This got a bit longer than I plan on keeping most chapters but it couldn't be helped. I also want to emphasize that while this absolutely is at the heart a Garak/Bashir story and I have no intention of diverting that course I didn't want them to exist in a romantic vacuum either. So you will see flirting, past relationships, admiration of others, even possibly hugging and or kissing (**amendment 10/4/15: THERE WILL BE OTHER NON G/B SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS INVOLVING BOTH GARAk, BASHIR, OR BOTH) I definitely want to make sure that's out in the open before going any further since not all of them will have tags in order to keep spoilers for later chapters.

Expanding on that I also think that Garak was done a great injustice by having such little interaction with other characters on the show and with this story again while the main romantic relationship is Garak/Bashir I want to have Garak knowing, interacting, and playing with others in various roles. So I guess you could say at the heart it's a Garak centric story overall. You'll also see other minor characters getting more regular time too because I like a lot of them.

That being said any and all C&C is welcome. You may catch a few references to other shows/books but aside from a few fun nods by names this isn't a crossover and won't be featuring characters from any place that's not ST or ST conceived OC. So yeah, long note is long on with the story!


Bang. That's what Garak hears first. It's a noise so sudden, loud, that it crashes through his eardrums to the very core of his cerebellum and he's astounded to find that nothing in the room has exploded. A sound weapon? Surely he thinks that's what causes his entire body to lock up tightly and nearly fall over before he regains a proper sense of balance. He catches the high pitched screams of the Ferengi and he feels a brief stab of pity before he seeks out the source of the strange noise weapon, his arms flopping abruptly, bonelessly to his sides. That triggers an immediate recall of the Bajoran woman and her weapon except that where he sees her standing, eyes blinking stunned he sees no weapon. Was she the intended target then? Is she still hearing it? Well once was certainly enough for me and if I never hear another sound like that in my life it will be too soon. But no she doesn't appear to be hearing anything instead staring down at her hand which Garak realizes just now is bleeding profusely. He sees her looking back at him with a look of impotent fury he usually only sees on the faces of his enemies- or at least those who perceive him as an enemy. Really, these are no two professions more loathed than the Order Interrogators and the tax collectors. But at least we perform a vital service to the state. Garak is certain of course that the woman clenching her jaw tightly clutching the wound is not a tax evader and that aside she called him by a different name.

Who is Aamin Marritza? That is what catches his curiosity more insistently than anything else as he's forced to push his observational skills to their limit. He feels a disapproving purse of his own lips knowing he's going to have to risk the looks for a chance to grab all at once hoping at least if Dr. Bashir takes note he won't be tempted to dissect his head. Garak draws a deep breath knowing this is likely going to give him a blinding headache later but needing to see far too many things at once. It's quick. Far faster than even the unconscious motions from his childhood and he sees it split his left eye tracking further left and his right moving further right until he's certain his visage would likely pose a fear to most children of any species and give the Bajorans yet one more tall tale to pass around about their Cardassian oppressors. He sees out of that right eyes however that the Bajorans in question are looking uncomfortably not at him but in the direction of the bar as they set their money down and make a quick exit along with the shaken Ferengi. Nothing of note, his left watching simultaneously a far more intriguing display as Leeta comes into view and he recognizes the silver flash and the faint trail of smoke from the muzzle of the gun immediately.

Garak thanks the tired old man he's become for spending so many hours whiling away time by the window of his rented room watching out at night. He studied carefully the outlaws facing each other down in the street from the safety of the blackened space over the dark alleyway. He knows that familiar flash of a gun muzzle- silver, bronze, it doesn't particularly matter. They all fire the same high velocity metallic pellets that easily tear through both flesh and bone. Primitive, destructive, but highly effective. That's what he sees Leeta holding in her hand precisely, calmly, staring down the Bajoran woman much to Garak's surprise. Interesting. I though the Prophets forbid them firing on their own. But here, he's heard spoken that the gods desert those who eschew their own kind for the lure of riches and sin. That on Westworld the gods have turned away from such evil men as who would reside here at the abandonment of all that is pure and good. This, from a street preacher he encountered at the base of Babel Tower. Which of course begs the question why he felt it necessary to ask two slips of latinum for his blessing. Garak left fully assured he was completely damned but as far as he was concerned the fact that he made it off the darkened hell ride known as the Drill of Heaven- or however the universal translator had phrased it- in one piece was proof enough that he was if anything newly baptized.

