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“--And, well, I simply told him that I didn’t have Andorian wool right at this very moment, but if he would be willing to wait–” Garak cuts himself off with a wince as Bashir carefully runs his dermal regenerator over his injured forearm.
“Ah, because Nausicaans are so famously patient!” Bashir doesn’t look up from his work, but his lovely, musical voice sounds warm and fond, if a bit worried. He had told Garak repeatedly that he was skeptical about his business dealings with Nausicaans. Let the good doctor worry, Garak thinks; after all, the Nausicaans were also his primary source of intelligence from the Beta Quadrant.
Garak pouts. “I thought you would take my side, Doctor!”
“I am, Garak! I’m just saying the odds were never quite in your favor.”
“Well, the odds have brightened considerably, considering I am under the care of such a competent physician.”
“Flattery,” Bashir says with a smile, pulling the regenerator off his arm. “It will get you everywhere. Now, we can head off to lunch in a moment. I just need to update a few patient files and sign off on a prescription.”
“Take your time, Doctor,” Garak says as Bashir bustles towards his console. “I was planning on closing my shop for the rest of the afternoon. You wouldn’t believe how much damage they did to my displays!”
“I’m very sorry, Garak. I’d be happy to swing by and help after my– Oh, thank you, Dr. Girani.”
Garak nods respectfully as the Bajoran doctor exits her office and hands Bashir a PADD.
“No problem, Julian,” she says, paying him an equally respectful nod. Of all the Bajorans on the station, she was among the few he considered reasonably trustworthy, given her help during Garak’s rather gauche incident with the implant.
“Did you get the lab results for the Bolian?” Bashir asks, his head still facing down.
She nods again, “Yes, all tests were negative.”
“Even the LP I ordered?”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Julian. The test was negative.”
“Oh, alright then. Let’s run a culture and see if we can’t rescan the tissue we took from his biopsy for Broht-Zier’s Syndrome.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she replies.
As their medical discussion continues, Garak becomes a bit impatient and begins tapping his foot on the floor unsubtly, which Bashir ignores with equal obviousness.
The medbay doors open just as Garak is about to say something, and a thin, average-looking human male walks in.
“Which one of you is Dr. Bashir?”
Still leaning casually by the console, Bashir tilts his head with a smirk. “Skinny brunette in the corner.”
Girani rolls her eyes but walks towards him when the strange man shakes his head. “No, you’re Dr. Girani.”
“You don’t think I’m skinny?” Bashir asks with a warm, amused smile, turning more fully toward the patient. “I am terribly sorry; I’m just about to take lunch. But if you are willing to wai–”
Faster than even Garak can predict, the man pulls out a weapon Garak has never seen before, aims it directly at Bashir, and shoots him point blank.
Garak watches it happen slowly; the man’s weapon is not a bullet or a phaser; it’s long and sharp, like a harpoon. Garak watches in shock as it shreds through the doctor’s protective uniform and penetrates the soft skin below, thick rivulets of red splatter nearly every inch of Garak’s eyeline. He can’t breathe or even think- all he can do is blankly refuse to understand the scene before him. Garak’s head feels so underwater that, for a moment, it almost looks like modern art. He can see filaments of the fabric sprinkling the air and the sharp, iron taste that invades his senses. Bashir’s eyes widen in shock and pain as a hand comes up to touch the wound, and he falls back, half collapsed, against the console he was working on.
Girani muffles a scream and goes toward him while Garak narrows his eyes- his heart pounding, his brain blocking out the terror of the bleeding doctor behind him- and advances on the shooter, who flashes his weapon toward him.
“Stay away from him, and don’t come any closer!”
And then the monster fires again. This time, Garak follows its path and looks at the doctor collapse further against the console. Blood is staining the entire left side of Bashir’s abdomen, and it appears that a metal rod is sticking out of the wound. The second rod rests firmly in Bashir’s right shoulder, now pinning him to the console. A pool of crimson spooling out from his body is enough to make Garak want to rip the attacker’s throat out with his teeth,
Garak can hear Girani screaming, “Please! I’m a Doctor! Let me help him!”
