"Doctor Bashir," said Doctor T'Pel, falling into step with him as he exited the conference hall, and he gave her a small smile, returning her neat bow of acknowledgement, feeling his hands twitch to go behind his back as hers were before he stopped himself mirroring her body language entirely. Vulcans, in his experience, never took that sort of unconscious mirroring as mockery in the way some other species did, but he tried to stay in good habits, in the same way he tried not to bounce his leg too obviously in public, tried to keep any stimming subtle or invisible.
It wasn't just about being perceived as weird or mocking – he just hated having to talk about it.
"Hello, Doctor T'Pel. Did you enjoy the conference?"
It wasn't technically over just yet – there was a dinner tonight with everyone invited, but all of the talks were over at least, and Julian was surprised by how much he'd enjoyed his time there. He didn't know that he'd ever enjoyed a conference so much – and it wasn't as if he hadn't presented research of his own before, or talked with people. Perhaps it was just different now that he was a CMO in his own right, a man with his own command, or maybe he was just… Different, than he'd been before.
He'd been on DS9 for less than a year, but he already knew it had changed him irrevocably, and would continue to do so.
"I believe it was a stage for a great deal of intriguing debate," said T'Pel, which could have meant yes or no, but from what Julian had gleaned from her attitude in the past three days, it was an emphatic affirmative. "I believe it is important when we hear conflicting views at such events as these, Doctor – while it is crucial that we share our learning with one another, to do so without self-examination or acceptance of criticism would be to render what all of our learning shallow and untested."
"I agree," said Bashir.
"Yes, I know," said T'Pel. "Twice these past days, I have had to advise a colleague that you were not, in fact, soon to come to blows with your conversational partner, and that there was no need for intervention."
Julian laughed, unable to stop himself, and although T'Pel of course did not smile, she raised her head slightly higher, and her green-tinged lips twitched slightly up at their edges. "Well, that was very kind of you," he said. "Stopping anyone from being the obstacle to my giving criticism – or receiving it."
"It was only logical," demurred T'Pel. She was a Vulcan doctor, a specialist in immunotherapy, particularly studying the immune responses in hybridised Vulcan and Human species, and she had responded with a lot of interest and engagement to the work that Julian had been doing on Bajor. Although Bajoran biology was not drastically different to most similar species within the Federation, "drastically different" as far as medicine went was not a great distinction.
Most of the research into Bajoran medicine had been performed by the likes of such butchers as Crell Moset, who had killed thousands of Bajorans in developing vaccines and treatments for common ailments and diseases on the planet, and had been a passionate practitioner of vivisection. Julian had seen holovideos and logs of his demeanour: he had been a warm and good-humoured man, passionately caring, and deeply devoted to his medical care – for the greater good.
How many atrocities had been committed in the name of those four words?
Julian's work was subtler, not as invasive, but he was reporting on two projects: first, on medical research into Bajoran immunology, particularly examining T-cell development and immunotherapies that better permitted Bajorans to combat certain cancers, or respond to immune problems caused by exposure to foreign bodies: to dust, to heavy pollen, to ore particulates. All over Bajor, much of the land was left barren in the wake of Cardassian Occupation, and the air quality was little better – Bajorans were a hardy people, but there was only so much a body could take.
In the second instance, he had been presenting the initial forays into Federation-style family planning options across Bajor, and he had debated very strongly in the aftermath of that presentation, as was always the case when the conversation turned to medical ethics and sociology more than pure medical data. He'd been grateful that the medical conference was hosted by the Vulcan Science Academy and had significant Starfleet-presence, but was by no means Starfleet-run – doctors outside of Starfleet had no reason to worry that criticising Federation practice, one way or the other, might hinder their promotion within the command, and they spoke a lot more freely, and Julian, of course, didn't have to keep that sort of thing in mind, so long as he didn't go utterly off the rails.
T'Pel, having seen him start an argument with an aging Vulcan doctor at the opening reception, a Doctor Lavar who had opened their conversation by criticising the premise and execution of one of Julian's early theses, had taken an interest in him.
