Chapter Text
He lay in the dark, head on his pillow, and stared at his hands, held up before him. How perfectly pathetic I am.
Well, if one was going to do penance, one really should do it properly. No one could accuse him of permitting himself any luxuries, could they? If he was going to suffer, he was going to do it right, wasn’t he, because he was Elim Garak, and heaven forfend he not do something perfectly.
You told him you hate him, Elim.
At the time, it had been true; he’d been so furious – Julian hadn’t understood, he’d thought Julian would have some idea, some concept of what he was going through, and he’d really had no idea at all – he’d wanted to hit him, he’d hated him…
And you still do, don’t you.
In a way, yes: the hatred of someone weak, looking at someone stronger and resenting them.
Ah, so you resent him, is that it? Why?
Because he needed Julian. He needed him so much, beyond reason, and he didn’t want it, hadn’t asked for it. I have always been alone. I do best alone. I don’t need him to swoop in, to fix me!
Even when he was so near to destroying himself?
If there was no Julian…
He thought back to that bottle of sleeping pills, held its image in his mind’s eye, saw a figure, cold on the bathroom floor, crumpled and ugly in death—
So this is what you need him for? To keep you alive? Not fair, Elim. Can’t you even manage that on your own?
Withdrawal was eating at him, he knew it, he wasn’t thinking rationally; still, he was disgusted with himself, with his weakness, and his mouth twisted.
But there was so much more to this need – it wasn’t weakness, not really – if it was, then it was weak to need water, or air. How can it be weak to need something one cannot live without?
Ah, so you’ve finally realized, have you? You need him for everything. And so, of course, you’re doing your best to drive him away. And once you’ve done that—
Then I will indeed have my richly-earned reward.
He sighed. This was, after all, more or less how he’d expected things to play out, one way or another. Really, some little part of him was quite pleased; it could see a resolution, and was now almost at peace.
Life would be much simpler, soon. He did prefer simple.
Simple, and predictable, and stifling—
You’ve done it to yourself again, Elim, all of it, all over again; why do you seem to think that your supply will never be cut off?
I used to be so clever. I always thought ahead…
He lay there and looked at his hands, the architects of his possible destruction. His laptop glowed next to him, its fan whirring softly. Interestingly, for the first time in days, his legs weren’t cramping. He could lie still, and so he did, unmoving, barely breathing, oh, he was so tired, so very, very tired…
After he’d lashed out at Julian, had selected with care the most poisonous darts in his arsenal and hurled them with precision; after Julian had staggered from the room, the venom working in his veins; after this, he’d curled up on himself, eyes flicking back and forth, waiting for something else to happen…
But nothing had. There’d been silence from the living room, broken only by the soft sounds of a body shifting position, moving in sleep.
Eventually he’d slept too, fitfully, dreams blending with reality such that he kept waking on the verge of a shout – but there was still no noise, there was nothing.
Thirsty, he’d painfully lifted himself from the bed he was so very much coming to hate and made his way to the kitchen, each step through the living room taken with incredible care. He needn’t have worried; Julian’s soft, slow breaths had been steady and regular, his sleep deep, and both the trip to and the trip from the kitchen had been managed without Julian stirring at all.
Part of Garak had wanted to kneel next to him, to look at him, to whisper an apology.
Only when he’s not listening? How very appropriate. You wouldn’t want to say something to him that he might actually hear, after all.
And indeed, when he’d later heard Julian moving through the apartment, and even when Julian had actually come into the room to collect his own dirty bedsheets, he’d lain still, feigning sleep. Coward, coward, coward…
Perhaps karmically, sleep had eluded him after that, and he’d found himself awake, thinking. Not thinking about anything, not productive in any way, just thinking and thinking, chasing himself in circles, teetering on the verge of an act that had not yet found completion.
The next morning had come as a thin shaft of light through the tiny window near the ceiling, and he’d watched it move slowly from the ceiling, down the wall. Julian had brought him food at about a third of the way down. He hadn’t looked at Garak. He’d just put it down on the ground and left, nothing to say, and Garak had found it weirdly touching: here this hung between them, paralyzing them, taking away the words that were the one thing they’d always had in common… and yet here was food.
A little later, there’d been a goodbye, and Garak had heard the flatness of it, the quiet, almost surgical severing of ties. He’d wanted to say something, then. He’d tried.
But Julian had refused to hear. Which is most certainly his right.
And then he’d heard the door close. And after that it had been a different kind of day, hadn’t it, talking to himself, trying to stay calm, and then he’d found the book on the couch, and then that text had arrived, flat and final—
That night had been the longest yet. No sleep, never any sleep, just anger and self-recrimination and resentment and justification all at war in his head, with no distractions available or even possible, he couldn’t read, he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sew, he couldn’t leave.
And it ate at him, this feeling that he was being unfair, was somehow doing something wrong.
How could it be wrong to let Julian go? He deserved so much better than this.
But it ate at him anyway, it clawed at him and hissed in his ear, you owe him, Elim, you owe him more than this, for all he is, for all he has done for you, you owe him.
And some little traitorous part of him had whispered, and besides, he might still come back if you give him a reason to…
Would that be wise?
Of course it wouldn’t. None of this has been. Honestly, Elim, love notes in Cardassian? What kind of game did you think you were playing?
He’d told himself all along that he could back out, that he could end this, that he’d started it, and that he would finish it.
And now he couldn’t. He couldn’t.
One more chance, give me one more chance, give me—
He’d found himself mentally composing a letter, something he could send so that he could speak without speaking, something that would explain how everything that made him what he was had come to pass. Eventually mentally hadn’t been good enough, he’d had to commit to something, and he’d peered at his laptop screen, squinting at its brightness in the murky dark of his bedroom, foolish mind spewing words out, traitorous hands putting them down.
And now, here it was, after hours of work: an apology, woven into a tale from his past, presented as bluntly as he knew how. Most of it was even true.
Elim Garak, this could hang you!
Or it could save me—
He sent it, and lay back, and stared at his hands.
