Garak was nervous. No one could blame him; it was hard not to be at least a little trepidatious when entering an area called "the Badlands." As he had been instructed, he turned off the navigation controls of his shuttlecraft, and waited.

He sighed as he looked around at the humble craft that had been his home for the past five years. After the destruction of Terok Nor, he hadn't been sure what he was going to do with himself. He was nervous at first that someone would come after him – he had, after all, been partially responsible for the station's annihilation, which made him a traitor and a saboteur, at the very least. But after a few weeks, it became clear that no one was looking for him. There had been a lot of confusion; he was probably presumed dead. The only ones who could be sure of his role in the whole ordeal were Terrans, and they certainly weren't about to tattle on him.

That left him with the less pressing but no less difficult problem of figuring out what to do with the rest of his life. Military life was the only thing he knew. He supposed he could become a soldier of fortune, but he dismissed that idea quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was to continue in a career of violence.

One day, as he peddled aimlessly around the Cardassian solar system, he was hailed by an old man in a beat-up shuttlecraft. The man was a tinker named Morken, and he wanted to know if Garak needed anything repaired. He didn't, but he put his craft on autopilot and beamed aboard the old man's ship anyway. He was charmed by Morken's simple life. Morken, in turn, was charmed by Garak's fully equipped, military-issued shuttlecraft, complete with replicator and expanded warp drive, plus his small but nevertheless substantial pile of gold-pressed latinum. A deal was reached. Morken drove away into retirement, and Garak began his career as a tinker.

Before he departed, Morken spent a few weeks showing Garak the basics of his trade. The training was nowhere near complete enough, but it wasn't as if Garak was in any particular hurry. He spent an additional few weeks practicing the skills he would need, drawing from Morken's instructions and the manuals he left behind. He created a new name for himself as well: Liem Karag. Not the most original of aliases, but functional, nonetheless.

In the following months, he began to tentatively offer his services to any craft he happened across. To his delight, he found that his newly obtained skills were in high demand. Most of the crafts that he came across belonged to those who had no access to replicators. They were poor Cardassians mostly, fleeing their slowly dying home world, looking for a better life in the colonies, or anywhere. He avoided any craft that seemed even vaguely military.

It was not an especially lucrative career, but he wasn't looking to make money. He charged what he thought his clients could afford, which was sometimes nothing more than a hot meal. It was amazing how people treated him now that he wasn't in a uniform. He had assumed the universe was an uncaring place, but now he learned that wasn't the case. People were warm to him. They were actually happy to see him. And that was worth more than any money or power that he could ever amass.

For the first time in his life, he had the opportunity to explore other interests. He read a lot – he especially enjoyed ancient Terran literature, but would read anything he could get his hands on. He dabbled in different crafts – painting, woodworking, glass blowing, and yes, even tailoring. He eventually became good enough to sell some of his works. There was no victory he'd ever achieved that meant more to him than when he sold one of his creative endevors.

And through all of this wondrous change in his life, there was Julian – or at least, the idea of him. At first, Garak felt only intense shame at what he'd done, not only to Julian, but to the countless other victims of his past. But gradually, thoughts of Julian became more pleasant. He thought of the time in the holosuites, when Julian told him he should start a new life. He'd been so excited at the thought. Garak imagined what Julian would think of his life now, and knew he would be pleased. Proud, even. That thought got Garak through many cold and lonely nights.

And sometimes...well, he knew this probably wasn't the picture of mental health, but sometimes he talked to Julian. He'd pour them both a cup of tea and told him about new projects he was working on and interesting people he'd met. He told him about his hopes for the future, and the regrets he had from his past. He didn't really think Julian could hear him, but it was nice to say those things out loud.