It had been invigorating – Julian intended to keep in touch with Lavar, who had seemed very approving when Julian had argued without getting personal or walking off in a huff like another Human doctor he'd been needling forty minutes before – and T'Pel had evidently thought so as well, because the two of them had gone almost everywhere together, either backing up each other's arguments with someone else or backing up the other side.
"Do you know where you're to spend your week's leave upon Vulcan?" asked T'Pel. "There are recommendations I might offer you, if your desire is to visit our hot springs, or to engage in meditative retreat."
"I was thinking I'd take the train to Revaht," said Julian, and T'Pel examined him with curiosity, her head tilting slightly to the side.
"To Revaht?" she asked, considering it. "This is not a destination common to tourists on Vulcan. You will not find many Humans there, and nor will you find a great Starfleet presence. Revaht hosts the Vulcan Art Institute, a few minor libraries, but there is little there of note to the Federation."
"I know," said Julian, and T'Pel inclined her head.
"I see," she said. "I had noticed, these past days, your preference for non-Federation company."
"Your company, you mean," he said, and she raised her chin slightly higher, her shoulders back.
"My company among others. Doctor Lavar, of course, seems to have taken an interest in you as a potential protégé, and you engaged with great interest with the representatives from the Trill homeworld."
"I work closely with a bonded Trill on DS9," said Julian. "I want to make sure I'm prepared in the event of emergency – I worked with several Trill while I was still studying, but the symbiosis has so many subtle effects on their physiology. Apart from the crew on DS9, though, which is mostly made up of Federation species and members of the Bajoran militia, we do get regular traders through – Ferengi, Klingons, and Romulans, particularly. Our knowledge of their physiologies within the Federation databanks is limited. Cardassians too, of course, but they're…" Julian trailed off, gesturing vaguely with a powerless sound.
"Ah," said T'Pel, with apparent understanding. "So that is your primary motivation for your leave in Revaht?"
Julian frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"The old Cardassian Embassy is located there, and the bulk of the Cardassian diaspora upon Vulcan," said T'Pel simply, with approval, either missing Julian's surprise or assuming he was feigning it, and leading their walk on. "It is wise of you not to approach the current Embassy in ShiKahr, being as the exiled community largely exists away from those current Cardassian operatives. They might be uncertain of your intentions, being a representative of Starfleet. If I might offer advice, you ought speak again to Doctor Madrel, with whom you were conversing last night about kanar. She spoke approvingly to me of the comments you made about dermatological diversity on the second day, and how obvious it was that you were familiar with Rigellian custom and skincare, more intimately than is common; she would likely counsel in your favour."
"I'll take that advice, Doctor," said Julian. "Thank you."
"Even if they are not forthcoming with prodigious resources," said T'Pel, "it is likely that if you mention your research upon Bajor, and the section of your immune study devoted to the Bajoran-Cardassian children, particularly those with breathing ailments, they will help in that regard. The Vulcan-Cardassian species mix can exacerbate some breathing issues and immunosensitivity, particularly to extremes of humidity and to dust particulates or contaminants, as seems to be the case between that of Bajorans and Cardassians, albeit to a more extreme extent."
"I'm grateful to speak to anyone who doesn't just brush Cardassian medical care off as undeserved," murmured Julian. "None of the Cardassian orphans left on Bajor asked to be left there, and the Cardassians still in exile on Bajor and the nearby Federation planets… or on Deep Space Nine, well. They're my responsibility, as much as any other species."
T'Pel nodded her approval. "Would you like to, as you mentioned, visit the Vulcan Learning Centre?"
"You're not tired of my company after our long weekend?"
"Any fatigue I have experienced as a result of your company, Doctor Bashir, will no doubt be ameliorated observing your failure within a Vulcan skill dome."
"Now, Doctor T'Pel," said Julian. "That almost sounds like the infamous Vulcan ego showing through."
"Vulcans are not in possession of such a thing, Doctor," said T'Pel mildly. "As well you know."
