"But it's not as if Starfleet are requiring the Bajoran women to take one particular kind of contraceptive," said Dax. "You can't change the medical science and the basic facts over objections that aren't based in fact. Those guidelines are there for their health – can you imagine if they showed this kind of hesitancy in response to your immunotherapy trials?"
"Some people do show hesitancy to those trials," said Julian immediately.
"That's worse!"
She and Kira were standing behind him, each of them at one of his shoulders as he showed them the data from Bajor – most of the roll-out itself was being performed by the Starfleet medical officers that were planet-side, and Julian itched to get down there and start involving himself, take over.
He could, he was pretty sure, if he really wanted to. The program would be rolled out faster and with more efficiency with Julian at the helm, which was part of the reason he wanted so badly to take control, especially with how weak-willed Doctor Chandra was, rolling over whenever one of the Vedeks spoke an unkind word to him, and when Doctor Hordana kept barking over any of the Bajorans who dared imply they were anything but grateful for what Starfleet was so charitably offering them.
"It's the same medical advice we use in the rest of the Federation, and the Bajorans aren't biologically different. They're basically demanding that Starfleet offer subpar treatment," said Dax. "There's no reason for the Vedeks to misinterpret—"
"They're not misinterpreting it," retorted Kira. "Lieutenant, the Vedeks aren't misinterpreting anything – they're just not interpreting things the way you like."
"But it's not as if there's a prophecy or something, it's—"
"There doesn't need to be a prophecy," said Julian, turning to look at Jadzia, one elbow rested on the arm of his chair. "Jadzia, it's besides the point that these are how we roll out these procedures everywhere else in the Federation. We're not anywhere else in the Federation – we're not on a Federation planet at all. This is Bajor, and off the back of any occupation, their reticence would be understandable, but the Cardassians were and are eugenicists. They practised sterilisation of a great many Bajorans as a matter of course, and that's apart from the medical experimentation, the use of chemical contraceptives and abortifacients that led to fertility problems because they simply didn't care."
"I know, I know," muttered Dax, crossing her arms over her chest and pressing her lips together. He could see the furrow of her brow, see her distaste. She was angry and upset, and Julian knew it had everything to do with the two of them watching a rather cold priest reduce a woman to tears outside the family planning office. "I just… Aren't we better off giving them information instead of letting them spread misinformation? How can you say we should just stand by and listen when a Vedek is preaching that taking a contraceptive pill is against the will of the Prophets when she can't afford to—?"
"Jadzia," said Kira irritably.
"Do you think it's against the will of the Prophets?" she asked, and Kira pressed her lips tightly together.
"That's not the point," she said. "When Starfleet comes in and says, this is how things are done, with no respect for Bajoran customs, our religion, our people, it's no wonder that women don't trust it."
"But they're making up the religion as they go," said Jadzia. "You said yourself, no Vedek had said a word against chemical contraceptives before—"
Kira was beginning to lose the tenuous grasp she had on her day's patience, and her voice was markedly louder as she talked over Jadzia, "Before the Occupation!?"
"I am sorry to interrupt," said a voice from the door, and Julian turned to look at Garak in surprise. He had dipped his head around the edge of Julian's medical terminal, must have come past Nurse Jabara to do so. "If I might take up a moment of your time, Doctor?"
"Garak?" asked Julian, moving to stand, but Garak gestured vaguely for him to stay sitting, and then smiled at him.
"Dinner tonight, dear?"
Behind him, he could feel the stunned figures of Dax and Kira move: the Major stiffened, and Jadzia moved on her feet to look at Garak. Even without looking, Julian had a fairly certain idea of the undisguised but flat disgust on Kira's face, and the delight writ on Dax's.
He and Garak didn't ordinarily have dinner, and Garak certainly didn't ordinarily make a habit of dropping in midway through Julian's shift. If he came by the Infirmary at all, it was either at the very end of Julian's shift or when the place was just about empty, often coming in when the other medical staff were breaking for lunch or working in another part of the station.
And Garak had never called Julian dear before. My dear doctor, yes, my dear man, yes, even my dear, because the man was very verbally affectionate with Julian (and Julian had chosen very particularly not to interrogate in detail what the differences must be in the way the translator took the words, because Garak rarely called Odo or Quark the things he called Julian, or even Dax and Kira) but dear? He normally reserved that for young women when he was holding a door open for them or giving them directions, or for little children who chattered to him as their parents were being measured for clothes.
