The weeks passed by strangely quickly, under the new Federation regime, no matter that Federation people so disliked to call it a regime. Garak was very pleased with the variety of new people that came in and out of his humble storefront – more Humans than he'd ever seen before, more Federation vessels stopping at Deep Space Nine to work on Bajor or to collect data from the Gamma Quadrant; more Klingons, more Ferengi, more Romulans, more non-Federation traders; and more than that, occasional visitors from the Gamma Quadrant itself.

He would not call himself happy.

Happiness, from that Cardassian perspective, was instilled by hard work and loyalty in one's service to the state: he had been happiest, in that case, when he had been under Tain's command, doing the work of the Obsidian Order, not upon Bajor, but amongst his own people, where they trimmed the fat from the Empire's own chain of command.

No, it was not happiness that he found on Deep Space Nine, but there was a satisfaction. There was variety in his work as a tailor, variety in the gossip he heard and the information he gathered, and variety, too, in the people with which he spoke – in his shop, in Quark's bar, in the Replimat.

People who bought and sold information, of course, dropped into the only Cardassian on the station, hoping to trade with him just as they might with Quark or any other Ferengi; others still stepped in to trade insults or lay their critiques of the Cardassian state at Garak's door, hoping they might make their impact, or asked advice as to Cardassian culture, how they might make their impressions on Cardassian merchants or ambassadors as they made their way through to Cardassian space.

And then there were those that came to flirt with him, of course, which was always appreciated. For all there was something to be proud of in Cardassian rule, even when he had his critiques of officers' methods when poorly executed, he could never quite trust overtures made by his fellow Cardassians, and as for those made by Bajorans…

Of course, Bajorans had made their seductions of him, in times past. Young Bajoran women, now and then – more commonly, Bajoran men. Garak often found, from one culture to another, the differences in the ways different genders approached him, however many genders there might be, between them, and it interested him, delighted him, to work out those subtleties, the gendered differentials, but Bajorans, men or women, had never struck him as…

Well.

There was a reason Garak had never taken a bedwarmer, on Terok Nor, on Bajor, and anywhere else in his service of the Cardassian Empire. In the event one reached out and plucked one at one's will, they invariably accepted one's seduction because they felt they could do nothing else and retain their safety and security; in the event one was made the target of seduction, what they desired was power, protection, leverage, information.

Garak had never seen the appeal in fucking someone who showed their hatred of him on their face, but there was even less in a partner who hid their hatred, that they might execute its effects at a later time.

It was part and parcel of espionage, understanding that people often hid their true motivations, their true feelings, and it was exciting, too, engaging in its way, but being a member of an occupying force and being an outcast under another occupation – these were different things, at the fundamental level.

Doctor Bashir, of course, was a delight.

A more enigmatic one than he appeared, at first glance, but that was in no way a negative, as far as Garak saw it. They fell into the habit of getting lunch together, a few times a month and then once a week, and it became something of a highlight to Garak's routine.

There was something pathetic in that, he knew. Something he ought be ashamed of, surging at the attentions of a young Human, a Federation Human at that, and not one who might likely be turned to Cardassian loyalties – but then, it was doubtful that Garak should ever return to Cardassia, so why think of such things?

He could glean what pleasure he could, for now, and there was pleasure – and more than pleasure, there were things about Bashir that he had yet to carefully mine from him. His secrets, Starfleet's secrets, the Federation's secrets—

Bashir learned to keep his balance, with Garak's attentions. He learned to better control his tongue, his expressions: as the months passed on Deep Space Nine, he became more confident, more controlled, less trusting, more suspicious.

He wondered, sometimes, as he wondered with everyone he met, how much of Bashir's personality was real, and how much was simply what he had learned was effective in his interactions with other people – how much of his behaviour was what he felt suited to, and how much was what he felt would suit those around him? How much did he seek to please others, or to disarm them?

Bashir did not seem to fear conflict or criticism – when Garak needled at him, he responded in a Cardassian way, most of the time: he laughed, with anger or with glee, and promptly, he needled back.