"Oh, yes, which has to be true," said Julian. "Vulcans can't tell lies, after all."
When she arched an eyebrow at him, he grinned, and he let her lead the way.
"Mr Garak."
"Good evening, Doctor Girani," said Garak pleasantly, not showing his surprise on his face.
He had not seen Doctor Girani in his shop since before the Cardassians had abandoned Terok Nor – under the Cardassian force, she had been, like any of the ore-workers, little better than an indentured labourer upon the station, despite her medical training, and while she had never been impolite or rude to Garak through the course of their shared time upon Terok Nor, he had only thought it natural that she should stop frequenting his business, when she was no longer forced to do so.
He could see that she had two dresses over her arm, and he knew at a glance that they were not the doctor's own, but two belonging to her wife. Garak had measured Girani Aroya for a dress only once before – he remembered how quiet the two of them had been in his shop. Dukat had insisted, in his insidious and implicatory way, on setting credit aside for each of them, being such prime examples of Bajoran beauty, and they had come as wives.
He still remembered how unsettled and stiff they were throughout the whole of the encounter, no doubt waiting for Garak to make a salacious comment about their marriage to one another, or suggest some further discount.
Just before they had left, he had quietly advised them that as unsettling as the gesture was, this show of force was to benefit Dukat's ego, that he could point to them in public and say how well he treated them – that he doubted it was any consolation, but that based on his own estimates of Dukat's character, this was not a mounting seduction on his part.
They'd both stared at him, said nothing before they'd left. When Doctor Girani had returned some months later with a uniform in need of repair, she'd thanked Garak for his past sartorial advice – a legate had been browsing fabrics as she picked up her order – and it had been the last words they'd spoken to one another.
"Adjustments for your wife?" Garak asked when Girani was quiet, and Girani looked down at the dresses in their hanging bag, giving a nod and passing them over by the hanger.
"They just need rehemming – we went to her mother's home for a few weeks, and some of the hems are frayed or have come loose."
"Of course. Would you like me to raise the skirts?" Opening the bag to get a better look at what he was working with, he ran his hand under one of the skirts, touching over the fraying at the bottom. It was very minor damage, of course, and would be easily repaired – there were one or two tiny tears that he'd want to carefully repair, but where the hem was loose at the very base of the skirt, it would just be a matter of folding over the fabric and making a new seam. When Girani looked hesitant, he said, "Talk to Mrs Girani about it, Doctor, and let me know tomorrow, but for further returns to the planet, I might put in a magnet fastening here, or here… Unobtrusive and unnoticed when she's wearing them upon the station, but when she's on Bajor or when she simply desires a shorter skirt, she might fold it up like so, and shorten the skirt. I know these dresses were her mother's, of course, so that sort of middle ground might be preferable to shortening them permanently."
"You remembered that," said Girani. "That they were her mother's."
"What sort of service might I offer, Doctor, if I didn't readily recollect the details of my patrons?"
"We've not been your patrons for some time," said Girani.
Often, when Bajorans looked at Garak, he could see a sort of wild, frenzied hatred behind their eyes. Even if it did not show in their temper (as it did with Major Kira) or in anxiety (as it did with some of the junior members of the Bajoran militia on the station, who all but hid behind Odo whenever Garak stopped to speak with him), he could see the energy, the thrumming heart of their loathing for his people, could feel it, as surely as one of their Vedeks might feel someone's pagh.
He did not blame them for it. It was only natural to hate a face that, among so many others like it, had raped and pillaged your homeworld, had destroyed your freedom, murdered hundreds of thousands of your countrymen, made you into a rape victim, an invalid, a survivor of atrocities, a terrorist, a killer, a refugee.
Yes, hatred was natural – it unnerved him that he saw none in the face of Doctor Girani.
He didn't know that he had ever seen it in her face before, for he had seen only fear and caution, but he had never before looked at her so plainly in the face, never had she made such easy eye contact with him.
"You," she said, "and Doctor Bashir. The two of you are… involved."