* * *
Mmmm, warm…
Sun crept across his skin, and he smiled, and pushed his face further into the pillow to buy five more minutes. It can’t be time to get up yet…
But the explosion of horrible crowing from his bedside table put paid to that idea. Oh, well. At least he’d slept. God, did I sleep. He couldn’t remember a single dream.
Waking up to sun felt… amazing, incredible, luxurious. Had he really used to do this every single day?
How long had it been now? Only six days? Feels like a lifetime.
He scratched himself lazily and stretched, arms and legs pushing to the corners of the bed; oh, that felt good, to take up exactly as much space as he needed. His skin tingled, and he smiled.
It was nice to wake up in a bright clean room, too. I should tidy up more often. All his binders stood neatly on their shelves, and perched on the top shelf, his little jar of pens brimmed happily. His clothes were all tucked snugly into their drawers, and the drawers were all closed properly, no socks or trouser legs hanging half-out. Outside, he heard traffic humming by, the wheezing kssssh of the air brakes of an early-morning bus, and oh, it was all familiar and it was all his, just his…
It was amazing what a difference a good sleep could make. I feel like me again.
Which meant, perhaps, that he could think straight again…
And so he breathed out, tentatively, and closed his eyes, and poked at the sore place inside him—
He hissed between his teeth. Not quite ready for that yet. Tuck it away for now; there was breakfast, and the hospital was waiting, and he could be really useful there, they needed him there.
Showering was simple. There was no fancy shower curtain to contend with, no little line-up of pretty soaps waiting beneath his hovering hand; only a jug of clear liquid soap, liberally applied with a washcloth, and his semi-ratty towel to dry off with. It scratched against his skin, and he winced a little and frowned at it. I’m going to have to buy a new one.
The same apparently went for his razor, which seemed as if it didn’t want to stop with his stubble, and had instead decided to peel off the top layer of his skin, right down to the dermis.
All right. New towel, new razor. That would be something to look forward to. A treat.
I could use a treat.
He brushed his teeth and smiled at himself in the mirror. It looked like a smile. That was good. Smiles deflected questions.
Who taught you that, Julian?
He sighed. Is everything going to hurt, now? Can I just opt out of that?
Feelings weren’t optional. He’d often wished they were, but you just couldn’t stop feeling, even when it would really be best for all concerned. Stupid design. There should be an off-switch.
All right, now he needed clothes, and then breakfast; he wandered back into his bedroom, enjoying sun on his skin, and there was a pop-up on his phone.
Oh…
Horrible thought, but – do I have to look?
He picked the phone up as if it might bite him, holding it at arm’s length and squinting at it.
There was an email from Elim.
Oh, God, I’m not ready for this, not even close to ready for this, I need more time—
But that didn’t seem to be a luxury granted to him these days, did it, not in this, not in anything…
The email was PGP-encrypted. That was something that had always made him chuckle: the way Elim encrypted absolutely everything, from date plans to mildly salacious love-notes. I don’t think this will be either.
He closed his eyes, and breathed—
—in, one two three four, out—
—and opened the email.
* * *
FROM: [email protected] (E. Garak)
SUBJECT: Apology
Julian –
I ask that you read this email in private.
I apologize for the way I have behaved this week. It is inexcusable.
You seem so able to forgive most things that I fear I have abused your tolerance, and have pushed it far beyond any reasonable limits. I am sorry.
You have done your best to save me from myself. I have done my best to fight you at every turn.
There are reasons for this. I have told you some. I will tell you another. You should know who you are trying to save.
The tablets we have discussed were not given to all agents to keep them functional. My employers are far too clever to dull the senses of their most sensitive employees.
The first time I obtained these tablets, I stole them.
I took the bottle from the bedside table of a man I’d been sent to kill. He certainly wouldn’t need them anymore. I knew the name on the vial, and so I knew they had given him happiness, and perhaps relief from pain. Why not me?
And I was very unhappy, and I was in pain.
It truly was a miracle. I still remember. I chewed one tablet, and swallowed it, and waited, and about twenty minutes later all of my problems went away. I didn’t hurt, for the first time in as long as I could recall.
It felt like a blessing. I needed it. One bottle would not last long.
I had some pull with my employers. I was quite the golden child, to be honest. I was given the trickiest assignments, because my employers knew that no matter what the task, I would accomplish it. Whether they needed information or silence, one way or another, I would get the job done.
And so one day, the golden child, who had never asked for anything, went to the head of his department and asked for one little favour.
It was surprisingly easy. Before the day was out I had an appointment with a sympathetic physician, who specialized in chronic pain.
Chronic pain indeed. I still find that rather funny. Is that wrong of me?
I suddenly had all the tablets I wanted. I could have drowned in them. But I was smart. I set out a limited amount for each day, and what I had left over I gave to my friend. A tidy arrangement, and mutually beneficial.
I thought I was smart. I was stupid.
I thought I was in control of the situation. I thought I could use the tablets judiciously, to help me deal with what my life had become. But I found I was taking more and more, setting fewer and fewer aside.
I am still not sure whether I became tolerant to the tablets, or whether my situation had honestly become that much worse. When one is already in hell, the exact temperature of the flames is irrelevant. A few degrees hotter will make no real difference.
I was even more stupid than I thought, because I believed my situation was as bad as it could possibly get.
Then I had to leave. Against the wishes of my employers, I am sorry to say. One does not walk away from a job with the Cardassian government, at least not with the branch I served. And so my existence became rather precarious, and rather complicated.
Eventually I found myself here. It is always cold here, Julian. And I am alone.
I waited for them to come for me. For a year or more, I waited, and was certain that every day would be my last, and I was vigilant, unceasingly vigilant. I did nothing but plan: how would I escape? If I could not escape, how would I make sure that they regretted coming for me at all?
I became rather frustrated when they didn’t come, actually. All my plans for naught.
And when they didn’t come, I knew that I could not stay alert forever. Eventually, my control would begin to slip. I had to find something to do to occupy my time, and if my life was now going to consist only of waiting to die, a tailor’s shop seemed as good a place to wait as any.