It wasn't as if he tried, exactly, to change his nature. At the beginning of his new life, he reminded himself that he couldn't erase his past; he was a monster masquerading as a normal person. He instinctively knew he could never allow himself to forget what he'd done, or else he would revert back to his old ways. But in spite of what he told himself, he was changed. One day, seven months into his new life, he had a startling thought: he was happy. He approached the feeling gingerly, examined it in his mind, and found it to be true. If he did nothing more than this for the rest of his days, he could die content.

Of course, the universe wasn't about to let that happen. He received a message from Sisko out of the blue one day, three years after they had parted ways. The Terran Rebellion was now in full-force; it looked as if they might have a chance at bringing down the Alliance entirely. Sisko pretended to politely ask for Garak's expertise in Cardassian military strategy. They both knew that it wasn't a request; Sisko could track him down and destroy his little shuttle home if he wished. So Garak pretended to graciously offer his services, which is how he ended up in the Badlands, relinquishing control of his vessel and waiting for Sisko to find him.

The shuttle jolted suddenly. Shortly after, he was hailed. He answered the call.

Sisko appeared on his viewscreen. "Garak," he said with a smile. His wide, white teeth were as frightening as Garak remembered. "A pleasure to see you, as always."

"Likewise, I'm sure," Garak said. "I hear that congratulations are in order. Your army is doing quite well for themselves. The Alliance is on its knees."

"I can't take all the credit for that," Sisko said. "They've done a good job at destroying themselves with all of their infighting and ineptitude. It's almost pitiful, really. I think it's time to put them out of their misery at last. Your aide in that will be most appreciated."

"What are friends for," Garak said wryly.

Sisko laughed. "Sit tight, friend," he said. "We'll tow you to our base. Keep your navigation system offline, if you please. We value our privacy." He cut the connection.

Garak kept the viewscreen on as they made their way into the Badlands. The plasma storms that made the region so dangerous were oddly beautiful. The long columns of swirling energy pulsed with orange light; they looked like suns being spun into thread. It would make a lovely project of some kind – a painting, maybe. Or glass. He loved working with glass.

After some time, they approached an asteroid. Sisko released his tractor beam on Garak's shuttle so they could land at the large station carved into its interior. Sisko greeted him as he emerged from his shuttle. He was accompanied by a stone-faced O'Brien. Garak inwardly cringed as he remembered their last encounter. He'd threatened him at knife point in an attempt to bully Julian into staying with him.

"Welcome to our humble base of operations," Sisko said. "A bit...rustic, but it suits our purposes. You remember Smiley, of course?"

"Ah, yes," Garak said. "How do you do."

'Smiley' said nothing, although his glare became slightly more severe.

"Feel free to familiarize yourself with our station," Sisko said. "I would assign you quarters, but I think you'd be happiest in your shuttle. You will join us tomorrow in Ops at 0800. You are welcome to share our meals, which are distributed at 0600 and 1800. We do not have the power to run replicators, alas, but we do manage to eat well enough."

"Thank you," Garak mumbled. He had food enough to last a couple of weeks, which Sisko probably knew. That meant he planned to keep him longer. Much longer, even. "May I ask how long my stay here is to be?"

Sisko smiled. "Until the Alliance falls, of course," he said.

Protesting would be useless, so he simply nodded miserably in response.

Sisko clapped him on the arm. "Cheer up," he said. "With your help, perhaps it will not be so long. Come – I'll take you for a tour."

Although it was fairly large, there wasn't much to the base. Besides docking, there was Ops, a supply area, a mess hall, and quarters for the crew. Over all, there seemed to be about three hundred Terrans stationed there. It was about as charming and comfortable as one would expect a military base carved into a rock would be, which was to say not very. Still, it was much more orderly than Garak expected. This wasn't a chaotic rebel force; it was an honest-to-goodness army.

They ended their tour in Ops. "And now I have other duties to attend to," Sisko said. "I assume you can find your way back to docking."

Garak nodded and turned to leave, but Sisko stopped him. "Oh yes, and one more thing. If I were you, I'd keep to myself. There are many here whose memories of you are not exactly fond. They have all been instructed to treat you as a guest, but – well, you know how difficult it can be to keep Terrans in line." He smiled again, his teeth gleaming.