Julian didn't roll his eyes, but he did raise his eyebrows and tilt his head ever so slightly forward, his smile tight and forced, so that Garak could see the irritation on his face, but that Kira and Dax couldn't. Garak's answering smile was dazzling.
"If you like," said Julian. "You've been raving about that Bajoran restaurant, haven't you, darling? The Celestial Café?"
The freeze in Garak's expression was momentary, but the infinitesimal time it was present was long enough for Julian to confirm he'd managed to match Garak's blow with one of his own. Obnoxiously forcing Julian to reveal the escalation of their relationship to Kira and Dax wasn't nearly as fun if the price to be paid for it was an evening of being scowled at by other diners and eating every dish with a heavy seasoning of Bajoran saliva.
"But," said Julian, out of care for the Bajorans they'd unnerve than mercy on Garak, "if you don't mind, Garak, I'm more in the mood for Quark's."
Garak's smile became more of a smirk, even as he glanced behind Julian to Dax and Kira. "I must, of course, cede to your will, my dear."
"Cede to my will?" Julian repeated archly. "That sounds very nice. How long is that going to last, I wonder?"
"One night only, Doctor, one night only," said Garak, before giving a neat bow of his head. "Major, Lieutenant." Julian shook his head, letting himself roll his eyes, as Garak made his way out, and he turned back to the terminal.
"As I was about to say," he said, "there's no point in us maintaining the efficiency or the safety of chemical contraceptives over prophylactics or inserts when it's going to be met with this sort of resistance. The religious arguments aren't coming from nowhere, Jadzia, it's not as if the Vedeks are trying to force anybody into getting or staying pregnant, and it's nothing to do with contraceptive hesitancy – they're preaching the same concerns about fertility regiments. They're trying to protect their people. We don't have to maintain the same argument forever, but for at least for now, we should suggest chemical contraceptives only in extreme cases, and let people ask for them if they want them – if we prioritise inserts and prophylactics, where we can assure patients, doctors, and religious leaders that there's no biochemical fertil—"
"I'm sorry," said Kira. Her voice was stiff. "I can't focus on this right now."
"Julian," said Jadzia in warm, honeyed tones, and Julian sighed, turning around again in his chair to look up at them both.
Kira was standing with her hands tightly crossed over her chest, her eyes wide even though her brows were furrowed, and her mouth was a scowling line of indignation; Jadzia, of course, was bubbling over with pleasure in the face of new gossip and the enticing news of a friend's new sexual partner.
"… Yes?" asked Julian.
"You're going to dinner with Garak," said Kira flatly.
"Apparently," said Julian. "But this isn't an unheard of development, Major – you know that we get lunch together once a week or so."
Kira's eyes narrowed. "Yes," she said. "Lunch. In public. Where everyone can see you – with the end of your lunch breaks cutting it short. Not… Not Quark's. After dark. Not you and the only Cardassian on the station. And not… Not calling each other pet names."
Julian leaned back in his seat, feeling the pleasant sting and throb of his bruised arse underneath him, the reminder of Garak's hard-scaled hand marked all over his backside and the tops of his thighs. He was grateful that Garak had insisted on the dermal regenerator, but he would be loath to admit it.
"If you'd be willing to chaperone us, Major, I'd be very grateful," said Julian, widening his eyes and almost simpering. "I don't know that I'm strong enough to defend my innocence without someone to back me up."
"Ugh," said Kira disgustedly as Julian and Jadzia both laughed.
"So," said Jadzia. "Have you two had… dinner before?"
"Dinner, no," said Julian.
Jadzia's eyes widened comically, and her lips went from an O to a smile. "You mean you've not had dinner yet, but you have had—"
"Don't you think he's a spy?" demanded Kira. "Every other week you complain that you think he's threatened to kill you."
"Well, people on this station threaten to kill me all the time," said Julian. "Just yesterday you told me you'd shoot me dead if I ever ate a Jumja Stick in front of you ever again. You said I was being too fastidious."
Kira exhaled hard, beyond indignant. "But I won't actually do it!"
"Well, Major, I'm sure there are plenty of things Garak will do to me that you wouldn't," said Julian, and Kira tried to keep angry, but her face crumpled slightly, and her cheeks were burning pink as she turned her face to the side, trying to stifle her laughter.