With every day that passed, my little stockpile shrank further, and I eventually had to reach out to my friend. I didn’t know if he was still loyal. Every time a package arrived, I wondered if the tablets in the vial would hold release, or… release, I suppose. Would it not be simple to drug a drug, after all? Even if the addict suspects something is wrong, he will still take it.
But it seems I was never important enough to kill. And now that avenue, at least, has been closed to them.
I wonder if they even considered it.
I missed you last night. I missed the sound of you on the couch. I missed your warmth in my bed.
I did not know you had translated the notes I gave you. Have you been able to translate all of them? If you would like help, I would be pleased to assist.
I told you I hated you. At the time, it was true. I am sorry for both the statement and the emotion.
But I also love you, Julian, more than I can ever explain via this or any other medium, including speech.
I would appreciate, however, your granting me the opportunity to try.
Your health,
Elim
* * *
He sat on his bed, naked, staring at his phone.
He had to go if he wanted to make the bus.
Elim had sent him this encrypted, yes, but he had to know that Julian could now do whatever he liked with it. He could post it online. He could tell everyone he knew. He could call the police, God only knew what they’d make of it, but he could do it.
He really did need to go.
Elim was a killer. He’d half-wondered, sometimes, watching him move, listening to his stories, the hints between phrases, hidden in breath – half-wondered, and then dismissed it out of hand as an over-active imagination. But I was right.
Did he even have any clean scrubs?
Elim had stolen the first vial of verkecin, and had hooked himself, cleanly, and had made his employer his dealer. He’d needed solace, certainly, fine, but what impulse could make a man seal his own fate that way?
He was moving now, phone still in hand; he didn’t want to put it down, but he had to go. He found one last pair of clean underwear in his dresser, one last set of clean scrubs, tugged them both on.
Elim had left Cardassia, why? He’d never said, he’d only hinted, something about no longer being wanted – had he upset someone? Had he bungled something huge? Had he been exposed? Was that why he was now so allergic to revealing any secrets at all?
Socks, did he have socks? Yes. Mismatched. But both black. Good enough, on they went.
Something big enough that he’d thought they might come after him here. Here, in the Federation; God, Julian could barely imagine it. Cardassian agents, operating here? Of course they are.
His hair was a mess. One-handed, he ran gel through it, tried to scrunch some shape into the curls, gave it up for lost.
A killer, employed by… whom? The government? It sounded like it… So not a killer. An assassin. Perhaps… a spy?
Food. What about food? The only edible things in his fridge were milk and bread – this did not a lunch make – and there was nowhere to keep a frozen meal at the hospital; by the time lunch came, it would be a melted mess on the floor of his locker. He’d have to buy something. Damn. This was an expensive week.
A spy assassin. A spy assassin addict. A spy assassin addict tailor.
He stopped, and leaned against the door of the fridge, phone clutched in his shaking fist—
He says he loves me. It’s right there. It’s in Standard. He loves me.
Do I love him?
I did a week ago. God, a week ago I was trying to work up to telling him, I had a stupid little plan—
Did any of it mean anything now?
He rubbed his forearm against his eyes, dashing away the trace of moisture gathering there. His skin carried no fragrance of cardamom, no breath of spice.
I never asked for this, I never—
A beep from his phone, and he looked, and his custom alarm had triggered its message, BUS JULIAN GO NOW!, and he grabbed his messenger bag and ran—
* * *
There. You’ve sent it. You’ve thrown away any hope of safety you had here. Are you happy yet?
No, no, I am not happy, I am miserable…
Pathetic, he was pathetic, torn between two possibilities and unable to commit to either, he was laughable!
But there was no sense sitting here waiting for an answer, no matter how much he wanted to, little mercies, how ridiculous and childish. There wasn’t going to be an answer. He needed to get used to that. He needed to make that his default assumption. Then if something did come, well, that would be a blessing, and if not, that would be expected, and not at all something that twisted within him, that made him want to grit his teeth and howl—
Stop it, Elim!
He panted and blinked, knees drawn to his chest.
You wanted to drive him away, didn’t you? So he’d stop seeing you like this.
That was what he’d wanted, although he really hadn’t thought it out at all, it had just been instinctive – that need to hide, to make him stop looking at me—
Well, congratulations, Elim. It worked.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and groaned, quietly.
Now it’s just you and me, Elim. At least we have a lot of practice at being alone together. First things first: get up.
But it hurt to move—
Get up. Wash yourself, for mercy’s sake. Put on clean clothes. You are disgusting.
He couldn’t—
Yes, you can, and you will, because if this is all you have left, you are by the Union going to face it with dignity.
The bedside lamp glared as he crawled out of bed and stood on unsteady feet, shaky from days of disuse.
It would be easier if he propped himself up on something – perhaps if he leaned on the wall…
No. Stand on your own feet. Stop leaning on things.
And who was that figure, half-seen in the mirror over the dresser? Could it really be—
Why, yes, Elim, that’s you. Take a good, long look.
There were dark circles under his eyes, making them look set in and sunken. His hair was oily and matted, hanging in dirty clumps, and he was pale, pale, pale, like some kind of cave creature, all horrible white eyes and scales, never meant to be seen in the light of day…
Oh, by every mercy, stop being so dramatic and get yourself into the shower.
He hadn’t really noticed how tidy the bathroom was, yesterday; too wrapped up in himself, too busy waiting for something that wasn’t going to happen. Now, with eyes that could see the present, he saw how everything was just so, just as he liked it. There were clean towels on the towel rack, hung a touch unevenly. Everything had been resupplied: toilet paper, Kleenex; he wanted for nothing.
Julian. Everywhere I look, it’s Julian.
Well, that will stop soon. Now wash yourself.
The shower was hot, almost scalding. He hadn’t been in the shower since… since Julian had drawn him that bath, which had been when… Monday? Really? Oh, he was revolting—
But now he washed himself down, flushed away the debris of several days of shaking and sweat and self-loathing; he let the water run down his face, into his eyes and mouth, and it was, it was…
It feels good. It actually feels good.