Garak takes advantage of the shooter’s momentary distraction and attacks, disarming and trapping him in seconds. He gazes down at the man’s neck and contemplates it again; Cardassian teeth and jaws are much stronger than average human skin. It’s a fact he’s noted before, thinking about how wonderful it would be to bite down ever so gently on his friend. Garak shakes himself out of it; the Federation might be willing to overlook it, given the circumstances. But there is no telling of this man’s motives, and eliminating him as a source is counterproductive.
As soon as she sees that Garak has neutralized the intruder, Girani taps her badge, “All emergency medical personnel to sick bay. Girani to Security.”
She starts walking quickly to the console where Bashir is slumped over, unconscious (please, by the State, let him just be unconscious). He closes his eyes desperately around the feeling of brutalizing claustrophobia that suddenly invades him, surrounded by the blood of the one person he might truly mourn the death of. And mourn it for a very long time.
“Odo here.”
“There has been an attack in Medbay. Garak neutralized the attacker.”
“On my way.”
Girani continues to work on triage, taking stock of the injuries. “Looks like he should be fine. He’s lost a lot of blood, of course, but nothing a dermal regenerator and blood bag can’t handle.”
Garak doesn’t relax his hold on the assailant, but his mind does relax. He is not entirely certain what he would have done if this man had managed to kill the doctor, but he’s reasonably sure it would be against Federation laws.
“Ah!” Girani cries.
“What?” Garak barks.
“The barbs, the metal barbs, I can’t take them out! They’ve got some type of electrical field around them!”
“And poison!” the intruder says, cackling as he watches Girani struggle frantically to keep the doctor alive.
Constable Odo and the other medical staff who work to help Girani burst in a moment later. Garak manages to see them get Bashir into a stasis tube as Constable Odo and his security team finally block the doctor from view. He allows one of Constable Odo’s Deputies to stun the intruder and take him out of Garak’s firm hold. He then carefully arranges himself into a relaxed, loose posture even though more than half of his brain is screaming to rip the information from that good for nothing while he has a chance.
“Garak,” Constable Odo says, casting a concerned eye over Bashir before turning professional again. “What exactly is happening here?”
Garak stares at him a moment blankly. What does he think happened?
“How badly was the doctor wounded?” Constable Odo asks.
Garak restrains the urge to show his shock. Constable Odo is a consummate professional, though he knows that he and the doctor have recently begun forming a much more friendly relationship. He is quite positive that Constable Odo normally would have asked him where precisely he learned how to subdue a suspect quickly.
On the other hand, Garak wishes Constable Odo hadn’t asked. He’s unwilling to admit it to himself but gamely pulls himself together.
“I am not sure. He was struck once in the abdomen, and once in the shoulder, there was significant blood loss–” Suddenly, Garak realizes he can't keep talking about it - the uncertainty, the possibility that he wouldn't pull through, the sight of him being brutally torn open in front of his eyes - so instead he explains the weapon to Odo, describing the unique device in painstaking detail to avoid having to dwell on Bashir's injuries further.
“Mhmm,” Constable Odo harrumphs. “Odo to Sisko, there has been a serious security breach on the promenade. Please call an emergency Senior Staff meeting. Doctor Bashir was incapacitated in the breach and will not be attending. Odo out.”
Garak looks around the Medbay and turns to leave himself. After all, he’s useless to the investigation here and has his own sources. He doesn’t bother returning to his shop to lock it; he has remote access through his personal computer in his quarters, and right now, he needs answers.
The man had asked for Doctor Bashir specifically. Why? Was it related to the war effort? As he enters his quarters, he opens his mouth to scent the air—no one, as stale as ever—and walks past his projects, lying haphazardly on the couch towards a back panel. Carefully undoing the bolts, he locates his small personal device, which he created shortly after he was sent to this station—when it was still in Dukat's hands.
He lines it up with his personal computer and types in an access code that hacks him directly into the main ops conference center. It’s not a tool he’s used very often (never since the Federation took power), but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Garak pointedly doesn’t interrogate why Bashir’s attempted murder constitutes such a desperate time.
The line buzzes with static for a moment before he hears Chief O’Brien’s voice.