Garak gently closed the bag with Mrs Girani's dresses inside, and he looked at the doctor expectantly. "Yes," he said finally.
She nodded. "You… You'll be offended if I say you're not like the other Cardassians."
"You're very astute, Doctor," said Garak.
"You won't be offended if I say you're not like Dukat?"
Garak laughed. It was a soft one, but the sound took Doctor Girani by surprise, and she leaned back – she was such a serious woman, and yet she always made herself so small, almost unobtrusive, when she was inside Garak's shop in the past. It seemed in the moment, however, that she was setting that aside. "How could I possibly, my dear?"
"You treat the doctor well?"
"As well as he treats me."
He almost wanted to ask if this had changed her mind about him, about Cardassians – was it really so simple? To see a Human sleep with a Cardassian, did it truly prompt in her an empathy for the Cardassians, rather than a revulsion with Humans? How could that be so?
"Doctor Bashir seems more naïve than he really is," said Doctor Girani. "It feels like he puts it on for other people's sake, sometimes."
Garak considered this, watching the way Girani studiously examined some fabric samples on his desk.
"Is it other people he puts it on for," asked Garak in sly tones, "or other Humans? Other Federaji – other Starfleet officers?"
Girani's smile was a small, tight thing. He had never been on the receiving end of it before – it was ordinarily reserved only for herself, or for other Bajorans – and he felt rather honoured by the handsome sight.
"Dukat would never understand the difference," said Girani.
"No," agreed Garak. "I shall start the alterations tomorrow evening or perhaps the next night, as I have something of a backlog – do let me know how you feel about the magnetic fastenings. They would be marginally more expensive, but I can even design some that wouldn't be permanently stitched into the dress."
"Thank you, Mr Garak, Aroya or I will come in tomorrow. I have a few uniforms that need letting out, too, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
Garak didn't have a great many Bajoran clients, and almost none of them were members of the militia, even now. He smiled, gave a polite bow of his head. "It would be no trouble at all, my dear. I hope your workload is not too heavy on your shoulders, with our Doctor Bashir so far from home."
"Oh, we'll muddle through," said Girani, giving him a smile too square to be friendly, but flattering in its effort, and she stepped out.
Garak looked after her for a few moments, allowing himself to be distantly stunned, and then turned back to his alterations.
When Julian approached Doctor Madrel the next morning, she was just getting up from her breakfast with a Vulcan colleague at the café in the centre, and she examined Julian with interest. "Doctor Bashir?" she'd asked. "Might I help you?"
There had been only a handful of Cardassians at the conference, and none of them had presented, but Julian had noticed that but for the pair who had come from Cardassia II, they spoke with a cadence he'd never heard in Cardassians before – they were as emotive and free with their criticism as any Cardassians were, but there was a flatness and a bluntness in some of their speech that he normally heard only in Vulcans and Romulans.
"Please, Doctor Madrel, say no if it's any imposition, but I was hoping to speak with some Cardassians in Revaht about some medical data on Cardassian physiology."
If he wasn't used to his interactions with Garak, and if he hadn't spoken to any of the other Cardassians that passed through DS9, he might be forgiven for thinking that Doctor Madrel's expression was open and unguarded, but he could see that wasn't so. She was smiling just slightly, her eye ridges raised in open expectation – in a Cardassian, the expression was as guarded as a scowl and crossed arms might be in a Human or a Trill.
"I entirely understand why so many Cardassians are reluctant to share information with Starfleet or the centralised Federation knowledge banks," said Julian. "But Doctor T'Pel mentioned in regards to my current immunotherapy project that I might be able to better benefit my Bajoran-Cardassian patients if I examine similar data from Cardassian-Vulcan hybrids? I know that the Bajoran and Vulcan makeups are very different, but—"
Doctor Madrel's body language was abruptly far more, genuinely open – strange, but Julian almost didn't know how he'd describe the difference if asked, it was so subtle, but he knew it was there.
"How did you plan to travel to Revaht, Doctor Bashir?"