It was a blunted, distant kind of good, but it was good, and for the first time in days, he stretched his limbs up and out, uncurling himself, moving almost without pain.
Now he needed soap, but when he selected his favourite soap from the dish, its fragrance overwhelmed him, and he turned his face away. Did I really use this? Mercies, he must have stunk – it was too strong, nauseatingly strong, and he dropped it back into the dish in disgust. But water alone wouldn’t be enough, he needed to scrub himself clean – what can I use…
His shampoo was mild, its fragrance light; good enough, and so he sluiced it over himself in great dollops, using far too much, and scratched at his skin as he rubbed, barely restraining himself from digging in with his irritatingly long nails, and oh, that felt good too, to wash it all away…
Now for his hair, thick and greasy: he tugged at it, working through shampoo, then conditioner, and it was surprisingly hard work. It hurt to lift his arms, to keep them up over his head. That pulled a smile from him, sour and small, amused by his own weakness.
Smiling already? Well done, Elim. How well you acclimate!
The smile twisted to a snarl, and he stuck his head directly under the water, letting it pound at his face, at his skin; it was hard to breathe, but he stayed there anyway, opening his mouth, letting the water pour down over him and rinse him clean—
Oh, I could stay in here forever…
Then that means it’s time to get out, Elim.
He cut the water off sharply, stopping the pleasure at its source, and the cool air of the bathroom seemed to swirl in around him; he wanted to curl in on himself, to shiver, and he realized that for the first time in days, it was his choice. I could shiver. Or I could… not.
The second option sounded… rather good, to be honest, and so he ran his hands back through his hair, pressing out the water, and stepped out of the shower, and wrapped one of his ridiculously fluffy towels around himself. This, too, actually felt good, too good, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. There was only so much trauma one could inflict with a plush coral bath towel.
The view in the bathroom mirror wasn’t nearly as horrifying as he’d expected. The pathetic cave creature had been somewhat subsumed; now he was clean, his hair slicked back, a touch of pink in his cheeks from the heat of the shower, and he almost recognized the face before him.
There was stubble on his cheeks and chin. That was very nearly funny. His facial hair grew in rather sparsely; it took concerted effort for him to have stubble. Wouldn’t Julian laugh!
A stab, and his eyes closed—
Self-indulgent, Elim, and rather weak. Can’t you stop for even one second?
Shaving required rather a lot of steps, but perhaps breaking it down would help. First, swirl the brush in the cream; second, paint the face; third, run the razor along, and he winced slightly at the aroma assaulting his nose. Does everything I use have a scent? It was unbearable, really, and rather obvious. Simple pleasures, indeed.
One last task, now; brushing his teeth was unpleasant, and his gums hurt, but he felt undeniably more human when he rinsed and spat. He looked at himself in the mirror again, and saw someone he knew. Not necessarily someone he wanted to know, but at least this was a start.
Well, Elim. Perhaps you can do this after all.
Everything in his closet was too complicated to deal with, but he managed to unearth a simple tunic, a pair of loose pants. They hung on him, and that was droll; after all his rationing of treats, his mindful little walks, all he’d had to do to lose a few kilos was to cut himself off from his only source of pleasure and flirt with suicidality. How simple. I should have tried that first.
He looked at himself in the mirror and saw a man in ill-fitting clothes, the kind of outfit he would normally describe, with mild scorn, as “comfortable.”
Well, it was comfortable, wasn’t it. And for now, it would do. It was rather amusing, though, to see this worn-down creature that bore only a slight resemblance to the perfectly composed man who’d looked back at him only… a week ago, now. The butterfly emerges from the chrysalis as a caterpillar. How funny.
Now, back to the bathroom again to brush his hair and run gel through it, and strangely, that simple act of preparing himself to be seen by eyes other than his own struck some kind of chord, deep and resonant; it was more than just becoming himself again, it was…
Ah, yes, he remembered.
I am not becoming myself. I am making myself into what I need to be.
Another face, another person, and the Elim Garak inside was submerged, tucked away so that he couldn’t interfere.
Deep down inside himself, something was weeping, not this again, never again—
And he nodded at the face in the mirror, and smiled.
* * *
The email sat in his inbox all day long.
Every time he used his phone to look up a drug or to make a calculation, he thought about looking at it again.
Every time he had two minutes to himself between questions or errands, he flicked over to his email app and stared at the subject line.
His phone felt like some kind of totem, sitting there in the pocket of his scrubs, heavy and present, and he kept running his fingers over it absently as he walked, touching it through the green cotton, grounding himself on it.
Was any of it true?
It feels true…
But it had all felt true, hadn’t it.
How much of it did he build out of nothing?
How did I get so twisted into this without realizing it?
How much of what he tells me is what he knows I want to hear?
That was a humiliating, horrible thought; he felt naked.
And yet… that email was naked, too.
I should be angrier.
At Elim, or at himself? He wasn’t sure, but there should be some anger in him, shouldn’t there?
But there was nothing in him, just… quiet.
Maybe I’m too tired to feel much of anything.
At lunch, he sat by himself in the cafeteria, phone on the table beside his hand, its screen blank. He ate something that he didn’t taste, and he stared at the phone’s dark screen, and his mind was a quiet pool, rippling.
Voices filtered through his stillness, heard and barely understood—
“—so then the guy starts screaming at me to just give him something, and—”
“—security to kick him out, and really, what a loser, I mean, who does that to themselves—”
“—that desperate to get his fix? That’s pathetic. How fucked up do you have to be to—”
—laughter around him, rising and falling, and he saw the conversation from the corner of his eye; everyone was laughing and nodding, they had all been there, they understood, but they could never be like that, thank God, they were safe, they were good, because the only people who got addicted were people who deserved to be addicts—
—and he stared at his phone.
* * *
And, eventually, it all boiled down to a final moment, a distillation of all that had come before: up or down?
