Chapter Text
Tain watched the tired figure depart before speaking up. “That Dr. Bashir, he’s really something, isn’t he?”
Trepidation shot through Garak as he chose his reply carefully. “He’s quite accomplished: Starfleet’s youngest Chief Medical Officer of an entire station.”
“Yes, I’m well aware. And if I hadn’t been, he reminded me on multiple occasions.” A significant pause. “Is he your doctor?”
My dear doctor. The words echoed in Garak’s head, but he quickly stowed them away, lest his face betray anything. Remain impassive. Unmoved. “The other nurses and physicians are all Bajoran, so frankly, he’s my only choice.”
“Ah.” Tain closed his eyes, but something about the shape of his mouth set the younger Cardassian on edge. “Your personal physician, then.”
It was easy to see where this was headed. Too easy. The former head of the Obsidian Order never would never have been so transparent in his heyday. Perhaps he simply knew that he was running out of time and had ceased to care. Garak wasn’t taking any chances, though. “I only see him in the medical capacity when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t make house calls.”
The eyes snapped back open then, sharp despite the rheumy film that had begun to cover them. “Except that one time.”
“Yes, except for that.” Agonizing pain, debilitating nausea, the black cloud of depression. A lone figure in his quarters, a dedicated presence that had seen him through what may well have been the worst ten days of his life. Followed by a withdrawal of enormous magnitude eased by the unfaltering loyalty of the one who’d seen him through it.
“I still can’t believe he crossed into Cardassian space, the Arawath Colony no less, to pay me a visit and demand access to our medical archives. That was either a very brave or very stupid move on his part.” Tain made a sour face. “Or perhaps he wasn’t sufficiently cowed by my image; maybe in the stories you told him you smoothed my fangs and dulled my claws, and he arrived at my residence expecting a blind and deaf regnar in a cage.”
Garak knew better than to do such a thing or subject another to it. To underestimate Enabran Tain was done at one’s own risk. And if he’d known where the Human doctor had been headed, what he’d planned to do, Garak would have included even more details to his stories. There was no need to exaggerate the facts in order to portray his mentor in a menacing light. “I assure you, I did no such thing,” he said at last.
But Tain was already moving on. “You know who he reminds me of?” he asked offhandedly.
Oh no. Not this.
“Our dear Dr. Parmak.”
Garak finally looked away. The gray, pipe-riddled walls offered no insight nor solace. “I don’t see how,” he lied.
“Oh yes you do. They’re both tall and slender, yet so very soft and sweet. Even their sharp edges are smoothed. Tender and eager to please. Optimistic. Idealistic. Passionate. You can’t see that? Hmmph.” His noise of disbelief left no room for anything else.
Beautiful was the word Garak would use for them. Vibrant. Endearing. But there were other characteristics, too, ones less savory in that they made the two doctors vulnerable to men like the agents of the Order: sensitive, sentimental, benevolent. Traits that could be exploited or manipulated. Used for blackmail. Or torture.
Garak could still picture Parmak as he had been when they first met: long, silky black hair with a permanent blue highlight due to being on the verge of gray. A lithe, willowy frame accentuated by precise, graceful movements. Rare, ashen eyes that should have looked plain on a Cardassian face but instead shone like the finest polished metals. Kelas , he thought sadly.
“Yes, I can see that you remember,” Tain intoned with false warmth. “You know why it had to be you conducting his interrogation, don’t you?”
Of course. It hadn’t just been his looks that had drawn Garak in; it had been his smile, his humor, his heart. He’d loved Cardassia and its peoples just as much as the agents he worked with but chose the opposite route. Healing rather than harm, collaboration by day instead of espionage by night, hope and encouragement over cynicism and punishment. He’d offered a glimpse of a different life, a different way of thinking, and the tiniest, blasphemous whisper of doubt.
Parmak had never belonged in the Obsidian Order, and Garak wished to the ancestors that he had never allowed himself to be roped in.
“One of your finest hours,” Tain praised.
“His eyes. His eyes.” The doctor had been horrified. Inconsolable. He’d whimpered and screamed, pleaded for mercy. Mercy for his actions, for himself… for Garak.
It had been a simple approach, really.
Garak had gone to the cosmetics department and had both eyes covered with moldable clay the same tone as his skin. Gouges were cut into it, crusty brownish-red streaks added for effect. He’d never even had to say a word, had barely stepped into the chamber before Parmak was sobbing and howling on the floor, begging for forgiveness. Everything had come bursting forth, from being approached by the dissidents to his aid of them. His leaking of information from within the Order, secrets from Tain himself.
But that wasn’t what he wanted to be forgiven for. No.