"By train, I—"
"Good, come," said Madrel, taking Julian by the arm and leading him forward. "My home is in Revaht – you will stay with my family and I."
"I, uh, um, that's—"
"It is customary, Doctor, to thank someone who offers hospitality, and graciously accept," said Madrel: her intonation might have been slightly flat, but the phrasing and the lilt were as Cardassian as it came, and Julian smiled.
"Thank you, Doctor Madrel," he said. "It's very kind."
"Nonsense," said she. "Call me Dinar."
The high-speed train to Revaht took about two hours, and the two of them sat across from one another with a table between them, the oranges, browns, and deep, reddened greens of the Vulcan landscape passing by them in a blur of warm colour.
"You're faring well with the heat," remarked Madrel. "Many Humans struggle with the Vulcan climate."
"The heat doesn't bother me as much as how dry the air is," admitted Julian. "I've always been comfortable with higher humidity, and the arid climate here scratches my throat a bit. You probably heard it break a few times while I was speaking."
"I thought it was your youth," said Dinar, and he scoffed, rolling his eyes: her laugh was a nice sound. Her voice was strong and came from the back of her throat, and she often hummed between thoughts. She was forty or fifty, plump and tall, and she had broad shoulders, but her silhouette was rounder than any Cardassian's he'd seen – she had rounded shoulders and a smoother hourglass figure, lacked the hard angles he had come to associate with Cardassian fashion and Cardassian bodies. "You grew up in humidity?"
"I grew up all over," said Julian, "including a few years in or on deserts, but yes, I was mostly comfortable in places where it was foggy and the air was wet."
"It's a common complaint of Cardassians on Vulcan," said Dinar. "Many of us use moisturisers to allow for a healthier shed. Dryness of the scales causes them to flake in pieces rather than coming away in the films and skins that they ought, and it's made worse by sand getting under the clothes or clinging to the ridges."
"My scales have been flaking awfully since getting here," said Julian, and Dinar chuckled, leaning back in her seat. He thought of the texture of Garak's ridges under his mouth, and he wondered if Garak used such a moisturiser, if he used any such products for his skin, if things had changed for him since alighting on DS9. "The gravity's a bit lighter on Vulcan than the standard gravity on Starfleet vessels and stations, and the temperature must better suit Cardassian physiology, though. I know that Vulcans favour candlelight and light fixtures tinted to warmer colours, too, which must be a relief."
Dinar looked at him, studying his face, and Julian didn't look away, and he retained the slight smile on his lips. Their gazes remained locked, but it was no show of force or aggression, simply directness. He wasn't saying anything that was new to her, but that wasn't what it was about – in saying what he had, he was telling her he knew more about Cardassians than most people did, and more than was noted in Federation records, too.
After all, everything he'd gleaned was primarily from comparing the original Cardassian controls to the new Federation standards, and picking through what remained of the records and baselines in the Infirmary.
"Have you ever been to Cardassia Prime?" asked Dinar.
"No," said Julian. "I don't know that I'd be welcome there."
"Oh, certainly, you would be welcomed," said Dinar. "It is uncertain, however, whether you would be permitted to leave. Best to go amongst a Federation envoy, if you go at all."
"A Federation envoy, on Cardassian soil? Perish the thought. What if they sloughed off some democracy and spread it like disease?" Julian clucked his tongue in mock-disapproval, and Dinar nodded, her lips quirked into an easy smile.
"Typical Federaji arrogance and condescension, but you have Cardassian friends," she remarked. It wasn't a question.
"I don't know that I'd call the Cardassians I know friends," said Julian.
"Mm, true, we have different standards for friendship than Humans do. But you speak to Cardassians – really speak to them, not just exchange orders or political remarks."
"Lunches and dinners, mostly," Julian murmured. "I didn't realise there was such a Cardassian presence on Vulcan."
"And when you say Cardassian presence," said Dinar, "you mean, precisely…?"
"I knew there would be a Cardassian Embassy. I know that Vulcan private consortiums trade with Cardassians, because I see the mixed ships come through sometimes. The Cardassians in their crew don't ordinarily come aboard DS9."