He sat at the top of the lobby stairs, thinking.
I don’t have to go down there. I don’t have to deal with any of this.
The thought was so tempting: to walk away, to go upstairs to his own apartment, bright and spare and uncomplicated… He could just put it all away and go, get back to his life, jump headfirst into his studies, no more distractions, no more confusions—
No more layers. No more secrets. No more discoveries.
No more hinting lies, no more threads to pull—
No more dancing conversations that pulled him out of himself, that made him smile and laugh and think.
No more awful surprises, dropping the floor out from under him—
No more unexpected gifts of things he’d never known he wanted.
No more little comments that made him choke on his drink and splutter, laughing—
No more dark, stabbing words, penetrating to his core and sitting there, barbed and burning.
No more blue eyes, lighting up as soon as he entered the room, making him feel that in a place full of perfectly chosen beautiful things, he was the most beautiful of all—
No more pale eyes, glaring at him, or even worse, sliding over him, refusing to see him at all, making him vanish.
No more cardamom…
No more spice on his skin.
He was quiet and still, he was so tired, too tired, and his legs hung down over the stairs, lying limp; his arms propped him up, and his head drooped, and could he push himself up, now?
I don’t know if I have the strength…
In the end, it was just easier, having started downstairs, to continue.
* * *
He rapped at the door, half-calling, “Garak, it’s me,” key already out to unlock and open—
And he heard soft, quick footsteps, and the door swung wide, and here was Elim, eyes dull and tired, but smiling, hair brushed, wearing actual clothes instead of rumpled pyjamas, all forced normalcy, and his voice was quiet.
“Hello, Julian.”
Oh – oh, God—
It was like a punch to the gut, and he fell forward, wrapping his arms around Elim and pulling him close, burying his face in his shoulder, shaking as his face contorted. Elim’s arms came up and around him, gently – no, weakly, his usual solid strength absent, and that in itself was hard to bear.
“Oh, my dear – my darling—” That cool voice, shaking—
No, no, this wasn’t what he wanted, there was too much between them now for him to let himself slide into yet another game of let’s pretend. He pulled away, ran his hands up over his face and wiped tears from his eyes; he shook his head once, sharply. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Elim was looking at him, hands clenched to loose fists in the air before him. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to let go. Too bad. This one you did to yourself.
“Um…” His voice trembled a bit; he stopped, breathed deeply, tried again. “You look… much better.”
Elim looked down at himself; one of his hands touched his shirt, almost self-consciously. “I beg to differ. This outfit is not at all up to my usual standards.”
Joking. He was joking. This was surreal. The strangeness of it shocked him back into quiet, into self-defence; he detached himself to better observe.
“I came here to check on you.”
“You are most kind, Julian. As always.” Elim’s eyes were so tired. “As you can see, I am managing much better today.”
“It… it looks that way, yes. Um…” He didn’t know what to do now, whether to stay or go. Can I leave? Am I free?
Do I want to be?
And Elim was looking at him, his manner almost hesitant, offering no clues as to what he wanted Julian to do. God, the last thing he wanted to do was to intrude on him, to interfere with whatever kind of healing he’d begun. He was obviously doing much better without Julian around. Maybe I made things worse.
His voice slipped from his lips, hesitant. “Maybe I should go. I haven’t eaten yet.”
Elim’s face changed, subtly, something behind his eyes awakening for just a moment, and he reached out as if to touch Julian’s arm. He stopped just short, his hand hanging in air; Julian, mind calm and rippling, absently noticed that his nails needed trimming. He’s always so perfect. This is so strange.
“Julian, if you would like to stay – no,” and he shook his head, dark hair swinging, “I would like you to stay. I would like to give you dinner. If I may. I have already started to warm some soup; it would not be any trouble.” And the smell of something cooking was drifting through the air, wafting from the kitchen, so this was not a lie, and he could let himself believe, but…
“You can’t – on Wednesday, you could barely walk. You couldn’t eat. How are you…” Oh, no.
I hate this. I hate this.
Elim saw the question in his face; his hand dropped back to his side, and he sighed. “No, Julian. I have not taken any more tablets of verkecin or of anything like it.”
“Can I believe that?” Stupid question. Of course I can’t.
“I hope that…” Elim frowned, looked away. “I want you to. It has the virtue of being true.”
There was nothing he could say. He couldn’t prove it either way. He’d just have to wait and see. Like always.
“Please stay.” Elim looked at him again, and his face was calm, relaxed, and there was the sadness underneath, so clear to Julian’s eyes… if it was even real, if it wasn’t some kind of trick, God, and there was the anger he’d wondered about—
It had taken him months to learn to see beneath that surface. I thought I was so damned perceptive. Did I ever see anything real?
I should go. I should just leave.
But here was Elim, tentative and sad, and within Julian, something opened, hesitantly.
He nodded, and Elim smiled.
* * *
Elim sipped his soup from his large ceramic mug, slowly, letting the steam curl up and warm his face. He held the mug close to himself, as if to pull what heat he could from it. Julian watched him, the hesitancy in his movements, his slight wince at the touch of the liquid, as if it was a bit too hot to drink.
His own mug was empty. It had been very good soup, from a batch Elim had made and frozen some time before. He always plans ahead.
Things seemed slightly easier, now that there was food in his system. He could think more clearly. But that still didn’t make any of it make sense.
Start with the simple questions. Work up from there.
“Is your soup all right?”
Elim glanced over at him. “It’s fine, thank you.”
“You’re eating very slowly.”
“I’m pacing myself. My stomach is still not quite ready for a real meal, I think, but I refuse to drink another of those vanilla meal replacements.” His mouth pursed in distaste.
Julian tilted his head. “Sorry. Vanilla seemed like the least offensive choice.”
“I didn’t mean—” Elim stopped himself, looked at Julian; Julian shook his head, don’t worry about it.
He looked into his empty mug. “You were smart to start simple. With your food, I mean.”
Elim blinked, briefly wry. “I find I am less and less interested in complications, of late.”