Laughter – that was good.
"You can't be serious," Jadzia hissed, laughing even as she squeezed Kira's shoulder.
"I'm serious," he said. "But I'm also being cautious, I promise the both of you. Just because we're in bed together doesn't mean I trust him with anything more than I do over lunch."
"I don't see how you can find him attractive," said Kira.
"Well," said Julian, shrugging his shoulders. "It doesn't put me off that he's Cardassian, he—"
"No, not because he's Cardassian," muttered Kira, glancing away. "I mean— I just mean that he's, you know."
Julian felt himself frown, glancing between Kira and Jadzia. To Julian's surprise, Jadzia wasn't meeting his gaze either, her lips shifted into a smile, not an unkind one, but one he didn't expect to see, either.
"What?" he asked.
"Well," said Jadzia.
"You know," said Kira.
"I don't," said Julian, suddenly feeling very off-kilter, not exactly certain what he was meant to say, what he was missing.
"He's a bit plain, that's all," Jadzia. "Not that there's anything wrong with that – you know, Garak is like the Chief. Plain, unremarkable, but strong. I wouldn't say bland, but—"
Julian's jaw had dropped without his permission, and he was aware that when he protested, he all but blurted it out. "You just did!"
"It wouldn't matter that he wasn't handsome if he wasn't so old," said Kira.
"Garak isn't that old."
"Garak's old enough to be your father," said Kira. "Garak's old enough to be my father."
"You've never told anybody that Jadzia's too old for them, and she's old enough to be any of our—"
"She doesn't look her age," said Kira. "He does. Very obviously. I mean, doesn't it— Doesn't it put you off a little?"
Julian was aware of the heat under his cheeks, the warmth there – he was embarrassed, but he was fascinated, too, couldn't help but be interested. There was a part of him that wanted to be offended on Garak's behalf, on his own behalf, because how could anyone look at Garak and not be a bit, well, devastated?
"I don't know what would put me off," said Julian. "I like his face – he's handsome."
"He's got average features," said Kira, "and a paunch."
"He's got clever hands, a strong tongue, he's smart as a whip, he commands a room with ease, and I like his paunch. It suits him. If he was as thin as I am, I doubt he'd have such… presence."
"Presence," Jadzia echoed in a strange, amused tone.
"Presence," Kira repeated, like she was trying not to laugh.
"What now?"
"Well, here we are, saying that Garak's a sort of middle-aged dad type," said Jadzia. "And here you are, saying that that's what you like about him."
Julian's cheeks burned hotter, and he cleared his throat. "Can we talk about contraceptives on Bajor now?" asked Julian.
"Are you using contraceptives?" asked Jadzia.
Julian, scoffing, looked back to the terminal, and rubbed his fingers over his blushing cheek as if it would soothe the blood away.
"One day," said Bashir, sinking down into the seat across from him, "someone isn't going to respond too kindly to one of your provocative comments, Garak. And then, where will you be?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Garak mildly. "Who am I provoking in this scenario?"
"Not me, obviously," muttered Bashir. "Me, I let you get away with anything." His irritation with Garak was rather lovely in its way, but it was nothing compared to how he'd reacted when Garak had come upon him in the Infirmary earlier.
"I'm sure that's not true, Doctor," said Garak, patting his hand, and Bashir scoffed.
Garak had been planning to do it in front some of the other doctors, or perhaps Odo if he saw him in the corridor at the right time, but Dax and Kira had been a perfect opportunity. And oh, how young Bashir had risen to the task: he hadn't flinched, hadn't flustered, had scarcely even hesitated. More than that, he'd managed a riposte, one Garak hadn't thought to expect: the term of endearment he'd been steeled for, but the suggestion of the Celestial Café he was not. It was really so wonderful, whenever young Bashir managed to catch him off guard, which was more than most people could.
Bashir was trying his best to hide his smile.
"You ordered my drink for me?" he asked.
"I did."
Bashir examined the tall glass with interest, looking at the pale red liquid inside it, the movement of the bubbles. "What's in it?"
"That's for you to tell me," said Garak.
Bashir glanced up, meeting Garak's gaze, and then carefully put his fingers upon the glass. Cardassians didn't have sufficient oil on their skins, nor the neat little ridges, that created Human fingerprints – Garak hadn't even touched the glass, of course, but Bashir didn't know that.