"DS9 was Terok Nor," said Dinar. "It was an ore-processing unit – now it's a waypoint, a space station at the corner of Federation space, where our reach touches that of Bajor, and borders the space that the Cardassian Empire lays claim to. I had heard that the Empire withdrew from DS9 with little bloodshed by Cardassian standards."
"They did," said Julian. "But DS9 is crewed primarily by Starfleet officers, and keeps a presence from the Bajoran militia too. Most of the ordinary people that live on the station are native Bajoran citizens. Cardassians are assumed hostile, and are treated accordingly. I expect that they think they're doing the logical thing, staying on their ships. After all, there's less trouble for their ships and the rest of the crew, if they stay aboard and let their Vulcan crewmates handle station procedure – Cardassians and Vulcans share in common a tendency to think as a unit before they spend time on individuals. I expect that once the ships reach Cardassia Prime, their positions naturally reverse, and the Vulcans hang back while their Cardassian crew deal with officials there – assuming they're Cardassian citizens, of course, not exiles."
"You're quite correct, of course," said Dinar.
"I didn't realise," said Julian, giving the clarification she'd been asking for a few minutes ago, "that there was a larger exile presence here."
"The first exiles from Cardassia came to Vulcan some one hundred and fifty years ago," said Dinar. "Some of them embraced Vulcan philosophy – others brought their own from the Cardassian homeworld, the way of the old Hebitians. You will find that most of the Cardassians you meet in Revaht consider themselves Hebitians, or follow the Oralian Way."
"The Oralian Way?" repeated Julian, and Dinar nodded.
"I will introduce you to friends here on Vulcan," said Dinar. "Share medical data, share cultural data, too – placed where you are, it will be ideal, I think, that you should know of safe places that a Cardassian might flee in search of asylum, if he stands in defiance of the Empire. This does not mean you are safe."
"Oh, I'm not safe," agreed Julian. "And I'm grateful indeed to have made a new friend, Dinar, but please don't mistake my smile for my indentured trust."
She chuckled. Her teeth were very white, and they gleamed sharply. Her lips were thinner than Garak's, and showed more of her gums – at the top of her mouth, below the slight peel back of her upper lip, he could see the spongey piece of flesh there, the head of her vomeronasal organ.
"You say you don't have Cardassian friends," she said, "and yet for being blunt, you seem to well navigate Cardassian friendship."
"I hope the bluntness isn't rude," said Julian. "It's either this or you assume I'm just like other Starfleet Humans."
"No one will ever assume that," said Dinar. "The way you hold yourself, Julian, makes it clear that you are not. It's the space you occupy."
"The space?" Julian repeated, not understanding. Dinar had a sort of glimmer in her eyes that made him know she wouldn't clarify that further.
"I am not a Cardassian citizen," she said. "I am of Vulcan – I was born here, and my parents before me. I have only ever known the Oralian Way: we follow a scripture, and follow the Path."
"You're…" Julian sipped at his water, rubbing at his parched throat. "Sorry, you mean to say that you're… You're religious? Cardassians with religion?"
"Yes," said Dinar, her laugh almost a bark, and it made him smile despite his surprise. "You don't get taught that over Bajor, do you?"
"No," said Julian. "No, we don't."
Garak had been thinking often of his childhood, these past days, since Bashir had gone to Vulcan. He often thought of the past, dwelled upon his own memories, but the focus his mind put to his childhood, his youth, was rather palpable now. Spurred, perhaps, by Bashir's passionate description of his grandmother's home, and his cousins – he had said he had a small family, implied he was not close to them, and in the next breath, had listed several relatives of note, talked of cuisine, culture.
It was not difficult to deduce that Bashir did not have a close relationship with his parents. He never spoke of his mother and father to anybody unless he was directly asked, and Garak had observed him artfully change the subject when Dax or Kira, or someone else on the station, asked him about either of them in casual conversation.
In fact, the first time he had heard Bashir describe anything about his parents at all, it had been over dinner to Garak directly – for his ears, and his ears alone.
