Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Garak leans against his shovel. A year’s worth of manual debris removal and strict rationing has him in the best physical shape he’s been in for a decade, but he isn't without his limits. If ever there was a day for pushing those limits, it would be today. He only hopes that if he runs into Parmak on the way home, he won't get chastised for overdoing it.

This month’s project is clearing a field for planting. Aid from the Federation has seen them through the first year and everyone is eager to taste something other than nutrition bars. Even if the shift is to something as equally mundane, at least it would be theirs.

The industrial reclaimaters will be arriving next week. Efficient and undiscriminating, they will dismantle all matter not deemed a component of fertile soil. A more discerning eye is required before that, and so Garak’s team is combing over a swath of land that used to be the Coranum sector, looking for any debris that wasn't really debris; tools that had survived the blast, power cells that retained a charge, or the rare non-perishable food item. Of course, anyone who lives nearby is also hoping to find mementos and personal items that survived.

And so, Garak searches on, turning over the soil. His eyes occasionally catch the glint of a data rod or the matte gold of a half-buried PADD. He returns items as he finds them to the gathering bins, and sorts them accordingly, mechanically. That’s what is needed of him right now, and as long as he keeps moving, he won’t have to consider the loss he's sustained.

Most of his fellow workers retreat as the sun begins to set. Garak continues for some time after that, until it’s nearly night. He finally returns to the bins with his last artifacts of the day, as the supervisors are arranging for transport to the main collection site.

“Garak, what are you still doing here? Isn't that guest of yours arriving tonight?” his supervisor asks, eyes on some gadget he’s trying to power on.

“I’m afraid he won’t be able to join me after all,” Garak says with practiced ambivalence. “I wanted to let you know I won’t be needing the time off this week as I had requested.”

“That’s too bad.” A minor expression of sympathy for what Garak had presented as a minor disappointment. “If it means we get your help here, though, I can’t say I’m too shaken up about it. We’re behind as it is.”

“Happy to be of service,” Garak says with a tilt of his head and a smile, and for the first time today, he actually feels happy as well. He clings to it tightly, feeling it slip away with every step towards his shed.

He switches on the lantern, bringing his meager existence to light. Sleep is hardly enticing, in spite of the physical exertion of the day, and it isn't as if there are any other worthwhile pursuits.

Garak heaves a sigh. I may as well respond and get it over with. He makes himself a cup of red leaf tea - the last that Julian had sent him. He makes himself as comfortable as he can in the small room, and re-reads Julian’s letter.

Garak,

I’m sorry to have kept you waiting as long as I have. The news I have isn’t good, but at least it’s definitive.

The last of the Gamma quadrant survey ships returned yesterday. Another world ravaged by a unique Dominion biogenic weapon. That brings the total up to six.

I hoped beyond hope that they wouldn’t find any more, for so many reasons. Inflicting this type of suffering on an entire planet and its people is one of the most barbaric tactics I can imagine.

I also selfishly hoped for some way or reason that I wouldn’t need to be involved. Perhaps these other viruses were all in the same family as the Teplan blight, and a cure or vaccine would only take a few tweaks. Maybe my work had been studied by the medical community and there would be so many experts stepping forward that I could take a step back. Or maybe the Teplan blight was the most severe and fast moving of the viruses, and the others wouldn’t require such urgency.

I was lying to myself. I can almost hear you roll your eyes at me from here.

I’m the only one with the expertise to head this task force. Even with a team of researchers working with me, it’s going to take years to undo the damage inflicted on these people. And I’m going to have to stay here on the station. Close to the wormhole, close to the Gamma quadrant, and with full access to the latest medical equipment and technology.

Cardassia needs you, and the Gamma quadrant needs me. I don’t think either of us had any illusions about what would happen when I came to visit you. I went so far as to request an application as an aid worker so I could move to Cardassia to be with you, if we hit it off like I expected we would. But to go there now, knowing we can’t have more than that? Maybe what I went through with Ezri had a bigger impact on me than I expected, but a long-distance relationship with no end in sight would be far more painful for both of us. Frankly, I don’t think I could handle it.

I’m trying not to think of this as an end, but as a soft restart. While my letters might be fewer in the short-term as gathering a research team will take considerable effort, I will continue to write. Your companionship means more to me than I can possibly say. At the very least, I hope we can share what we’e had from the start—good books, lively debate, and good company.

Ever yours,

Julian

In this one instance, Garak is grateful that audio and visual communications are still down. To hear or see Julian speak these things with his usual earnestness would be far worse. He takes a long sip of tea, and pages over to the attachment. A novel titled East of Eden awaits him. Perhaps tomorrow.

Tonight, he would write a response, lest he have to reread Julian’s letter again.

My dear Doctor,

The news of additional worlds plagued by Dominion bioweapons is indeed tragic; certainly for the poor souls afflicted, but for the two of us as well, it seems.

I confess I had started to get my hopes up. Now it's my turn to hear your reaction across the vacuum of space. I know, hope is unbecoming of me.

I can hardly fault your decision. It’s what I would do, and it could be argued that it’s what I’ve already done. We’ve each been called to action, and are acting accordingly. We can take comfort knowing the value of our contributions and that we've chosen what is right for each of us.

Though the novel you enclosed is a poor substitute for your company, I appreciate it nonetheless. Entertainment options are few and far between. I look forward to your next letter, whenever it reaches me.

Until then,

Garak

Sleep does not come easily after that, but it catches up eventually.

The early morning light wakes Garak the next morning, and for once he doesn’t fight it to try and get another hour in. He makes a trip to the communications hub to transmit the letter. Better than waiting in line with everyone else trying to stay in contact with loved ones living off world during the waking hours.

There’s only one thread left to tie up, and he can put this failed experiment behind him. He stops by Parmak’s dwelling and raps on the door. Parmak answers after a short time, dressed and put together in spite of the early hour.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, eyes alert, scanning Garak and the immediate area.

“No medical emergencies and I apologize for calling on you so early. May I come in?”

“Please,” he says, stepping aside. “I don’t suppose this has to do with Doctor Bashir’s arrival?”

“It does, or the lack thereof. He’s heading the Dominion bioweapon task force, has canceled the trip, and it’s unlikely to be rescheduled.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, I was looking forward to meeting him after all you had told me about him.”

“I’m sure you two would have hit it off immediately,” he agrees. “I came by to let you know that if you need extra help at the hospital in the off hours, I’m at your disposal. And if you haven’t made other plans yourself, I’m free for kotra this week.”

Parmak smiles with only a touch of sadness, but thinks better of vocalizing any pity he feels. “I look forward to it,” he says.

“I’d better be on my way. There’s plenty more debris to sort through.”

“Take care of yourself, Elim.”

Garak is the first to the field, beating even the supervisors, but that just means that he gets an early start. When everyone else arrives, the supervisors gather them all for an announcement.

“We have an update from Placement. The latest long-range forecasts predict that the rainy season will be arriving sooner than expected. They need to speed up construction of new homes to get the Munda'ar families out of the temporary shelters. They got them through the dry season, but they won’t stand up to the rain. Team one, you’re reassigned to construction detail starting tomorrow, team two, you’ll remain here for another week, and then you’ll head to Munda'ar to begin moving the residents into their new homes. Team three, you’ll be finishing out the assignment here. This is our last day with full staff to scour this field, so let’s make it count.” With that, they’re dismissed to begin their work.

Garak goes to it with gusto, searching and digging. As a member of team two, he’d have a little more time here, but would soon be moving families into new homes. A far more appealing way to contribute his time, and he looks forward to a change.

A soft restart, as Julian had called it.

Before the war, Vocational Placement was the bureaucratic system that ensured that all roles were filled, and that their society would never stumble due to something as trivial as a worker shortage. Of course, Garak had never been a part of this; Tain had manipulated things so that Garak would end up in the Order regardless.

In light of the current crisis, the name had been shortened to “Placement,” but the system was essentially following the same model to enact disaster relief. Garak couldn’t deny that he found a certain satisfaction in Placement. His work in the Order, while valued, was inherently distant and abstract. Now, the results of his work were directly connected to the community, one that he was a part of.

He made his choice a year ago when he had chosen to stay here, as if it were even a choice to begin with. And now he was reaping the rewards. It was unfortunate that Julian would not be able to join him here, having been faced with his own duties, but as Garak had said in the letter, they’d each made the right choice. His life here was more than enough to sustain him.

After all, it was the stuff that repetitive epics were made of, was it not?

Mid-day, the team one supervisor zigzags across the field from person to person. Reaching Garak, he says, “I have a friend on Kora II who sent me some kanar. We all worked really hard on this job, and I thought we could all have a toast at the end of the day. Are you in?”

Panting from his ongoing search, he says, “I’d be delighted.”

Chapter Text

“Stop, stop, stop!” barks the voice through the communicator.

Garak powers down the industrial resequencer. “What is it this time, Pimlec?” The third aborted attempt to tunnel a sewer main this morning is testing his patience.

“We got another pedestrian,” the supervisor calls back wearily.

Garak peers out of the control booth, and sees Rocan finally losing his temper and scolding the trio of children who’d been playing around the site all morning. The sooner we get the schools opened back up, the better. But of course, schools needed running water, which required functional sewers...

“Alright, as much as I hate to say it, we might as well break for lunch. This is going nowhere fast,” the supervisor announces.

Frustrating through it is, Garak isn't about to object. He powers down the resequencer and checks out of the work site, as had become a weekly routine. As he weaves through debris, he sends a short text transmission through his PADD: Dismissed for lunch early, will call shortly.

Once out of the construction zone, travel becomes much easier. Though hardly a marvel of architectural achievement, the streets are actually streets, the buildings are new and stable, and the infrastructure is improving on a weekly basis. Streetlights are scheduled to go up here later this month, and homes on this block will be connected to the communications grid shortly thereafter, enabling in-home subspace transmissions.

Garak was lucky enough to have been relocated to the Torr housing district, which has been connected to communications some time ago. His new residence is part of a complex devoted to small one- or two-bedroom units. While this structure wasn't temporary, it also wasn't intended to remain a permanent residence for inhabitants of the city. The war had left behind widows and widowers, orphans, and childless parents. The multi-generational households of the old Union were broken and scattered, but it wasn't expected to stay that way forever. As new families formed and grew, it was expected that they would move from this complex into more spacious lodging. These older apartments would then be converted into accommodations for diplomats and dignitaries visiting the capitol.

As those with no family were considered to be among those in greatest need, this building was prioritized. When told of his new residence, Garak had objected, initially:

“Far be it from me to question my housing assignment, but I believe there may have been a mistake. I assure you madam, I am in a good position to take care of myself,” Garak had argued.

“If you've lasted this long, I'm sure you are,” the housing assignment matron responded, distractedly.

“Then why not give my unit to someone who needs it more?”

“‘Neediness’ is not the sole qualifier for these units,” she said. Counting off on her fingers, she had recited, “Moving someone into temporary housing like this just to move them back out is costly, and can be stressful for the elderly or sickly. Placement has you assigned to a team that will continue working in this area indefinitely. Even if you can fend for yourself in the makeshift shelter you've been living in up to this point, this unit was assigned to you. If you don't live in it, it will sit empty, wasting all the effort that went into building it. Need I go on?”

With a guilt trip like that, he certainly did not need further persuasion.