"Of course," Garak managed to say.

"See you tomorrow," Sisko said.

Garak heeded Sisko's words and made his way back to docking. He was rounding the last corner when suddenly, he saw him: Julian. His hair was longer than it had been the last time he had seen him, and he was more unkempt than Garak thought him capable of being, but his face had all of the same fine features, the same tawny skin, the same bewitching hazel eyes. He was leaning with his back against the wall, one long leg bent under him, tapping his foot – as if he were waiting for someone.

The shock of it nearly made Garak stumble. He blinked stupidly once, twice. Julian remained. "Julian?" he said, his voice thin with bewilderment.

Julian caught sight of him. He pushed himself off the wall, quickly closing the distance between them. "I've been waiting for you," he said. It wasn't until then that Garak noticed his lip was curled in a snarl. He punched Garak square in the face.

The blow caught Garak by surprise; he fell flat on his ass. Julian stood over him and laughed nastily. "What were you expecting – a kiss?"

As Garak looked blearily up at him, he realized his mistake. This was not his Julian – it was the other one.

"Sisko told me all about your little romance with my counterpart," the other Julian continued. "I have to say, my feelings were hurt. Didn't you find me attractive when we first met?"

Garak gingerly put his hand to his nose; he didn't think it was broken, but it hurt, nonetheless. "We've met?"

"You don't even remember," he sneered. "Of course not. After all, I'm sure I was just another Terran slave to you. Still, I thought I might have made an impression."

It suddenly came back to him – they had met before. This Julian had been among the first slaves that had escaped under his watch when he started his duties at Terok Nor. That's why Julian had seemed so familiar the first time they met. It hadn't been a typical stow-away situation, either. The escapees managed to over-power the overseers and steal a shuttle. Three Bajorans and a Klingon had been killed. Garak had signed the order for Julian's execution himself, but he was never caught.

Julian saw the look of recognition in Garak's face. "So you remember me now."

"That was a long time ago, Julian," he said quietly. He started to get up, but Julian kicked him in the stomach, sending him crashing back to the ground.

"Do not call me Julian!" he spat. "It's Bashir to you." He crouched down to Garak's level. "Sisko might think we can trust you, but you and I know better, don't we?"

Garak didn't know what to say to that. Not that it mattered; he wasn't capable of speech at the moment since the wind had been knocked out of him. Julian – no, Bashir – stood up again. "Don't think that anyone has forgotten what you are," he said. "I'll be watching you." He spat on Garak for good measure, then stomped off down the hallway.

It took several minutes for Garak to compose himself. Eventually, he gathered the strength to limp back to his shuttle. Once there, he went straight to his washroom to survey the damage. He winced at his reflection; it looked like he was going to have a black eye. He didn't have the tools in his med kit to heal it, but he did have a cold pack and some painkillers. He loaded the hypospray and gave himself a dose, then settled in on his sofa with the cold pack on his eye.

Well. That was Bashir, then. He had always been curious as to what the Julian on this side was like, and now he knew. He hadn't expected that they already had a personal connection. He didn't feel angry at Bashir's reaction – merely sad. He sighed. It was going to be a long few months.

Garak arrived at the strategy meeting the next morning, as he had been instructed. Naturally, Bashir was among those assembled; he glared daggers at Garak as he took his seat beside Sisko.

"That's quite a bruise," Sisko said to him as everyone got settled.

"You could have warned me," Garak muttered. Sisko merely smiled in response.

The meeting went better than Garak had anticipated. There was certainly tension – he recognized many of the faces as former Terok Nor workers – but all of the argument over Garak's presence had apparently been resolved before he arrived. It helped that the information he had to offer was genuinely useful. Bashir spent most of the meeting hunched in his seat with his arms crossed like a sulky child. Garak started to wonder what he was doing there, since he didn't seem to be contributing much. But towards the end of the meeting, he offered a few simple but brilliant ideas for an offensive move against the Klingons. He was impressed.