“-- I was able to disable the electrical field around the rods, Captain, but…”
“But what?”
“There was a lot of blood loss. A lot. And according to Girani, the poison it was coated in is keeping the wound open.”
“What type of weapon is this? And who would bother trying this hard to kill our doctor?” Sisko asks in a loud and furious staccato.
“I’ve been looking into that,” Constable Odo cuts in. “I wasn’t able to find him at first, but as it turns out, the name he registered his docking under, Randolph Casterson, is his birth name. He took his wife’s surname after the wedding, which is why I couldn’t find much about him initially.”
“And what’s his connection to Julian?” Lieutenant Dax asks.
“A bit unclear as of yet,” Constable Odo says. “I haven’t been able to find any record of this person being a former patient.”
“Perhaps the patient’s family? Angry about some poor medical treatment?” Captain Sisko asks.
Garak huffs a complaint they can’t hear; the idea that Dr. Bashir provided subpar or negligent medical care is anathema to how Garak sees him. He doubts he’s the only patient the good doctor had been that attentive to.
“Unlikely,” Odo cuts in again. “Doctor Bashir has one of the lowest patient mortality rates of any Federation doctor, and after reviewing patient reviews submitted during his training, I’m not seeing anything different.”
“I was going to say,” Major Kira, “Julian is a lot of things, but a bad doctor is not one of them. Maybe it’s personal? Someone he rubbed the wrong way? A researcher who he disproved?”
“We’re looking into that, but nothing concrete has turned up so far.”
“Understood,” Captain Sisko says. “Keep looking. I want a motive, and I want it as soon as possible. Now, you disabled the data rods, but what about the poison?”
“I’ve had my team analyzing it,” Lieutenant Dax says. “Nothing so far; it’s highly complex. Upon further review, I think we have some evidence that it is of Nausicaan origin. Earlier today, there were a few traders; they left about ten minutes before Julian was shot.”
“Get them back here,” Captain Sisko barks. “In the meantime, I will try to get the Nausicaan ambassador on the phone. Let’s see if they’ll give us the information.”
“I highly doubt they’ll just hand it over if you ask nicely, Captain,” Chief O’Brien says.
“I do not intend to ask nicely ,” Sisko replies, his voice like a drumbeat.
Nausicaan in origin? Garak wants to kick himself. He had been so foolish, assuming they were on the station to exchange blows and information with him- of course, they had an ulterior motive. Had they already made the exchange before coming to his shop? Had he led this assassin directly to his dear friend’s doorstep?
Garak shoves that thought away. It wouldn’t do to dwell on it now. Instead, he opens up a new search for the man who shot Bashir. A fairly typical human, for all Garak can tell. He is reasonably healthy, has decent ties to his family, and has good but not remarkable achievements. The more Garak reads, the more confused he is; this man could not be more aggressively average if he tried.
He eventually comes to relationship status and is surprised to note that it says Widowed. He clicks on the man’s former spouse and finds that she killed herself five years previous. Garak sighs; so that is a bust. Doctor Bashir doesn’t work on psychiatric cases.
Garak continues combing through Casterson’s biography for a bit longer before turning off his screen and tilting his head slightly to think. The would-be murderer knew the good doctor, so it wasn’t a random attack, and yet nothing in his research indicates there is any reason for them to have ever met. The only thing Garak can guess is that perhaps it is extremely personal- possibly the dead wife slept with Bashir? Maybe this is some type of late revenge.
Pushing the chair away from the desk, Garak decides he can’t bear to be in his quarters any longer. He’s sure that Julian must be in the med bay by now. Perhaps he can gain more information from more direct observation of the doctor (and assure himself that the doctor is–); after all, the assailant used a highly unusual weapon.
Julian looks dead.
His face, which he can barely see in the small window at the top of the stasis chamber, is unnaturally pale. The rest of his body is covered by the metal stasis tube, which Garak thinks looks like a casket.
He looks dead.
“He’s not dead,” a voice cut in behind him.
Major Kira and Lieutenant Commander Dax are behind him.
“Gratifying to hear,” Garak says. He’s surprised by how steady his voice sounds. “How long do you expect it will take for him to recover?”
