Archive of Our Own

Julian glanced at his chronometer. His shift had ended two hours and forty-seven minutes ago, but he’d been held up in surgery, and he’d not yet finished his report. Usually he wouldn’t object, but Garak and the others had returned to the station almost seven hours ago, and he hadn’t yet had a chance to greet him or check up on him – and he suspected Garak could use a friend.

A mission to Cardassia – and his subsequent return to the station – had to be an unpleasant reminder of his circumstances.

It wouldn’t have helped that, most likely, no one greeted him upon his return.

Bashir hadn’t found out about their return until over an hour after the fact, but Garak wouldn’t have known that.

Certainly he would have noticed that Bashir hadn’t yet come to see him.

“Go, Bashir. I’ll finish up here,” Girani offered. “Your shift ended hours ago.”

“Thanks, Girani. In a few minutes. I’ve almost finished my report.”

Girani gave him an exasperated look. “You can finish it in your quarters. If you stay here until you’re done, another patient might arrive – one who would prefer to be treated by a doctor trained at Starfleet Medical.”

Julian sighed. “One would think they’d have figured out by now you’re an excellent surgeon and diagnostician.”

Girani inclined her head in a gesture that reminded Julian of Garak. “I thank you, Bashir. However, not everyone spends as much time evaluating your staff as you do.”

“Well, no. They don’t.”

“Bashir. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“All right. Thank you, Girani. Comm me if you need another pair of hands.”

Girani inclined her head. “I shall.”

Bashir cleaned his hands, grabbed his medical bag, and headed out.

It was somewhat late, but Garak was probably still awake.

He could stop by his quarters –

No. Not his quarters. The lights were still on in Garak’s shop – in the front room as well as in Garak’s workshop – as if the shop were still open for customers.

“Well, that’s odd,” Julian said aloud.

Garak usually closed his shop to customers promptly at 18:00, unless he was assisting a customer at the time, in which case he closed his shop as soon as the customer left. Yet it was currently 20:34.

Well, he had been away for a few days. Perhaps he was keeping somewhat extended hours to make up for the loss of opportunity for his customers – especially since he had mentioned business had been slow lately. He probably needed the extra income.

He should probably wait, and let Garak catch up on his work.

Garak wouldn’t expect him to interrupt a consultation.

Julian nodded to himself. He would wait until the morning to stop by.

In the meantime, he would simply walk past the shop.

Just to be sure everything was all right.

Julian approached Garak’s shop and glanced inside.

Garak was in the front, speaking with a tall Bajoran dressed in civilian clothing.

The Bajoran was standing just a little too close, looking down at Garak.

Garak was smiling, his hands raised slightly in the way he had when trying to mollify an irate customer.

Julian stepped closer.

Close enough to hear a raised voice, speaking in Bajoran.

Not, however, close enough to hear the words, or for his Universal Translator to pick them up.

Julian waited. He would intervene if he had to, but he doubted he’d have to.

Garak had successfully dealt with irate customers before.

And he had apparently done so again.

The Bajoran took a step back.

Garak bowed.

The Bajoran nodded stiffly, turned, and exited the shop.

Julian turned and pretended to examine a flower arrangement in the shop across the corridor.

When he turned back, Garak was gone.

Julian peered inside.

He wasn’t gone; he’d returned to his workroom. Currently, he was examining a pair of trousers.

He looked … somewhat disconcerted, but ... all right.

He’s busy, Julian. Leave him be. You can talk to him tomorrow. He’ll just get more upset if you come in now. He’ll know you’re checking on him – and he hates that. Wait until tomorrow.

Julian returned to his quarters. He finished his report, submitted it to the Infirmary’s medical records system, and selected a book to read for a while before preparing for bed.

He did not go check on Garak.

He would wait until the morning.

* * *

The customer – his nineteenth customer-or-potential-customer of the day, and the third Bajoran – finally left his shop.

Garak maintained a neutral expression and a neutral posture. He’d seen Doctor Bashir lurking around in front of the shop, observing his activities. The last thing he needed was for the Doctor to report back to Sisko that the tailor wasn’t working with sufficient diligence – or that he seemed to have plenty of time to spare.

Plenty of time in which to accomplish whatever task the commander planned for him next.

Garak didn’t know what that might be, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.

Sisko’s first demand – accompanying the crew to Cardassia to assist with locating and re-capturing Major Kira – had been, perhaps, relatively benign from the Commander’s perspective, though in actuality it had been quite the opposite.

Sisko had forced him to disobey Enabran Tain in the most egregious way possible – by deliberately sabotaging a mission assigned to the Order.

Yet Sisko knew now, if he hadn’t known for certain before, the power he had over Garak.

He’d already known he had the power to require Garak to leave the station. He was the commanding officer; he could remove anyone he wanted to remove.

He hadn’t known, Garak suspected, just what, exactly, that actually meant.

He’d known Garak couldn’t return to Cardassia.

He hadn’t known Garak couldn’t leave the station.

Not with any hope of survival.

He’d only survived the Commander’s mission because whoever was watching the comings and goings of people and ships for Cardassia knew Commander Sisko and Constable Odo were on that ship, along with a crew.

It was not a runabout piloted only by himself.

They wouldn’t risk antagonizing the Federation by doing anything … untoward … to its station commander or his head of security.