It wasn't that the young man responded poorly to criticism – in fact, from what Garak had experienced in interacting with him so far, he craved it. He was used to receiving criticism, of course, from his fellow command crew – on his manners, on his tone, on the appropriate presentation of his emotion, on his clothes – and even solicited it, at times, asked for ways in which he could improve.

What he wasn't used to was being challenged, or being matched.

Garak had heard people complain about how arrogant Bashir was, particularly amongst the science staff and second hand from various of the command crew, and had heard, too, that he was boring. The first time Bashir began to regale him with an extensive anecdote of some dull debate he had won against a classmate, though, Garak had told him he wasn't interested, and Bashir had laughed, and asked what it was he found so boring about it.

"Do you think I'll be impressed, Doctor Bashir, hearing tell of a minor medical dispute amongst two doctors in training?"

"The point isn't the dispute, Garak, it's what I learned about disputing in public."

"Which was what, precisely?"

"Well, that people will tune in and out, and that what they hear without context, they'll internalise, and it'll form their opinion of you, even though it doesn't match with the truth."

"Well, that established, we might dispense with the dull anecdote, my dear, and perhaps remove it from your conversational repertoire in future." He'd patted Bashir's hand, feeling the pleasant warmth of his skin under his fingers and watching the way Bashir looked down at where Garak touched him. "Lest you allow future conversational partners to internalise that dullness as part of their opinion of you."

Bashir had sniggered, rolled his eyes, but had shown no offence, no irritation. He'd laid his chin on his hand, looked across the Replimat for a moment, and then had looked back to Garak.

"Garak," he'd said.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Being as you're such an expert in the craft, won't you regale me with a proper anecdote?"

Bashir's foot had brushed his under the table, and Garak had been unable to hold back his chuckle in the face of such venomous sarcasm – and yet when he had begun to speak, Bashir had responded with eagerness and warmth, had listened quite attentively, had even crumpled with disappointment when it was the end of their lunch hour and he had to return to the Infirmary, and had even asked Garak to walk back with him.

Bashir liked Garak. Bashir found him very impressive, and very charming, yes, but what he enjoyed about Garak was the way that Garak shocked him, the way that he provoked him, argued with him, insulted him, baited him, flirted with him, threatened him.

People found Bashir arrogant, of course, because he was – and he was arrogant because he had reason to be.

He had reason to be because he rarely found his match in medical expertise, and although he hid it well, Garak suspected that he rarely found his match in other aspects, either. He surged with excitement, with passion, when Garak argued a point of his, forced him to exhibit a critical analysis, and when Garak idly recommended an article or a piece of history he might appreciate it, Bashir applied himself as though to study, and would go through what he had thought while reading it line by line if Garak let him – which Garak did, of course.

Perhaps Garak was not happy, but he was stimulated, in Bashir's company, and more than stimulated, he often found himself enthused.

They had run into one another as Bashir was leaving the Infirmary, and Bashir had asked Garak to join him for a drink. When Garak had politely declined, Bashir had pouted out his lips and asked him more sweetly; when Garak had declined yet more politely, Bashir had dropped his pretence of sweetness, and said, "Garak, come to Quark's with me. I want a drink, and no one will bother me if you're sitting with me – my treat, and you don't have to drink alcohol if you don't want to." When Garak had been unmoved, he'd added, "And I'll commission a new shirt. Whatever you think will suit me."

This had been a very crafty offer, one that was undeniably appealing, but Garak had retorted, "Do you think it flatters me, Doctor, that you should request my company simply to shield you from other people's company? Is that what I am to you, my dear, a wall between yourself and unwelcome conversation?"

"I've been answering stupid questions from stupid people all day," Bashir had said miserably, tugging on the lapel of Garak's jacket more, it seemed to him, to feel the texture of the fabric than for any other reason, except perhaps to touch him. "Are you really going to pretend I'm insulting you by saying you're not one of them?"

