Heaven Forbid
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Copyright: Paramount
After making sure his five colleagues were safely reassembled, the first thing Dr. Bashir did was take Elim Garak to the Infirmary. Using the dermal regenerator to heal the bullet wound only took a few seconds, but by the way the young doctor backed away afterwards, shuffled his feet, and looked up with wide, serious brown eyes, Garak knew they were in for an uncomfortable conversation.
"I'm really sorry," said Bashir.
"Oh, that's all right." Garak made a show of casually inspecting his collar for blood. "It comes out in the wash."
"That's not what I meant," replied the human, chagrined as usual by Cardassian irony. "I don't make a habit of shooting my friends, you know."
"Glad to hear it."
"You should know that I honestly had no intention of killing you. I meant to aim there."
He gestured with his instrument at the spot on Garak's neck where the bullet had grazed him - shielded by his ridges, it was exactly the right place to aim if you wanted to avoid hitting an artery. That gave Garak pause. The cave had been shadowy, and Bashir had been standing quite some distance away.
"Did you really? Impressive. I had no idea you were so skilled with firearms, Doctor. What else have you not been telling me?"
He expected Bashir to laugh at this, roll his eyes in false modesty and change the subject to where they would meet for lunch tomorrow, but instead the younger man focused on him with a steady, inquiring look that seemed to see right through him.
"You always do that," said Bashir quietly. "Why do you do that?"
"What?" It was extremely rare for Garak to feel self-conscious, and even rarer for him to show it, but he found himself slipping off the biobed, backing away a step and adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo.
"You're always complimenting me for doing something you would do. Like keeping a secret, or – or not trusting someone, or … shooting you, just now, so that you wouldn't end the program and kill Captain Sisko and the others. You said there's hope for me yet. But on the other hand, you don't sound very proud of being who you are. You said an Obsidian Order agent has no conscience, no remorse … I can never tell how much of what you say is true, and how much is just your bizarre sense of humor. Are you really trying to turn me into you?"
Garak blushed under his scales and, for the millionth time, wished he had never sat down at Julian Bashir's table in the first place. The human's sincerity was disarming, and he hated being disarmed.
Perhaps Bashir had a point. Perhaps Garak really was trying to train him to be his equal, someone who could understand what went on in the labyrinthine darkness of his mind and not be afraid. If so, he really was becoming weak. Understanding, mutual confidence, trust – all that was for civilians. An agent of the Order should be above that sort of thing.
Garak thought of how Bashir had sat by him when the Wire had nearly killed him, listening to delusional ravings about life in the Order. Most people would never have been able to look Garak in the face after that, let alone sit down to eat with him.
"Turn you into me, Doctor? Heaven forbid."
He patted Bashir on the shoulder and walked away before the Doctor could think of a clever reply.