That aside, Leeta certainly seems to know what she's doing with the weapon and the Bajoran woman turns the full force of that enmity on her as Dr. Bashir rises from the table so quickly that Garak thinks he's going to flee the scene in a babbling panic. But instead he sees the doctor and O'Brien exchange a glance before his right eye catches O'Brien dash to retrieve the gun from where it's fallen tossing it to the Ferengi behind the bar. He moves quickly for the age and shape- or lack of shape, Garak amends- that he appears to be in but that's nothing compared to Dr. Bashir's easy vault over the wooden construct of the bar, one hand resting as an afterthought to the surface, his knees, his feet clearing even the careful display of bottles and glasses. Garak definitely takes note of that for no matter how many recreational holoprograms a civilian might engage in, the average human certainly does not move like that. Dr. Bashir isn't still for a moment as he follows that with a fast exchange to the Ferengi, Rom, Garak remembers, Dr. Bashir ducking down retrieving a small case and hesitating before running back around the front like normal. Oh we're far too late for normalcy here, doctor.

"Let me see it, Major." Dr. Bashir says softly holding out his hand placing himself between Leeta and her without thinking, blocking the sharp eyed line of sight. You fool, Garak wants to shout and he can already sense before he sees her other hand slowly, carefully reaching down, the dark leather wrapped hilt of a knife coming into his view. Garak forces his eyes back to focus, knees nearly buckling as the binocular vision resettles and locks into place but he quickly brings it to bear about to launch himself at her when he hears Leeta's command "Don't." It stops him. He doesn't quite know why but Dr. Bashir presses on with an almost infuriating obliviousness examining the woman's hand having set the bag down on the empty table next to him. Garak sees that gun trained not on doctor and patient but to an odd metallic point on the wall. No, that "don't" wasn't intended for you but- But the woman stops her slow subterfuge, a sharp hiss as Dr. Bashir nears the wound proper.

"She won't miss, Major," Dr. Bashir informs her calmly just as she jerks her hand back and demands he stop calling her that. Clearly Dr. Bashir seems to have little regard for anyone's titular preference.

"I won't, Kira. You know that," Leeta concurs and Garak triangulates the path, the likely pattern should the metal piece from the gun- the bullet- ricochet and he can only assume that it truly will find its mark.

So then Dr. Bashir knew exactly what he was doing. Or he didn't and that was merely a happy accident but even if he is truly as oblivious as he seems, she most certainly is not. Leeta, he realizes is far more than she appears and warrants further observation as well. Yes, now that I see you standing there holding that pistol so expertly, my feisty entrepreneur, I feel that I would be remiss in not getting to know you better. Both you and the doctor are quite the mysterious duo but you... You looked at me no differently than the rest those few seconds where you first saw me but not the next. Of course that's easily explained by anyone with a professional attitude but you mentioned North Torr. Your cook allegedly comes from North Torr but the odds of such a thing are dreadfully low. Those from that sector are almost exclusively single minded tightly knit military grunts lacking anywhere near the imagination to strike out to such a world as this. And even then those who run the stalls are typically from the eastern sector. But then how would she even know about it at all? You practically ran when I asked for the yamok sauce. Was the suggestion then a test of some sort? A signal? But how could it possibly be a signal with you there so vigorously my champion?

No, there are too many contradicting variables for him to piece together just yet so instead he settles back to observing Dr. Bashir reaching into the bag and taking out a glass bottle of clear liquid.

"I should've known I couldn't trust you," the woman- Kira practically curses as she speaks the name.

"Lower the gun please, Leeta," Dr. Bashir requests softly, his voice taking on a quieter but firmer cadence to it. He raises a finger forestalling any answer to the accusation. Leeta obeys slowly releasing the hammer.

"You've lost these two fingers," Dr. Bashir informs Kira in that same tone as he holds his hand out once more only now he moves his head slowly, carefully catching her look when she does as he asks. "Sit." He doesn't let his eyes drop from hers and she carefully takes a seat. Garak is fascinated how he holds her eyes with a near hypnotic sway but more so that she listens. But you did as well, didn't you? That same trick, that same technique. Ah, and here you thought you were special, Elim. But that small pinprick of disappointment pales in comparison to his fascination with the calm that he can see settling over Kira as Dr. Bashir guides her hand to the wooden table top to rest her wrist there gently.

Garak sees her breathing start to speed up as the adrenaline is likely fading, and he too can see that the flesh has been ripped cleanly from the first finger down to knuckle, the second at least half gone, the bleeding starting to take on an alarming level. Garak doesn't smile. The blood no longer makes him smile and it is for that reason Tain expressed concern that he's likely lost his touch. Ah, but that's where you're wrong, you know. You never did understand that it wasn't about the blood. The blood was the balm of failure, the price extracted for forcing my hand but it was never the end game.

"This is going to hurt." He hears Dr. Bashir speak those words as he removes the top from the bottle. Garak sees O'Brien hand her a napkin rolled carefully and he notices it's only the seven of them left in the room the other tables an assortment of empty plates and some vanished plates entirely but no lack of coin. He cannot imagine anyone making off with a free dinner who dare show his face again.