And so, he had moved into this new dwelling with its too-bright color scheme and its modular appliances, meant to be easily swapped out. Comfortable is a relative term these days.

Entering his apartment, he orders sem’hal stew from the replicator. Replicator rationing is still in place, but what better time to use it than on a short lunch hour. He calls up Julian on his desktop monitor. It takes a moment for him to answer; it’s the early hours of the morning on the station, and Garak knows the early dismissal for lunch would catch him off guard. When Julian answers, he’s bright eyed, but still wearing his pajamas.

Garak greets him with, “I must say, I’m disappointed that you never get dressed up for me anymore.”

“Says the man in the neon safety vest.”

Garak smiles at that. “How have you been, my dear?”

“Oh, the usual. The Bajoran students from the residency program arrived yesterday. It’s good to see some new faces around the infirmary.”

“I’m sure you say that to new patients as well,” Garak says between bites of stew.

“I actually did once. Never made that mistake again.”

“Impressive, considering your track record,” Garak teases. “So, news on the station?”

“Kira’s on the warpath again. Some of the more orthodox orders of the Vedek Assembly are speaking out against the revived initiative to join the Federation.”

“On what grounds?”

“They say that the Emissary's last official word on the subject was to decline membership. Kira, as well as any of us who knew him, knew that Sisko’s real aim was to shield Bajor from the Dominion. Kira’s been speaking before the Council of Ministers all week to get them to see reason.”

“Do you think she’ll succeed?”

“Honestly, she could have remained uninvolved and everything would be fine. I think she's just so sick of Winn’s old order using Sisko to push their agenda.”

“So everything is on track for acceptance then?”

“More or less. Oh! And I heard from Miles the other day. Guess what? Keiko is going to get her doctorate.”

“She must be delighted. I know her career in botany was a bit hindered when her family relocated to the station.”

“It sounds like she's pretty excited. How about you? Any major developments in construction?”

As was often the case between the two of them, what went unspoken was as important as what was spoken aloud. That Julian skipped over discussing his work in any way indicated that, like most weeks, there has been no breakthrough in developing a cure for the Dominion bioweapons. Garak knew it, Julian knew that he knew it, and they could both pretend that they weren't disappointed.

“Parmak certainly thinks so. He said he's already seeing a decline in waterborne infections and he's giving full credit to those of us working on the sewer project.”

“Really? That's fantastic!” Julian exclaims with nearly as much enthusiasm as Parmak had. “You don't seem terribly excited about it yourself though.”

“Just a trying morning at the construction site,” he says, passing off the non-event. “We had several false starts this morning. Keeping children away from deadly machinery is a challenge without the support structures to keep them otherwise occupied.”

“Orphans?”

“Who else would be running around unsupervised?” he says with a flourish of his spoon.

“I still think Cardassia is being wrongheaded about this.”

The path of this debate had been well-worn. “I’ve told you, as all of our standards of living have plummeted, theirs is as close to the status quo as it has ever been. Rations are being distributed equally, everyone has a roof over their head, they have clothing and other necessities on par with those of children with living parents. As sad as it may seem to you, this is progress.”

“I'm not talking about their standard of living right now; I'm talking about the attitude. They can't be the only ones causing mischief. Are you even certain that they were orphans? Couldn't their parents just be working?”

“Doubtful. Children who live with blood relatives have more consistency.”

“That doesn't negate my point.”

“Have I not explained how the orphans are being managed?” he asks, pushing the empty bowl away. He shoots it a scornful look. You’re getting plenty to eat now, there’s no reason to devour it like you’re starving.

“This is what I’m talking about, you say ‘managed’ like they’re not even people. And no, you haven’t explained the finer details of their care.”

“With so many orphans after the war, something different from the old system had to be done. You'll be delighted to hear, no doubt, that a majority of Cardassians expressed concern over their well-being. Recent events have changed many minds on the subject. For those that didn't come around, the ‘orphan problem’ was simply too big for our society to ignore. It's not as if there were a surplus of adults capable of taking them all in, let alone willing to. So now, qualified adults are chosen from a lottery to care for the orphans on a weekly basis. To return to your point, some are better at managing a gaggle of undisciplined children than others, and when the children outnumber the adults fifteen or twenty to one, it's easier to slip away unnoticed.”

Julian shifts through several expressions as he takes in this information, before settling on bemused concern. “Like a class with a substitute teacher.”

“What it's like is scarcely better than what we had before, unfortunately.”

“I admit that it doesn't sound like a great environment for them,” he says, concern outpacing the bemusement. “Has the idea of adoption gained any traction?”

“When the orphanages were established, some of those who had been sheltering orphans chose to let them stay instead of turning their care over to the State. But I don’t believe anyone is itching to adopt, no.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because I’m not itching to adopt either.”

“It could set a precedent, show others that it’s not so strange an idea.”

“On the contrary; it’s a very strange idea. As much as I love to criticize, I don’t think my care would be superior to what they’re receiving right now.”

“You were an accomplished gardener, right? It can’t be that different,” he jokes. “In all seriousness Garak, that’s something I’ve always wondered about you. Cardassians are so family-oriented, but you’ve never seemed so inclined. Not that life on the station or in the Obsidian Order were conducive to it, but when you returned to Cardassia, I wondered if family life was something you'd seek out.”

He offers Julian a coy smile over the rim of his glass, “I think I’ll leave you wondering.”

Julian half-groans, half-laughs in response.

“You used to love my ‘air of mystery,’” Garak widens his eyes with a flourish. He knows he’s being reckless, flirting like this.

Selfish too, as it could hurt Julian as well as himself, but if Julian minds, he doesn’t show it. “I suppose I’ve gotten too complacent as of late, haven’t I? Haven’t had to puzzle anything out of you in years.”

“As a doctor, you should know the value of keeping the mind active.”

“Speaking of which,” he says, stifling a yawn, “why don’t we talk about End of Dawn before I fall back asleep?”

End of Dawn is a Tellarite book neither of them enjoyed for a variety of reasons. The one quality they both dislike about it is the pacing.

“I felt like I never had any room to breathe, the author was always rushing from one plot point to the next,” Julian says.

“It was as if she couldn’t wait to be done writing the thing so she could wash her hands of it. The only good thing I can say about it is that I didn’t waste much time on it.”

“Maybe I expected too much from Tellarite literature. They’re not exactly known for their patience. The Crowned Veil was actually good though, I stand by that. I’ll send you a copy.”

“I’m loath to subject myself to another Tellarite book after this, but I’ll take what entertainment I can get these days,” Garak says.

“Is there anything more to your taste you’d like me to try and dig up?” Julian asks. The Union library was still sorting through their surviving collections, and public access was restricted so that they could focus on their work. In the meantime, Garak had asked Julian to track down Federation-stored copies of old favorites he wanted to share.

“See if you can find anything by Bavahk. I think you might like Taradt's Grave, in particular.”

Julian glances to the side of the room, no doubt checking the chronometer. “I’d better get a few more hours of sleep before my shift starts,” he says with reluctance.

Garak checks the time himself. “My lunch hour is nearly over as well.” And I’ll be cutting it close, he thinks, but he can’t bring himself to speed up the goodbye.

“Same time next week?”

A tilt of the head and an entirely genuine smile. “Until then, Doctor.”

As soon as the connection cuts, Garak speeds out of the apartment complex to head back to the construction site. He rounds the corner near the de facto community center and comes to a screeching halt. The road is packed with people, all gathered around the repaired public viewscreen. Cursing his bad luck, he recalls that the trials begin today for those who took part in Dukat’s coup and subsequent alliance with the Dominion. It seems that even with communications restored to many homes, the public spectacle is not to be missed.

Garak pardons his way through the crowd, and by the time he’s back on the dig site, he’s most definitely late.

He arrives just in time to see the resequencer flash to life, disintegrating a perfect tunnel to the end of the torn up street. I didn’t think I was that late, Garak muses. It would take at least 40 minutes to realign the resequencer, power it up, perform the necessary safety checks, allow the machinery to fully charge, and then finally discharge it. Much longer than a typical walk back from his apartment, and that’s assuming there were no issues along the way.

“Pimlec, I sincerely apologize for my lateness,” he says, approaching his supervisor with deference. “I take it you started back up mid-break?”

Pimlec nods, looking at the neatly carved trench, a satisfied smile on his face. “Ejo showed up looking for the strays that kept playing around here, said he was taking the orphans to watch the trial. We saw our chance to get some work done, so we took it,” he says with a wave of his hand, dismissing the apology as unnecessary.

“That may be the case, but I would have been late even if you didn’t start without me. I’m afraid I got caught up—”

“—talking to a friend,” Pimlec finishes his sentence for him. “It’s alright, I get it.”

“Then I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”

“You come back from lunch late once a week, regularly. Maybe not this late, but still. Tenat shows up late every other day, taking his kid to his mother’s so she can watch him. Kulun leaves early so that she can make dinner for her elderly neighbor and paraplegic brother. Ajik stays home with her daughter some days; she was trapped in the rubble for days and still has flashbacks. We’ve all got people we need to attend to.”

“That may be, but I’m embarrassed to say that my tardiness is far less noble than any of that.”

“Garak,” he says earnestly, “you’re an exemplary worker. You already miss less work than anyone on the team, and we’re still getting the job done. Whoever it is you’re spending your lunch hour with must be important to you. You can stop feeling guilty about taking an extra five minutes.”

“I can’t say I’m used to such leniency, but I thank you for it,” he says with an exhale.

“The transporter crew should be beaming the pipe down within the hour. After that, I’m thinking of letting everyone go home early. I think we’re all eager to see how our new justice system unfolds,” he claps Garak on the back and leaves to attend to other duties.

Garak returns to his post, helps with placement of pattern enhancers, and secures the area before the pipe is beamed down. After that, they’re all dismissed to watch the trial or attend to other needs at home.

Garak has no interest in watching the trial. He’s witnessed (and occasionally, participated in) both the Federation and Bajoran judicial systems and understands how they work. The revised system for Cardassia has more in common with them than its old model, and he was pleasantly surprised by his people’s willingness to reexamine a branch of their government that was complicit in bringing them to their knees. But it’s nothing new to him, and the endless parade of dry evidence in these sorts of trials is enough to bore him to tears.

Further, these were the leaders who brought Cardassia to its knees before the Dominion. There might be a jury making a decision now, but everyone on the face of the planet still knows what the verdict will be.

No former Obsidian Order agents have been implicated in the myriad of crimes against the State, but then again, they’re all dead. Tain’s disastrous attempt to wipe out the Founders saw to that. I suppose I should be thankful, he thinks. The Order was destroyed before they ever had a chance to get swept into that mess. Still, he wonders if it’s just a matter of time before enforcement sets their sights beyond war criminals and he’ll end up on trial.

He’d love to resume his conversation with Julian, but that window of opportunity has closed for the day. As Julian said, he needed more sleep before going to work. He settles on sending him a discrete message that can be answered at his leisure: I neglected to mention today is the first day for the war crimes trials. I’m sure you’ll have something enlightening to say about our revised justice system.

Instead of returning home, he swings by the hospital to see if he can assist Parmak with any menial tasks. He’s happy to find Parmak doing routine office maintenance, but surprised to find that he’s got his viewscreen tuned in to the trials.