Perhaps even worse … well, no. Certainly not actually worse; it only seemed so to him.

Of additional concern, he had admitted to his … difficulty tolerating small, enclosed spaces.

He’d been thinking only of not being penalized for inadvertently approaching the weapons systems, and hadn’t recognized until the moment he’d finished speaking that such an admission could lead to exceedingly unpleasant consequences.

Which was precisely what had happened. The moment Garak admitted that the quarters were claustrophobic, Sisko promptly ordered that he be confined there for the duration of the journey.

Garak had held his place. He had protested ostensibly because of the injustice of the punishment.

Sisko had not relented.

Garak had been saved by the approach of Gul Benil’s vessel.

Sisko hadn’t attempted to enforce his most unpleasant order, even after Gul Benil and his vessel moved away.

Garak could only hope his admission of the reason he’d been out wandering the corridors had been accepted in the manner he’d tried to portray it – merely an excuse – with Sisko’s attempt at punishment merely an attempt to ensure that he would not make the same mistake of walking too close to a restricted area.

It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Sisko had accepted his words – and aggrieved tone – at face value; that he really had been stretching his legs – albeit as something to do and as a means to satisfy his curiosity.

But Sisko wasn’t lacking in intelligence.

He could have heard – and understood – what Garak was actually saying, however inadvertently.

If he had, if he knew how truly … unpleasant he found the quarters – that would be yet another hold he had over Garak – which would be most unwelcome. The Commander already had far too much power over him.

Within Garak’s experience, once a person realized that they had power over someone else, they would take advantage of that power at every opportunity – unless they were biding their time, planning something … of greater relevance.

Commander Sisko knew he had that power.

Garak’s reaction to his extortion – well.

It had been most unfortunate.

He should have held his place with significantly more equanimity than he had displayed.

He should have maintained a neutral expression; a neutral posture.

He should never have acknowledged that he understood exactly what Sisko was doing, when he threatened him with exile from the station if he didn’t cooperate.

It didn’t matter. Sisko had already known what power he held over Garak.

It was rather obvious, to be sure.

Sisko knew exactly what to say to ensure that Garak would agree to accompany his crew on their mission to re-capture Major Kira despite Garak’s exile - and despite the fact that it was the Obsidian Order who had captured the major in the first place.

His presence on Cardassia, in the home of Legate Tekeny Ghemor – let alone the incontrovertible fact that he had been assisting Starfleet in its mission to ensure the failure of Entek’s mission – such a blatant disregard for his status would not be unnoticed.

The Obsidian Order, after all, was hardly known for allowing things to remain unnoticed.

Garak’s success in ordering Gul Benil – a military officer – to turn his ship around and ignore Commander Sisko and his crew’s presence in the Cardassian system and their ship’s approach to Cardassia Prime would not have escaped the attention of the Starfleet personnel on the ship.

Nor would his killing of Entek.

He’d felt him there, coming up behind him. Sensed the sudden intensity of Entek’s gaze – and realized the reason.

He drew his own phaser, turned, fired.

Entek vanished without a trace.

As if he’d never existed.

His family would receive nothing.

No body.

No real evidence he was gone.

They would, of course, receive a report of Entek’s death. It would be devoid of specifics, to be sure, but it would inform them of his ‘honorable’ death ‘in the course of service to Cardassia’.

They would receive remuneration for the loss of his income.

A funeral would be held at the Order’s expense.

A funeral without a body; without a burial.

Well.

He’d had no viable choice at the time.

He hadn’t had time to defend himself in a non-lethal way, even if doing so would have otherwise been sensible.

There's nothing you can do now to change any of what happened, Garak chided himself. He turned and made his way into the workroom.

He needed to get to work, before anyone noticed his lapse.

Yet his mind refused to focus on his work.

Instead, it insisted on speculating as to future tasks Commander Sisko might require of him.

Future missions. Similar to those he’d once been assigned by Tain – but working against the Order.

Against Cardassia.

And he might not limit his requirements to tasks.

He could instead … alter his expectations.

He could require Garak to prioritize the work he did for Starfleet personnel – mending and altering their uniforms and making any additional garments they commissioned – over his work for his other customers.

Perhaps he might require that he prioritize all such work over even the simplest, quickest repairs for his other customers.

Repairs that could be effected – and completed – within a matter of minutes.

He could expect Garak to work at lower rates for his Starfleet customers, and perhaps also for his Federation civilian customers.

He could require him to pay higher rents for his quarters and for his shop.

He could require him to leave the quarters he’d appropriated for himself after his fellow Cardassians withdrew from the station; he could require him to take smaller quarters.

Significantly smaller quarters.

Quarters without a single viewport.

That … really wouldn’t be good.

Just the idea … the walls were already starting to shift closer. The air ...

Garak closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, with limited success.

This won’t do, Garak. You can hardly serve your customers in such a state.

Garak deactivated the ‘open’ sign, locked the door, and hurried to the back room.

He stood there, at the viewport, looking out into the vastness of space.

The vastness of space that surrounded him; that kept him from home; that kept him far away from any planet at all, instead trapped him precisely where he was, on the monstrosity of a space station controlled by the Federation and Bajor.

The space station on which he was allowed to remain only on the sufferance of a despotic Starfleet commander who distrusted and disliked him.