Kira looks like she wants to answer Dr. Bashir sharply but she takes the napkin and puts it between her mouth ready to bite down. She nods her head and he lets it pour, the strong smell of alcohol hitting Garak fast. Ah, frontier medicine at its finest. And he waits, watches, expecting to hear a scream as the first splash hits, seeing her body stiffen, jerk up, O'Brien's hands on her shoulders to hold her down. But Garak doesn't see the coil of leg muscles to rise, only the heave of her chest as her respirations increase tenfold, a sharp near silent bit back cry that he can only hear for the fast sharp second it takes to bring it back under control. It's a wonder she hasn't screamed. Is she in shock? By Gul with that injury... as much as I can only imagine it burns... And then he hears in that moment a beautiful cacophony of screams, of prayers, of cries to the Prophets that assail his memories as if he were once again standing in that filthy garrison on Bajor and he... Stop it. Garak obeys that command. Not all Bajorans scream. You know that better than anyone. In spite of himself he recalls with perfect clarity the curses, the silent defiances... the blood. Once again he has to keep an inappropriate smile from insinuating itself onto his face. Now see, Elim, it's those sorts of reactions that make people dislike you. But it's always infuriated Tain- that smile, that expression that would only grow in scope the more that it hurt, the more that he hurt. Garak rather enjoys smiling.

Not now. He doesn't allow it. The implant makes it easier to bring that grin to bear as Dr. Bashir finishes the rinse, applying some clear gel from a metal tube which much to his amazement begins staunching the bleeding in a near instant. Who is Aamin Marritza? It comes to him again soon followed by the thought that he absolutely must know, must remember because now there is some part of his mind that tells him the name has some important meaning that he shouldn't be forgetting so easily. You're slipping... haunts him again.

"I don't see the gauze," Dr. Bashir's voice interrupts him as he rummages through the bag, Kira taking the cloth from her mouth, somehow managing to look dignified while wiping her brow with the self same spit covered rag. Garak notes that Rom looks particularly defensive as he declares that Quark hasn't been particularly generous with the mop rags for the bar.

"He will be now," Leeta declares ominously as her eyes fall upon the great bloody mess pooling over and around the table. Garak allows the smile at last, a freeing feeling watching Rom scurry to the back to see what he can come up with in spite of Dr. Bashir's protests. The doctor looks up somewhat sheepishly to the lot of them as he begins unbuttoning his shirt- Garak assumes to throw together a makeshift bandage. Mmm frontier medicine, indeed. Garak debates for all of a fleeting moment averting his gaze but he'd always been taught it was far better to not stand out and he notices that no one else looks away as Dr. Bashir shrugs the gauzy linen from his slender shoulders and reveals quite to his appreciative astonishment that the golden tan extends far past that daring V of the perpetually unbuttoned shirt. Extends and blankets a tightly muscled torso, lean, strong, sinewy muscle wrapped in a smooth silken package. Your clothing metaphors are definitely improving, Elim.

But my that is quite a pleasant revelation. He continues to watch amused as Dr. Bashir waves away a whistle from Leeta whilst skillfully ripping scraps along the weave as careful as one can be when using hands and teeth.

"It may have been some time since I've seen a man shirtless Julian," Mrs. O'Brien declares as the Mister blanches, "But I still remember what one looks like. My memory isn't that bad yet."

"Come now, Mrs. O'Brien, you couldn't possibly be a day over thirty five." Garak offers the flattery knowing best to always guess a woman's age a few years lower than he assumes but even he's taken aback when she practically glows and declares quite proudly that she's just turned fifty. There's a happy crinkle around her eyes far more telling that Garak hadn't noticed before but then again, he muses, he's never seen the woman smile before. It seems he'll have to amend his earlier assessment.

"He doesn't look like a 'murderin' Cardie bastard, Miles," Mrs. O'Brien muses and Garak sees that familiar tense of shoulders he's learned too well from one of their many arguments.

"Don't let the silver tongue fool you, Keiko, they all love to hear themselves talk. Even when they're setting fire to your house and killing anything that moves." Keiko... He latches onto that part of the conversation finding the rest of her xenophobic blather far too repetitive to be of interest. A different sound than the nomenclature of those you've met so far of human origin. A different country? Continent? Tribe? Whatever humans use. Fascinating. They really do mingle their castes so feely.

"Yes, you're right. Such a dangerous criminal," she answers back and that sweet voice is another precursor to chaos that Garak has learned to detect which amazingly Kira seeming to know Mrs. O'Brien far better than he doesn't. Or if she does it doesn't concerned her but it definitely concerns Mr. O'Brien as she declares that perhaps they should call the sheriff to deal with the "dangerous Cardassian" as she walks briskly towards the door ignoring his protests. Garak follows their path out with his eyes, his ears catches the escalating argument even as they grow well out of that range.