“I’d have thought you might be averse to watching due to your prior conviction,” Garak says, placing a medication on a shelf.

“My prior conviction is precisely why I need to see what’s changed,” Parmak glances between the viewscreen and his PADD as he attends to inventory. Garak can’t help but note that, while Parmak’s voice has the usual upbeat lilt, he refuses to meet his eyes today. Garak finishes helping with inventory and then departs rather than divide Parmak's attention.

Evening sets in as he returns to his apartment, and he notes that far more people have ended the day early than he anticipated. If he had wanted to run any errands or simply strike up a conversation with a neighbor, he would have been hard pressed to do so. The complex is the same: quiet as everyone is either eating dinner, glued to their monitors, or both.

He can’t help feeling like most of the day has been a wash. He briefly considers joining the throng at the community center and watching along with everybody, and then dismisses it. He simply can’t bring himself to care. Like a clichéd enigma tale, he already knows exactly what they’re guilty of.

As if on cue, his PADD lights up with a text transmission from Julian.

I certainly do have opinions, yes. The first one is that I think it’s wonderful that you’re taking steps towards transparency and that defendants will have a chance to, you know, defend themselves. The second is that I read that the two Guls on trial today have pled guilty. I'm not sure if they're truly taking responsibility for their actions, or if they're pleading guilty because they think they're supposed to. I guess it may take some time for the idea of legal defense to take root on Cardassia.

I’ll give you more opinions as they come to me. In the meantime, here are  copies of Taradt's Grave and The Crowned Veil, to add to your rebuilt library. I’ve also included another Earth work in celebration of Cardassia’s first trial by jury. The father in the novel is credited with inspiring many 20th century lawyers to enter the legal profession in the first place.

Attached alongside the other two novels was To Kill a Mockingbird.

He smiles to himself, glad for the contact as well as the books, but something in Julian’s note jogs his memory.

“...take root...”

“…You were an accomplished gardener, right? Can’t be that different…”

There most certainly is a difference, he thought, but perhaps those gardening skills could be put to a use that would benefit those children, and by extension, the rest of the community.

He sets aside the PADD, and heads to the terminal to see if it would be feasible to create a vegetable garden for the orphans to grow and maintain.

Chapter Text

Garak startles awake as the console chimes. He hadn’t been asleep, not exactly anyway. Thankfully, no one else is around to see him drowsing on the job. He turns his attention to the notification on the computer - another duplicate record. He compares the two. The computer's proposed merger has made a mistake for once. He corrects the reversal of first and last names, and then confirms the merger of the records.

He exhales deeply. It was the only thing to come across his desk all morning. With such a stimulating workload, it’s hardly a wonder that he's starting to fall asleep. His recent bout of insomnia is no help either.

He rubs his eyes, willing them to stay open and babysit a computer that rarely needs his input. This first census since the war has major implications, and accuracy is paramount. The innumerable deaths need to be properly accounted for, new lives need to be recorded and rightly celebrated, and for those whose lives have continued, they need one accurate, uninterrupted record of their place in the Union.

All of which he fully supports and recognizes, but Placement has given him a task that only requires his attention about ten times a day and that could otherwise be performed by a child. Thankfully, the census should be drawing to a close soon.

This is precisely why he’s put in a request with Placement for an assignment that makes better use of him than this current one. In fact, he's hoping for something that makes better use of him than the past several assignments. Far be it from him to question Placement, but recent assignments have left him feeling underutilized. He had close contact with the Federation for seven years; he doesn't fancy himself a diplomat, but he knows how to deal with these people. Surely there's some way to put that knowledge to use as his people reestablish their place in the quadrant.

Garak checks the chronometer - only halfway to lunch. He gets up and paces the room. If he had a book he would have brought it to read between duplicate records, but unfortunately he’s between novels at the moment.

If it weren't for the fact that his co-workers are all engaged in tasks that require far more focus, he'd traverse the Identification Bureau and see who he could converse with. He resorts to messaging friends, hoping someone else is free to chat.

He grabs a PADD and messages Parmak first: How was opening night at the Institute of Art? Everything you hoped for? he asks. The museum had reopened at its new location on the other side of the planet, and Parmak was greatly looking forward to it. He’d saved his transporter credits and made special arrangements to attend, in spite of the fact that it took place in the middle of the night, local time.

Next, Julian: I stopped by the orphanage yesterday, and it seems the vegetable garden I started has inspired others. Some generous soul has offered to create ornamental gardens for the children to look after as well. Those children are destined for a career in agriculture or landscaping, apparently. Parmak should have an update for us about his trip to the Institute of Art here shortly.

Finally, Kira. When he had decided to request a new assignment, he asked to see if she would be willing to serve as a reference, should Placement desire one. And what an unlikely reference she was! But those months they had spent with Damar terrorizing the Dominion had created an uneasy bond between them. Garak had decided to reconnect with Kira once subspace connections were reliable enough. Their conversations were never deep and always grounded in the present. They treated each other as if they'd just spoken yesterday, and surely would do so again tomorrow. In reality, they would go weeks without speaking to one another.

I hate to bother you on what I'm sure is a most busy day, he types. With Bajor's recent admission into the Federation, Garak knows there would be much to be done on the station. But I was wondering if Placement had contacted you? I'm quite eager to move on from this assignment. I've been reduced to no more than pressing a button five times a day.

Now he waits, hoping one of them will respond.

He supposes he can check the Information Service again, not that he expects anything new in the last hour. If there's one thing he can't help but feel is lacking on this rebuilt planet, it's reliable news delivery. He's taken to checking Federation and independent news outlets while at home, though he doesn't have direct access here. Sadly, it would take more work than it's worth to navigate out of the Cardassian intranet and into subspace with the rudimentary equipment he’s been given for this job.

As expected, nothing of note shows up in the Union’s news feed. The whole world is wrapped up in patriotic pride at finally having a real and functioning government again. Most articles and updates have to do with festivities and celebrations. The new constitution was officially ratified an hour ago, just as scheduled. Meanwhile, he heard about the “breaking” news about the hostage situation at the Federation embassy on Dopteria a day ago from other sources.

Just as he's resigned to reading about Hebitian revivalists recreating the pilgrimage from the ruins outside of Lakarian City to the Morfan Sea, the PADD lights up with an incoming message. It's from Julian, naturally.

I'm sure an ornamental garden will look lovely. I know you’ve complained about how drab everything's been with the recent drought. Regarding the Institute of Art, do you know if there are any surviving works of art from the old Union on exhibit? As an outsider, it would be helpful to have a comparison. If I ever get the chance to visit, that is.

Garak begins a response, intending to explain that no, surviving art is in storage as no one is quite sure what to do with it just yet.

He doesn't have a chance to finish, however. Korim, the local Bureau Administrator, bursts in and without preamble says, “You're not busy, are you?” A couple deep breaths, and she continues, “A huge crowd of teens and their parents just arrived for molar removal. We need help or we won't see the last of them until midnight.”

He raises his brows. “I have some minor experience with first aid, but nothing in the realm of tooth extraction,” he explains, even as he heads toward the door, PADD under his arm. That's not technically true, but his familiarity with tooth extraction served a much different purpose in a previous life.

Korim pays no heed and waves him on regardless. He follows, happy to occupy his time with something more diverting than sitting in front of a screen waiting for a handful of records.

“They're all in from the fringes,” she grouses, referring to the farthest edges of the city. In a heightened, pompous voice, she imitates, “'There's going to be a ceremony for the dedication in the evening, so we'll head into the city for the day and get little Lovad's molar removed. We should have done it ages ago.’” Tapping Garak’s arm as if he’s a friend she only just noticed, she exclaims, “‘Your daughter needs hers removed too? I know, we'll all go together!’ Did they ever think to check for availability? We've already got the entire orphanage scheduled for today,” she mutters.

Garak takes in her rant as they pass from the records wing of the building and into the large reception lobby. Sure enough, the line for molar removal stretches out this far. He's never seen it quite this crowded. And that's in addition to the usual gaggle of citizens seeking to update records or correct discrepancies.

There's a cry and sudden commotion off to his right; two people suddenly embrace and then there's laughter and tears. Even after three years, families are reuniting and finding members they previously counted among the dead.

Garak and Korim proceed to the processing wing. They pass by the offices for fingerprinting and retinal scans; they’re much less busy as these biometric items are collected from newborns in the hospital and rarely need revisiting. The office for vocal recognition only creates records for that those with elevated security clearance. While it has been a bit busier as of late, that only means five people might be milling about instead of three.

Molar records are at the very end of the hall, and the pair shoulder their way through the waiting crowd to reach administration. Korim directs him to an examination room where a dentist and her assistant are already at work. “I've found some help for you,” she announces, helping herself to the patient's PADD.

The dentist, fingers still in the patient's mouth, doesn't look up, but murmurs her thanks.

Korim turns back to Garak, handing him the PADD. “Each patient comes in with their medical record pulled up, but if you page over, a copy and cross reference of their full file is attached. While the molar is being extracted, you make a copy and load it on a blank data rod. Once Dr. Brar has the tooth, she'll put it in a filing box,” she gestures to a stack of little boxes in the corner, and he spots one on the tool tray as well. “They'll hand it to you. Add the loaded data rod to the box, and put it on that cart there,” she points. “Other than that, I'm sure they can use help fetching tools and cleaning between patients.”

“Got it,” Dr. Brar announces and there's the light clatter of a tooth being deposited in its container.

“You're all set,” Korim says with a flash of a smile. Garak is glad he doesn't have any questions, because she's already out the door.

Dr. Brar and her assistant make short work of their patients, getting the molar out as quick as possible before sending the patient over to a recovery room. Garak is happy for a steady workflow, even if it is nothing more than a repetitive series of tasks.

They work through lunch to make a dent in the long line outside. He recognizes a number of orphans he's been gardening with, and they recognize him in turn. Some are pleased to see him, but one young man is clearly concerned that the gardener who normally had his hands in the dirt may be sticking them in his mouth. “No need to worry,” Garak tells him, “I showed them how I normally remove weeds, and they decided it would be safer if I stuck to administration.” The boy pales and preemptively reclines the chair.

At one point, calls for help echo from the room down the hall. Having barely started on their current patient, Dr. Brar and the assistant flee the room to help the other doctor. Garak knows he’s far more likely to get in the way than be of assistance, and stays with Kianatt, a girl in her teens he knows from the orphanage.

Several weeks into his vegetable gardening project, she caught sight of a PADD with one of Julian's messages written in Federation Standard one day, and confronted him about it. As it turned out, her parents had been killed by Maquis terrorists in the years before the Dominion War started, and held quite the grudge against the Federation ever since. Even their generous aid hadn't won her over, and after seeing Bashir's message she recoiled.

“You actually talk to those murderers? Willingly?”

“I really only talk to one of those murderers regularly, though his track record as a murderer is dismal. But I do speak to him willingly, yes.”

After that, she'd largely avoided him, keeping to opposite side of the garden. Whenever they did have the opportunity to interact, Garak made it a point to bring up his familiarity with the root beer, Starfleet, Surak’s meditation techniques. Anything that could be connected to the Federation was bound to ruffle her feathers and have her storm off to the other side of the garden again.

Now they're stuck together as they await the return of the dentist.

“I thought you said you were correcting mistakes in the Identification Database?” she asks.