One who knew his weaknesses.

Too many of them.

One who would take advantage of his weaknesses.

Perhaps not all at once. Perhaps he would effect changes gradually, biding his time, eventually culminating with insistence that Garak perform a particularly egregious task.

Perhaps a task that would allow him to be rid of the presence of the unwelcome Cardassian tailor-spy – or, alternatively, one that would ensure Garak’s survival and ability to complete yet more egregious tasks - at any time.

He could - at any moment - inform Garak of his next task.

A task that might not be particularly problematic in and of itself – except that it would reduce the time Garak had for his work, and it would remind him – quite unpleasantly – just who had the power on this accursed station.

His customers would notice. 

They would emulate the actions of the station commander.

Garak knew that would not be pleasant.

He hated that it had come to this - relying on the good will of a Federation commander who despised him. 

For now, Sisko thought he was useful. For now, perhaps, he would allow him to stay on this station he despised, with its demanding customers who also despised him, yet with whom he must consistently interact with impeccable courtesy - regardless of what they might say.

Regardless of what they might expect of him.

Even now, they expected too much. They expected him to complete the tasks with which they entrusted him promptly - regardless of how many other tasks he had already been entrusted with.

Doing so was impossible. 

He had been entrusted with far more work than he could complete within the allotted time even with his ability to work and focus unimpaired - which at the moment was not the case.

He couldn't work.

His hands were trembling inexcusably.

The walls were pressing in on him; pushing away the air.

The air was definitely thinner now.

As was to be expected, out in space.

There was no air in space.

He couldn’t breathe!

“You’re not … in space,” Garak reminded himself. “You’re indoors. Within the cursed station. Within your shop. You're safe …”

No. He wasn’t safe.

Not while Sisko …

Don’t think of him now.

Think of your shop. Your work. Focus, Garak.

Garak turned from the viewport and grabbed a bolt of cloth from the nearest shelf and began examining it.

Focusing on it with as much intensity as he could muster.

Trying to ignore the walls, the lack of –

“Focus, Garak. The fabric. What … what is the … fabric?”

He looked at the fabric.

Felt it.

Tried to gather his wayward thoughts.

The fabric was a thick, sturdy canvas.

Made from a Terran plant.

Dyed black in color.

Garak replaced the bolt in its place on the shelf, and grabbed another.

It was the same fabric, essentially.

The same material, differing only in color - a dark grey.

The next fabric he examined was a lighter grey; the next, dark blue of the shade the Starfleet …

No.

The Federaji.

Civilians, not just Starfleet.

A shade the Federaji called ‘navy blue’.

Garak continued examining bolts of fabric, identifying fabric type and color alike.

Gradually, the air returned.

The walls ceased their relentless approach.

Garak sank into a chair.

He was exhausted. He felt as if he’d completed every one of the strategems he knew, two or three times each.

His head ached fiercely.

He needed triptacederine.

Twenty or thirty cc should suffice.

Garak shook his head, and winced at the movement. You haven’t taken that much in months, he reminded himself. You haven’t taken any at all in … almost three days. If you take twenty or thirty cc, that really won’t enhance your ability to breathe. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Besides, he wasn’t supposed to take triptacederine at all.

Not without talking to one of the station’s medical staff – a doctor, nurse, medical technician, or counselor – to explain why he needed it; to determine whether or not they concurred.

He was supposed to … ‘wean himself off’ the medication; that was the humiliating phrase the Doctor used. As if he were a very young child, nearing the end of his nursing years, completing the transition from mother’s milk to solid foods.

Well. He wasn’t going to take any triptacederine.

Not now.

He did not need it.

Not at all.

One tablet in the morning and one tablet at night of the other medication, the hydrocortiline, were quite sufficient.

Sufficient to prevent withdrawal. Not to mitigate a … rather unpleasant headache, Garak reminded himself. His headache at the moment was quite sufficient to merit the use of extra medication.

He took out the hypospray and adjusted the control – 10 cc, not 5. He would feel no effect with a mere 5 cc.

And what if the Commander speaks with the Doctor, and asks for his suggestions as to what tasks he might assign to him?

The Doctor wanted someone to monitor Garak’s use of medication.

He hadn’t said so, to be sure, but Garak knew Bashir didn’t trust him – and didn’t want him taking the medication at all.

Sisko might order him to submit to medical scans.

Scans that might show any use of triptacederine – including any use of even a small dose he had been directly prescribed.

Garak sighed.

He put the hypospray away without taking any medication.

He was certainly capable of not taking the accursed medication.

He was!

When he needed extra medication, he was supposed to take one extra tablet of hydrocortiline.

A very low-dose tablet. Not even enough to allow him to feel the effect.

You don’t need it, Garak. You just need to get to work. Work will comprise a quite suitable distraction.

The headache will fade with time.

It really was unpleasant, though.

And he wasn’t entirely sure he could work, at the moment.

His hands weren’t entirely steady, and his focus was still not as it should be.

Well.

Triptacederine and work weren’t his only options.

He could take a break. He could rest for a few minutes, and then … re-evaluate his options.

Garak replicated a cup of hot rokassa juice and seated himself again at the table.

He inhaled the steam, sipped the juice.

He did not remove the hypospray from his pocket.