"I don't believe you said I wasn't," said Garak. "If anything, all you've implied is that I'll serve as some sort of physical obstacle between you and them. To be an object, as I see it, is even less than to be a stupid person. Is that not so?"

"I'd happily objectify you if I thought it would get me anywhere," Bashir had said, and huffed out a breathless, almost laugh when Garak had given him a chiding look. "I just want to have a quiet drink with someone who actually likes me, and won't insult me by pretending I don't know anything, or bore me by asking me to explain everything."

"It was a bad day in the Infirmary, wasn't it?"

"You want me to tell you what happened?"

"I do."

"Let's start walking to Quark's, then."

Garak was sipping at his kanar, which Bashir had obediently sampled, although he'd made a face at the taste, as Bashir idly swilled his own drink, a martini, and stared into its depths.

"You know what I am," said Bashir. There was something strange in his tone, it seemed to Garak, some particular note to it that he couldn't quite label or make sense of, but he didn't say so. He waited for Bashir to clarify, and when Bashir said, "You know I'm not the same as most other Human men," Garak nodded his head. "Do Cardassians have anything equivalent to what we could call being transgender? Gender as something more fluid – our sex as something that doesn't quite fit us, that we might need to modify to fit?"

"There have been crossdressers," said Garak. "There have been women who have lived as men, men who have lived as women. I confess, we have no equivalent as you do, not that I know of." It was almost an honest answer, except for in the places it wasn't.

"Bajorans don't either," said Bashir. "We've been planning an information packet about new contraceptives that will be made available on Bajor, on DS9, too – many Bajorans distrust hormonal contraceptives, because they associate them with Cardassian medical experimentation, and they distrust implants and surgeries. They fear they'll be permanent."

Garak didn't allow his expression to change, retaining his smile, and Bashir almost rolled his eyes, but didn't.

"Well, people have been lecturing me all day about… Wombs," he muttered. "And how I wouldn't know, being a man, how sacred motherhood is or would be."

"Do you still have yours?" asked Garak, interested. "I thought men like yourself had them removed."

"Some men do, I haven't," said Bashir. "I've never had any surgery, not for that – I've been on hormonal treatments since I was a young teenager, so I never grew much of a chest."

"A simple solution presents itself, Doctor," said Garak. "You might simply have told them."

"You think they would have believed me?"

"Perhaps."

"You think they would have believed me, and still thought of me as a man, after?"

"… Perhaps," said Garak again, and Bashir took a draw from his drink. "You know, I always found Vulcan transgenderism to be a curious matter. That a species so intent upon logic and the careful control of their feelings should nonetheless take feelings of gender…?"

"Dysphoria."

"Gender dysphoria, thank you, so seriously as to streamline the process of transition in the way they do."

"They don't consider dysphoria a feeling," said Bashir simply. "Or at least, they don't just consider it a feeling. We might define dysphoria as a general unease or dissatisfaction, but as far as gender dysphoria goes, it comes with physical effects: disassociation, lethargy, greater depression and anxiety, impacts on one's sex drive, one's appetite. To put it simply, a lot of the people who have what we would call gender dysphoria exhibit symptoms we'd expect of anyone else with a hormone imbalance. Treat the imbalance, and the symptoms are, for many of us, relieved. We feel better, yes, to treat that dysphoria, but to treat it only as a matter of feelings would be illogical – and therefore…"

Garak smiled, not at the explanation itself – although it was, in its way, very interesting – but at the look on Bashir's face, the way he gestured with his hand to continue the sentence he allowed to trail off, the way he laid out his explanation so clearly, the way his lips shifted into a small smile.

"You like Vulcans," said Garak. "Don't you?"

"Like them?" repeated Bashir, arching an eyebrow. "Does anybody like Vulcans?"

"You do," said Garak, and Bashir scoffed, shaking his head and sitting back in his seat. "Curious how often you accuse me of deception, and yet now you go to such efforts to deny so banal a truth. What are you hiding, Doctor? Is there a fetish for pointed green ears and evenly bowled haircuts behind those handsome eyes of yours?"