He lifted it up, swilling the liquid in the glass whilst being careful not to let it touch up against the rim or spill over. The bubbles moved and shifted, rushing up from the bottom of the glass, and Bashir drew the glass closer to his face, as though he were about to scent its contents—
And then turned it on its side.
Where the drink hit the crystalline soil pieces that formed the base of the flower vase in the centre of the table, it sizzled and sent up spitting steam.
"Ah," said Garak. "You made the right decision, I see."
"It's the sugars in the bubble juice reacting with the dehydrated crystals, not poison," said Bashir. He didn't drink it, though. He poured out the rest of the glass, the whole of it settling into the vase. "I didn't believe you would poison me for a minute, by the way. What's really embarrassing about this, Garak, is that I'm performing this pageantry of thinking you would purely to please you."
"You don't believe for a moment I'd poison you?" asked Garak. "Now, Doctor, that really is—"
"Of course you'd poison me," said Bashir with a fond impatience. "But not in Quark's, in front of a hundred witnesses, and not in so pedestrian a manner as to offer me a drink. No, if you were going to poison me, Garak, I'm sure you'd do it far more impressively – you'd put a contact poison on your lips and kill me with a kiss, or dust my pillow with crushed glass to rip my throat to shreds, or secrete a poisoned pin in the hem of my trousers, a pinprick I'd never even notice until I was dead."
"What a dark and unpleasant imagination you have, young man," said Garak. He was aware of the warmth in his own voice, and made no attempt to hide it. He caught himself, at times, thinking of Bashir as a man his age ought think of a young protégé back on Cardassia prime, a creature of potential, the better to be guided, led forward, moulded into a better and more elevated version of himself.
It was not work to be done by one's own father or mother – it was more intimate than that, more savage, more cutting. It was work to be done not with the simple, familial love of one's relatives, but with the far more venomous love of one's patron – and just as one could inure oneself to an animal's venom in time, one inured oneself to that venom too, assuming one was good enough to survive.
Garak thought of Tain, and he pressed his fingers against the surface of the table, leaning back to meet Bashir's gaze.
"How was work?"
"Oh, it was exceedingly pleasant," said Garak. "A robust day's challenges, I must say – a young woman from the B'nari nebula has asked that I begin a commission for her, a wedding dress. It must contain weights about the hem of its skirts, so that it will holograph well for her wedding ceremony – and the different petticoats, of course, must have different weights, so that the skirts move in handsome waves, not merely as a clump of fabric. The ceremonies are all conducted under very low gravity conditions, you see."
"That sounds very interesting, actually," said Bashir.
"Women's dresses interest you, Doctor?"
"Only when I'm taking them off someone, usually," said Bashir. "But I like how you talk about them. You're always sarcastic about it, but it's nice to hear people talk about things they're good at, that they enjoy – you sound excited, that's all. For the challenge."
Garak had no idea how to respond to that, and he made the careful decision not to do so, instead leaning forward on the table, resting his elbows on the surface.
"Speaking of excitement, my dear, I'm told you're to be taking a holiday."
"Who told you?"
"Commander Sisko."
"Really?"
"No."
Bashir laughed, shaking his head and leaning back in his seat. "Just the usual monitoring of my subspace communications, then."
"Oh, Doctor, how immoral it would be, were I to do such a thing. How unethical – and how beyond my capabilities, being but a simple tailor."
"It's been a very long time since I took a holiday away from home," said Bashir. "I only wanted two days – Sisko insisted I take longer. What do you do, on your days off?"
"Read," said Garak. "Listen to opera, take a relaxing bath…"
"What about before DS9 – before you were stationed on Terok Nor, I mean. Does the Cardassian Military afford much leave?"
"Really, Doctor, you think Cardassians don't allow our servicemen leave?"
"I know they do, I'm just not sure how good they are. Starfleet has been criticised for its leave policies, you know, within the Federation," said Bashir, to Garak's surprise, and Garak tilted his head. It was funny that Bashir so readily volunteered criticism of Starfleet – Garak criticised the Empire's organisations, of course, but it was a rather different culture. He didn't know that he ever heard Starfleet officers criticising their own organisation – even low-ranking engineers and scientists would often defend Starfleet's policies to the point of some fury, and would bicker with their Bajoran fellows. "We tend to have workers keep to five to seven days of work, with two or three days of respite between those work schedules; further up the chain of command, individual days off are common. It's very common for command crew to go without even rest days for significant periods, if they're typically responsible for their own timetabling. On Earth, depending on the profession, a four-day work week is standard, and many people work shortened or split shifts – they work for three hours, break for three, work four more, or they only do a six hour shift for the day. That sort of thing."
