Summary: Over lunch, Bashir and Garak discuss the Trill reassociation taboo.
Doctor Bashir sipped his Tarkalean tea, an adorably pensive look flitting across his face. "Garak, what do you make of Jadzia's fight to break the reassociation taboo?" he asked.
"Love is an area that is uniformly difficult to police. And the rule itself has a stunning number of assumptions baked into it, wouldn't you say?" Garak smiled, knowing precisely what had brought this on. Oh, while Doctor Kahn had been on the station, Bashir had of course told him, in excruciating detail, of the awkward dinner he suffered through for Commander Dax—he had owed Garak an explanation. After all, he had canceled dinner with Garak for Dax's sake. But at the time, Bashir and Garak had not chosen the taboo itself as a topic for one of their characteristic discussions. No, of course Bashir would wait until their relationship further blossomed. "After all," Garak continued, "no individual remains the same at any given moment, particularly not individuals as vivacious as Commander Dax. Trill society might as well place a ban on all romantic relationships."
Bashir nodded, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He leaned across their lunch table conspiratorially. "I'm only telling you this because I know you can keep a secret," he said, softly, "but I think the fact that Jadzia and Doctor Kahn kept vacillating about whether or not defy that rule means their tragic separation was the inevitable outcome—I think to fight this sort of thing, you have to do it wholeheartedly."
"Of course, Doctor. People with greater conviction have been interrogated and sent to labor camps for lesser offenses. A moment of doubt is all it takes for something like this to fail in the early stages of development."
"Hm, glad I don't have any doubts about my own situation." Bashir blessed Garak with one of his radiant smiles, like concentrated sunlight.
Garak made a show of smiling back, but he knew his own smiles could never compare to his dear doctor's—Garak's were brief as the bloom of the Capellan flower and far less bright. "What sort of taboo could you possibly be thinking of breaking, Doctor?"
"Fishing, Garak?" Bashir glared at him fondly.
Garak's heart swelled with warmth. "I'm afraid fishing seems to be an activity you engage more in, Doctor. Although, perhaps you have graduated to trapping."
"Lucky for you that you're just a washed-up old queen—if I had been a honeypot, you would indeed have been trapped!"
"Doctor! I'm scandalized!" Garak put his hands up. "I assure you, if you had been a honeypot, I would have immediately had you killed."
Bashir looked down and chuckled, and Garak followed suit. But soon, Bashir looked back up to meet his gaze. "...I love spending time with you," Bashir said.
Like a handful of sand dispersing in water, a dusty blue color spread over Garak's face, the most color settling in the teardrop-shaped depression on his forehead.
Bashir cocked his head at him. "Well, aren't you going to say it back?"
"This is certainly fishing now!" Garak snapped.
"It is. Listen, I'm going to start eating the food off your plate if you don't say it." Bashir stabbed at the air with his fork.
"Threatening me, Doctor?" Garak asked. "There is hope for you yet!"
"Good. Now, say it."
"Very well." He sank into his chair just a bit, miming defeat. "I also love you—spending time with you." His and Bashir's eyes widened.
Garak barely registered Bashir asking, "Did you do that on purpose?!"
Garak stared down at the table, the colors and heat signatures all rippling together as if they were caught in a heat shimmer. When had the air become so thin in the Replimat? It seemed he could barely take in enough no matter how much he breathed. He shivered each time he drew in the air.
"...You're trying to think of a plausible lie to tell me, aren't you?" Bashir asked.
"No," came the automatic answer. With just his eyes, he glanced at Bashir, whose blatantly unsurprised expression was almost as romantically charged as a shot in the neck.
"Awww, you are!" Bashir veritably squealed and reached out and patted Garak's arm repeatedly.
"Doctor, if you insist on patting my arm, your elbow's going to end up in my food!"
"I have to do something! I can't touch my forehead to yours across the table, after all!"
Garak rolled his eyes, even though his head was still titled down. "You could take my hand, Doctor," he whispered.
Garak was rewarded with the lovely sensation of Bashir sliding his hand down his arm before intertwining their fingers and pulling their palms together.
"Goodness, my dear Julian, holding my hand above instead of below the table? How bold of you!"
"It is, I have no doubt in my heart, my dear Elim." He made their arms bounce like a partially relaxed thread dancing in a gentle breeze.
It took all of his conviction, but Garak managed to look up briefly at Bashir, though he knew that was inviting an even greater blue tide. As he contemplated how he felt more surety now than ever before, Garak stoked the back of Bashir's hand with his thumb.