He did not remove the canister of tablets from his medical kit.

He tried not to think of hypospray or canister, pocket or medical kit.

Tried to think only of the juice.

Which was pleasantly hot.

He finished the juice.

It helped, a little.

Or perhaps it was the opportunity to sit down without expecting himself to accomplish anything.

Whatever it was, his headache faded. Not as much as he would have preferred, but enough that he could, perhaps, work.

Garak held up his hand; it was steady.

For the moment.

No more delays, Garak. Get to work. Garak picked up the trousers at the top of the first of his stacks of assigned alterations.

Starfleet trousers.

As if he needed another reminder.

That is of no relevance, he reminded himself. It is your responsibility to shorten them by 3.5 centimeters. Nothing else is of relevance.

Nothing.

Garak took out the proper thread and the proper tools, and got to work.

He didn’t look towards the shop entrance.

He couldn’t allow Bashir – whom he’d just caught a glimpse of, lurking about the entrance again – to realize that he had noticed his presence.

He had to work. Diligently.

However much he would prefer to return to his quarters.

Where he wouldn’t be observed.

Where he could – if he were fortunate – sleep.

He’d barely slept since the beginning of the ‘mission’ to Cardassia. He knew he couldn’t put doing so off for much longer. Already, his concentration was not as it should be.

Obviously, Garak. You’ve not so much as begun work on these accursed trousers.

Garak began picking out the stitches of the original hem.

He ignored the ache of his head and the stiffness of his back ... and the slight shifting of the walls he knew would begin closing in on him again at any moment.

He didn’t look at the walls at all.

Not so much as a glance.

He looked at the trousers.

Only the trousers.

*      *     *

Julian cleaned his hands and checked the chronometer.

12:27, it informed him.

Slightly early for lunch, but not too early. And he had no patients awaiting his services.

“I’m going for lunch, Jabara. I’ll be back in an hour – comm me if you need me back sooner.”

“Of course, Doctor. Enjoy your lunch,” Jabara said.

“Thank you.” Julian grabbed his medical bag and exited the Infirmary.

Garak’s shop was open.

Garak was in the workroom, cutting out a piece of fabric.

Julian hesitated.

Garak was busy – but it was almost lunchtime.

Surely he wouldn’t object if Julian asked if he might be available to join him for lunch.

Julian stepped inside.

Garak looked up. “Good day, Doctor,” he said. He sounded … subdued, and he didn’t look well. His posture was tense, as if he were fighting a headache. His eyes were half shut, his nictitating membranes completely shut, and his usual sharp intensity was completely missing.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked – and immediately wished he hadn’t. He knew Garak detested that kind of question. He should know better than to ask.

Not surprisingly, Garak wasn’t pleased.

He didn’t start yelling at Julian or order him to leave, immediately.

He smiled – the kind of smile Julian had seen him give to his most discourteous customers. “Nothing at all,” he insisted.

“Oh.” Julian hesitated. Garak’s already annoyed with you. Asking one more question probably won’t make things any worse. “It’s just – your eyes … I mean, your nictitating membranes are closed. Is the light bothering you?”

Garak promptly opened his eyes – including his nictitating membranes – and flinched. He scowled, and allowed his nictitating membranes to shut again. “Not at all,” he lied. “It is the same intensity of brightness as I typically maintain within the shop while it is open for customers. However, I will not deny that some of my customers have … interesting … taste when it comes to colors and the combinations thereof.” He gestured to the piece of fabric he still held. It was a shiny fabric in a colorful, patterned print of bright red, yellow, white, chartreuse, and purple.

Julian nodded. He could understand Garak’s discomfort. Garak was awfully picky when it came to fashion – and even he could see that the fabric was rather bright. It probably hurt Garak’s eyes dreadfully.

“Well, how about a break?” Julian suggested. “I doubt the Replimat will have been repainted in that particular pattern or those particular colors over the last couple days.”

Garak shuddered.

Julian suspected his reaction was genuine, since he promptly straightened his posture and put on a completely neutral expression.

“Will you join me for lunch, Garak? And … enhance my afternoon?”

Garak almost smiled at that. “Certainly, Doctor. Do give me … five minutes, if you will, to finish the cutting out of these … three pieces I’ve already marked. You’re welcome to … have a seat.” He gestured toward his desk chair.

Julian would have preferred to stand and watch him work, but he didn’t want to push his luck.

Garak had agreed to take a break, and to join him for lunch.

Julian could certainly manage to sit and wait for a few minutes. He seated himself, and looked at Garak.

Garak had already returned to his work.

Julian waited.

He didn’t need to wait long; Garak finished cutting out the pieces in just under six minutes.

Garak set down his tool and placed the cover over the garment and the table. “Excuse me,” he murmured.

Julian nodded.

Garak made his way to the hygiene chamber.

Julian froze.

Garak had been off the triptacederine for weeks now. He was still getting headaches, especially when he was tired or stressed, but the hydrocortiline seemed to be sufficient.

Yet now –

Don’t make assumptions, Julian. He may just be taking the hydrocortiline. It’s too early, but he really does seem uncomfortable. He might need a PRN dose.

Just then, Julian heard the unmistakable sound of water running, and the rubbing together of hands.

He looked up.

Garak hadn’t shut the door.