“I am. It's a mistake that your molar wasn't removed years ago. The dentists and I are here to correct that.”

She purses her lips in begrudging amusement.

“Am I to take it that you're willing to speak to me again?” Garak asks.

“No.”

“A pity. I was hoping we could resume our gardening together. I recently received a shipment of Terran tomato seeds and was hoping you could help me get them started.”

“Why do you keep doing that!?” she demands.

“Doing what?” Garak says, feigning innocence. “If you don't care for tomatoes, I apologize. Perhaps you could help me with the Andorian melons instead.”

“You know what I mean!” suddenly aware of her volume, she says with restrained anger, “Ever since I told you about what happened to my parents, you bring up the Federation every chance you get. What are trying to prove? ”

“That you, my dear, are incapable of taking a joke,” he says with a cheerful smile.

Kianatt groans and thumps her head against the headrest.

“Truly,” Garak continues, “I've known honorable Klingons and vengeance-driven Bajoran terrorists with better senses of humor.”

“What would you know about Klingons or Bajoran terrorists?”

As if on cue, the PADD lights up with a message from Kira, presenting him with the perfect opportunity.

“Computer: play message contents.”

The computer chirps and the automated voice speaks Kira's words. “I spoke with someone in Placement a few hours ago. I verified that you and I had been a part of Damar's rebellion, and that you'd begrudgingly earned my trust. If that can't outshine your career with the Obsidian Order, I'm not sure what will.”

“Computer, identify sender.”

“Commander Kira Nerys, Federation Star Base, Deep Space Nine.”

“Computer, compose a reply. ‘If I can win over a Bajoran freedom fighter, surely I can win over Placement. I thank you for your assistance, Commander.’ Computer, send message.”

Kianatt's eyes had grown wider and wider as the message played on. After the silence wore on for some time, she eventually stutters out, “There's… There's no way…”

“Your skepticism is making a woefully late appearance.”

“You actually knew Damar?” she asks, a little awestruck.

“Yes. More than I cared to, in some ways,” and his thoughts stray for a moment to another young woman, destroyed by the man who would be Cardassia's savior in the eyes of her people. Perhaps that's why he was being so cavalier about his past; Ziyal always possessed an uncanny ability to disarm him.

“And...the Order as well?”

Garak offers a light nod.

“Why didn't you say so earlier?”

“I'm not so foolish as to live in the past. It can leave one blind to the present that they're living in, wouldn't you agree?”

The silence is tense as his remark hits home. Dr. Brar breaks the tension as she breezes back into the room and immediately goes for Kianatt's third molar. Kianatt is out of the chair and dismissed in short order, and as she goes, she asks, “Will you be at orphanage this week?”

“I intend to stop by.”

Kianatt nods solemnly and rubs her jaw, seemingly undecided as to whether this is good news or bad.

By mid-afternoon, things have died down a bit. Dr. Brar and her assistant break for a late lunch, leaving Garak to do the same. They assure him that they should be able to handle the remaining patients on their own, but will call on him for assistance if need be.

Garak returns to his office and his console. Three records have been flagged as possible duplicates. It takes him all of fifteen minutes to sort them out.

He returns to the conversations he had barely started when he left. Parmak has replied: The reopening of the Institute was precisely what I needed. It felt so good to see our people creating art again. The media and skills on display were perhaps a little more rustic than what we’re used to seeing in the old Union, as you might expect, but the sheer variety of subject matter was impressive. Breathtaking, even. I know that your interest lies more with the written word, but you should come visit the Institute with me sometime soon.

I may just take you up on that, Garak thinks. It would be good to get out, and even if he doesn’t find fine art to be especially stimulating, he would at least like to see the city of Culat and how that side of the planet has recovered and rebuilt.

He then returns to the bit of conversation he had started with Julian. I apologize for the tardy reply; I was roped into administrative tasks for molar removal in the processing department. It made for a very interesting afternoon, I must say. I'll tell you all about it later tonight. To answer your earlier question, no, the artworks of the former Union are not currently on display anywhere. There's quite a debate amongst politicians, art historians, and the public at large as to how they should be displayed, if at all.

Garak whiles away the remaining hours in the work day, attending to two more duplicate records and continuing the fractured conversations with Parmak and Julian about the art exhibit. At last, his long work day comes to an end, and he returns home.

With Cardassia’s twenty-seven hour day, and the station following Bajor’s twenty-six hour rotation, their schedules fell in and out of alignment. This week, their schedules line up nicely, and they have agreed on a standing call after work, barring other obligations.

Julian answers his subspace transmission and launches right in. “So how did you end up as a dental assistant for the day?” he asks, his eyes alight with curiosity, as if “dental assistant” is the strangest of the many hats Garak has worn over the years.

“Really Doctor, it may be a dental procedure, but it has far more in common with data collection than dentistry, and that goes double for the part I played today.”

He explains how the celebration in the capital drew in far-flung citizens who took care of business at the Bureau in addition to the festivities, the understaffed molar unit, and his role in preparing the teeth for storage. He tells of the breakthrough with Kianatt, a difficult patient that Dr. Brar had to trick into opening his mouth, and the overly-supportive younger sibling who followed her big brother in and held his hand for moral support.

And as he speaks, Julian's curiosity never wanes. There are, of course, the expected questions as a medical professional whose field of study has a slight overlap, but that's not the source of it. That's not why he leans in towards the monitor, or why his gaze is so sharp.

When Garak has told everything there is to tell, Julian asks him if he'll be returning to the dental unit.

“If I'm needed there I suppose I will, but I doubt that will happen. It was the celebration that drew families in to the capital today and the crowd will taper off tomorrow. No, I don't think a career in dentistry is in my future,” he says with no particular feeling.

“Really?” Julian asks, looking more surprised than Garak world expect.

“I'm hardly the most qualified person for the job,” he says with a chuckle. “What I did today barely even qualifies as dentistry.”

Julian chuckles back half-heartedly, and something in his expression shifts to disappointment.

“Had you become heavily invested in my pursuit of dentistry in just a few hours, or is something else the matter?”

Julian shakes his head, “Sorry, I just,” he pauses, “I haven't seen you this enthusiastic about something in a long time. I know this assignment from Placement has been a bit…”

“Dull,” Garak supplies.

“That. Not to mention solitary.”

“Your concern, as always, is appreciated. I know I've had some choice words about Placement these past months, but really, I have no room to complain.”

“I think you do, actually.” His words are soft, but firm. “You haven’t been yourself in a long time.”

Garak eyes him through the viewscreen. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but Cardassia has not been herself since the bombardment either.” Julian scoffs, and Garak continues. “Really Doctor, what did you expect of me? I left the relative comfort of the station to do hard work in a harsh environment.”

“That’s not quite what I mean. You’ve worked hard and you’re still working hard, but your environment has only gotten more amenable, has it not? Progress is being made, isn’t it?”

“Certainly,” Garak supplies with conviction and no small amount of pride. “You saw the headlines last year about our rapid recovery; they weren’t fabricated. We’ve become a case study in what to do when faced with global devastation. And it's doubly impressive when you consider that my people have never given much thought to preserving planetary ecosystems in the past.”

Julian must know he’s barreling into territory that’s never been easy for the two of them. He speaks carefully. “Then why aren’t you at the Dedication Ceremony tonight? It’s amazing what you’ve accomplished, and I know how much it all means to you, personally. So why aren’t you out there, celebrating with your people?”

Attending the ceremony was never something he really considered. His servitude has always been on the sidelines, never one of revelry. He had long satisfied himself with nothing more than the knowledge of a job well done. The pomp and circumstance of tonight's Dedication was for other people.

Explaining this to Julian is hardly how he wanted to spend this evening. He pivots to a more flattering reason, playfully framed: “I thought I might spend the evening with a far more charming companion than Gielon Dric, Head of the Detapa Council. Besides, the ceremony is being recorded a hundred times over, but live conversation with you is never something I'm inclined to pass up.”

Julian smiles in spite of himself, and then points a finger at the screen, “You can’t charm your way out of this!” he insists.

“I can try.”

Julian takes a breath and seems to center himself. “Speaking as a doctor, I’m worried about your mental health, and I’ve spotted some physical symptoms to back that up.”

Garak curls his fingers into a loose fist on the desk. It was a preposterous suggestion, and once upon a time he would have rather started a fight than admit to such a thing. Now, he would at least entertain the idea. “And speaking as a doctor, and not a therapist I'd like to remind you, what symptoms am I exhibiting?”

Julian purses his lips before explaining, “You've told me yourself about your insomnia, fatigue, and weight gain. You aren't as interested in engaging with the people around you as you once were. You’ve complained about your assignment every day until tonight, and even before that, you didn't seem particularly happy at the previous ones. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that your symptoms coincided with the start of the census. We both know you're vastly overqualified for the tasks you've been given, and I think you're beginning to resent it.”

Garak remains still, a slight frown on his face as Julian explains his reasoning. It's too close for comfort, as usual.

“I believe you've misdiagnosed me, my dear. I admit that I’ve been a bit out of sorts lately, but as I said, I find the work on the census draining—that's all. However, I am taking steps to rectify that situation. I didn't want to say anything just yet, but I’ve put in a request with Placement for a transfer to something a little more…active.”

“Oh?” Julian's expression brightens, urging Garak to continue.

“After all those years on the station, I have considerable experience dealing with foreign officials. I thought perhaps I could put that to use.”

Julian blinks a few times, taken aback. “I had no idea you were interested in diplomacy,” he smiles at the thought. “Ambassador Garak.”

“Nothing as grand as that, I'm sure. But I believe I have the knowledge and sensitivity to assist in some way.”

Julian's eyes search the room, lost in thought. “Considering your history with Bajoran and Federation officials, do you think you might be stationed nearby?”

Here? is the question Julian leaves implied.

“That would all be up to Placement, of course. I would be surprised if I was assigned to deal with the Klingons or Romulans, for instance. But, even an assignment related to the Federation or Bajor could require me to stay on Cardassia.” Best not to get our hopes up.

Julian nods, considering. “Well, it would be a big change from what you've been doing these past few years, but I think it would be a change for the better. Like you said, I'm sure you'd feel much more comfortable in that setting, and it's certainly an improvement from proofreading records.”

“It would be difficult to get worse from here.”

“I still think you should consider dental assistant as a reserve though.”

“An unlikely prospect, but I'll keep that in mind,” Garak says, grinning.

From there, they talk of Julian's day; a more sedate affair than his own. It's trivial conversation, but he finds himself unwinding as Julian tells him of the plodding progress of the biogenic weapons’ cures, a shortage of dexalin and how Bajor is dealing with it, and Nurse Sohym’s ongoing feud with her daughter's teacher. It's good to have this, and he hates to think of how they'll be back to shorter calls at midnight in a matter of weeks.

Their conversation is interrupted by a text transmission. “It appears Kianatt has found my channel. She wants to know what Damar was really like. I guess I've been redeemed for the crime of associating with Federation murderers like you.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. No one can resist first hand stories about their heroes.”

“I suppose I'll have to disappoint her by telling her that Damar was a lot like herself.”

“Use the opportunity to warn her about the dangers of alcoholism.”

They bid each other goodnight, shallow words that belie how they truly feel about one another. Garak is about to turn in when another transmission comes in. Rather late, isn't it?

