out that delicious vein on Bashir's forehead.
Bashir's indignant scoff sounded even louder in Garak's quarters. Using the Klingons on board the station as an excuse to adjourn to his quarters due to poor Cardassian hearing was a flimsy excuse and yet Bashir agreed to it.
"Promethus clearly acts as a symbol of change,” Bashir argued. “Rather than perpetrate the vicious cycle of hatred he chose to pity his oppressors which led to a cascade effect throughout the world. It's a story of mercy and forgiveness!"
Garak goaded him even farther. "My dear Doctor, do you forget so readily how Prometheus attempted to recall the curse so he may speak it once more into existence? He is cunning, I will grant you that, utilising kindness to secure his freedom but once that freedom is within his grasp he will surely mobilise an army against Olympus."
Bashir sputtered indignantly, "Garak, sometimes I think you are being purposefully obtuse!" Leaning forward with a puffed out chest, Bashir inadvertently pushed forward out more of that intoxicating scent of his that was mingling ever so nicely with Garak's, he would have to find some way to preserve some of that scent after tonight. "Not to mention how Shelley loathed violence, he would never advocate for vengeance over peace."
Garak chuckled, he may be weaving tales of deception, of arguments that held little to no merit, but selfish as it may be, he was not interested in a literary debate tonight. No, what Garak yearned for was to be the focus of Bashir's fury once more. Seeing Bashir's determination to save his friends, his willingness to sacrifice Garak for the majority to survive, his blazing eyes scorching to the depths of Garak's cracked and oozing soul, his gentle caress of the gunshot he had caused. Well, suffice to say it was a thrill that rivaled that of the infernal implant Garak once had. Bashir set his red leaf tea on the table revealing a glimpse of his collarbone in the process and Garak could feel his self control ripping at the seams.
"While I appreciate the need to torture Promethus, he should have been killed, it is the only way to enact justice an ensure no one follows in his footsteps after all. But you soft Federation types would never understand the meaning of true justice." Garak smiled politely as he did for difficult customers. Oh, this would be a scene suitable for only the more illicit holosuite programmes, the passion and intensity coupled with the sheen gathering on Bashir's forehead, it was almost overwhelming.
It was a heady, mystifying thing, Bashir's attention and all too sudden it was gone and heading towards the door.
"Doctor!" Garak exclaimed, caught off guard and paying the price for it. "Leaving so soon?" He said once his voice was under control
"Goodnight Garak." Bashir gritted out his hand hovering above the control panel when Garak felt his control snap.
"Planning to run into the night like you always do doctor?" Garak hissed. "I shouldn't be surprised, that is why you travelled into the depths of space isn't it?"
A decided, notable shift in the atmosphere just like that day Bashir shot him. Only Garak had no words to hide behind now, not when Bashir crowded him against the wall with a decisive step and pressed their chests so tightly together. Garak nearly moaned at the sight of Bashir fuming so incandescently, indescribably gorgeous in his righteous anger.
"What do you want, Garak?" Bashir growled, rolling his words like peals of thunder. This. This is what Garak wanted. "Or should I call you the king of hypocrites, the king of obfuscation as if running from problems, from sentiment, is not all you have done for most of your life."
A strangled noise escaped his lips and Garak mourned his loss of self control that let it slip.
In an instant, Bashir's expression turned to one of concern. "Did that hurt? I didn't mean to corner you like that I shouldn't have lost my-" concern turned to confusion which turned to anger once more. "Wait, you wanted this to happen!" Bashir prodded Garak in the chest to add emphasis to his point.
"Whatever do you mean?" Garak asked as innocently as he could, as if a smile was not curling at his lips.
Garak couldn't stop himself from tasting the air at that moment nor did he want to. Bashir noticed if his surprise was any indication.
Then, Bashir slowly lifted his hand to Garak's neck, tracing the patterns across the thinner scales where Bashir shot him in a gentle rhythm
"How are the scales healing? I've been working on configuring the dermal regenerator to better suit the thickness of Cardassian scales."
Mesmerised, Garak leaned into the touch before he could think too much about it. "While they are healing well, a check up would not be remiss." Well, he was going to feel ashamed at his control snapping like cheap thread regardless, so really, what was one more concession?
Closing the distance between them Garak pressed his forehead to Julian where the chufa would be on a Cardassian and felt a tingling spark travel up his spine.
"Elim," Julian breathed more understanding and affection into those syllables than Garak would ever know what to do with and it left him a sentimental mess.
It was impossible to tell who made the first move, but soon Garak was stumbling against his nest while divesting Julian of his frankly horrid fashion choices. Garak would have to make him new shirts, trousers and tunics too, as many as he would be allowed to make until it enveloped him and everyone would know it was Garak's handiwork that Julian chose to clothe himself in.
Mine, Garak thought as Julian trailed kisses down his neck. Mine, it echoed through Garak's mind with his stroke to his chula. Mine, he thought as his hands roamed the smooth expanse of Julian's back.
Julian bit down on the intersection between Garak's neck and shoulder and Garak had more than one type of star in his eyes. Itzik'ess.
Julian paused in his ministrations, and after a moment he laughed.
"Itzik'ess." Julian repeated, savouring each syllable before tantalisingly letting it drop off his tongue. "Itzi’ik’ess."
Guiding star, my beloved guiding star, all mine.
It ripped a desperate whimper from Garak's throat.
Garak couldn't be ashamed of letting the word slip without realising it, nor of any sound he made, not if it meant Julian would keep gracing him with such attention.
While his pronunciation left a little to be desired, the meaning of the weight of it, the sentiment behind it stole all the air from Garak's lungs.
"How do you know Kardassi?" Garak wondered when he recovered his breath and the warmth had pooled in his chest like drizzled honey.
Julian's smile grew sheepish. "I did a little outside reading, I thought you said Cardassians don't write the romance genre?"
"Do they now?" Garak asked, projecting incredulity into his voice. Julian opened his mouth to argue, but sensing an opportunity, Garak took Julian's bottom lip between his teeth and soothed the sting of it with a swipe of his forked tongue deepening their kiss. Julian tasted like the red leaf tea he began to substitute for his tarklean tea, he tasted like the air in a Cardassian garden on a particularly sunny day, he tasted like only Julian Bashir could.
"Elim-love," Julian was panting and leaning back and for a moment Garak thought he had made a grave error, until Julian switched their positions and pulled Garak on top of him with surprising strength. "Humans have less stamina and need more time to recover than Cardassians do."
Garak rumbled against Julian's chest. "Shall we test that theory?"
And Julian laughed, low and raspy. "Yes. But not when I'm tired and not when I have an early shift in the morning."
Garak hummed, nipping at tender skin in response, earning him more laughter. Nuzzling his cheek against the crook of Julian's neck, Garak relished the vibrations, soaking them in until they slipped from his grasp.
Basking in the heat of Julian's body like a regnar on a sunny day, Garak felt a little of the cold that was permanently etched into his skin since his exile began to ebb slowly away. Perhaps a little fantasy could be good for the brain after all if it helped bring him to this moment.