He nodded, looked away; this was banter, this was meaningless chit-chat, and not why he was here. Can I just… ask?
He didn’t have to, thank God. Beside him, Elim sighed, rested his mug on his knees, leaned forward on the couch. “Julian, I have so much to say—”
And this bit he had to get right. “I’d… rather you not, actually.”
A blink. “I’m sorry?”
“I’d rather you not… say anything. Thank you.” He let a small smile cross his lips. “I have rather a lot of questions, you see. And when you start talking, I tend to get derailed. I’d rather that not happen tonight.”
Elim looked down, nodded slightly.
“I… first of all, I need to know what you were.”
“Ah…” Elim smiled his own very small smile, looked into his mug. “But I have been so many things…”
“Just answer me.”
“But that is my answer. I have been a gardener, and a tailor, and a musician, and a student, and a manual labourer, and even a post office clerk. I have been whatever was required of me. That was what I did.” Now he looked at Julian, his gaze steady.
“For the government?”
“One branch of it, yes. Cardassia’s government is not quite as unified as that of the Federation. It’s a bit more like a hydra, you see; many heads. Chop one off and two more grow…” He was waxing fanciful. Julian couldn’t handle that, not tonight. He lowered his brows, and Elim caught the warning and closed his mouth, and looked down again at his hands wrapped tight around his mug.
“But you weren’t really any of those things.”
“I suppose that’s one of way of looking at it.”
“What other way is there?”
“That I was all of those things.” Elim looked up at him, eyes grey with fatigue. “For as long as they’d let me be, I was that person, and I lived that life. I very much liked being a gardener…” His voice trailed off.
I don’t understand… “When they let you be?”
“Yes. When I… hadn’t yet fulfilled my function, I could gather information. I could simply exist.”
“And what was your function, Elim?”
Now his eyes were dark, his gaze lowered. “I think you have surmised it already, but I will tell you anyway. I was an assassin. Among other things.”
Hearing it from Elim’s own lips didn’t make it seem any more real. How the hell can I actually know an assassin? It sounded like something out of a fantasy novel. And yet, here was this man, stocky and solid and aging, on his couch, sipping soup, and Julian had no doubt that once upon a time was more real than he’d ever imagined.
“You killed people.”
“Yes.”
“You were a murderer.”
“No,” and Elim’s eyes flashed. “Every job I did was done at the behest of my government. It was all done for Cardassia. A soldier kills for his people too. Is he a murderer?”
“A soldier kills in a war. Not… unexpected. Not out of the blue.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong. What is an assassin but the first soldier to attack, the first-line strike? Sometimes I was simply the first one on enemy soil. Without me to ease the path, many others might have died, soldiers and otherwise. Who is to say I did not save more lives than I took?” He sipped his soup, declamation made, and it all sounded a bit… rehearsed. I imagine he’s had time to think about it. Years and years…
“You never refused?”
“Refused?” Elim actually looked a bit surprised. “Why would I do that?”
“Because the person you were to… to kill didn’t deserve to die.”
“Ah.” Elim nodded, tapped a finger against his mug. “Believe me, no one whose life I ended was blameless.”
“Did you know that for sure?”
“I didn’t have to.” Elim’s voice was clipped. “I trusted my employers. They knew more than I did. I did as I was told.”
“For Cardassia.”
“Yes.”
Julian breathed for a moment. He knew Miles had been a soldier, once. He didn’t like talking about it very much. Some nights, after a few beers, he’d mention something small, a name, a place; he’d seem as if he was about to talk, and then he’d shake his head, frown a little. Never mind, Julian; you don’t need to know about any of that stuff.
Miles was a good man. He knew that.
What did that make Elim?
“You said you were an assassin among other things. What other things?”
Another sip of soup. “I gathered information.”
“You were a spy?”
“That was one aspect.”
Julian frowned. “What was the other aspect?”
“I was an interrogator.” His voice so calm—
“You were a what?”
“I gathered information, Julian.” Now there was tension in Elim’s voice, and the sharp snap of consonants. “Sometimes it was easy, sometimes it was not. Either way, it didn’t matter. It was information that was needed. I have no doubt that it was well used.”
“But – what if someone didn’t want to—”
“It didn’t matter. There were always ways to get an answer.”
I didn’t want this, God, I didn’t want this…
“Elim…” He didn’t know what to say. How can I be anywhere near him, now? How can I even look at him, knowing this?
“You asked what I was. This is what I was.” Elim’s voice was quiet now, tension faded, back to his softly modulated tenor.
Here he was in wrinkled green cotton scrubs and sock feet, sitting on a couch with… what? A murderer? A torturer?
But he looked at him, sidelong, and here he also was with a quiet, middle-aged man, who liked books, who loved music, who could talk for hours on end about film, who’d taught him to make dumplings, who’d made him his coat, who wrote him love notes on yellow post-its in a language he knew couldn’t be understood.
All of these things were true, and all of them were contained in the man beside him.
I don’t know if I can hold all of this in my head.
“How…” He trailed off, started again. “Did you… was this your job for a long time?”
Elim’s gaze flicked to him, away again. “It was always my job. I was trained for it as a young man. I became an active agent when I was, mmm, perhaps twenty.”
That’s… twenty-four years, more or less. It was almost as long as Julian had been alive.
At twenty, Julian had just finished his first degree. At twenty, he’d had no idea what he was going to do with his life, except that it wasn’t going to contain any more of what he’d already done.
At twenty, Elim’s life had already been decided for him.
But then, at some point, everything had changed—
“Why did you leave Cardassia?”
A deep sigh, a slight hunch of his shoulders. “I was no longer a useful agent.”
Julian frowned. “Because of…?”
“No, not because of the verkecin,” and Elim’s voice was almost angry for a moment, “believe me, they were completely fine with that, as long as I kept doing my job. No, it was something else altogether.” He frowned, remembering, and something in his face suggested this was still red and raw. “I terminated a target—”
And Julian thought, “I killed a man—”
“—and the next day, I was a wanted man in Cardassia. And I know I did not err; I was not seen, I was not given away, no one had any inkling I was anything more than I seemed to be. I should have been untraceable. And yet, the very next day, everyone knew who I was.”