He’s just washing his hands, Julian realized. He’s not taking any medication at all.

A moment later, Garak emerged. He looked at Julian – somewhat uncertainly, Julian thought – and inclined his head slightly. “I am ready, Doctor. I thank you for your patience.”

“Not a problem,” Julian said, though he really didn’t merit Garak’s thanks. He’d not been patient at all.

But you didn’t call him on his use of the medication, Julian reminded himself. Which was fortunate, as Garak hadn’t taken any - at least, not while Julian had been there at his shop - and he wasn't showing any signs of having taken any. To the contrary; his slightly elevated respiratory rate and still-obvious physical discomfort strongly suggested that he hadn’t.

Garak nodded to Julian, and followed him without hesitation out of the shop – and then he stopped.

For a horrible moment, Julian thought he was going to change his mind, decide not to come to lunch, demand that Julian leave him alone.

He didn’t.

He just shut the door to his shop, activated its security program, and started walking toward the Replimat.

He was walking slowly, Julian noticed, but his gait was steady.

Soon, they reached the Replimat.

Garak stopped just before the entrance. He looked inside the same way he sometimes looked at the interior of a turbolift, when he thought no one was looking: with utter dread.

Before Julian could ask if he were all right – or remind himself Garak wouldn’t appreciate such a question – Garak put on a neutral expression, and stepped inside.

Julian looked around quickly, and led the way to an empty seat near the far wall.

Garak sat down, his back to the wall.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Julian told him.

Garak nodded shortly.

Julian stepped into the shortest queue and waited his turn.

Julian half expected Garak to leave before he returned with their lunches, his tea, and Garak’s rokassa juice, but he didn’t.

When Julian returned with their food and drinks, Garak barely glanced at him. He was looking around the Replimat as if he expected someone to jump out at him, phaser drawn, at any second.

You can’t blame him for that, not after what happened on Cardassia with Entek. 

Garak hadn't wanted to go to Cardassia.

Julian hadn’t understood that. Ever since he first met Garak, he'd known Garak disliked being the only Cardassian living on the station. It wasn’t until later that Julian learned how much Garak truly hated living on the station, or that he wanted nothing more than to return to Cardassia.

Until he'd had the opportunity to return, when he'd wanted no part of doing so.

In retrospect, though, it made sense.

Garak hadn’t been invited back to his homeworld by his government.

He hadn’t had official permission from anyone on Cardassia to return.

Julian didn't know how Commander Sisko convinced Garak to come along, but he suspected he may not have given Garak much of a choice.

He’d had no real choice about returning to the station, either.

He’d had very little time to see Cardassia at all, except that which could be seen from Legate Ghemor’s windows and from the windows of the transport that brought them there.

It would have been a reminder of what he'd lost.

Julian could see what that might be difficult for him. 

“Here you go,” Julian said, offering Garak the cup of steaming juice.

Garak looked at him blankly for a long moment, and then he blinked, inclined his head, took the cup. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

Their lunch was a quiet one.

Julian decided to let Garak take the lead in conversation, but Garak apparently had nothing to say.

Nothing at all.

But by the time he finished his juice, he looked a little better.

His respiratory rate had returned to normal, and he seemed calmer.

He wasn’t looking around as if he expected someone to attack him at any minute.

But he still didn't seem to have anything to say.

Julian waited, and ate his lunch.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” Garak finally spoke up after Julian finished his meal. “My work awaits.”

Julian looked at him. “Garak, your work can wait until you’re finished eating lunch.”

“I am finished with lunch.”

“You haven’t eaten anything.”

“If you must know, I was nibbling on – ”

“No, you weren’t.”

Garak stared at him, shocked. “Pardon?”

“Your shop smelled of rokassa juice, not of food.” 

Garak looked away.

Julian half expected him to run off without another word.

He didn’t.

But the way he looked at him …

Something was wrong.

Julian didn’t know what.

“I need to talk with you, Garak. All right?”

“Is that not precisely what you’re doing?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Certainly.” Garak’s tone was sarcastic.

He was lying, Julian suspected.

Garak had no idea of why he wanted to talk with him.

“Come on. We can talk in my quarters, if you’d rather not talk here … or … or in a holosuite. You can choose a program,” Julian added quickly, noticing Garak’s panicked expression.

“Y-yes. Yes. Certainly.”

Julian stood and exited the Replimat.

Garak followed, slowly and with obvious reluctance.

*      *      *

“You’re in luck, Doctor. Garak,” Quark informed them with avaricious delight. “I’ve got an immediate availability in Holosuite 4! And as you know, I’ve got a variety of fascinating programs for you to choose from. Garak, you might be particularly interested in a delightful new rendition of several of the best-known enigma tales by Rova Liac, produced by – ”

“That won’t be necessary,” Garak interrupted.

“Perhaps a relaxing excursion to the wilderness would be more to your liking? A tour of the Ba’atan peninsula, perhaps? Doctor, you will perhaps appreciate the similarities to –”

“No, Quark,” Garak snapped.

Julian looked at him.

Garak promptly looked away.

Julian sighed. “How about a tour of Vulcan?” he suggested. “We can see the Voroth Sea, Mount Seleya, Vulcan’s Forge, the Cheleb-khor Desert … and it’ll be warm there.”