Bashir's chuckle was soft, and almost self-deprecating. It was lovely, the way he smiled. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his seat, showed the slightest discomfort and uncertainty, but he made no further denial.

He looked past Garak, around the bar – sitting beside Morn was a delegate from the Vulcan Learning Centre, who was returning from a conference not far from Cardassia Prime; at another table was a collection of Vulcans from the merchant vessel Garak had served some months ago, five of them sipping drinks and quietly betting with one another as they passed some sort of game between each other.

"I don't like Vulcans," said Bashir, more quietly, this time. "They don't like me, anyway – I'm too excitable, too emotional. I used to find them very impressive, when I was a little boy, and when I went to school. I used to be so bored, all my life, I was bored," he said, and then huffed out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Until I was a bit older, anyway, and could take on more classes – until I went to Starfleet. I read all about the Vulcan Learning Centre, about their skill domes. Do you know about them?"

"I don't," lied Garak. "Vulcans have a very different education to that which you grew up with?"

"They have these pits," said Bashir. "Split into six or eight even sides: the student stands on the central dais, and they're forced to address multiple inputs of information, multiple lines of testing, at once. First, two or three strands, and as they improve, more than that. Mathematical equations, logic problems, literary arguments, history questions. The student's goal is to answer as many questions, from as many sides, as quickly and smoothly as possible, without error, without stumbling."

"Vulcans hold themselves to such high standard," Garak said softly. "Do you envy them, hm? Perhaps you might have fared well under Cardassian tutelage."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure," said Bashir dryly, clucking his tongue. "Do many non-Cardassians grow up on Cardassia Prime, Garak? What do you do to your children, lock them in cupboards and starve them until they don't flinch when you go for them?"

Garak smiled, and of course, he did not flinch. "Intelligent children, dear doctor, are funnelled to the education that will best satisfy their abilities, test them to their capacities, push them to improve, to evolve, to be as strong as they can and must be. Isn't that what you're talking about, when you say you dreamed of these Vulcan skill domes?"

"Maybe," said Bashir. "I don't know if I'm strong – I don't think I am, really. You complain about me trusting too much and being too soft. I suppose if I'd grown up on Vulcan or Cardassia, I'd have had that trained out of me, assuming I survived at all."

That's rather dramatic, Doctor. Why wouldn't you have survived? Garak almost asked, but Bashir was already talking again.

"I didn't want to be strong," said Bashir. "I just wanted to be satisfied, I think."

"Pushed," said Garak. "Challenged. Strengthened."

"It looked fun, that's all," said the doctor, almost shyly. "How quickly they answered questions, how much they were challenged."

"You understand, I hope, that the strength conveyed by these exercises, Doctor, is not merely a matter of exposure. The purpose of the multitasking taught to Vulcan children, I would wager, has as much to do with their self-control – their ability to control their anxiety, to retain mental discipline and focus, to compartmentalise – as much as it might their intelligence or their skill."

"And Cardassian children?" asked Bashir, leaning further back in his seat. "They're taught discipline too, I suppose?"

"Of course," said Garak. "Discipline, steel will, reasoning, obedience."

"Obedience," repeated Bashir. "Perhaps I wouldn't have done very well with that one."

"Don't tell me you were a disobedient child."

"I was a terror. Climbed everything. Stole. Swore at my teachers, got into fights. Set a gymnasium on fire, when I was a child."

Garak did his best to keep his face neutral, but surprise no doubt showed in his features, perhaps in the focus of his eyes on Bashir's face, and Bashir retained his own serious expression of calculated shame for a few moments before he glanced slyly up, his lips smirking.

"Ah," said Garak, understanding, and Bashir chuckled at his own joke, although Garak knew there must have been something in it, for him to have said it. Perhaps one of the statements was true and not the others, or perhaps they hinted toward something else unsaid – he would come to discover what he was missing, no doubt, the longer the two of them spent together.

"Were you?" asked Bashir.

"A terror?"

"Were you well-behaved as a child?"