He sighed. “I was discarded, Julian. I was a tool, used to perform a function. And someone decided that it would be better to discard the tool. To provide an additional layer of cover, I suppose. It doesn’t really matter. As always, they knew best—” His voice choked for a moment, and Julian looked away.
Elim cleared his throat, and Julian heard him sip a little more of his soup. He looked back to see Elim run a hand through his hair, tucking it back behind his ear. “I ran. I didn’t want to die. I ran, and this is where I ran to.”
He ran from justice?
Wait, if it had been his job to kill, if the soldier analogy held any kind of water at all… Not fair, to take a man and mold him into a weapon, and then condemn him for going off.
Julian, are you really buying this?
I don’t know, I don’t know…
“Why… why did you come here?”
A shrug. “This was as good a place as any. The Federation has a reputation for being an excellent place to hide. It is such a melting pot. Everyone is welcome.” Sarcasm laced his words.
“Why haven’t they come looking for you?”
“Believe me, I have wondered this myself, many times. I do not, for one second, believe that they haven’t found me. If they have anyone working for them who is half as good as I was, well…” He gestured, shrugged. “The only answer I can come up with is that they like the situation just as it is.”
“What – you living here? You…?”
“Me in exile.” He looked into his mug, tipped it back to sip the very last of his soup, held it absently in both hands. “I can never go home. My parents… must think I am dead. I will never know. Whatever life I had, I left there.”
That sounded terrible. “You have a life here, Elim.”
His eyes flickered up to meet Julian’s. “Do I? I have an existence, yes. But I am alone here. I miss my home. I gave my life to Cardassia. In a very real way, when I left to save my life, I died. It is a pretty irony.” His voice was quiet, barely audible.
What? Was this Garak histrionics? Was this some kind of underlying truth…? Or maybe… life without verkecin looks very bleak.
“Elim… You’re breathing. You’re eating. You make beautiful things. You are alive.”
“Ah, yes,” and now he was smiling, but it wasn’t a very nice smile, “truly, I am reborn. How fortunate I am to be remade as a tailor, making clothes for shrill brides-to-be, hiding chocolates from myself to keep from getting fat. The drama of my new life eclipses any terrors my old existence may have held.”
Hearing him dismiss what he was – Julian found himself angry, fists clenching, and he didn’t quite know why. “I would sure as hell rather sit here on this couch with a tailor than with an assassin.”
Elim’s eyes slid to him, away. “You are sitting here with both. You might prefer to sit here with neither.”
I can’t – I can’t take this all in.
He heard his own voice, speaking unbidden; it seemed to echo. “Did… did you like it, Elim?”
Elim’s face didn’t change, but he had a sense of a freezing, a moment of shame.
“Sometimes.”
“If you could go back tomorrow… if you could start again, would you?”
“Ah, Julian… those are two separate questions.”
“Fine. Answer them both.”
“If I could go back tomorrow… as I am? Perhaps. But if I could start again…” Now he looked at Julian, and his eyes were bleak. “I think that depends on you, my dear…”
Julian felt his mouth open, turned his face away – not fair, too soon—
“Julian, please understand, whatever I have here, I have because of you – any joy in my life, any pleasure that remains to me—” Elim was talking too quickly, words tumbling over each other in his need to be heard. “I never expected anything like you, you know – you took me completely by surprise – and you were in my heart before I knew it—”
He didn’t want to hear this. He almost wanted to cover his ears.
“And I didn’t want that, I didn’t want a vulnerability, I needed my defenses more than ever because I was so alone – but here you were, and every time I tried to block you out, I found myself letting you in another way. I was at war with myself, and no matter which side won, I knew I would lose. I played games with myself – I made you things to wrap around your body and I told myself they were innocent gifts – I wrote you notes you couldn’t read and told myself that what they said didn’t matter – Julian, I found myself in your bed and I told myself I could still walk away!”
And suddenly he had stopped talking, and Julian looked back at him, almost squinting through half-closed eyes.
Elim had fisted his hands, tightly; Julian saw spots of almost pure white on each knuckle where pale skin stretched. “When this began, when I ran out of verkecin, I was terrified – I was afraid of what life would be like without it…”
He turned, and looked at Julian, and his eyes were alive again for the first time since this whole horrible thing had started; they were alive, and they ached. “I was afraid of what I would be like without it, Julian. Could I still smile? Could I laugh, and tell you pretty things? I didn’t know who I would be…”
A shake of his head. “And then I was so angry, because everything hurt and I wanted to die and I couldn’t because of you, because it would hurt you—”
God, this was awful—
“And so I hated you, and I told you so, and of all the regrettable things I have done in my life, that would be the one thing I would undo if I could.” He was staring at Julian, as if he could will him to understand.
Oh, God, and what does that mean? That hurting me is worse than murder? What does that tell me about him?
Julian found himself shaking his head, his hands up in front of him, no, no, no…
“Elim, I can’t, I can’t.”
He saw Elim bite back words, swallow them down, force himself to be silent. His own hands drifted downwards, found and wrapped themselves around his empty mug.
They sat there in the warm basement apartment, between Elim’s fabric-covered walls, among his lovely, perfectly-chosen things. Julian’s mind fluttered frantically, unable to settle on any one thought for longer than a moment. Elim just breathed, looking down at his knees, his toes working into the rug.
Finally, Julian picked a question at random.
“What makes tonight different than Wednesday? Why… why tell me this now?” Why tell me any of this at all?
Elim looked up at that, and his face worked for a moment, expression changing subtly. Julian saw surprise there, shading into affection and into pain. “I owe it to you.”
“You owe it to me?”
“For what you’ve done for me.”
“What, this week?”
“Julian, for everything you’ve done for me.” And his eyes were intense, imploring. “For you to know me… No one knows me the way you do now. I am yours, completely.”