“That would be fine,” Garak said quietly.

“Excellent!” Quark exclaimed. He held out a padd between Bashir and Garak.

Julian took the padd and read the contract.

The price was reasonable, and Quark hadn’t added any exorbitant fees in a tiny, well-hidden font.

Julian accepted the payment.

Quark took the padd with effusive thanks, excused himself, and hurried off to locate the software for the program.

He returned almost immediately. “Enjoy your afternoon, gentlemen!” he said enthusiastically, offering Julian the holosuite program rod. “I assure you, I’ve got dozens more programs of equal merit for future afternoons – or even evenings!”

“Er, thank you,” Julian said. He accepted the rod and turned to Garak.

Garak was standing nearby, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to leave, as quickly as possible.

He doesn’t like Quark’s Place, Julian reminded himself. It is somewhat crowded, for so early in the day. “Come on, Garak. Let’s get inside,” he suggested.

Garak nodded tightly, and followed.

He still wasn’t quite looking at Julian.

Julian typed in the code, and the holosuite door opened. He stepped inside.

Garak followed.

The door shut behind him.

Garak flinched.

Julian inserted the rod and started the program as quickly as possible.

The grid of the holosuite vanished, replaced by the barren soil and rock formations of the Sas-A-Shar – the desert known in Federation Standard as Vulcan’s Forge.

The environmental control system began blowing in hot air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Julian saw Garak shift his position slightly, allowing himself to stand directly in the path of one of the supply vents.

Julian looked around. He’d never been to Vulcan before, and had only seen two parts – the Cliffs of Surak, bordering Lake Yuron, and the sand dunes of Cheleb-khor – on a holographic tour at the Academy, introducing the worlds of the Federation to the new students. It was a desolate place, with only a few plants visible from where he stood, but the sand and rocks glowed in the golden-orange sunlight.

“You wanted to talk to me,” Garak said, flatly.

Julian nodded. “Yes. But ... let’s look around a bit first, shall we? It’s beautiful here. In an austere way.”

“Yes. It is,” Garak’s reply was brief, but his tone sounded almost wistful.

Julian continued looking around, examining the rock formations, trying to guess what rocks and minerals might comprise each one.

Perhaps sandstone, of some sort, for the majority of the closest formations.

Garak stood there, silently, barely looking around, not looking at Julian at all.

Julian sighed. “I don’t know what I did,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“You’re not speaking to me.” Julian said flatly. “Why? What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“No. It’s not nothing.”

Garak didn’t reply.

Julian tried to think of why Garak might be upset with him.

He’d drunk Tarkalean tea for lunch. Extra sweet, as he always took his tea. Garak didn’t care for the taste, but he didn’t seem to object too much to the scent.

It couldn’t be the tea.

And he couldn’t think of anything else he’d recently done that would upset Garak.

“Garak, just tell me!”

Garak looked at him.

Directly, this time.

“That wouldn’t be wise.”

“What? What wouldn’t be wise? Telling me?”

“I don’t know who else is listening,” Garak said bluntly.

“We’re in a holosuite, Garak. They’re private! There’s nobody else – ” Julian froze.

He knew why Garak was upset.

Garak had told him that the Obsidian Order was holding Major Kira, and where – and he had told Commander Sisko.

“What was I supposed to do?” Julian asked. “Not tell Commander Sisko where Major Kira was?”

“Certainly not!” Garak replied. He looked horrified at the idea.

“I don’t get it, Garak. Why – ”

“These rock formations really are quite spectacular,” Garak interrupted. Without another word, he started walking toward them.

Very quickly.

Julian matched his pace. “Garak. You can tell me what’s wrong. I know you can.”

Garak didn’t reply. He just kept walking, faster and faster.

Julian stopped. “I'm sorry. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” he said.

Garak took a few more steps, and then he, too, stopped. He didn't turn; he just stood there, looking out over the desert. “I … my apologies,” he said after a long moment.

Julian shrugged. “I’m going to sit down right here in the sun,” he announced, gesturing toward a nearby boulder. “You’re welcome to join me.” He sat down - and waited.

After a long moment, Garak joined him.

Julian forced himself to not look at him. Instead, he looked ahead, at the eroded sandstone formations. “I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering … that is … I wish you would tell me what you’re concerned about. You don’t have to. I promise you, Garak. You don’t have to tell me a thing. But maybe I could help, if I knew.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Garak snapped.

“You’re probably right. But maybe you’re wrong,” Julian said.

“How … reassuring.”

“Not reassuring in the least, I suspect,” Julian admitted. “But I doubt you want to hear platitudes or vague assurances.”

Garak looked at him.

For the first time that afternoon, Julian caught a hint of his usual curiosity.

“‘Platitudes’, Doctor?”

“Sayings intended to reassure someone – even though they don’t really mean much. For example: ‘it is what it is’.”

Garak raised an eye-ridge. “I see. Such sayings certainly seem ... unnecessary, as well as quite ... un-useful.”

“I know.” Julian looked at him thoughtfully – and held his silence.

Garak held his silence.

Julian glanced at him. He should continue to hold his silence. He knew that!

But he had to know.

“What do you wish I’d done instead?”

Garak stared at him as if he’d suddenly changed himself into a particularly belligerent sehlat. “I … beg your pardon?”