Dax takes an apprehensive breath, and Kira steps forward. “We’re not sure, Garak. In fact–”
She turns around, and Kira nods, “We wanted to talk to you. You might have some familiarity with these types of weapons and poisons.”
Garak doesn’t even dismiss it with a line about being a tailor. “What do you know?”
Dax pulls out a PADD, and Garak immediately skims it. It confirms what they said in the meeting: the poison is of Nausicaan origin, and as Garak looks closer, so is the weapon itself. It was a traditional weapon developed several centuries ago on their planet. It was an unusual choice and more than likely costly. He zooms in and sees they are made with a gleaming pergium alloy Garak knows was only developed within the last five years. This weapon was recently built in the model of an antique gun. He tells the Major and Dax as much.
“So,” Kira says, “We should be looking for places that are getting shipments of the pergium alloy.”
“Likely within Nausicaan space, it is doubtful that an outsider could have gotten access to the patterns to make something like this.”
Dax nods. “We think this must be something bigger than just personal. They went out of their way. It’s a good thing Julian is basically the healthiest person I’ve ever seen. I don’t think most people would have survived something like this.”
Garak nods, “Yes, certainly worth considering. Additionally, I recognize the poison. It will continue to eat away at him while he is in stasis. Time is of the essence; luckily, a planet nearby has the cure- we’ll need Felaran Rose. They’re native to the Delta Quadrant, but I know a trader who grows and sells some 16 hours travel at warp 6.”
Dax shakes her head, “We know about the poison too. And about the trader, the problem is that she is on a planet that has recently rejected diplomatic relations with the Federation. We can’t go.”
“Surely they will make an exception–”
“Sisko asked, and they refused,” Dax replies, a flash of anger crossing her face. “They won’t let anyone affiliated with the Federation on the planet.”
“I see... And now, what? Do you intend to give up? How generous of you, both of you, especially considering how hard the good doctor has worked for you!”
“If we had a choice–”
“Ah, so now he just gets to die a slow, painful death in a stasis tube. Only fitting of the Federation to let rules be more important than–”
Jadzia Dax glares at him, “My hands are tied, Garak.” With that, she stormed out of the room, leaving Kira alone.
Kira gives him a steady look before walking to the computer console to mute the security cameras in the room.
“I can’t give you a lot of time,” she says.
Garak instantly realizes what the two women are trying to tell him and says, “That’s fine. I won’t need it for long.”
“I can turn the cameras and security off to the shuttle bay and get those unlocked for you, but we can’t be affiliated with anything that happens from here. If you get caught–”
“I won’t.”
“You’ll have thirty minutes, and I’ll disengage the cameras in exactly two hours. Go get anything you need and get this done.”
Garak nods and turns out the door.
“And Garak…” Kira says right before he exits. “Good luck.”
Sneaking onto the shuttle with Major Kira’s help is absurdly easy, and he finds himself grateful for the inside assistance.
Garak stops by the sick bay once more to look at Julian, who still looks disturbingly like a corpse. His delicate, beautiful features stand out even more starkly on his features with the blood loss. Garak pathetically wishes the stasis pod was gone so he could touch that shockingly soft skin one more time before he leaves for good luck.
“I’ll be back, my dear,” he whispers. Not even feeling as foolish as he otherwise might have, the room was empty, and the good doctor was unlikely to hear him. “I’ll be back, and you will be perfectly fine. Just wait for me; you can wait for me. I know you can. You’re stronger than anyone ever expects.”
He presses his hand to the top of the tube once more and then heads out the door. The cold of the metal still stings his hands as he enters the shuttle bay and prepares to take off.
He is heading to Delta-XY, a planet inhabited by a highly mysterious race that chooses to remain neutral to all external engagements. Garak is well aware of their paranoia and their deep distrust of all major empires in the galaxy, most especially the Federation, but the Cardassian Union is hardly a favored ally here. He begins altering his warp signature to something less threatening, that of a merchant ship.
“Merchant ship, please identify yourself,” the planet’s security hails.
“This is Merchant Ship FX3464455ZY, carrying Vulcan Shrimp heading to the eastern coast.”
“Proceed.”