"You'll forgive me for saying that sounds remarkably inefficient," said Garak, and Bashir laughed.
"It does, doesn't it?" he asked. "For a starship or a space station like this, I don't know that most of it would work – the whole thing relies on an overabundance of workers, and on certain levels of communication, continuity, you know. I don't think I could ever be satisfied, with all that time for rest in the week, but I'm not like most people – I'm…"
"Hard-working?"
"Obsessive."
"Ah. Yes."
"But for a lot of people, those days off are everything. Time to spend with their children, to spend in their community – it's not as if people never labour on their days off. It's just that their energy is very tactically saved to ensure that they're able to labour in their personal lives, not merely for their professions – and that benefits their healths, but also directly benefits their families, their communities."
"What labour is being neglected in these people's communities, that it is not being completed by professionals?"
"Well, recreational labour. You know, gardens, sports teams—"
"Why not employ gardeners?"
Bashir gave him a strange look, frustrated, but baffled, more than anything. "People like to garden," he said.
"Do you?"
"No. I'm terrible at it."
"Then what would you do, I wonder, in one of these communities?"
"Well," said Bashir, "back on Earth, I sometimes tutored younger students, or gave talks about aspects of Starfleet or medicine, or remedies, first aid. I volunteered for a while in an animal shelter – stray animals on Earth are cared for in these shelters before being rehomed. Dogs, cats, lizards, birds, pets. And I would help look after the things I used – playing tennis or canoeing, I'd help clean up shared equipment, locker spaces… If I ever retire, I think I'd like to keep up medical work in a far more diminished capacity – volunteer as a first aider, help provide community medicine, you know."
"You use the word community very nebulously, my dear," said Garak disapprovingly. "To whom is it you are serving, when you serve your community?"
"Well, other people nearby. Locals."
"How near? Are the people of Deep Space Nine your community? The people of Bajor? The people of the Alpha Quadrant?"
"It's…. It depends," said Bashir. "The people of DS9 are my community, yes. The people of Bajor might not be – but they might be to Kira, depending on the region. Or she might find herself in a community amongst other resistance fighters. Me, I might… I might feel comfortable, if I went to a non-Federation space station and went to be with other members of Starfleet – or if I found other Humans who were from English, or were Egyptian or Pakistani." He rested his chin on the top of his folded fingers, looking thoughtful, considering. "Community is about shared culture, shared values, and service to one's community."
"To strangers? Simply because you are employed or were once employed in the same work, or from the same region on Earth?"
"You're being so Cardassian," muttered Bashir.
"Prejudice," said Garak in a purr. "Prejudice and bigotry, my dear."
"I am not being prejudiced or bigoted, Garak, I am remarking on our cultural and interpersonal clashes. Do you like other Cardassians?"
"What sort of question is that?"
"You do like other Cardassians," said Bashir, ignoring him. "You like people who are like Cardassians, anyway – you like Vulcans, and you like Klingons. And you like Humans, too, so long as we're stubborn, and obsessive, and as irritating as you are."
Bashir's foot nudged his under the table, and Garak almost laughed, but he forced himself to look mildly disapproving instead, inclining his head forward. Bashir had observed him with Vulcans – when had he ever observed him speaking with Klingons, but for that incident when first they met? In Quark's, perhaps? Had Bashir watched him, and left Garak unaware?
"And why do you like other Cardassians?" asked Bashir. "Is it because of your loyalty to the Cardassian state, your love of Cardassia, because you look the same? Yes, but also no. It's about what you share – your love of Cardassia is Cardassian, and a Human's love of Earth or a Trill's love of the Trill homeworld isn't the same; you share and understand certain tastes, certain aesthetics, certain appreciations; you share culture, and you have a shared history, and you have a shared vision for the future. It's not the same for everyone, and it's not the same for every Cardassian – after all, there's still class, there's still politics, gender, sexuality, whatever, but… Community can be created when a group of people gathered share these things in common – and when that community forms in defiance of or whilst frequently overlooked by the dominant culture, it feels safe. There's comfort in it. Warmth, affection: shared values become not just that, but shared resources, shared goals, shared benefits, shared struggles, and thus everyone bands closer together."