"...and by then you'll need to decide if you're going to remain here or go off world where they can likely repair you to full functionality," Garak comes back to Dr. Bashir informing Kira as he finishes with the makeshift bandage to the wound. "You know if you stay here the only choice you have is going to Rush Valley for one of the mithril prosthetics and the treatment I need to use varies greatly after we dispense with the pain mitigation so-"

"I'm not leaving." Kira looks at Garak seeming to have little care for the lost fingers. "Not while he's still here."

"While I'm quite flattered that a beautiful woman such as yourself is so taken with me," he continues with grace despite her icy glare, "This seems to be a case of mistaken identity."

"Well of course it is," Dr. Bashir readily agrees as he puts the bottle back along with the mystery tube. "He introduced himself to me last week as a Mister Garak-"

"Not "Mister," Just Garak," he corrects the same time as Leeta does and the two of them share a somewhat startled look, she looking far more astonished than he.

Garak watches her even more closely aware that such intensity directed from him to a Bajoran female is hardly the wisest choice if he wants to maintain any semblance of a civil relationship or avoid misunderstanding but he finds that she doesn't shrink away or look uncomfortable but instead meets that look unafraid, if a bit stunned. She walks towards him and now it's he that's almost tempted to step back. Don't be foolish, she clearly means you no harm, far from it, she's looking at you like she's looking at the dead rising.

"That's what he told you." Kira's statement is part question, part reprimand, part a million other unflattering things that again, he's heard far too many times to be new and exciting. But as for what she says next... "You told me that he always sat with his back to the wall. You told me he was from North Torr. You told me, Leeta, that Marritza was the only Cardassian you've ever known who likes yamok sauce with his Sem'hal stew, and you and I both know the damn dirty snakes can change their skin to look like whoever they want!" And as Kira stands with fury Garak feels the bottom drop out as everything pulls together into a big ball of something that makes perfect sense but no sense at all.

"Major please, you've lost a lot of blood and there's-"

"It's not him!" You're lying. It's the first thing that comes to mind in spite of the insanity of it all. And that lie is spoken with such conviction of the truth in which she believes to hide Garak nearly believes it himself. He doesn't of course. In the end he knows better than to be pulled into such fantasy worlds and his mind is a fast process of how, what, when, but he sees this entire time that all these small subtle cues have been building to what these two women now argue while both believing the exact same "truth."

"Why are you protecting him?!" He watches Kira sway again, Dr. Bashir catching her this time. Leeta doesn't answer, her eyes focused frantically on Kira as if to draw any attention away from him. As if her refusal to look at him is proof enough of her words.

"Major... Kira, you need to rest and you more than likely need blood but I won't know until-"

"Collaborator!" Kira accuses the words flung fiery, fanatically. She reaches out as if to grab, to rip the mask off the face of some imagined demon just as Dr. Bashir with a feat of strength pulls her back hard.

"Right, making a medical override on this one." She looks ready to lunge, to fight him, but Garak sees her head wobble again, eyes unfocused as she tries to clear it. "And in any case I'm sure Odo will be here any moment full of questions, accusations, and all sorts of things I'd rather deal with after I get you treated, wouldn't you say?" Dr. Bashir waits for a growl of agreement, her look plainly showing this won't be over between the two women any time soon. That look is returned, not with anger but with conviction and a calm sense of self that he cannot but find admirable.

"I wasn't a collaborator, Nerys," Leeta answers with a raw sobriety drawing herself up. "I was just a woman who loved a man." And that, my dear, I completely believe. He believes that just as Kira processes, her eyes almost comically wide as she spits some Bajoran that he doesn't quite catch to hear translated. "It's not him," Leeta repeats again and as Kira whirls almost angrily half supported by Dr. Bashir, Garak catches an apologetic smile and a small shrug of shoulders as he helps her out. Of course he doesn't think he's escaped the doctor's questing clutches quite so easily but he looks forward to the next round. And speaking of escaping questing clutches...

"Well, madame, I would be more than happy to assist you in the cleanup since your partner seems to have become lost on his noble quest to find the fabled rags but if it wouldn't be too much trouble for that stew..." He says it hopefully, thinking it might divert her attention from that terribly beautiful hopeful look that she's giving him right now. It hurts. It hurts far more than he would have thought but then again he never imagined to see it again after-

"To be a Cardassian..." She rushes the words out in fluent if oddly accented Cardǎsda. He knows them of course and knows at that same moment the accent is odd not because of her heritage but because the words are spoken in Middle Cardǎsda. But any Cardassian raised properly, educated properly would recognize it nonetheless. He knows them just as he knows by that deeply ingrained concept the answering line that follows, beautifully, perfectly completing the last lines of the poem.

"...is to be at war." And he sees then from the shock of her face, from the color leaving, but really from the way she throws her arms around his neck and half sobs "Aamin, Aamin, Aamin," over and over again that it was the absolute worst possible thing that he could have said.