Garak smirked to himself. Thus far, this has been one of the easier missions in his life. If everything goes according to plan, he’ll return with time to spare. Knowing better than to bet on it, he continued his current path before landing his shuttle in an uninhabited area on their delightfully purple coastline. He had sent a message to his contact earlier and planned to meet him at their storefront down the street. He carefully covers himself up, not to give away that he is Cardassian.
He’d been here once before, years ago in a previous life, and is surprised by how little it has changed. The coastal cities are bustling and dusty, with a few electric automobiles roaming the streets. He had found it charming then and even to some extent now, but he doesn’t have the time.
He subtly lowers his head, allowing the hood of his outfit to cover his face as he shuffles into the dark side street where he has some flowers to buy. The shop is dank and dusty, immediately putting Garak on edge. No one had been inside in years, and the shelving had started to give in to time and was sagging in the middle. Old, strange glass objects Garak couldn’t place were now misty and gray with dust and time.
What happened here?
He smells someone approaching and slides neatly into the shadows. A tall, slender woman, typical of the planet's species, walks in. She wears a trench coat and holds a bag containing roses, which Garak can smell.
“Oh, Garak, always hiding in shadows,” she chuckles.
“Hello, my dear, Zeyzed,” he replies, “I wasn’t entirely sure who to expect. It looks as if the business has been… Struggling lately.”
She glances around, uncaring of the disrepair. “Oh nonsense, we have simply shifted our clientele.”
“Interesting. As a proprietor, I would love to discuss market capture with you, but sadly, I am in a bit of a hurry.”
“Such a rush! I would have loved to share a glass of Kanar.”
“I’m sorry again,” Garak says through gritted teeth, “But I really must be on my way. Now, if I am correct, it should be 2 bars of gold-pressed latinum?”
“About that,” she says, a slippery smile crossing her lips. Garak doesn’t have time for this. A flash of Julian Bashir lying in a stasis pod crosses his mind, and he resettles himself. He will do whatever it takes to get back to him.
“Yes?”
“Well, the Dominion recently contacted us; they want to buy our entire cache of these delicate little roses. They offered me quite the hefty sum…”
“What interesting information.”
“Yes, I thought you might find it elucidating.”
“Did they mention anything about the Deep Space Nine station?”
“Something about needing to remove a doctor he had made quite a nuisance of himself, curing something or other. They hired some Naussicans to transport some human to the station; apparently, they even paid for the weapon. Custom from the Naussican home world.”
“How interesting,” Garak says thoughtfully, focusing his mind on his breath to stay steady. “Why the human? New bounty hunter?”
She shakes her head, “Looks like they found someone with a real vendetta. Foreign governments don’t typically target happy people, after all. Anyway, this isn’t the point; my point is that I have some interest in the merchandise.”
“Now, how about just two lovely roses before you make your deal? For old time’s sake.” Garak asks.
“I think we can have this conversation over a nice cup of tea, don’t you think? Please, join me,” she gestures, and Garak stays put. He knows enough to know that someone trying to get you to a secondary location is not typically taking you to a surprise birthday party.
“I think I would prefer to stay here.”
She snarls at him, “As you wish. I was told to capture anyone who came sniffing around for these roses, as they’ve become quite valuable.”
Zeyzed reaches back to her phaser, but Garak is faster, moving his hand subtly closer to his weapon from the moment she walks in. He shoots at her hand, causing her weapon to go flying in the air and for her to drop the flowers. She rushes towards him, but he is prepared and shoots her again. He barely pays attention to her body thumping on the ground as he reaches to collect the flowers.
He stares down at her and realizes he also doesn’t have time to get rid of the body and property cover up his footsteps. So he carefully increases phaser strength to its maximum and shoots her; he stays for a moment and watches her body disintegrate. Then he shifts his phaser back to its lowest setting; he’ll have to erase the previous blast's data before returning to the station to ensure nothing ties him to this unpleasantness.
“What a pity,” he murmurs, “I liked her.”
Not wanting to waste more time, he leaves calmly, slinking out and back toward his shuttlecraft. He glances at the chronometer; he’s been gone from the station for 24 hours and another 16 back to the station.