He answers, and is greeted by an official, and she quickly introduces herself: “My name is Inarell, and I'm with Placement. I apologize for the late hour, but I wanted to be sure that you were at home, as the matter we need to discuss is somewhat sensitive. Is now a good time?”

“As good a time as any,” Garak replies. No good news is delivered at this hour, he thinks.

“We received your request for a transfer to a more diplomatic assignment. Your request has been rejected, and we felt that you had a right to know why. As you might expect, we look into the backgrounds for some of our more sensitive assignments. You have quite the history, Mr. Garak.”

In no way willing to show his hand, he asks, “Care to enlighten me as to what you found?”

“As you yourself point out, you do have experience dealing with foreign powers. Close contact with personnel on Deep Space Nine works in your favor. We also confirmed that you were an integral part of the team that helped bring down the Dominion. We were all quite impressed by that.”

“Then what seems to be the problem?”

“Your extensive history with the Obsidian Order, which you conveniently failed to mention.”

“As a former intelligence agent, I'd like to congratulate you on your extensive research. I was hoping that my disassociation from the Order these past ten years might count for something.”

“They do, and that's why you're not being brought up on treason charges right now. If it weren't for the fact that the other former agents appear to have died in that disastrous pre-emptive strike on the Founders or in the war that followed, they would be getting the similar treatment as the Central Command leaders. However,” she continues, “as far as we can tell, you had nothing to do with Cardassia’s fall to the Dominion, so, you won't be prosecuted as such. But we cannot offer you an assignment that has you representing Cardassia to foreign officials or aiding Cardassia's elected officials in any capacity.”

Garak blinks back his surprise. “Any capacity? Surely, there's room for me as an attendant for visiting dignitaries? No government business, just their valet for local needs? Or as a crewman on a ship, doing nothing more than escorting our officials from place to place?”

“I am sorry,” she says, and she seems genuine, “but the new government has decided that no one with any connection to Central Command or the Obsidian Order will be allowed to participate in the government going forward. They fear a relapse into bad habits if we do. I look at your achievements in recent years and wonder if they're not making a mistake, but that's the way it is,” she says with an apologetic gesture.

Indeed, he thinks, I'll be allowed to live, but not much more.

“Well,” Garak says with a huff, “That still leaves the matter of my assignment to be decided. My fate is in your hands. Please tell me you can find something more stimulating than merging records.”

With a smile that is nearly a wince, she asks, “How would you feel about going back to tailoring?”

Chapter Text

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?” Julian asks, taking another bite of shepherd's pie. “Just because Barral's experiences don’t match your own doesn’t mean there’s no truth to them or that those experiences were worthless.”

They’re discussing Visitor in a Dark City, arguably Cardassia’s first novel published after the bombardment. Though there have been many self-published works in the past few years, this is among the first to be picked up by a newly created publishing house and get an official stamp of approval.

Julian is far more smitten with it than Garak is.

“I’m not the least bit surprised that you were drawn in by the ‘action and adventure’ of Barral’s postwar life, but I thought you would surely object to the tone,” Garak says. As Julian eats his dinner, Garak has taken an early lunch in the backroom of his shop.

“It’s an autobiography; if she’s being true to her experience and her feelings, then surely the tone reflects that.”

“Doctor, all it reflects is that the author sees herself as the ‘real’ victim of the Dominion War, and by extension the rest of Cardassia should feel that way as well.”

“Oh,” he says with a dismissive jerk of the head, “you’re reading into it far too much.”

“Hardly,” he insists. “Our literary tradition is largely didactic—”

“Propagandist,” Julian interjects, a grin on his face.

Garak offers a twitch of a smirk and looks down his nose. Their debates have gotten decidedly more heated lately. He savors the more contrary nature Julian has adopted; it only makes him dig in his heels further. “For our purposes here, it amounts to the same thing. We don’t write anything for public consumption unless we have something to tell. And what she tells us is that we shouldn’t feel responsible for the mess we’ve found ourselves in.”

“I couldn’t disagree more. You, as a people, are moving slowly towards a more individualistic society. It’s only natural that the art you produce reflects that. Her perspective is that of a bystander in the middle of an intergalactic conflict; of course she feels victimized.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending her!” he says as quietly as he can while still expressing his disbelief. He has to temper himself. He’s told Kianatt that he’s spending his lunch hour in communication with some suppliers. It wouldn’t do to be overheard in a flirtatious argument instead. “She as much as says that there’s nothing to be learned from this, but all you care about is the way she fought off a few Jem’hadar to save her companions while the world crumbled around her.” Even as these last words rush out with all the vehemence he can muster, the backdoor to the shop creaks open.

“Now hold on just a minute,” Julian objects.

Kianatt walks in. “Hey, sorry to bother you but—,”

Garak’s gaze darts between Kianatt and the screen as Bashir plows ahead with the point he was trying to make, “My love of theatrical heroics doesn’t mean I’m incapable of evaluating Visitor. If anything, I think you’re the one who can’t read it objectively because you’re a little too close to the subject.”

There’s little chance Kianatt won’t read the conversation for what it is, so he addresses her before Julian can open his mouth and do any more damage. “Is there something you need?”

“Sorry, it’s just that Mavid is here and he’s panicking. He wants to change his order again, but he still needs it finished by the same time.”

Just what I need. A recent and particularly fickle customer, Mavid was as indecisive as he was nervous.

“Is that Kianatt?” Julian asks, and Garak curses his abysmal luck. Of course Julian will want to meet her. He's been asking to ever since she was assigned as his apprentice.

He beckons Kianatt over and introduces them. “Doctor, this is my apprentice Kianatt, Kianatt, this is Doctor Bashir, a friend from the time I spent off world.”

Julian nods at Kianatt, “It's nice to finally have a face to put with the name.”

Kianatt, surprised at Julian's familiarity, can barely manage to say, “Er, likewise.”

Before this can get any further out of hand, Garak instructs Kianatt to forestall the customer a little longer and dismisses her back to the shop.

Once they're alone again, Julian asks, “Haven't told her about me then?”

“I may have left her with the impression I was spending my lunch hour speaking with a supplier,” his explanation brisk, “As much as I hate to cut this short, I'd better attend to Mavid. He's quite demanding and Kianatt isn't ready to handle him on her own, apparently.”

Julian's eyes are downcast, but he agrees. “I won't keep you then. Talk to you later?”

“Soon, I'm sure.”

The transmission ends and he joins Kianatt in the shop to attend to Mavid. The customer is fussing over his outfit for his nephew's wedding. He doesn't even have a place in the ceremony, but he's changed his order twice already. Garak goes over his options once more, and an hour later, Mavid is on his way with a new order and an ultimatum that he won't be able to change it again.

The shop lapses into silence in the wake of such a needy customer. Kianatt remains at her desk where she's been working on sketches for another customer's commission. The silence is deafening, and Garak knows she's itching to ask about what she interrupted in the back room.

Curiosity eventually overwhelms her. “So that's Doctor Bashir?” Kianatt asks. She glances up furtively, no doubt trying to gauge Garak’s reaction to the question.

He had mentioned Julian to her, but in the same distant way he talked about Dax, Sisko, O'Brien, and the rest. Friends from a previous life, not this current one. Knowing her history with the Maquis, he thought it best to minimize his connection to it.

That's what he told himself, anyway. In their time working together, Kianatt had clearly begun to let go of the grudge she held against the entire Federation for what had happened to her parents. He had actually considered introducing the two of them, but if he had chosen to, it certainly wouldn't have gone like that.

Keeping a placid expression, he says, “Yes, we've kept in touch, when we find the time.”

“You seemed...close.”

“Did we?” he asks, “I find that to be a dubious observation, coming from you.”

Kianatt’s stylus hits the desk with a click. “How many times do I have to tell you, Tarven isn't interested in me!”

The young man in question came to the shop on a regular basis, and spent an inordinate amount of time talking and bickering with Kianatt, but Kianatt firmly denied that he might be seeking something more than friendship. Garak still hadn't puzzled out why she did this, as her own interest was apparent. In his continued efforts to make her more worldly, he pointed out Tarven's intentions whenever he could.

“Tarven has bought more clothing here than a young man should need in a lifetime, and he's not shopping to talk to me.”

“He just wants to be friends,” she insists.

“Yes, a friend who argues passionately with you about the works of the great composers and suggests that your sewing is shoddy, yet keeps coming back.”

“But that's practically the same thing you were doing with Doctor Bashir!” she sputters.

“Guilty as charged. It would seem that either we're both on the receiving the end of someone's attentions, or neither of us are. Which is it?”

She sits there, fuming for minutes on end, unwilling to admit to either possibility.

It doesn't stop her for very long, though. Little does, these days. “Do you always talk to him when you say you're calling suppliers?” she asks.

Garak puts down his PADD. “If you must know, I wanted to start leaving the shop in your hands for short periods of time while still being close enough to intervene if necessary. Business calls don’t happen as frequently as I’d like for such purposes, so I improvised. After how you passed off Mavid to me today, I can see you’ll need more practice before I can leave you in charge for extended periods.”

Kianatt tucks into her work, muttering, “No sane person would want to deal with Mavid on their own.”

“That may be, but I need to know you can do it if you have to.” Garak circles around to check her progress, and looks over her design. “Don't you think that neckline is a bit much?”

“It's what she said she wanted,” Kianatt says. Her voice is assured, but she tugs at her braid, a signal that she's uncertain.

“Just make sure to add darts here,” he instructs pointing out areas at the bust and center line. “That will make sure the top stays in place and doesn't go from ‘scandalous’ to ‘career ending.’”

Kianatt hastily makes the changes as Garak retreats to his own workstation to get started on the newest iteration of Mavid’s outfit. The shop goes quiet as they each work on their respective projects. Eventually, Garak's ready to draft the pattern for Mavid's suit. Kianatt still needs practice with drafting, so he lets her take the lead while he supervises and makes suggestions.

They continue on into the afternoon until a new customer enters. She's agitated, and has the look of a younger person who's aged prematurely; a common phenomenon after the bombardment. “Welcome to my establishment,” Garak says warmly, “I’m the proprietor. What can I do for you today?”

Her eyes scan the shop, taking in the clothing on display. “I'm not entirely sure to be honest. A colleague, Commissioner Lorr recommended you to me. I'm in need of a new outfit, to start with.”

“That is the perfect place to start, seeing as I am a tailor.” Already, he could sense that she had the potential to be one of his preferred clients. “What's the occasion?”

She wrings her hands, still exploring the shop. “I have to try and convince a Federation trade committee to exempt Cardassia from a variety of sanctions and regulations.” She waves her arms in a futile gesture. “The last time I gave a presentation, I was at University speaking to my peers. I have no idea what I'm supposed to say to an alien government to get them on my side.”

“I think see why Lorr sent you my way.” He beckons her towards the overstuffed armchairs normally occupied by clients’ spouses or children. “Why don't you tell me the details? I'm sure we can create an ensemble that will do some of the talking for you, but we'll want to get it just right.”

She nods, and relaxes a little. As they take their seats, Garak asks, “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Rokassa juice, please.”

Garak nods to Kianatt who runs to the replicator. The routine is well known, and she's back in a moment with the woman's preferred beverage and a red leaf tea for Garak.

“I don't believe I've introduced myself. I'm Garak, and this is my apprentice Kianatt,” he says, taking his tea.