There was a pleasured warmth under his skin as he went about the motions of closing his shop for the evening. He remembered how much he had hated the place when first he had alighted on Terok Nor, brought to his exile to serve other Cardassians, and abandoned in their departure with no regard for his value at all.
How he had loathed this room and the workshop when he had first come to it, a Cardassian stripped of all his rank, his worth, his value, and put to a greater still humiliation: menial labour in service of Cardassian military men, almost all of them his intellectual inferior, many of them his significant junior, and why? Oh, why, but Garak's sentimentality and his foolishness, and his yearning for…?
Oh, yearning.
It had always spelled Garak's end, and would no doubt be neatly printed on the final certificate of his demise.
He yearned now, felt an aching nostalgia in the pit of his stomach that spread as the wings of a sail up his chest, to burn in his shoulders, to cut from the very core of himself outward: he yearned for the simple, ignorant days of his childhood, playing amidst the monuments and memorials his father tended, looking over his father's shoulder and listening as he described roots, soils, gave him simple orders in crisp, clean words, running indoors to his mother and finding her laughing as she cupped his cheeks and gently touched the back of his head, told him to go clean the earth from his hands.
That was not all he yearned for, of course. He yearned, too, for the days that were not complete in their simplicity, but from which the paling of his innocence of the world had not yet fallen: walks with his Uncle Enabran, his desperate pride when he answered his questions correctly, the sense of warmth and heat he felt whenever he saw his smile, or when he touched Garak's shoulder, the back of his neck – fond, gentle touches, such easy affection.
People had touched him all the time as a child – the Cardassians were a tactile people, by nature, and when they did touch one another, they did so with tight squeezes, rough slaps, pleasant weights. Their flesh was too thin for the delicacy of the touches that passed between, for example, Bajorans.
For just a moment, his childhood, rosy-tinted in his mind's eye, disappeared: he thought instead of the first truly complicated moment, the first time another man's mouth had dominated his, coming home with the bruise on his lower lip at fourteen, his ridges dark with blood. His mother had seen him and immediately ushered him to wash up and go to bed before his father came home, and they'd never said another word about it.
"Mr Garak?" asked a voice to his left just as he was drawing down the shutter for his shop, and he looked to regard the young man. Ensign Yoxley, he thought his name was, a junior engineer. "Commander Sisko would like to see you, sir, in Ops."
"Will I need my sewing kit?" asked Garak, his hand hovering over the shutter as though it were a genuine question, and when the young man stared at him, evidently having no idea how to respond, Garak drew down the shutter, locked it, and walked with the young man as his escort. He was a very young man, it seemed to Garak, looked to be scarce even twenty, and even as young as Humans were when they joined adult life, there was something almost distasteful in seeing one so young dispatched to attend him.
On Cardassia, he would only recently have passed his Age of Emergence.
"Where are you from, Ensign?" asked Garak.
"Earth, sir."
"… Yes, young man, I think you can be a little more specific than that."
The young man looked even more frightened than he had a moment ago, and his skin, which was like Chief O'Brien's – pale and pink – had whitened and taken on a chalky consistency.
"I wasn't asking for the precise address of your loved ones, child," said Garak, smiling although the terror cut at him in a way simple hatred never could. "Though if you truly would protect them, I shouldn't so plainly show your fear in your face. We tell stories with our faces – did you know that? In their details can be divined our every secret, our every fear. Here I am, a stranger, a Cardassian, a man you fear, and this is the story you tell me."
The young man regarded him with bafflement and distrust, and Garak, his smile beatific, was silent. Only once they were in the turbo lift together did the boy say, almost muttering the words so that Garak had to strain to hear him speak, and likely wouldn't have been able to make out the word were it not for his translator, "I'm from Oslo, sir. It's a city in Norway."
"Norway is a very green land, yes, mountainous and glacial?"