In every sense of the word, it was true. I could tell all of his secrets. I could tell everyone.
He had the power to destroy Elim Garak, if he wanted to.
But perhaps Elim Garak knew that Julian Bashir could never want to destroy anyone. I just want to help… God, but to help him?
He couldn’t even begin to imagine how. And it’s not my job, is it? It’s his.
He exhaled, long and slow, two, three, four…
“Tell me what you want me to say.”
A quick intake of breath, a flicker of pale eyelids over tired eyes. “I want you to forgive me.”
What?
“Please, Julian,” and his voice was calm and rational, and it scraped at Julian’s skin like his dull razor. “You know me. I am yours. And having your forgiveness is the closest thing to absolution I will ever get. I don’t deserve it. But I need to know that someone…” That level voice trailed off; he looked away, and his hand rested on the couch next to Julian’s leg, squeezing the cushion, all the tension absent from his voice writhing there.
Liar, liar, liar. Was it true? Was any of it true?
He wasn’t even sure he wanted to be in the same room with Elim anymore.
So why am I not walking away?
There were layers and layers of answers to that question, weren’t there… God, it was too complicated, and his eyes closed. All I need is one reason. One simple reason.
And here was an answer. Perhaps an excuse. Because he hurts. And I want to mend hurt. I’m good at it.
All right, then: let’s pretend, Julian. You’re the doctor. He’s the patient. And that’s all you need to know.
It was good enough for now; it wouldn’t last, but for this moment, it allowed him to reach over and cover Elim’s hand with his own.
“I can’t forgive you. Not for all of it.”
A quick flash of blue eyes—
“I’m not any of the people you hurt. I can’t take what you did away from you, I can’t control any of that. You have to deal with that yourself.”
Elim’s hand was shaking.
“But as for what you did to me, Elim: I forgive you.” Say it now, make it true later.
And Elim looked up, his eyes agonized. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Nobody ever gets what they deserve…” Nobody is blameless. You said it yourself. “But if you want to start again, you have to start somewhere. It might as well be here.”
There were tears in Elim’s eyes, and it was unbearable; God, this week he’d seen the older man cry several times, and this was the first time it had twisted at him quite this way. Because this time, it’s me doing it.
It was important, though. Sometimes you had to hurt to heal.
“I…” Now his voice was thick; he stopped himself, found his distance, started again. “I can’t ask you not to be what you were. You can’t control that. But you can control who you are now. I don’t know how much of the Elim I thought I knew is real. God, I can’t even—” He stopped himself again, and now there were tears in his own eyes despite his efforts; he dashed them away, cool against his skin. “I fell in love with who I thought you were, Elim. It’s up to you to be that person, now. That’s not something I can control either.”
Elim was staring at him. He squeezed his hand, couldn’t muster a smile. “That’s all I can give you. I hope it’s enough.”
“Julian…” Elim’s voice was almost a whisper. “Do you love me?”
He couldn’t look at him. “I did a week ago.”
“And now?”
“And now…” He looked up at him, too tired to wear any kind of expression at all. “We are starting over, I think.” If I can even give you that… God, I ache.
“Ah…” And Elim managed to smile at him. “How very non-linear of us.”
Julian tried to smile back. He couldn’t, quite.
Elim’s hand moved in his own, and now they gripped each other’s hands in the grip for family and close friends, just as Elim had taught him, and their fingers did not interlace. Family. Friends. Not lovers.
“Julian, why didn’t you tell me you had translated my notes?” A subject change; Julian was thankful for it.
“I wanted to see how many I could do on my own.”
“Ah? And how have you managed?”
“I’m… not really sure.” He smiled ruefully, and suddenly this almost felt normal. Go with it. “Some of them made sense. Some of them… not quite.”
“Well, they are not all simple statements. Tell me what you’ve found so far.”
“Well, there was thank you.”
Elim nodded. “I remember. That was the Sunday when you helped me cook.”
“One of them is just a question. Have you not understood my lessons well enough already? I wasn’t quite sure what that meant…” Translating that one had felt a bit like an admonishment.
“Ah,” and Elim actually managed a small chuckle. “That is a quote from a rather famous Cardassian novel. A romance, actually. I will lend it to you.”
“Right, that… sounds good, thank you.” What else, um… “One of them says you are the brightest thing in my life.”
“Oh.” Elim looked almost embarrassed for a moment. “I had forgotten that I’d given you that one.”
“I rather liked that, actually…” He found himself smiling, and Elim smiled back.
“And then…” The last note, I love you, it had said I love you, and he’d half-grinned, eyes wide in the horrible fluorescent library light, and pressed the little note to his chest, and laughed—
Oh, God, and his face was crumpling, and he made a choked, throaty sound. Elim’s face opened in sudden dismay, and he reached out as if to hold him close; Julian pushed him away with one hand, covered his face with another, no, I don’t want to do this!
But he couldn’t help it, it was too much, “Oh, God, Elim… Was it true? Was any of it true?” His voice was hoarse with repressed tears.
Elim’s face was naked, his voice harsh, eyes searching, “Julian, it was all true…”
“Right,” God, I am so stupid, and he half-laughed through an escaping sob, “even the lies?”
“Oh, my darling, especially the lies…” God, Elim was trying to joke, trying to make it okay, even with his usual tight control nonexistent, his cool multi-layered smile unimaginable on the twisting face he now wore – who is this? I don’t know him…
I never did.
Elim’s eyes were red, brimming with tears, and part of him very much wanted to pull him close, to weep into his shoulder and let him do the same, to forgive and forget…
But it wasn’t his job to forgive. And he couldn’t afford to forget.
How do I feel? He couldn’t tell. Pushing down tears, angry at himself, angry at Elim, and the whole thing sadly funny in some awful way, and it was too much. I… don’t feel anything.
There was nothing left inside him, nothing left between them; where there’d been a bright connection, a flowing give-and-take, he now found only the stuttering spark of a severed wire.