“Instead of telling Commander Sisko what you said. About Kira.”

“Nothing. You did what you had to do.” Garak looked at him steadily.

“You’re not angry with me for telling him?”

“I am aware of that.”

“But … you don’t want to talk to me.”

Garak shrugged, and looked away.

Julian stood. “We can go. You don’t have to stay, if you hate being around me so much.” He turned and walked toward the entrance.

Garak grabbed his arm. “I don’t,” he said.

“What?” Julian asked, turning back.

“I don’t hate being around you.” Garak nodded toward the boulder – and released Julian’s arm.

Julian sat down again. “Okay. That’s … good. I’m glad you don’t hate being around me. I don’t hate being around you, either.”

“Ah. That is … a relief,” Garak said, putting on his most sarcastic tone.

Julian smiled, and then frowned. “But you don’t want to be around me.”

“That is not what I said. Nor is it what you asked.”

“What, you don’t want to talk?”

Garak shrugged.

“We can sit here, quietly, and … watch the sunset,” Julian suggested.

“That would be … pleasant.”

Julian tentatively scooted closer to Garak.

Garak didn’t flinch, or move away.

Julian wasn’t quite sure, but he thought he saw Garak lean closer.

Just a little.

He smiled, and sat there beside Garak, in the sunlight, looking out on the golden glow of sand and stone.

* * *

Doctor Bashir sat beside him on a pleasantly warm boulder, sufficiently close to allow Garak to feel his warmth. He held his silence, and allowed Garak his own silence.

Yet he had asked to speak with him.

Asked, not demanded.

He’d made no threats. No exhortations.

And he’d honored Garak’s preference to not-speak.

Even though Bashir had specifically requested that they come here, to this rather pleasant desert, for the purpose of speaking.

Garak did not know the topic of which Bashir wished to speak.

He suspected it would not be a pleasant one.

No doubt, he wished to speak of what had happened on Cardassia.

A topic about which Garak truly did not wish to speak.

Nor did he wish to speak of the other topic about which the Doctor seemed to possess so much curiosity – Garak’s well-being.

Yet there was another possibility.

Bashir seemed to think he were angry with him. It seemed to be that of which he wished to speak.

You owe it to him to explain, Garak, he told himself. Though he had no idea as to how to begin such an explanation.

Bashir caught his gaze, and smiled. “It’s nice here,” he said.

“Yes. Yet that is … not why you wished to come here.”

Bashir shrugged. “That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not! I am perfectly capable ...” he stopped. Bashir was well aware he was perfectly capable of lashing out. “My apologies. I … I find myself somewhat … tired,” he explained. Accurately, if incompletely.

Bashir looked at him thoughtfully. “It’s not just that,” he said.

Garak looked away.

“Something … happened. With your … friend.”

“Former colleague,” Garak corrected him.

“All right. With your ‘former colleague’.”

Garak nodded, wincing at the stab of pain the movement triggered.

Bashir looked at him sharply, but he held his silence.

Garak caught a glimpse of movement at a nearby rock formation. Looking closer, he saw a small creature – somewhat similar in appearance to a s’alatis – peer at them with several pairs of compound eyes.

Garak gestured toward the creature.

It scurried backwards into the protection of the small crevice from which it had begun to emerge.

Julian smiled. “I saw it! I don’t know what it is, though.”

Garak nodded. “Nor do I,” he admitted.

“You’re safe here, you know.”

Garak looked at him, eye-ridge raised. “Is that organism considered dangerous?” he asked.

“No. Well, I don’t know, actually. Within this program, it’s safe. But I meant the station. If you’re worried, though, you should talk to Commander Sisko. Tell him who he should … Garak?”

Garak held his silence, and tried to put on a neutral expression again.

Yet Bashir had noticed his … rather unfortunate reaction to Bashir’s quite unsuitable suggestion.

“You’re not worried about the Obsidian Order,” Bashir said.

“Everyone is worried about the Obsidian Order,” Garak returned.

“Of course. Of course. But it’s … they’re not your … primary concern.”

“They’re not here,” Garak pointed out.

“You're afraid of Commander Sisko.”

Garak glared at him. “I am … my dear Doctor, I am hardly – ”

“Why? What did he do?” Bashir asked, completely ignoring Garak's admittedly less than entirely convincing protest.

“He … why, he has a reputation across the entire station for cooking most unsuitable foods!” Garak exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“What did he say to you? When he asked you to help rescue Major Kira?”

“‘Asked’ is hardly the proper term.”

“You’re not Starfleet, Garak. He can’t give you orders.”

“True,” Garak lied.

Bashir looked at him. “He ordered you to come?” he asked. “No. You could’ve just refused,” he said, not waiting for a response.

Just then, the heating system shut itself off – and the holosuite walls shifted ominously closer.

Garak flinched.

That was hardly an appropriate reaction! He was supposed to hold his place! He’d done so for years! Several tens of years, in fact!

You had the implant, then, he reminded himself. You’re useless without it.

He closed his eyes.

“You’re safe now,” Bashir said.

“No. I am not.”

“Computer. Engage safeties in Holosuite 4.”

“Cannot comply. Safeties already engaged.”

“Computer. Maintain engagement of safeties in Holosuite 4.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Thank you,” Garak said. He knew Bashir intended to be reassuring, though he really was not.