The two women exchange a slight bow in greeting. “Baissa,” the woman said, “I'm the secretary to the Commerce Minister, but I've received a temporary and very much unwanted promotion.”

“Ah,” Garak says, “Minister Khett's heart failure. How is he faring?”

“I've been told his progress is steady, but slow.” She takes a drink. “His duties have been reassigned, naturally. It's fallen to me to take up his petition to allow Cardassia to ease into Federation trade regulations with Bajor. It would be a disaster if we had to meet a new set of standards overnight.”

“And what, precisely, is at stake if you're not able to negotiate in Cardassia's favor?”

“Other than my neck? We'll lose our most valuable trade partner. The Federation may have given us more in aid, but we have little to offer them in return. Meanwhile, we have a great many agricultural products that Bajor desires, now that we're growing a surplus, and our proximity makes for a natural trade alliance.

“However," she continues, "Bajor has joined the Federation, making all imports subject to much higher scrutiny than Bajor ever imposed on us themselves.”

“And though our progress has been substantial, we cannot possibly hope to meet these trade standards right now,” Garak supplies. “As it happens, I have a friend who was directly involved in Bajor's Federation Membership petition. She's mentioned similar concerns coming from her colleagues. I'll see if I can put the two of you in contact with one another. I believe you have more in common than you realize, and based on what you've told me, you'd probably prefer a more personal discussion as opposed to a committee hearing, hmm?”

“You can really do that?” she asks, more rhetorically than anything. “I see now why Lorr spoke so highly of you.”

“I am quite proud of the suit I designed for him when he attended the Casperia Prime summit.” Garak had also provided him with a number of tips for surviving an encounter with Ambassador Lwaxana Troi. Lorr had listened to Garak's advice in a cavalier fashion, clearly thinking Garak was exaggerating Troi's persistence. However, Garak received the most enormous gift basket he'd ever laid eyes on shortly after the Commissioner returned from the summit. He'd become a regular customer ever since.

Setting his mug aside, he went on, “I’d like to send my friend a message to get you two in contact as soon as possible. Kianatt will take your measurements while I reach out,” and just like that, Kianatt was at his side, and ready to usher Baissa to the fitting room.

He excuses himself to the back room to compose a message to Kira, only to discover a message awaiting him. Julian has sent a short text transmission: Contact me when you get home. It will be late for me, but I don’t care. I want to talk about that exchange with Kianatt.

His stomach twists. He knew Julian wasn’t pleased when the conversation ended, but a demand to talk does not bode well.

He quickly composes a request to Kira, supplying Baissa's contact information so that the two can schedule a meeting at their leisure.

Returning to the show floor, he does his best to put Julian from his mind and focus on this new project. If he can add Baissa and her Ministry of Commerce to his list of trusted clientele, it can provide him with a new avenues to network, new contacts who will feed him information.

He retrieves his catalog, and together they pick out a dress from the dozens of patterns he has on file. With her forthright anxiety about speaking with the committee, he steers her towards designs that she will feel comfortable in. She settles on a dress that's modest and relatively simple; two tones of the same material, and moderate in complexity.

Meanwhile, Kianatt has been listening in and fetching fabric samples from the back that should suit the project nicely. Garak and Baissa meet her at the workbench where she's sorted the fabrics into two piles.

“I think all of these would look good on you, but these,” Kianatt waves to the smaller pile on the right, “are all made of Cardassian-grown fibers. I don't know if any of them are popular exports, but I thought it might be appropriate to remind everyone of what they stand to lose in these trade negotiations.”

“How shrewd!” Baissa says, delighted, “I'd send you to negotiate in my place, if I could get away with it.”

Kianatt smiles. She has a knack for seeing the bigger picture, and that's integral to the service that Garak is trying to cultivate.

A cotton from Rogarin province is selected, a few more details are worked out about express charges and coming in for a fitting, and Baissa is on her way, much more at ease than when she arrived, and promising to send business his way.

Garak allows himself a small sense of pride in a job well done. Tailoring was never something he had aspired to. His career in fashion began as a punishment to supplement his exile, a humiliation to highlight how far he'd fallen. When the station was turned over to Bajor, “tailor” became his cover as he searched for a way back to his planet and his people. Slowly but surely, he began to see the merits of the job, enjoying the simplicity of it in the face of an ever-deepening conflict between his people and the rest of the galaxy.

Now, he still has moments where he wishes he could be doing something of greater importance - he still knows he has more to offer than this - but when he can pass on his knowledge and resources to customers like Baissa, it makes his assignment feel worthwhile. It scratches the social itch he's had for ages now, and occasionally, he gets to offer his other skills and insights indirectly.

He returns to the backroom and is pleased to see Kira's acknowledgement and thanks for connecting the two of them. Sitting right next to her message, of course, is the one Julian sent him earlier, and he's brought back down from his high.

Garak decides not to keep him waiting and hurries through the end-of-day tasks. He surprises Kianatt by allowing her to lock up for the evening. “You more than made up for your earlier fumble by suggesting the Rogarin cotton. Close up, don’t let anything get stolen, don’t burn the place down, and we’ll consider the day a success.”

She makes a face, “Don't set your standards too high now, there's no way I can live up to them.”

Back in his apartment, he calls Julian, as requested. In spite of being the middle of the night on the station, he’s alert and awake.

“What seems to be the trouble, Doctor?”

His eyes dart about for a moment. “I’m just going to come out and ask it. What are we?”

“Last I checked, I'm a Cardassian and you're a human,” he tries to steer them in a humorous direction.

Julian's not having it. With a frustrated sigh, he demands, “What is this between us? What is this relationship we've created over the past three years?”

Garak blinks, honestly taken aback. “May I ask how this relates to your introduction to Kianatt this afternoon?

“You’ve told me so much about your new life on Cardassia. I know your routine, the people in your life, and how you’re feeling from day to day. I honestly feel like a part of your life! So when I finally get to meet Kianatt and I realize she has virtually no idea who I am, it hurt. It hurt to realize that as much of your life that you’ve shared with me, you haven’t shared me with the rest of your life. And I know,” he holds up a hand and closes his eyes, “I know we said years ago that we weren’t going to have a long-distance relationship—”

Before Julian can say another word, Garak interjects. “You said that.” A bitterness that he didn't know he had sprang forth. All this time, he'd kept his true feelings in check, abiding by Julian's request for a “soft-restart,” respecting the boundary he had set. How dare Julian act as though this arrangement was mutually desired?

This stops Julian mid-rant and forces him to take a breath. “Yes. I did.” He swallows. “But I think I've made a mistake. In truth, I’ve been treating you like we’re in a relationship for a while now.”

“I'm glad you've realized your error in judgment. You can correct it moving forward.”

“No, what I'm saying is, I want more, not less! If...” he stumbles, “if you'll have me. I'm sorry; I've made a mess of it all.”

Garak was torn. The bitterness was giving way, but practicality was taking over. “You realize nothing has changed? I still have work to do here, and unless you’ve been holding out on me, there are no cures on the horizon. You’re still tied to the station.”

“I don’t care anymore,” he shakes his head. “Even if we can't be in the same place all the time, I want to be able to tell people you're mine and I'm yours.”

“Will it even change anything if we say we’re together?”

“Yes,” Julian says earnestly, “because at the very least, then I’ll know that you feel the same way.”

And that much, at least, he has an answer for. “My dear, I’ve always felt the same way.”

Relief swims in Julian’s eyes. “Really?”

“I thought it would be obvious by now. You weren’t the only one who got overly-invested after deciding that we wouldn’t be involved,” he admits.

Julian seems to be at a loss of words, for once. “Elim” is all he manages, leaning in towards the monitor, affection written across his face.

Garak had long ago grown accustomed to Julian’s use of his surname. Julian had continued to address him as ‘Garak’ long after he’d learned of ‘Elim,’ and in doing so had afforded Garak the privacy he desired. Hearing his first name on Julian’s lips, that privacy seems much less desirable now.

Leaning towards the monitor as well, Garak can almost imagine they're in the same room. He smiles, basking in the long-awaited reveal of what they had always felt and already knew.

There was still one detail that needed attention, however.

“I do think my earlier question deserves examination,” Garak says. “Do you expect this to change anything? I must say, I still don't intend to share the sordid details of our affair with coworkers like Kianatt.”

Julian's eyes lit up with good humor. “You're not ashamed of me are you?” he teases.

“Hardly. But Kianatt is my protégé, and I don't intend to share the bawdy gossip of my personal life with her.”

“Bawdy gossip,” Julian repeats, laughing. “I don't think admitting that you have a significant other is gossip-worthy on its own.”

“Nevertheless, I see little reason to bring it up unless it's relevant to the conversation.”

Julian smiles even wider, “Well, I think you might want to mention it before I meet her in person, or else I'll tell her myself.”

“You can't be serious.”

“As soon as I can get some approved leave, I'm taking a vacation, going to Cardassia, and we're making up for as much lost time as we possibly can. That's what's going to change now.”

“Are you sure that's wise?”

“The only thing that kept me from visiting you was the temptation to take things too far and screw up our friendship. We've already taken it too far, so there's nothing to screw up now.”

“I doubt that,” he says, offering what he hoped was a smoldering look, “But I think I'd like to find out.”

Chapter Text

“Not a single one?”

“Not that I'm aware of, but I’ve not sought them out, either.”

The voices are familiar but disembodied as Garak wakes.

“It just seems like a blind spot, really. Cardassia has embraced all sorts of art that never would have been permitted under the old regime.”

It's Julian’s voice. What in the world is he talking about? Where am I?

He opens his eyes slowly, but otherwise remains perfectly still. He's in a hospital bed.

“We really only embrace holonovels when the subject lends itself to being interactive. Elim said that he gave you a few enigma tales, but that you weren't impressed.”

Parmak, naturally. Garak opens one eye just enough to see Julian and Parmak seated in the room, carrying on, unaware that he’d woken.

“You can say that again,” Julian scoffs, and then backpedals. “I'm sorry if you like them, but I don't find it terribly enjoyable when I know who's guilty from the start.”

“You'll get no argument from me. The characters in enigma tales are never allowed to be empathetic.”

There's a pause, and Garak can just barely make out Julian's nod of agreement. “It's just that I had hoped that experiencing some of these stories Garak keeps recommending might lead to a better understanding than just reading them. There’s got to be some reason he loves them so much.” A hint of critique comes through.

Parmak, on the other hand, speaks with amusement, “I think you understand them perfectly. I’ve gotten to know Garak’s taste in literature. It tends towards the dry and predictable.”

Garak opens his eyes fully, not about to take this lying down. “Tell me,” he says, sitting up, “Do you gossip like this whenever you think patients are asleep, or do you reserve that privilege for me?”

“Garak!” Julian jumps, and is immediately by his bedside, checking him over with a tricorder.

Parmak takes his time standing up. “I might consider gossiping about my other patients, but they would have to have qualities worth gossiping about. You should take it as a compliment.”

Before Garak can respond, Julian interjects with, “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough to wonder what I'm doing here.”

“You don't remember?”

Garak thinks back. “I can't recall anything past Karvett Damlac coming in for his standing appointment.” The Councilman confirmed what Garak had been dreading for weeks, and a panic attack had followed shortly thereafter. He’d managed to see Damlac out the door, but remembered very little after that point. His consciousness had been reduced to a pinprick as the crushing sense of confinement overwhelmed him.

