Bashir muses on Garak, apples, and Eden.
Eden
It's been a long morning. One of those achingly endless ones that stretch out, shoving afternoon and evening into a minute corner. The kind of morning that consumes far more than its share of space. First Miles and his chronically injured shoulder- I keep telling him to lay off the kayaking for at least four months, but alas, the noble descendent of Brian Boru refuses to be kept from his bonny river. Then, a host of Bajorans with a nasty case of Rigelian Influenza; not a particularly dangerous disease, but rather messy. Very messy. I then managed to bang out four reports to Starfleet Medical on Odo's morphogenic matrix. I'm ready for a break. A lunchtime battle of wits with Garak might not be a relaxing pastime, but it is cathartic.
There he is, at our usual table at Quark's. He's impossibly still, but not rigid- the big cat in the grass, rather than the prey listing for it. The Cardassian is draped across his chair, languidly, lackadaisically. I imagine the bustling crowd fails to notice his electric gaze sweeping through then, drinking them in. He wears the relaxed posture of the exceedingly vigilant like an impeccably-tailored suit.
An image flickers before me. Serpent in an apple tree. I blink it away. I wonder if Garak is familiar with the ancient tale? Eden, a flash of paradise. A slinky reptile with a beguiling tongue and a taste for mischief. That smirk, a half-grin, knowing and sly, as if he understands more about you than you know yourself. Eyes dancing, ripe with the juice of that ominous tree. And he does know, too, that's the rub. He tends the apple tree; he's its keeper. After all, he was a gardener. I think.
He dangles information like Tantalus' low-hanging fruit, like the Norse Idunn's youth-granting gold, like a snake's whispered promise. Just reach a little farther, just chase a little faster, just take a little bite, and you shall have it all. Why is it always apples?
He sees me, acknowledging my presence with a courtly nod of his dark head. I order red leaf tea for my companion, and after a moment of thought, request the same for myself. Tea, the garnish of the civilized, cultivated debate to come. I slide into my seat, the hair on the back of my arm raised in response to the relentless gaze of icy blue that refuses to leave my face. I suddenly feel a rush of empathy for that big cat's next meal. I idly ponder if Garak ever used those eyes of his as an interrogation tool- if they can reduce a good friend to feeling like he's on the menu, what could they do to a nervous victim already in terror of the Obsidian Order?
"So," I say with a touch more buoyancy than I feel, "What shall we argue about today? The Cardassian-ness of Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus perhaps? The political undertones of pre-space fairing Klingon Opera?"
A Ferengi waiter places our tea on the table between us. Red-tinged steam rises above the lip of Garak's cup and swirls elegantly about his nose and chin. Between the hot steam and his heavily-ridged brow, my friend looks for all the world like the slick, cunning dragon of Earth legend.
"Actually, my dear doctor," he starts, his voice winding oily towards me, "I thought you might be interested in this intriguinglittle play I picked up from your homeworld. It's called Faust."
"Faust" I repeat incredulously.
"Yes," replies Garak. "It's about a scholar who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for unparalleled knowledge." He looks up at me over a slightly-tilted head, the beginnings of a grin dancing about his lips. His grey hands wrap around the warm mug and takes a sip of the beverage. The spicy-sweet scent whiffs lazily by, a summer orchard.
I raise my eyebrows wryly and prepare for another lively debate with a serpent in a fabricated Eden over crimson, fruity tea.