"You're such a curious and idealistic young thing, Doctor," said Garak softly.
"Oh, yes, I know," muttered Bashir, rolling his eyes. "I'm a fool, thinking other people fundamentally want to help others, be kind."
"No, that's not why you're a fool, although you're halfway there," said Garak. "I think your philosophy foolish because, as so many people within the Federation do, you imagine that the ties that bind us to those we serve are based in that which is ephemeral: what we like, what we dislike, what we eat, what soothes us. This is what causes you to abandon that which is truly important: the greater good of your own state, or your own family. It's no wonder you think of these imaginary communities."
"DS9 is imaginary, is it?"
"No more imaginary than when it was Terok Nor. When you disappear to Vulcan, my dear, do you think the people of DS9 will notice your absence, mourn it, consider the gap in their community? Outside of your friends, do you think anyone would remember you if you never returned?"
Bashir set his jaw, which Garak liked to see. He saw that look, that pleasant clenching of the oh-so-visible muscles in Bashir's face, whenever he managed to cut him with a word.
"Not as much as they'd remember you," said Bashir. "Of course, if anyone did remember me, the worst they'd think was that I was annoying or talked too much. At least no one would celebrate my absence."
"Ah, but ironically, in being the cause for such celebration, one could argue that I am far more of a community figure than yourself."
He'd cut very deeply with that: Bashir turned his head away, and waved down a waiter to order a new drink for himself. He asked for two menus, but didn't ask what Garak wanted to drink, or even glance at him as he ordered, and the young Ferengi took his lead.
"Did you have a big family?" asked Bashir.
"I've never been married, Doctor, and I have no children," said Garak.
"No, I know, I meant… Growing up. You know, parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents…?" When Garak didn't say anything, he went on, examining his own hands, "I had a small family. Never had any brothers or sisters, any cousins, and my father's parents died before I was born. My mother's father died when I was four, but I didn't meet him or any of my mother's family until I was eight – they lived on Proxima. I used to visit them every now and then, especially if my father was going somewhere to work where he and my mother couldn't go with him." Bashir's anger at Garak was fading, and he smiled slightly, looking far away. "They have a square house built with clay, and they farm goats, mostly. It's very warm, and the air feels heavy – it's very hot in the summers, and first it's a dry heat, but then that breaks, and barsaat comes. All the rain comes down at once, for a few months, after the dry and painfully hot summer, and it's still so hot that sometimes a lighter rainfall will steam if it touches sun-hot stone, and a few more months of heat and rain… And then there's the winter, which is long. Cold. But it doesn't snow, for the most part – it's just foggy. It used to be my mother and I would alight on Proxima and ride the tram to the top of the hill, and walk the rest of the way up to the house, and where it came out from the mountainside, it would be swathed in thick clouds of grey-green fog, and you'd see the goats or my cousins come out of it like they were materialising from nowhere."
It was easy to be spellbound, when Bashir talked about something other than medicine or Starfleet's moral nonsense – Garak had, thus far, managed to get him talking about books or music he liked, once or twice about food, but it was nothing like hearing him talk like this.
"Your family are farmers?" asked Garak.
"My father is a landscape architect – he designs parks, public gardens."
My father was a gardener, Garak almost said, and didn't.
"And my mother is a journalist and a furniture historian – she's written books about architecture and furnishing design, especially about cultural intersections, between different Earth cultures, and the way that those cultures hybridise and change further on other planets. Her side of the family went to join the Proxima colony because of its similarity to where they were from in Pakistan, on Earth, although the weather was even more extreme. Proxima is mostly a Human colony, but a fair few Rigellians, too, and the furniture design since the colony's founding combines the two, you know, so she was interested in it since she was a girl. She met my father at a museum that was hosting a diplomatic conference. Most of her side of the family writes, you know – my grandfather wrote mystery novels, and a few more of my cousins are journalists. My aunt Laiqa is a translator, and she translates poetry into English and Urdu – Rigellian poetry, mostly, but she's translated some Caitian poetry, too. Her wife is Rigellian."