He confessed that he never would have gotten involved if he’d known what would happen to his Edosian Orchid, his handsome but deadly bloom in need of just the right soil and care to thrive, his dear friend Elim.
The evidence had been damning, the sentence final. For both of them.
Even after Parmak was carted off to the “rehabilitation” camp, Garak was put under stricter observation by Tain and his closest agents, his credibility and fealty compromised. In the leader’s mind, this only solidified his assumption that the flirtation between his doctor and second-in-command had been a full-on relationship.
The irony was, it was one of the few things he’d been wrong about.
“Do you have a point to make, Tain?” Garak asked tiredly.
Anger flashed across the older man’s face, followed by offense and then annoyance. No one would ever have dared take that tone with him years ago. But times had changed. Was he annoyed with Garak? His circumstances? Himself? It was tempting to leave and just let the man stew.
“I’ve seen Dr. Bashir. I’ve heard his platitudes and been on the receiving end of his debates. Engaging and beguiling as he is, would you commit one more betrayal to Cardassia, Elim? Even there, in exile on that Bajoran station, you’d make the same mistake again? And for what- a warm body at night?. A brief moment of ecstasy?” Tain squinted in examination. His expression turned mildly horrified. “Gods, Elim. For conversation?”
“What would you have me do?” Garak exploded. “Knit and sew alone in my tailor shop for the next decade? What did you expect? That I wouldn’t look for companionship, some connection- any connection, since you so thoughtfully deprived me of it among my own people? I found the one person on that station that doesn’t despise me or want to make a profit off me, and you think that constitutes betrayal?” Repressed pain and resentment bubbled up in his chest. “Are you really so deluded as to think I’d just passively sit by and wait to be forgiven and brought back, or that I’d accept my fate and roll over and die?” No. He’d never give Tain that satisfaction.
Dread settled in the pit of Garak’s stomach. He pictured what would have happened if Dr. Bashir had never shown up.
Family is everything to a Cardassian, after duty to the State. But given his location on Terok Nor, Garak would have only been able to successfully pursue one of those goals with ease.
The exile having cut off access to his own people, Tain had expected him to fall for a Bajoran woman.
To have children with her.
To raise a family with a member of the race his own people had once dominated, ruled, and enslaved.
He’d expected Garak’s allegiance to change, for him to develop sympathy and even empathy for the Bajorans. To commit the final betrayal with his body and finally his heart.
And then Tain would have killed him.
Except it didn’t happen that way, did it? Julian-- Dr. Bashir --happened instead. It was Kelas Parmak all over again, only this time without the Obsidian Order standing in the way. And then, even then…
“I never betrayed you, Enabran. Dr. Bashir and I… we have only ever been friends. We shared lunch once a week. We discussed literature, yes, and argued philosophy, and even exchanged gifts. But there was never anything more.”
Tain’s eyes had fallen back closed, and his breaths turned even and raspy as if he’d fallen asleep. But he weakly shook his head. “No, no. The betrayal is still there. You love him, and a dedicated patriot should only love… Cardassia.”
Garak thought of mentioning Tain’s shortcomings in terms of Mila, or himself even, but chose a different tack instead. “I thought I was exiled for my abysmal failures regarding Lokar and Dukat senior, not who occupied my thoughts when I went home each night.”
“Ah, so you don’t deny it,” Tain muttered, a triumphant smile flitting across his face. “A true agent should have nothing on his mind but his duty and allegiance. We haven’t the luxury of affection; it clouds the mind, distacts the senses, dulls the reflexes. You should know that, Elim.”
“You’re forgetting one thing, Tain.” Garak stood up and stared down at the drawn, pale gray face. “You despise sentiment and openly disparage it at every turn, but it’s sentiment that brought me here to save you.”
“And look what it got you,” Tain coughed out. “Trapped in the same fate. Left to die cold and starving among strangers.”
“I don’t plan on dying.” Garak strode a few paces in one direction, then the other. “I plan on doing whatever is necessary to prevent rotting on this damnable rock. It’s up to you whether you die or live to escape with us.”
“Us. You and that doctor?”
“And anyone else who helps us. Martok. Worf. Those two Romulans.” He gestured to the cot occupied by the silent Breen. “Anyone.”
“I know I’m going to die here.”
No doubt he said it for effect; the comment meant to startle or alarm Garak, maybe evoke pity or some other emotion that could be used against him. But the ring of truth made it impossible for him to really feel much more than acceptance. “Yes, Enabran. You’re going to die. The Jem’Hadar will wrap up your body like they did all of the others, and they’ll eject it out the airlock. There will be no ceremony, no words spoken on your behalf, no esteemed grave in Cardassian soil.”