He glances at his message port as he exits the planet's atmosphere. Nothing from the station yet, not that he expected anything given the secrecy, but hopefully, that means nothing horrific has happened either. Garak barely puts the shuttle back onto the station before walking purposefully to the medical bay.
Dr. Girani is sitting at the console, tapping idly at something, her body language tense and unhappy.
“Doctor?”
“Mr. Garak,” she replies a bit grimly. “I haven’t seen you for a few days… Doctor Bashir…”
“Yes?”
“He’s… Getting worse, without a cure, I’m not sure we’ll be able to–”
Garak pushes the roses into her hands, “I believe this is what you needed?”
She looks down at the flowers and then takes them to analyze in the back. Garak barely has time to fret when he hears a cheer from the labs.
“All in order, Doctor?” Garak yells.
She rushes back to where he’s still waiting in the main room. “Mr. Garak, I don’t know how you did it, but I believe Julian will make a full recovery! I’ll begin synthesizing it immediately.” After she says that, Girani looks at him again, more assessing this time, and her body language softens. “You can wait with him in the stasis room if you’d like.”
Garak nods once and doesn’t think about what it says that he can be seen through so easily. Julian’s stasis pod was in the middle of the room, with several beeping machines attached to it from the outside. Garak knows that stasis pods alone are insufficient to keep systems functioning if the person continues to worsen inside the pod. He sees fluids and wires tracking in and out and finally sees his face.
If he looked dead before, he seems downright skeletal now. Finally, standing in that quiet, empty room with no noise save the whirring and beeping of the various instruments around him, he feels his facade crumble. He presses both palms desperately on the stasis chamber near Julian’s delicate, dear face.
“Surely, my dear,” Garak whispers, “there are easier ways of making me buy you flowers?”
Julian doesn’t respond, of course, but in the room's peace, Garak suddenly feels his skin burn and itch. He wants nothing more than to leave here, leave this entire station, and run as far as he can from this vulnerability.
He considers that Tain could never have allowed his agents to fall in love, mainly for this reason. Not necessarily the vulnerability, though that too, but primarily the way it made the world burst into colors in shades of too much around him. Garak can feel everything like this: the burning, cracking pain in his heart, seeing Julian Bashir laid so low, the rustle of fabric on his skin, the cold air against his face, and the vivid red that decorates specific areas of the medical equipment. He looks so closely at Julian that everything else also becomes more real.
“I’m ready for him,” Dr. Girani cuts through his contemplation.
Garak moves away from the stasis pod, though not without one last look at that lovely face.
“I have to speak with the Constable,” Garak murmurs.
Girani nods, “I have every confidence he will recover from this, though it may take a few days for him to get back on his feet and at full strength. I think I might need your help taking care of him then. Do you think you’re up for it?”
Garak is touched that she trusts him enough to trust him with the most precious thing he’s ever known. “I would be happy to.”
She smirks, “Good, he’s a horror as a patient. I think I’ll need someone with your skills to keep an eye on him.”
“I’m not sure what a plain, simple tailor would be able to do,” Garak replies, a hint of a smile crossing his face, “but I’ll try my best.”
She smiles back at him; her eyes look lighter than when he first entered. Garak takes that as a good sign.
He ambles across the promenade when he sees Odo sitting behind his desk, his hand lightly pressed against his mouth while he thinks.
“Constable Odo,” Garak says.
“Garak,” Odo replies. “Did you enjoy your joy ride?”
“I had some winter seasonals that simply had to be picked up. It was a sartorial emergency, though I don’t suppose you’d understand those.”
Odo rolls his eyes. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
Garak sits primly in his seat and gently dusts off some imaginary dust from his tunic. He hasn’t yet returned to his quarters to change, but needs and musts.
“While browsing for new Romulan silk organza, I overheard some fascinating information about the assailant who attacked the medical bay.”
“Oh?”
“It appears the Dominion bankrolled the entire operation, hiring the Naussicans to transport our would-be assassin and provided the weaponry.”
“And why would they do this?” Odo asks, more interested than skeptical.
“Our station’s doctor made a few enemies when he was on that planet with the Dominion Blight.”