Julian and Parmak exchange a look, and Parmak explains, “According to Kianatt and other witnesses, you ran out of your shop, desperate for open space. In your delirium, you ran into traffic and got clipped by a skimmer.”

Julian picks up where Parmak left off. “Your injuries weren't too bad, all things considered. We had you all patched up a day ago, but we decided it would be best to keep you under a little longer. We were worried that you might have a panic attack when you woke up in a small, unfamiliar room, and we didn't want you to re-injure yourself.”

Garak stretches and flexes the areas that Julian had indicated were injured. “I seem to be back in order. Thank you for your attentive care. And as for the claustrophobia, this place doesn't seem to have any effect on me.” He turns more distinctly towards Julian. “Though you may want to look me over for brain damage, as I believe I may be hallucinating. I thought you were supposed to be at a conference in the Casperia system. You said you would be out of contact for the duration.”

“Ah, well,” Julian says, and he almost looks sheepish, “I could tell you were out of sorts lately, and thought I’d make a surprise visit. There is no conference. Of course, I didn’t know just how out of sorts you were, or I would have come to visit you much sooner.” There’s a hint of accusation there; why didn’t you tell me?

“Not exactly the surprise either of us were expecting. I didn't believe it would get so out of hand, nor so quickly.”

“Does that mean you know why you’re having these claustrophobic attacks? Last time, at the end of the war, it took some digging to figure out.”

“I believe I know what's causing my distress,” he says, putting on a show of reluctance. “I fear I may have botched the shop’s finances beyond repair,” and as he says it, Garak shoots a look at Parmak, and quick as a champion riding hound, he catches on.

Parmak clears his throat, “If you'll excuse me, I've ignored my other patients for too long. Doctor Bashir, it was splendid catching up with you. I'm sure you can handle him on your own from here on out,” and with that, he leaves Garak and Julian alone.

Of course, Parmak already knows the truth. Garak was facing a distinctly Cardassian problem, and who better to help him solve it, he had assumed, than a fellow Cardassian? But then, Parmak had always been of an unconventional disposition; he proved to have no useful insight into the matter. Nevertheless, Parmak leaves the room under the guise of giving them some privacy, but doing so also allows Garak to maintain a lie, lest the truth be overheard in this less-than-private space.

“The transition away from the government-sponsored commissions to a completely consumer-based of economy for non-essentials didn't pan out the way I planned.”

Julian slowly moves to sit next to him. “Why didn't you say something earlier?”

Garak barks a laugh of disbelief. “What could you have done? Your people haven't used currency in centuries.” He quickly holds up his hand to mollify Julian, “I'm certain you would have provided a sympathetic ear, but you have to admit, economics is not something the Federation holds near and dear to its heart.”

Julian presses his lips together, seeing Garak's point. “Even if things are too far gone to be saved with the shop, it's not worth the stress you've put yourself under. You've survived far worse things than bankruptcy.”

“You're right, of course,” he says, patting Julian's knee. It's convenient, how Julian gives him a way out so easily. “I just have to face facts, make some hard decisions.” He lets the vague resolution hang there, expecting Julian to press him for details.

He doesn't; Julian is distracted, and there's something there, something he's just itching to say. Garak lets him. “Is something else bothering you, my dear?”

“You know how I said I wanted to surprise you?” Julian begins, “Well, there's more to the surprise than just me visiting you. I wanted to tell you in person, we've found our first cure!”

And for a moment, the bad news, the anxiety, the hospital all fall away.

“Truly?” Garak asks.

“Yes!” Julian laughs, and he bounds across to the room to fetch a PADD, and hands it to him.

Garak can't follow the medical jargon, but the title says all he needs to know. Research Breakthrough: Task Force Discovers Cure for Engineered Plague. The article, dated yesterday, credits Julian Bashir and his team for their pioneering work that will save millions in the Gallorth system.

“Congratulations are in order, my dear.” Garak can't recall Julian looking so proud (and that's saying something), but it's pride well earned. Though Julian hasn't said anything, Garak knows he's been frustrated with the lack of progress. Privately, he's wondered if it's the first time Julian has truly struggled with something.

“I came here to bring you back with me to the station. Dax is planning a party; some of the old crew will be coming. I want you to be there too,” he says earnestly.

It's only fair; Julian has been to Cardassia five times in the last year, counting this trip. They've talked of Garak visiting the station for a change, and he agreed to in a vague way, never feeling as if he could leave the shop for an extended period. Now though…

“I did have several appointments scheduled,” he makes a show of objecting, “but something tells me that as soon as we step out that door Parmak is going to prescribe me a strict regimen of rest and relaxation.”

“Only if he has to,” Julian grins.

“Luckily,” he says, raising his brows, “my claustrophobic attacks seem to be location specific, or else I might have a hard time with the runabout. As it is, there's nowhere else I'd rather spend a vacation.”

Julian grips his hand tightly and leans in for a kiss. It is so good to see him, feel him, live and in person. After years spent with nothing more than subspace text, audio, and video of this man, these simple touches still take his breath away.

Breaking the kiss, he says, “I'm sure there's someone far more deserving of this biobed than the two of us. I'd hate to keep the ill and injured standing around.”

“Luckily,” Julian sneaks in one more kiss, “we'll have the runabout all to ourselves. No interruptions.” With a final squeeze of his hand, Julian gets to his feet. “So shall we head back to your place so you can pack your bags?”

“I'd like to take a slight detour first. I need to ensure the shop is in working order before I leave.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, eager anticipation quickly replaced with concern. “Kianatt has been taking care of things just fine while you were out. You shouldn't put yourself in harm's way.”

“That may be,” Garak says, “but covering for an emergency and being prepared for a full week are quite different things. Surely you know that, having taken a few vacations here? Besides, I owe it to Kianatt to explain what's happened.”

It takes some time to successfully leave the hospital; through Parmak, Julian had become lightly acquainted with several other doctors in the hospital, and all of them want to offer their congratulations. This suits Garak well enough. It gives him extra time to mentally prepare himself for the shop.

It will only take a moment. Kianatt just needs some notes about upcoming appointments. Stay focused, and you'll be on your way in no time. It's not even about the shop, not really...

He repeats this mantra internally until his feet carry him to the door of the shop. He takes a deep breath, and steps inside.

“Welcome to-oh, you're back,” Kianatt says, dropping the customer service pleasantries. “Are you alright?” she asks tentatively. The shop appears empty, aside from Tarven who’s become a regular fixture in the shop over the past year. Much to Kianatt’s chagrin, Garak knew the two had begun dating for two months before she decided to tell him.

“Not to worry, Doctors Parmak and Bashir had me put back together in no time.” Kianatt waves hello at Julian, standing just behind, and Julian returns the gesture. As Julian requested, Garak had properly introduced the two over subspace, and they’d met in person on an earlier visit. Kianatt, to her credit, approached Julian with an open mind. Garak can hardly believe she's the same person who used to storm off at any mention of his Federation connections.

“However, Doctor Bashir is taking me on a sabbatical. I apologize for the short notice, but not everyone is gifted with my impeccable sense of timing.” Garak can almost feel Julian roll his eyes.

“If you're going to throw me under the bus, the least you can do is tell her why.” Stepping forward, Julian says to Kianatt, “He's coming with me to celebrate; I found a cure for one of the biogenic weapons I was studying.”

“Wow, really? That's great!” she says, impressed. She quickly pivots to Garak: “How long will you be gone? You know what, don't worry about it, I can handle things here.”

“You can't get rid of me so easily. I want to make sure you're up to speed on some of these orders.” Kianatt had been begging Garak to take a vacation for months now; he suspects that she harbors some concern for his health and well-being, but she's been considerate enough to only describe it as a desire to prove herself capable of managing in his absence.

He moves to usher Kianatt towards the work table when one of the dressing room curtains swish open. Damlac stands there, framed by the box of the dressing room with a pair of trousers-in-progress folded over his arm. “Ah, Garak, I wasn’t sure that I’d see you today.”

Garak immediately feels his chest constrict. A follow-up appointment.

“Kianatt here was saying that you had a run-in with a skimmer just after I left the other day.”

The lights seem to dim, his periphery narrows to a tunnel.

“I’m glad to see that you're back in action. I don’t look half as good when I try to dress myself. My wife has recycled anything you haven’t made - are you alright?”

“Just need...some fresh air,” is all Garak manages before retreating for the door. He’s dimly aware of Julian making some sort of excuse on his behalf as he gulps air and steps outdoors.

He’s leaning against the wall of the shop trying to breathe deep (as Julian always told him) when he feels a hand on his arm and he flinches.

It’s just Julian. “Come on, let's go to your place.”

“Kianatt…” he starts to protest.

“Kianatt is going to check in with you at the end of the day, and you can give her instructions then,” he says, pressing a hand to the small of Garak's back.

Julian steers him gently, and they take the scenic route home. He's had space to decompress by the time they arrive, and Julian sets him up with a cup of tea. “I can't thank you enough,” Garak says softly. “That could have turned into a most unfortunate scene if you hadn't been there to get me away from the shop.”

“Of course. Now,” Julian says with a certain gravity, “Tell me why you're really having these panic attacks.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I saw what happened in the shop. You were doing just fine until that man stepped out of the dressing room. Who is he?”

Garak takes a deep breath. He would have preferred up feel a little more recovered than this, but there's no more sense in delaying. “Please understand Julian, this is sensitive information. I couldn't tell you in the hospital. There was too great a chance of being overheard. The man in the shop is Councilman Damlac. He's one of my regular clients.”

“One of the regulars who comes to you for advice about the Federation?”

Garak inclined his head in the affirmative. “The Councilman was assigned to the disarmament committee, and while effective at dismantling Dominion-sponsored armories, he was about to start a new war just trying to prove it to the Federation and Klingon Empire. So I help him understand you and your allies, and he occasionally lets me on upcoming bits of legislation.”

“And it's some upcoming legislation that's gotten to you?”

“When I last saw him, he confirmed that they had enough support to abolish Vocational Placement.”

Julian opens his mouth and closes it again. Apologetically, he says, “Is that it? I find it hard to believe that losing Placement is what sent you over the edge.”

Indignation flares within him. “Rest assured, I'm not proud of my many and varied neuroses.”

Julian holds his hands up in apology. “I'm just struggling to understand. Why not keep tailoring? It’s the last thing Placement assigned you to, Cardassians will always need clothing, and you’re very good at it.”

“It's not the same thing. I would no longer be tailoring for Cardassia; I'd be tailoring for myself.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Everything!” he insists, standing. “Do you really not understand? I gave my life to the Union, wholly and unconditionally. I've always served to the best of my ability, but now it doesn't matter. Cardassia doesn't,” he pauses, short of breath, searching, “doesn't... need me anymore.”

Julian blinks in momentary surprise, but recovers quickly, standing to meet Garak. “Okay,” he says, “I'm starting to see where you're coming from with this. I think that you're wrong about it-”

Garak tsks.

“-but this isn't something we have to solve right now.”

Garak raises his eyes to the ceiling, but before he can tell Julian how empty these words are, Julian pushes on.

“You are on vacation, if you recall. You've got a full week to think about this constructively, and I'm here to help you in any way I can. But I'm not going to let you wallow in self-pity the whole week either.” Julian deflates a bit, and with far more patience than Garak feels he deserves, he says, “Look, whatever is going on, please don't force me out. I want to help you.”