"Is English very like Federation Standard?"
"Yes, and no," said Bashir. "The syntax and word order is not unlike English, but it's quite significantly simplified. A lot of the language comes from some of the most common Earth languages – English and French, Mandarin, Arabic – but then there's significant Tellarite and Vulcan influence. Do you speak Fedaraji? Without the UT, I mean?"
"Of course," said Garak. He was aware he hadn't spoken in quite some time, but it was so rare that someone talked with such warmth, such distant affection, about their personal life with him – and there was no particular anecdote there, only information. Vulnerability. Bashir was too trusting with him, and it made him feel raw and tender at once, like his scales had been pulled back. "It's such a crucial language for a tailor trading within Federation boundaries. Along with a few dialects of Kardasi and one or two of the Bajoran languages, I have rather good Federaji."
"Something tells me you're holding a few languages back," said Bashir.
"My dear, why would I lie?"
"Why indeed?" asked Bashir, taking the menus they were offered. "I have English and Federaji, Urdu. I understand Arabic very well, and I really like a lot of Egyptian poetry, but I'm not very good in conversation." He opened his mouth, as though he were going to go on, and then he shrugged his shoulders.
"Your father speaks Arabic?"
"That and half a dozen other languages," said Bashir. "Both of my parents are accomplished polyglots, and they used to have a policy against UTs in the house. I was to turn mine off whenever I came home from school – and they'd test that I'd really done so my using subtle bits of language that wouldn't translate exactly. They'd be furious whenever they caught me cheating."
"What wonderfully dedicated parents," said Garak. "How lucky you were, to grow up in a home so dedicated to your education."
Bashir's demeanour was very cold. He hadn't smiled in some time, and although Garak kept his tone light and friendly, he didn't provoke Bashir with a smile when Bashir met his gaze. He just looked at him, expectant, quiet.
"Of course," said Bashir. "Community is imaginary, but family, that's real, right, Garak?"
"Precisely, my dear. Shared blood, shared homestead, these are ties that truly bind us to one another."
"I don't…" said Bashir, and then shook his head. "Your mother and father are dead?"
"My mother died in childbirth. My father died, I'm afraid, when I was as yet a young man."
"My condolences."
"Thank you."
"What did he teach you?" asked Bashir, staring disconsolately down at his menu, scrolling through it.
"Everything," said Garak, thinking of Enabran Tain more than he thought of Tolan Garak, and feeling slightly nauseated, although this distaste and unhappiness was no doubt a contagion from Bashir's mood as much as his own.
Bashir exhaled a huffed sound of unsurprise. Garak had a bitter taste in his mouth, and he decided it was best to change the subject - in the future, perhaps, he might broach more of this topic, learn about Bashir's parents, but for the time being, he wanted the Bashir who was passionate and vibrant, the better to bite into his mouth. This made Garak ache, and he wasn't ready to ache for Bashir's benefit, not just yet.
"You were raised in England?" asked Garak.
"Mostly," said Julian. "We lived either in England or Egypt when I was a young boy, often moving between the two – as a teenager, we moved around more to different planets."
"And what cuisine do you favour? The English, the Egyptian, or the Rigellian-Pakistani?"
"Pakistani-Rigellian," corrected Bashir, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Doctor Bashir. Is that superiority I hear?"
"Just alphabetical order, Garak," said Bashir. His smile had a little bit more substance, now.
"We might order a few small plates, if it suits you," said Garak. "Introduce me to some favourites from your childhood."
"Would you do the same?"
"Not tonight," said Garak. "But— Yes. If you like."
Bashir's hand moved very quickly, and Garak leaned back, expecting a blow although he had no idea why, but none came: Bashir's hand slid over Garak's on the table, and his pleasantly warm flesh, cooler than Garak's own, blanketed Garak's. He squeezed Garak's fingers, and Garak moved his hand to hold Bashir's hand in turn.
"Now, are you two ready to or…" Quark trailed off, looking down at their hands. "To, um, order?"
"Yes," said Bashir, putting down his menu.
Garak slid his thumb delicately over the side of Bashir's as he talked, gesticulating with his free hand as he gave Quark rather precise instructions, talking louder when the Ferengi seemed irritated with his specificity, and he watched as Bashir's smile settled itself on his lips again, and stayed there.
Where it belonged.