“I see,” Odo says, tapping at his PADD. “That is very helpful. And it makes sense that we finally determined the shooter’s relationship to Doctor Bashir. It turns out his wife had been his patient years ago and had received an experimental neurological treatment for chronic seizures that altered her personality. She was so miserable that several years after the surgery, she killed herself. I suppose the Dominion must have found him and decided he was a good mark.”
“Wise of them to exploit a man who is already heartbroken,” Garak replies thoughtfully. “There is nothing he wouldn’t do to avenge his wife…Well, thank you, Odo. I really must be going,” he says, heading toward the door.
“And Doctor Bashir?” Odo asks.
“Dr. Girani has every confidence that he will make a full recovery,” Garak says and can not entirely hide his relief.
“Good, good,” Odo murmurs. “I’m glad to hear it. And Garak?”
“Yes?”
Odo tosses something to him; Garak looks down and sees a button from his tunic that had torn off at some point in the shuttle. “Be more careful next time.”
Garak looks at it with wide eyes and carefully puts it in his pocket. “Of course, Constable.”
“I’m pleased that the Doctor will make a full recovery. I think there is no need to dig much deeper than that.”
“I fully agree,” Garak says with a half bow.
Finally, free of his professional obligations, he returns to his quarters to change his clothes, grab some literature, and head back to the medical bay.
Whatever antivenom it was, it worked fairly quickly. Julian was already out of the stasis pod and lying in a biobed. Although several beeping monitors were still around him, Garak was ready to weep at the sight of his lungs moving again. He sets himself up unobtrusively in a corner, greeting Dax, Major Kira, and even Captain Sisko (who gave him a nod of approval) before asking Girani a few questions about Julian’s recovery.
Garak reads to Julian periodically, chuckling softly as he stumbled over the words, “Love was always love, anytime and anyplace, but it was more solid the closer it came to death.”
The days blend, and one day slides into three. He isn’t able to spend all day at the medical bay—after all, he has a business and rent to pay—but he makes his way there after closing the shop. Garak thinks Julian appreciates it, even if he can’t say so just yet. He reads to him daily, not just literature. He even reads one of his dreaded medical texts because he thinks the good doctor might get bored otherwise.
It is the evening of the fourth day, and Garak is reading to him:
“In the desert
I saw a creature,
Naked, bestial
Who, squatting upon
The ground,
Held his heart in his
Hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good,
Friend?”
“It is bitter–bitter,”
He answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my
Heart.”
“Is that right?” a dry, soft voice replies.
Garak jolts up, “My dear doctor!”
Julian coughs a few more times, and Garak goes to the replicator to ask for a glass of water, which he accepts gratefully.
“Well, that was decidedly unpleasant,” Julian Bashir says.
“For everyone, my dear.”
“I could hear you,” Julian says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Reading to me, I loved hearing your voice.”
“I’m…” Garak begins and stops. He had been reading to him with the idea that the doctor might be able to hear him, but knowing the doctor was well aware of exactly how long Garak sat by his bedside was another thing entirely.
“I loved it,” Julian says, flipping his hand so it faces palm up. He is still exhausted, and Garak feels his bitter, bitter heart lift as he accepts the invitation and reaches down to hold his weak grip.
Dr. Girani walks in shortly after and gives Julian a once-over. “I can’t believe I am saying this, and I don’t understand quite how, but I think I can discharge you with supervision in a few hours.”
“Supervision?”
Girani nods at Garak, who raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “If you’d like?”
“You’ll take care of me?” Julian asks. He looks the most fragile Garak has ever seen. He’s never heard the doctor ask for this before, not from anyone, and Garak appreciates the honor it is to be asked of him.
“If you’ll have me.”
Julian gazes at him in surprise. “What brought this on?”
“I just thought you’d like the company,” Garak starts and then bolsters himself. “And I think I could be good for it.”
“Yes,” Julian replies, his eyes glitter at him with barely repressed fondness that Garak is amazed to note, feels typical of him, “I rather think you are.”
“In which case, I must depart for a bit to take care of things at my shop,” Garak says.