"Of course," said Garak. "I was a very neat and obedient boy, I took my duties seriously, obeyed instructions given by my elders, conducted myself with poise and self-discipline."

"Killed in the name of the Empire?"

"Oh, of course," said Garak. "Before I was twelve, the list of my victims might have been taller than I was."

"That's not funny, Garak."

"You made the joke before I did, my dear."

"Do you ever wonder what you'd be like? If you'd have been the same person, but raised on another planet? Like… I wonder, at times, what I might have been like, if I'd been born on Vulcan, or if I…" He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "Or if I'd gone to Vulcan, later on. Say, at age ten. Would I have seemed very Vulcan? Would I be cool, logical – would I have undergone the right of Kolinahr by now, or any of the other Vulcan traditions? Or if I was raised as a Klingon, would I have excelled there?"

"It seems simple enough, my dear, to understand that if our upbringings were different, so too would we be."

"No, no, I don't mean that," said Bashir, shaking his head. "Of course I'd be different, if I was raised on Vulcan, or Cardassia, or… I just wonder if I'd be a better Vulcan, you know, than I am a Human. Or a better Cardassian. If I was the same man, the same person, but raised to a different standard – to a different set of values. Would I be better at fulfilling those than I am our own?" Bashir took a drink from his glass, and Garak watched his face with interest, studying the expression on his features, the slight smile he was so used to seeing on Bashir's face, in moments of thought. "It's different for you," he said. "Except for the exile, you're a model Cardassian, aren't you? There's no reason to think of how you might have done anywhere else. It's different, when you're not particularly good at what you are."

"Are you a poor specimen of humanity, Doctor Bashir?"

"Oh, I'm an ideal one," said Bashir. "On paper. It's once anyone talks to me that I start to disappoint."

"If it's any consolation, I find you to be quite a charming conversationalist, but for these interludes of self-pity."

"Self-pity is Human, Garak," said Bashir, finishing his drink. "I have to excel in some areas, after all. Come to bed with me?"

"I think not, Doctor."

"You needn't fuck me in the bed, you know," said Bashir. "You might fuck me against a wall, if you like. Or over a table. In your shop, perhaps."

Garak glanced down at Bashir's now empty glass.

"I'm not drunk, Garak," he muttered.

"Must I remind you again, Doctor, of the value of patience?"

"Are you taught to tease on Cardassia?"

"I believe the instinct is innate."

Garak thought about walking the young doctor back to his quarters, perhaps letting Bashir hang off his arm, but as much as rumours about the two of them spread all about the station, there remained a limit to what the two of them might freely do without Starfleet interfering.

Garak wondered if they would interfere, once he finally bedded Bashir – or, bedding aside, once their intimacy became undeniable. He rather wondered if it might serve to set Bashir against his beloved Federation, if they condemned his taboo choice of partner – if Garak drew him in close enough, would Bashir abandon his post and his people, because they forbade him a Cardassian partner?

There was a certain romantic appeal in the thought, self-indulgent as it was.

"Lunch together on Tuesday, Doctor?" asked Garak.

"Yes, please," said Bashir.

"And I'll see you at your lunch hour tomorrow, if you don't have time to join me before breakfast." Bashir faltered, looking down at him, and Garak smiled. "To measure you for your new shirt, Doctor. Unless you wish to renege on your promise?"

Bashir's smile was a lovely thing. Garak wanted to kiss it from his lips – would it taste like Bashir's martini?

"Of course," said Bashir warmly. He could exude such warmth, when he wanted to. It comforted him in the unexpected, full-bodied way the wire once had, before its buzz of relief had sunk into the natural fibre of his being. "I'll see you at lunch tomorrow, Garak. Shall I fetch you anything to eat on my way over to you?"

"Yes, my dear," said Garak. "We'll share something together, you and I. Try not to drown in your self-pity this evening."

"Try not to choke on your ego, Garak," Bashir replied as he walked away, and Garak grinned to himself, waving over a waiter for another drink. He was in need of another one, it seemed, after all.