When the meeting was over and everyone was filing out, Bashir tripped Garak, sending him stumbling. The people remaining tittered in response, except for Smiley, oddly enough, who gave Bashir a severe look. Bashir gave them both a nasty grin before making his exit. Garak composed himself and headed straight back to his shuttle.

His presence in Ops was required only sporadically for the next few weeks. He did his best to follow Sisko's advice, keeping mostly to himself. However, he couldn't quite resist leaving his shuttle on occasion. With no work in sight and limited supplies to take on new side projects, he was bored. He used his twice-daily excursions to receive his rations as an excuse to nose around the base – particularly, to nose around for Bashir.

Logically, he knew that this Bashir was like his Julian only in looks. He only had to think about the differences between the Intendant and Major Kira to drive that point home. But still, he couldn't help but be intrigued. He wanted to know what he was like. Garak was capable of being discrete when he wanted to be, so he was able to observe Bashir fairly easily.

This Bashir, as it turned out, was about as different from his Julian as was possible. He appeared to have no friends. The sole time Garak saw him try to interact with anyone socially was when he made a pass at Sisko's mistress, a Trill woman named Dax. (She refused him at knife point.) During the strategy meetings, he was unfailingly rude and off-putting. At one meeting, he lunged across the table and attempted to strangle Smiley when he disagreed with him. He was laid out on his ass by Sisko in response; judging by everyone's subdued reactions, this seemed to be a common occurrence.

After a week of observation, however, Bashir started to notice his presence. Garak made every attempt to avoid catching his attention, but soon he realized that Bashir had begun to deliberately seek him out. He mostly stuck with things like tripping and 'accidentally' bumping him into walls when other people were around. When he happened to catch him alone, however, he escalated his attacks, punching and kicking him directly. He kept it to a blow or two at each encounter, but it still had Garak covered in bruises most of the time. Garak never fought back. He merely accepted whatever Bashir threw at him. This confused Bashir to no end; it also seemed to make him angrier.

It all came to a head one day in the mess hall. Garak had received his tray of food – a bowl of some sort of gruel, a hard fruit of mysterious origin, and a roll of bread. He was making his way to his usual table in the back when Bashir appeared by his side, taking him by surprise.

"Good evening," he said, inclining his head. In response, Bashir knocked his tray out of his hands. The clatter attracted the attention of the other Terrans. Garak felt their gazes on him as he bent down to pick it up. Part of the gruel had spilled, but there was still half a bowl left. The fruit and the bun were easily retrieved.

He stood up; Bashir knocked the tray out of his hands again. This time, there was a smattering of laughter from the others; Bashir puffed up a little at the attention. Once again, Garak knelt to collect his food. The gruel had flipped completely over, but the fruit and the bun were still salvageable. He stood up again.

Bashir knocked the tray out of his hand for a third time. This time, when Garak reached for the fallen food, Bashir stomped on his hand. There was sickening snapping sound as the bones in Garak's two end fingers broke; he couldn't help but let out a shout of pain. Bashir laughed, but this time no one else did.

Just then, Sisko entered the mess hall and noticed the commotion. He approached them. "May I
ask what's going on here?"

"Nothing," Garak managed to say. "I tripped."

Sisko gave Bashir a hard look. "Is that so," he said. It wasn't really a question. Bashir crossed his arms and scowled in response.

Sisko returned his attention to Garak. "Do you need to see a medic?"

"No, no – it's nothing I can't handle myself," he said. It was difficult to talk through the pain.

"You know best, I'm sure," Sisko said. He turned back to Bashir. "Now why don't you run along before you earn another spanking?"

Bashir looked as if he were about to explode with outrage. He managed to control himself enough to make a hasty exit, but not before giving Garak a confused parting glance.