To his credit, Tain didn’t cry. He didn’t rage or curse. He simply seemed to melt into the cot as if it was slowly becoming a part of him. “What about the Shri-tal?”
“We’re not there yet. When it’s time, I’ll send someone.” Garak stopped, staring at the door. “Unless you'd prefer for me to do it.”
A harrumph was the only reply.
Without looking back, Garak stepped out.
He left the barracks for the main part of the compound and sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t clean or fresh by any means, but it still felt better than the stale, fetid air left behind in the room nonetheless.
It took only a few seconds to realize that his eyes were scanning for a familiar figure, and only a few more to find it. Dr. Bashir was talking to a familiar Romulan and someone with grayish-greenish skin and chin flaps from a race he’d never met before. But as soon as their eyes locked, the Human excused himself and strode over. He put a hand on Garak’s arm, high up by the shoulder. “Garak, are you alright? How’s Tain? Does he need anything?” His eyes scanned back and forth, up and down, taking in hair, face, posture. “Do you?”
What did Garak need? What had he come to this particular person for? “Doctor, I-” He had no answer.
Bashir stepped closer. He dipped his head just enough to look in Garak’s eyes. “Would you like me to take a turn in there? Tain’s not the most jovial of patients, but I’ve gotten used to him.”
Garak shook his head. “No need. He's sleeping now.” It didn’t really matter if he was or not; Garak didn’t want the doctor to be anywhere near the retired intelligence agent for the time being.
“Oh.” Bashir dropped his hand. He shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Shall we take a walk? There isn’t much else to do this time of day, and…” He rubbed his neck. “And it reminds me of when we used to make our lap around the promenade. A dose of normalcy. I miss that.” He gazed around the enclosure. “Although it’s a far cry from this.”
Garak was done thinking. He didn’t want to turn one single more cog in his brain. “Is that what you’d like, Doctor?”
“Um yes, I suppose so.” They headed for the outer walls and began a circuit. “Sometimes if I close my eyes and think about it really hard, I can smell the jumja stall or Quark’s bar. When I’m examining someone or helping wrap up an injury, I can almost taste the antiseptic air of the infirmary. But I feel like every day it’s getting less and less. Like I’m forgetting what life was like back there on the station. Which is ridiculous, right? Because I’ve only been here a month now.” Bashir turned to look at Garak. “I’m sorry, this isn’t exactly the kind of thing we’d be talking about, is it. What about… What were you reading before you left?”
Garak averted his eyes. He hadn’t been reading anything, on account of the false Dr. Bashir having repeatedly put off their lunch meetings. He hadn’t wanted to start a new novel in case they did pick up again, and if they began to drift their own separate ways, then he’d decided that his heart wasn’t in it.
“Garak?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. I may not be the best walking companion at the moment. I’m not much in the mood for… conversation.”
“Oh, that’s alright. I understand. We don’t have to talk. Do you… still want to walk? It’s good for the constitution, so I hear.”
Garak offered a thin smile. “You are the doctor, Doctor.”
Bashir bumped him playfully shoulder to shoulder before setting off again. “And don’t you forget that.” They spent the next twenty minutes in more or less companionable silence until Bashir made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a gasp and began hopping around on one foot. “I think- I think I stepped on something.” He tipped dangerously to one side before Garak caught his hand and helped lower him to the ground. Not for the first time, the Cardassian was struck by just how much heat that scrawny body had to offer. He maintained the hold while Bashir peeled off his shoe and sock but had to give it up so the doctor could make an examination. “Bugger, that piece of metal went right through everything.” Bright scarlet drops seeped from a slice in his arch.
That shouldn’t have been possible with standard Starfleet issue footwear, but Garak suddenly noticed that Bashir was lacking his. “Doctor, what are these?” He motioned to the flimsy fabric with rubbery soles that still covered the other foot.
Bashir hissed as he prodded the wound, presumably looking for any stray splinters. “I traded mine away. There was a young soldier who came in, put up quite a fight from what I heard, and her feet got pretty torn up. The Jem’Hadar didn’t do a very good job of fixing her up and I didn’t have my medkit, so I swapped our shoes. Federation TBP has antibacterial properties, you know.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Garak remarked drily. “But what will you wear now?”
“These- these are fine. It’s not that bad, really.” Bashir scanned the ground around them. “Do you see any other pieces of metal lying about? You didn’t step on any, did you? Are you alright?”
Garak felt warmed at the open concern directed at him, and let it show on his face. “I’m fine, doctor. That one piece seems to be a stray. But if I may make a suggestion, why not retire to our barracks, and bring that infernal scrap with us. It may make an efficient tool or weapon.”