The young man was so surprised that his uncertainty faded a moment: his lips almost smiled, and then he steeled himself, raised his head. He did not scowl, but showed a mask of neutrality, his hands behind his back, and Garak smiled himself, nodded his head in approval. "Yes, sir," he said. "We are known for our fjords. Is there— Are there glaciers, on Cardassia?"
"There are, although I have never seen any. They're very impressive, so I hear."
"Oh, yes, sir," said the boy, and he did smile now, all but bursting with pride at his homeland. "The water in the glaciers is such a fine, glassy colour, like you wouldn't believe, and when the sun shines off the water in the fjords, it's bluer than you could ever imagine. It's as if the country itself, its hills and mountains, its glaciers and troughs, was carved by a sculptor, and sought to best reflect the sun's light, when we have it."
He seemed to remember himself, and turned his head forward.
"A far better story," said Garak softly, and he raised his head higher. "But you should listen to what your chief tells you about me, my dear."
He flinched, glancing at Garak sideways, and once more his young face was so painfully expressive that Garak itched to say something, even to reach out and pinch his cheeks or the base of his chin, as Enabran would have done to him as a child, as, later on, someone at school would have done—
But, no.
The Federation raised weak children, and put them out too young, too unformed, into a world that should swallow them whole. How was he supposed to undo all that?
He seemed awed that Garak had read his mind, that he had known, somehow, that Chief O'Brien had warned him about Garak – as though it were not common knowledge that the Chief despised Cardassians, and trusted them not a whit.
"Sir?" asked the boy.
"I'm not to be trusted," said Garak. "Cardassians are everything the Chief told you we are – cold, and cruel, and bloodthirsty."
The young man gulped.
Garak smiled at him, his kindest smile, his gentlest one, and it made the young man shiver. Garak wanted to crawl into a hole and die there: lacking the opportunity to do so, he said, "Once more, you tell me a story, and in it are secrets you shouldn't trust me with."
"Yessir," said the young man, blurting out the two syllables as one little outburst, and Garak did not wait for him as he stepped from the turbo lift and moved directly to what had once been the office of Skrain Dukat, and now housed a far more respectable man – and a real commander, at that.
"Hello, Garak," said Commander Sisko with a pleasant smile.
Garak liked very much the commander's smiles, and smiled back. "Good evening, Commander," he said pleasantly, and stepped over the threshold over his office. "What manner of sartorial emergency might I assist you with?"
"Good of you to ask," said Sisko, pouring a second mug of tea – it was not Garak's ordinary preference of Tarkalean tea, but it was a fragrant red leaf that he had sampled from Bashir's cup, and when it was offered, he politely took it. Sisko turned neatly on his feet to face him again, and said, "I want to wear two very different pieces of my wardrobe together. I want to make sure they're the right fit – that they're… appropriate together."
"We live in a modern and ever-changing world, Commander," said Garak. "Every day, all manner of styles blend together – fashions from different planets, different cultures, different eras, why."
"And how do I know that a combination isn't just a fad?" asked Sisko. "Or worse yet, if it's cheap, a spectacle, worn just to make an impression… To cause offence?"
"Cause offence, with a sartorial choice?" asked Garak, raising his eye ridges and sipping from his cup. "Why, Commander, surely you exaggerate the extremity of the situation."
"Do I?" asked Sisko, and when he gestured for Garak to take a seat, Garak did.
He had known Major Kira was in the room from the beginning, of course, but she had remained stood aside, and only now did she come forward, not sitting at the table, but putting her hands over the back of one of the chairs and leaning on it. Her shoulders were square, and her lips were twisted.
The hatred that Garak always saw in her eyes, the natural response to the Cardassian presence, was there as ever, but he could see in her face that her own feelings overwhelmed her, that she was conflicted by them, and this made her rage burn all the brighter.
So bright a flame was Major Kira Nerys.
"You know why you're here," she said.
"I have a creeping suspicion," said Garak, sipping from his drink and watching the hatred in Kira's eyes flare at the casual ease, the relaxed domesticity, of the movement. "Have you paperwork for me, Commander?"
"Yes," said Sisko, and put a PADD down on the table. "I do."