Sisko helped Garak get back on his feet. "I told you to be careful," he said. "I can't waste my time looking out for you."

"As I said, I simply tripped."

"Then be less clumsy," Sisko said, hitting each word with emphasis.

"Of course."

"He's not him, you know."

"Yes, I know," Garak said quietly.

Sisko gave him a pitying look. "Then keep that in mind and stay out of his way." He left.

Garak left the tray on the floor, since he couldn't manage holding it with one hand. Garak didn't feel like retrieving the fruit, which had rolled across the floor. He stashed the roll in his pocket and made his way back to his shuttle. He'd lost most of his appetite, anyway.

Once he was safely inside, he retrieved his med kit. He didn't have the proper tools to mend the broken bones, so he taped his two end fingers together as best he could and hoped they would heal. He reconsidered going to the medic, but decided against it. He'd always had an irrational fear of other medics – something about other people touching him when he was at his most vulnerable.

He couldn't quite say why he was putting up with all of Bashir's attacks. On some level, perhaps he felt like he deserved it. While he was mostly at peace with his past, he couldn't help but feel he'd gotten off too easily. A common fantasy he had, especially in the first year of his new life, was that perhaps if he suffered enough and was truly punished for his misdeeds, Julian would somehow come back to him. He knew that was silly...but now, with Bashir, it was like it was coming true.

He tried to quash that thought. Those sorts of fantasies were nothing more than indulgent masochism; there was nothing that could erase what he had done. And Bashir was emphatically not his Julian. There was nothing to be gained here. He should do as Sisko advised and avoid this Bashir as much as he could until he was finally freed.

No sooner than he made that commitment to himself than the door chimed. This surprised him; he never had visitors. When Sisko needed him, he usually just hailed. "Who is it?" he called.

There was no answer for a moment. "It's Bashir," his visitor finally said.

Garak wasn't sure what to do. What could he possibly want? To beat him up some more? He didn't sound hostile, however – although perhaps that was a trick. After some internal debate, Garak took a deep breath and opened the door. Bashir was staring at his feet, looking uncertain. His hair was just long enough to fall in his eyes when his head was down; Garak fought the urge to brush it away so that he could see his face more clearly.

Garak sighed to himself. He really was hopeless. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

He looked up finally. "Why don't you fight back?" he demanded, although he seemed more exasperated than hostile. "I break your fingers and you just roll over and take it? I don't understand."

Garak didn't know how to respond. "Perhaps you would like to come in," he said eventually. "I was just about to make some tea."

Bashir gave him a suspicious look, but finally gave a curt nod and entered the shuttle.

Garak's shuttle was larger than a standard shuttlecraft, given that it was also his home. It had five sections – the cock pit, a small kitchen, a bedroom, a workroom, and a room reserved for relaxation and entertaining guests (not that he ever had any guests – he mainly used it as a storage area for his various projects, although he had optimistically purchased two armchairs for it). He left Bashir in that last room while he went to the kitchen to put water on to boil. He returned to find Bashir standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, as if unsure of whether he was welcome to sit or not.

"What do you do?" he asked as he surveyed the contents of the room. "For a living, I mean."

"I'm a tinker," Garak said. "I mend things for people. I make things as well."

"From a Gul to a junkman – that's an awful long way to fall," he said with a sneer.

Garak shrugged. "It's not a glamorous life, but I get by."

"And you think that you can just walk away from everything you've done?" Bashir said, his fists clenched. "That you can start a new life like nothing's happened? How is that fair?"

"It's not," Garak said quietly.

"And that's why you don't fight back? Because you think you deserve it?"

"Perhaps."

Garak's continued insistence on avoiding a fight caused Bashir's temper to flare up again. "If you want punishment, I'd be more than happy to give it to you! I could break your other fingers – I could do anything I want to you, and you'd deserve it. Not only because of what you've done, but for being stupid enough to let me in your home!"