Julian nods at him and Dr. Girani waves him off. He doesn’t waste a lot of time getting his various PADDs that hold busy work and his account ledgers, as well as a few changes of clothes. He spends longer than he is willing to admit, contemplating exactly which and what cuts, but within a few hours, he was back out the door.
And somehow, Dr. Girani and Julian are already arguing.
“I think this is all a little dramatic, I feel fine!”
“You are not fine; your body is still healing and extremely weak! Just take the chair.”
“A cane will be plenty. I don’t need more. I could walk a marathon right now if that’s what it takes to–”
“Am I interrupting?” Garak asks.
“Oh, Garak,” Julian says, flushing slightly as he looks at him. “Apologies. We are just having a bit of a disagreement on my treatment plan.”
“Oh? I know I’m just a plain, simple tailor, but I have been told it's wise to trust the advice of your doctor… A certain young Federation physician told me that.” Garak walks theatrically between them. “I suppose if you can ignore your doctor's advice, why shouldn’t I?”
“Oh, alright,” Julian sighs, “you’ve made your point.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Garak says peacefully while internally crowing. Already, he thinks, he is taking care of him.
“I think you’re in good hands, Julian,” Dr. Girani says, half laughing. “Finally! Someone who can wrangle you! Now, I want at least two days of bed rest and a liquid diet, and then come back in for a check-up. We’ll see about getting you approved to return to work then.”
“Two days?!”
Garak privately thinks that two days aren’t nearly enough, surely he needs to bundle the doctor up for at least a week. “Come now, my dear, must we do this whole argument again?”
Julian sulks. “I’m not sure I like you two being friends, actually.”
“More like a shared mutual interest,” Girani says dryly. “Are you ready to be discharged?”
Julian nods, and Girani scans over him before checking a screen. Suddenly, approving the results, she nods to herself. “Yes, it looks like you should be okay, but seriously, Julian. Do not push yourself; you’re healing better than I ever could have dreamed, but you’re still only human.”
“Yes, sir,” Julian says with a mock salute. “I’ll be careful. Thank you for your excellent work these past few days, not just keeping me alive, of course, but also keeping the infirmary running.”
She waves away his praise with a slight flush on her face. “Oh, don’t you go getting all Federation now. Just rest.”
Garak helps arrange Julian in the wheelchair she had gotten for him, and Garak is glad he won that argument. Julian felt alarmingly weak when he lifted him into the seat.
The walk to Julian’s quarters is quick; the CMO’s quarters are located strategically near the medical bay. Garak has been to Julian’s quarters a few times before but rarely for such a length of time. It’s neater than he expected, but then Garak shouldn’t be surprised. After all, the medical bay is organized with ruthless efficiency, why not the quarters too?
He walks around to face Julian, dropping to one knee to help unclasp his legs from the legs of the chair. He can feel Julian staring at him.
“Why are you here, Garak?” Julian asks.
“Why do you think?”
“Jadzia stopped by to visit me while you were taking care of a few things. She told me you’re the reason I’m alive; she said that you barely left my side.”
Garak says nothing and goes back to fussing over Julian’s legs, though there isn’t much else to do, so his hands flutter uselessly around them.
“Love was always love, anytime and anyplace, but it was more solid the closer it came to death,” Julian quotes.
“You heard that, did you?” Garak says nonsensically. “I’m impressed.”
“Is it true?” Julian asks, reaching a weak, shaking hand towards Garak face and starts gently tracing the scales of his occular ridge.
Garak looks at him, mute. He can barely manage the minuscule nod he gives, but oh, is it worth it, seeing the smile bloom across Julian Bashir’s narrow face.
“Well,” Julian says, “isn’t that convenient?”
And Julian’s hands, cooler than usual, find their way to Garak’s chin, tilting it up slightly. He moved gingerly but steadily, closing the distance between their lips. Time seems to expand endlessly in the seconds it took before Julian’s lips touched his, and Garak gasps reflexively. He has been warned by poets and scholars, and any number of novelists, but it still takes him by surprise.
And when he opens his eyes, Julian is already gazing back at him, those mysterious eyes glinting, and for a moment, Garak can swear he sees Cardassia right in front of him.