Holosuite safeties could hardly protect him from …

Well. From whatever assignment Commander Sisko intended for him next.

He had no way of knowing what - or when - Siskio would next give him an assignment.

He needed to get back to work. It was imperative that he complete the work already entrusted to him while the opportunity to do so remained.

Garak opened his eyes and stood up. “Excuse me, Doctor. I have work to do.”

“No, you don’t. You told me just a few days ago the shop has been slow. Whatever work you’ve got can wait.”

“I don’t know that! I don’t know … ” he stopped. Hold your place, Garak. You must hold your place.

“Your work isn’t going to scurry away like that little spider-trilobite-creature.”

“No, but I don’t know when I’ll have the … opportunity to work.”

“Garak, if you’re not feeling well, you should let me – ”

“No!” Garak forced himself to take a deep breath, and then another. “My apologies. It is … that is not my concern.”

“Just tell me, Garak!”

Garak shook his head.

Julian sighed. He tried to think of what Garak was afraid might keep him away from his work. 

And then he realized what it had to be: the same thing that had kept him away from his work for the last few days. “You’re worried Sisko is going to ask you to help out with another mission?”

Garak froze. He couldn't admit to that! He'd already admitted to far too many weaknesses.

“Garakk I’m grateful to you for rescuing Major Kira. So is Commander Sisko. You know that! But if Sisko asks you to do something you’re not comfortable ... I mean, that you don't have time for - just say so!”

“I cannot, Doctor!” Garak said.  “I have nowhere else to go.”

“What? You’ve got your shop. Your quarters – ”

“Those are on the station,” Garak pointed out dismally. 

“Wait a minute. Garak, what are you saying?”

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing. Excuse me, Doctor. I have my work … that is to say, I have work ...” Garak stood and fled.

“Garak, stop!” Bashir called after him. “Your work can wait five minutes.”

Garak stopped. 

Bashir was right. 

He could not accurately deny that.

“You’re saying … implying, rather … Garak, did Commander Sisko … threaten you?”

Garak looked at him.

Bashir … Julian … Julian was watching him with an expression of such utter horror that Garak was absolutely certain he’d had no idea what Sisko had said to him.

Julian hadn’t been involved.

He was the Chief Medical Officer.

He, too, had power on Deep Space Nine.

Perhaps …

No.

“You need not involve yourself, Doctor,” Garak told him.

“I’m bloody well going to involve myself! If somebody’s threatening my friend, I’m not going to just … just … ignore it!”

“He’s your commanding officer.”

“And I’m his doctor, and his Chief Medical Officer.”

Garak nodded. “I am aware.”

“You don’t have to tell me, if you’re not comfortable telling – ”

“He told me … he said … he said there are ‘certain ministers in the Bajoran government’ who want me removed. He said he ‘sees no alternative but to agree with their request.’ Unless he can show them that I … that I might be … valuable to them.’”

Bashir stared at him. “That’s extortion, Garak. That is to say – ”

“I am familiar with the term, Doctor.”

“Okay. Did he … after you agreed, what terms did he give you?”

“Pardon?”

“What did he offer you to compensate you for your services and for your loss of time for your own work?”

Garak snorted. “He implied that he would not have me removed from the station.”

“He didn’t pay you? At all?”

“He … provided me with access to quarters upon the ship, along with use of the replicator during the mission.”

“Garak.”

Garak sighed. “No, Doctor. He did not pay me for my services.”

“The mission wouldn’t have succeeded without your help.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

“No, Doctor!”

Julian looked at him. “If you’d rather not, that’s fine. I’ll go – ”

“I … I will … accompany you. But you requested that I accompany you here. Into the holosuite. Your … our … the allotted time for use of the holosuite has not yet elapsed.”

“I don’t care. Commander Sisko –”

“He … can wait five minutes. Or fifty.”

“We’ve only got … fourteen minutes left.”

“There is therefore no need to … rush.”

“Peace of mind – ”

“I thought we were in agreement that platitudes are neither necessary nor welcome.”

“All right. If you’re sure ...”

“I am quite sure.”

“All right. But after this, we’ll go talk to him.”

“Indeed,” Garak reluctantly agreed. 

Julian looked at him with his doctor expression; evaluating him. “It’s beautiful here,” he said simply. He sat down on a boulder. Not the same one, as the simulated sun had moved, but a nearby boulder currently located within the warm glow of the sun’s rays. “Join me, Garak. Enhance my afternoon,” he said.

“I would be delighted, my dear Doctor,” Garak replied.

He took a seat.

Julian put an arm around him as if he truly wished to be there, with him, despite … well.

Despite everything.

Well.

Later, they would confront the Commander.

The Commander, perhaps, would agree to ask, rather than demand, if he wished for Garak to provide his services to him and to the Federation; he would, perhaps, agree to compensate him fairly for his time and for any risk he voluntarily undertook.

Perhaps.

They would find out, soon.

In the meantime, they had almost ten minutes remaining of their holosuite time.

Garak glanced at Julian.

He was still sitting there, holding him, smiling slightly.

Garak allowed himself to relax, just a little.

And he leaned closer to Julian.

Julian smiled.

Together, they sat in the warmth of the sun and looked out over the beauty of the desert.