"You could," Garak said evenly. "I would prefer you didn't."

"'You would prefer I – '" Bashir echoed in apoplectic exasperation. He pulled out his phaser. "I could kill you! What do you say to that?"

Garak looked down at the phaser and swallowed, but he kept his composure. "My death would not change the past," he said. "And I don't think it would make you feel any better, either."

They locked gazes for a moment. The kettle whistled in the kitchen.

"The water's ready," Garak said. "I should get it before it boils over."

Bashir blinked. He put his phaser away. "Yes, fine," he said.

Garak went to the kitchen and set the tea to brew. When he returned, Bashir was sitting in one of the chairs, his arms crossed, but he seemed more pensive than angry. Moods seemed to come and go rather quickly for Bashir.

"It's because I look like him, isn't it?" Bashir said. "That's the real reason why you won't fight me."

"There's probably some truth to that," Garak admitted as he sat down himself.

"Did you fuck him?"

Garak shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We spent a night together, yes."

"And then you sabotaged the space station, and gave up your life of power in order to fix people's junk?"

"More or less."

Bashir thought about that. "That must have been one hell of a night."

Garak laughed. Bashir looked startled at his good-natured response, but then he flashed Garak a brief, almost shy grin. "What was he like?"

"Brave. Kind. Very intelligent, although a little naïve." Garak paused. He didn't want to risk sending Bashir running, but he also wanted to keep the light-hearted tone. He decided to risk it. "And very handsome, I don't mind adding."

The gamble paid off, because this time Bashir laughed – not a sneering laugh of derision, but genuine amusement. They shared a moment of genial silence. Bashir finally uncrossed his arms and seemed to relax a little. "I'm smart too, you know," he said eventually. "I was born defective, but some Bajoran scientists thought I'd make a good test subject for their genetic augmentation experiments. The treatment worked, but it made me insane. That's why they got rid of me."

"You don't seem insane to me."

Bashir gave him a puzzled look, as if no one had ever bothered to question it. "You've seen how I am. How else would you explain it?"

"I think you're very angry," Garak said carefully.

Bashir didn't respond straight away, but was clearly giving what Garak had said some thought. He stood up and started to survey the room, examining all of the projects Garak had lying around.

"Did you make all of these things?" he asked.

"Yes," Garak said. "My main income is from repairs, but I like to take up little side projects here and there. I am occasionally able to sell some of my works."

Bashir flipped through a few canvases that were leaning against the wall. Garak got to his feet as quickly as he could and stood beside him; he hoped he could distract him before he found one particular painting, but it was too late.

Bashir stared at the painting of Julian he'd done. Garak held his breath, waiting for his reaction. "It's me," Bashir said, smiling a little. "Or – well, it's him. But it looks like me, too."

"Yes."

"I look happy." Bashir brushed his hair out of his face as he continued to look at the painting. "Was Julian a happy person?"

"Yes," Garak said. "Or, well – he wasn't very happy here. But he was resilient. He seemed content with his life."

"What did he do for a living?"

"He was a doctor."

Bashir looked up. His eyes were slightly widened in surprise; they were the same as Julian's in every way, so lovely that Garak sucked in a breath. But this was not Julian, he fiercely reminded himself.

"A doctor?" Bashir said. He looked back at the painting, snorting. "I've only ever sent people to medics." He carefully leaned the paintings back on the wall and moved on. He stopped at the cabinet Garak used to store his glass works.

"Ah yes," Garak said. "I love to work with glass. I'm limited to small pieces – to really work with the material properly, you need great big furnaces. I have a few small chambers that are artificially heated. They get hot enough, I suppose, but I think the feel of working with fire would be quite an experience."

Bashir opened the glass door and removed a figurine of a bird.

"You've found my favorite," Garak said, smiling. "It's my attempt to recreate a figurine I saw many years ago, when I was a child. In my clumsiness, I broke it – shattered right in my hand, in fact. I don't think I've done it justice. Then again, we always idolize things from our past, don't we?"