Bashir awarded him with a grin. “Always planning. I admire that about you. You’re right, of course.” He turned the metal over in his hand, grimacing at the blood drying on the bent tip. “We should hold on to this. But…” his face fell. “Could we find somewhere else to rest first? I’d rather not… see Tain like this.”
Of course. It made perfect sense that no one in their right mind would want the devious older man to see them in a moment of weakness, even if there wasn’t anything he could do about it. “Yes, let’s find a corner out of the way. If we’re only sitting and resting, the guards shouldn’t have any cause for suspicion.” He hoped, anyway. They were always quick to break up anything even remotely resembling a close huddle.
After everything was back in place, Garak stood up and offered his hand. Bashir took it gratefully and pulled himself up with a little help. When he was upright, he gave Garak a quick squeeze but didn’t release. His face looked distracted by their surroundings. “There’re plenty of nooks and crannies, dead-end hallways and such. There might even be an empty room.” He glanced down to where their hands were still joined and huffed. “I feel sort of like a schoolboy who’s trying to sneak off for something a little naughty.”
“Were you that sort of schoolboy?” Garak asked conversationally, although he was more interested than he’d like to admit.
“Yes and no.”
Garak stopped his visual sweep to regard his companion. “How can you be both?”
“Well. I earned top grades, answered all the teacher’s questions, did all my schoolwork, but… I also got away with a lot, too. Played games when they weren’t looking, hacked into the records, that sort of thing.”
“Hmm. In my school, those would have been considered vital lessons that the students were expected to teach themselves. An unofficial course, as it were.”
Bashir raised an eyebrow. “Tailoring school?”
“No, just general education. Tailoring was vocational, and so came after graduation.”
Looking more like his old self, the Human smirked. “Was that before or after gardening school?”
Garak couldn’t help smiling back. “Don’t be ridiculous. That was merely a hobby.”
For a few seconds, everything faded away until it was just the two of them, and it was like they were back in the replimat on Deep Space Nine. Bantering over plomeek soup and redleaf tea.
“What do you think?”
It wasn’t often that Garak was caught off guard. He blinked. “Pardon?”
“About where we should rest for a bit. I was thinking that short hall with the blind corner, you know, right before airlock 3. No one ever goes there, because…” Because that exit was the one most often used for expelling deceased or overly troublesome prisoners. But neither of them spoke that aloud.
“Yes, let’s go there.”
Despite it being Bashir’s suggestion, Garak led the way. They moved slowly, the doctor trying not to draw attention to his limp. He ended up tucking his arm in Garak’s for additional support. By the time they reached their destination, Bashir was leaning more heavily on him, and he began to worry that the injury was much deeper or painful than he’d previously assumed.
They stopped at the airlock and stared at it in morbid fascination for a minute. The thick layers of wires and mechanisms blocked any views of the stars, but it still made them think of space and freedom, even if it was simply the release of death. At least, that was what Garak thought of. He couldn’t fathom what was going on inside the head of his friend.
They relocated to a semi-bare expanse of wall and lowered down to the floor. But instead of each taking one side of the corridor so they’d be facing each other, Bashir resolutely settled himself next to Garak. Rather close, too, although he’d withdrawn his arm. Garak could still feel the heat radiating outward to permeate the several layers he’d adorned himself in at the beginning of his ill-fated adventure.
They both leaned their heads back. Bashir closed his eyes and Garak studied the ceiling. No ventilation ducts large enough to be accessed, no escape hatches, no access panels. And even if there had been, they’d probably be adorned with alarms and traps.
“You can’t stop thinking about it, can you?”
“Doctor?”
“A way to escape.”
“What else have I to think about?”
“Fair point.”
Bashir inched closer so that their arms were pressed together. “I’ve missed you this past month, Garak.”
Garak’s throat constricted at the confession. He tried not to think about the changeling who’d taken the Human’s place. “What about Chief O’Brien and the lovely Ms. Dax?”
“Oh, of course I missed them too. But you’re different.”
Garak tried to make light of the situation. “Were you that badly in need of my sartorial services? There’s only so much I can do in a place like this.”
“No.” The voice was low but laced with mild amusement. “It’s things like that, my dear tailor. Your sarcastic comments. Your wit.” Bashir stole a shy glance his way. “How once or twice you’ve called me your dear doctor.”
You are my dear doctor, Garak thought his way. My dearest in a long time. “I suppose prolonged time in confinement is likely to make even the most persistent pest seem appealing after a while.”
“Wait, I thought I was the pest. You told me so yourself, two years ago. We can’t both be the pest in this relationship.”
“I assure you we can.” It wasn’t until he closed his mouth that Garak took a second to review what Bashir had said and realize it was too late to take the words back.
“Garak-” Bashir jumped at the opportunity and turned slightly in his direction. “What is our relationship?”