Bashir turned it over in his hands, handling it with exaggerated care. He didn't seem to be listening, but Garak continued anyway. "It took me ages to get the wings right – you have to cut them very precisely to get the prism effect. But if you hold it up to the light, you can see why it's worth the effort."

Bashir must have been listening after all, because he held the figurine up as Garak had suggested. A rainbow of light danced against the wall. His face lost its harshness as a smile of genuine delight appeared on his lips –

– and suddenly, Julian was there. Garak drifted closer, hypnotized by the transformation. His heart began to beat more quickly. "You can keep it," he said.

The sound of his voice made Bashir jump; he must have not realized how close Garak was. His fingers fumbled, sending the figurine crashing to the floor. It shattered into pieces. A horrified look crossed Bashir's face. He looked ready to bolt.

"It's all right," Garak said, holding up a hand as if steadying some nervous creature. He knelt down an started to pick up the bigger pieces. "I don't mind – I can always make another one. This one could have been better, anyway."

When Garak looked up, the look of horror had been replaced by one of shame. "It's all right," Garak said again. "I'll just sweep up the rest of it, shall I? And then we can have some tea – it should be ready by now."

Bashir seemed to come back to himself. His lip curled back into a sneer. "Fuck you," he said. "And fuck your tea!"

He stormed out of the room. A few moments later, Garak heard the front door open, and with that, he was gone.

Garak sighed. He got out his broom and dust pan and swept up the remaining broken glass. Afterward, he poured two cups of tea and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Well, Julian," he said. "That was your counterpart. What do you think?" He took a sip of his tea. "Yes, he is a bit of a bully, but I used to torture people for a living – who am I to judge?" Another sip. "Oh, I don't think he meant it – he's all bluster, my broken fingers notwithstanding. I don't think he's hopeless. I can be patient. You'd be amazed at what a small amount of kindness can do, even to people as damaged as he. After all, it did wonders for me."

It took some effort to find Bashir the next day; it appeared he was in hiding. Still, Garak figured he had to eat, so he waited for him at the mess hall. Soon enough, Bashir appeared.

"I have a gift for you," Garak said, presenting him with a padd.

Bashir nearly jumped backward, as if Garak were trying to hand him a poisonous viper.

"It's just a padd," Garak said gently. "Here, take it, please."

"But – I broke your bird," Bashir said in a small voice.

"I told you I didn't mind."

Reluctantly, Bashir accepted the padd. "What's on it?"

"I've loaded some classic Terran literature," Garak said. "Reading has become a great pleasure for me, and I thought you might enjoy it, too. I thought we might discuss the works over tea sometime."

"You want me to read what you've put on here, and then talk about it?" Bashir asked.

Garak nodded.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Garak shrugged. "You can delete the literature, if you like, and keep the padd."

Bashir stared at the padd for a long moment. Finally, he tucked it under his arm and walked away without another word. All in all, Garak thought that had gone well. He felt hopeful.

He didn't see Bashir for another few days. There was one meeting at which Garak's presence was requested, but Bashir avoided looking at him and left as soon as it was over. Garak decided not to push it. Finally one night, about a week after he'd given him the padd, the door chime rang.

Garak answered, his heart in his throat. Bashir was standing there, the padd in his hand. "Good evening," Garak said. "How nice to see you."

"So I read one – Crime and Punishment," Bashir said, waiving the padd in his face. "It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! He kills a terrible old woman, and then falls into a fever over it? If this is what all ancient Terrans were like, I wonder how we managed to become an empire." He brushed past Garak into the shuttle. "Well?" he said over his shoulder. "Aren't you going to make some tea?"

Garak smiled to himself and shut the door. "Nothing would please me more," he said.

For anyone interested, there is a bonus sex scene over at , under the pen name Seraphtrevs. :)