Julian takes his hand, and Garak feels his reflexive defenses melt. “In the best of times, I never would have imagined someone willing to help me. Right now, it seems especially easy to forget.”

“I'll be right here to remind you.”

Julian is good to his word, and Garak endeavors to uphold his part of the bargain. Packing his bags, passing on instructions to Kianatt, and the runabout journey all slip by without incident, and through it all, Placement barely crosses Garak’s mind. It’s far easier, he finds, to stand apart from his troubles when he has companionship.

Chapter Text

The morning after their arrival on the station, Garak wakes feeling well-rested for the first time in weeks.

They eventually find their way to breakfast. “So,” Garak asks over regova eggs, “When is the big event?

“Dax has scheduled the party for tomorrow evening. Kira and Ezri are here already, of course. The O’Briens will be arriving mid-day tomorrow, I'd like to meet then when they arrive. I think Ezri said that Jake should be able to make it. Most of the Infirmary staff, and two of my teammates from the task force will be there. Neither Worf nor Martok can make it. Worf ‘sends his congratulations,’” Julian says in an imitation of the Klingon's stoicism, “and Martok insists that next time he's in the sector, he’ll bring bloodwine and new ballads of victory.”

“Perhaps it's best that the Klingons couldn't come. It would make for an entirely different sort of party.” That gets a small laugh from Julian. “Since the celebration won't be until tomorrow, what shall we do today?”

“About that,” Julian clears his throat. “I may have left for Cardassia a little preemptively.”

“Meaning?”

“I didn’t exactly have clearance from Kira to take leave at that point.”

Garak set his cutlery down and tilts his head to side. “Is this actually going to be a vacation or not?”

“It is, it is! I just have to go into the infirmary today. Make sure everything is in order. Same type of thing you had to do with Kianatt.”

“An hour with Kianatt, and she was perfectly prepared for a full week on her own,” he says playfully.

Julian's eyes light up, “You can't expect everyone to have such a simple arrangement. Some of us have respons-,” he cuts himself off suddenly, clearly realizing the hurtful edge to his good-natured ribbing. He blinks a few times, “Sorry.”

Garak finds his foot-in-mouth stumbling charming at times, but right now he much prefers brash flirtation. “Don't apologize to me; your staff are the ones who deserve the apology. You've left them woefully underprepared for your absence. An entire day; it's embarrassing.”

With that, they're back in familiar territory. Julian, elbows on the table, points his fork at Garak. “I see what this is. You're jealous. Well, don't you worry,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’ll be counting down the minutes until I see you again. Speaking of which, lunch at the replimat?”

“I wouldn't want you to change your usual plans on my account. I'm certain I can keep my—jealousy, as you call it—at bay until you're finished teaching remedial medicine. But, if you are taking a lunch break anyway, I don't see why we couldn't meet.”

Julian departs shortly after breakfast, and Garak is left to his own devices. With little else to do, he decides that he may as well explore the station and see what's changed in his absence.

The most immediate difference he spots is that Bajor and the Federation no longer overlap in the administrative and governmental realms. With Bajor now an official member, many departments only display Federation icons to designate their offices. Of course, Bajor is still properly represented with the temple and various cultural institutions that the Federation need not involve themselves with.

At first he believes his claustrophobia is flaring up, feeling that the station is smaller, more cramped. Looking more carefully, he confirms that the station is more crowded with people. It seems that with the threat of the Dominion gone, an old mining station is a more appealing place to live. Previously, the habitat ring barely ever reached half occupancy. His early morning stroll reveals sections previously off limits to be home to many now.

Enough families have moved back to the station to warrant a Federation-run school opening up. Garak can’t help but notice that it’s located far away from the Bajoran Temple. Hopefully, this school will fare better than Professor O’Brien’s establishment.

As he follows the curve of the promenade, an especially ostentatious new business demands his attention. A bevy of flashing lights set it apart from the understated signs on the rest of the promenade. At the entrance, a pair of Ferengi attempt to draw people in.

“Be prepared!” one of them says. “Gamma quadrant maps, cultural guides, popular attractions, and hidden gems.”

“We'll plan your next trip at the lowest price!”

Garak can hardly believe Kira allowed such a dubious business to set up shop. But then, as Quark's comes into view, he considers that a deal was probably made somewhere along the way.

Oddly enough, the Ferengi tour operators have given him an idea, and Quark is just the person to see about it.

It's still morning, and therefore relatively sedate for a bar. He gives a friendly nod to Morn as he regularly did when he still called this place home. Morn, not expecting to see him, appears to be rendered speechless.

He finds Quark along with Ezri Dax at a table near the bar. He seems to have caught them mid-transaction.

“Not on such short notice,” he hears Quark say. “The best I can do are some Denobulan varieties, but their stuff is top shelf.”

“I'll hold you to that. Curzon knew his whiskeys; I'll know if it's anything less than top shelf,” Ezri says, folding her arms.

“Of course, of course.” Quark appears to delete and re-enter something on his PADD. “And if you're set on the pastries from the Betazoid place, there will be a surcharge for bringing in food from somewhere else.” He flips the PADD around, “If this is satisfactory, just sign off at the bottom.”

As Ezri begins looking over the contract, Garak, still undetected, reads over her shoulder. Addressing Quark, he says, “Do you really expect to get away with 60% mandatory gratuity?” Both Ezri and Quark jump. “She's going to remember that you charged her less for her own wedding.”

“Garak!” Ezri says, “It's good to see you!”

Quark is less enthused. “I expected her to haggle.”

“He makes a good point, Quark,” she says, pushing the PADD back towards him. “Bring it down to 30% and you've got a deal.”

Quark jabs at the PADD. “Great to see you too Garak,” he says acidly, “You've been here less than a day, and you're already giving me a headache and costing me latinum.”

“Allow me to make it up to you. Do you still have that holosuite program of Outside the Night?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Could I make a reservation for the day after the party? Say, late morning?”

Quark makes an impatient motion to indicate that payment upfront is required, and that Garak should really know better by now.

Garak fishes a strip out of his sleeve, “You can keep the change.”

“At eleven hundred hours, the holosuite is all yours,” Quark says with a toothy grin.

“Well,” Garak says with an exhale, “I’ll let you get back to your transaction.”

“Oh, we were just finishing up,” Ezri gets up from the table. Quark offers a curt nod as he busies himself with the PADD again. “Why don’t we take a walk, catch up? It’s been too long,” she says with a sort of jittery sincerity.

Having no particular plans, Garak agrees. “Certainly.”

They walk a few steps in silence, and Garak wonders what she wants to discuss that she doesn't want overheard in Quark's.

Cautiously, she says, “I hope you don’t mind that I’m throwing this party for Julian.”

Garak has to stifle a laugh as her intentions make themselves clear. Though Julian has talked of Ezri as the friend and colleague that she is, Ezri and Garak haven’t spoken directly since the end of the war, and certainly not since he and Julian started dating. The dear girl wants to be clear that her intentions are those of a friend only. She need not have bothered. If Ezri ever feels tempted by Curzon’s adulterous tendencies, Garak would never suspect it.

“Not at all,” he reassures her. “I was hardly in a position to host a party for him, and I daresay this place has been a bit lacking in festivities ever since Jadzia passed.”

Amusement passes over her face. “Don’t get your hopes up too much. It’s a party, but Jadzia was the one who had real talent for this stuff. Honestly, I’ve just been looking for an excuse to get together and see all my old friends again.”

“And here I thought you were throwing the party for Julian.”

She shrugs, unashamed, “It can be both.”

“In any case,” Garak says, “I know Julian appreciates it. He’s very much looking forward to seeing everyone.”

“And what about you, Garak?” she asks. “Are you looking forward to seeing everyone?”

“I suppose that depends on them. While I always found a way to amuse myself, I’m not so sure that others enjoyed my company the same way. Quark, for example, never seemed to appreciate my sense of humor.”

“Quark’s always been humorless when it comes to profits. But I’m glad you’re here,” she places a hand on his elbow. It's one of those classic-meant-to be-reassuring moves. Perhaps other humanoids found it comforting; Garak always found it condescending to be touched by someone who didn't mean it.

“Lieutenant, I have my doubts that you wanted to take a walk with me just to tell me such pleasantries.”

She holds her breath for a moment. “You’re right,” she says, bringing them to a stop out of the main path of the promenade. With an exhale, she says “What I wanted to say is, I think you’re good for Julian.”

As he blinks back his confusion again, Garak wonders whether she's trying to throw him off, and, if so, to what end. “What do you mean by that?”

She furrows her brow a little. “The war and everything leading up to it changed Julian. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.” Garak nods affirmative. The war had left its mark on all of them, one way or another. If he’d known how jaded Julian would become in just a few short years, he would have enjoyed his naiveté more while it lasted.

“I think when he and I got together, he was mostly just looking for something familiar to cling to.” Ezri explains. “Jadzia had died, but there I was, walking around with her memories. Intellectually, he knew we were different people, but I think he was scared to lose her — us, again. Meanwhile, I still barely felt like I knew who I was. It wasn’t a good combination.” She gave a little shrug. “We never really connected, but what really tipped me off that it wasn't going to work was how quiet he got. This is Julian we’re talking about, you can’t stop him from talking, but he spent more and more time brooding as our relationship wore on.

“You, though,” she says, turning to him more fully, “Ever since you two got together, he's been more optimistic, more himself than he's been in a long time.”

“I feel I can hardly take credit for any positive change in his countenance, but I will concede that you may have a unique perspective on the matter.” They started walking again.

After some hesitation, she says, “He's still a very dear friend to me Garak, and I'm happy for both of you.”

“You know, I can't help but notice that you still seem to be sharing pleasantries. You can wrap it in all the small talk you like, but it does little to disguise that you're building up to something.”

“You're not the most approachable person you know.”

“When have I ever been anything but magnanimous in our interactions?”

She rounds on him and stops him dead in his tracks. “Julian told me you were having claustrophobic attacks again.”

He freezes there a moment, his mouth an “O” of surprise. “I see,” says simply, and then steps around her and moves on, leaving her behind.

“Garak, wait!” she shouts, but he ignores her, even as he hears her stomping behind him. Of course, he thinks, the newly-minted Commander wants to play armchair-psychologist with a former patient.

She's at his side again, her shorter legs working hard to keep up with his longer stride. “Garak I just want to talk, just for a second.”

“Thank you for your kind offer, but I believe you've said everything there is to say on the matter all those years ago.”

“You seemed to appreciate my help last time. At least, afterwards, you did.”

“Yes, and I greatly appreciate your insight to this day. This time, however, your services would be wasted.”

She jogs in front of him and grabs his arms stopping him; it would be easy enough to free himself, but would certainly cause a scene. “I don't offer ‘services’ anymore, remember? That's not my job.” She let go of him. “I thought...I just was hoping we could talk as friends?”

“Friends?” he snaps, in semi-disbelief. What did I do to deserve this torturous conversation?

“Yes. With everything that happened with Julian, I was worried you might resent me. But I’d rather it not be that way. So, what do you say? Will you let me help? Not as a counselor, but as a friend?”

Holding her gaze, he gently removes her hands and angles his body away. “We can be friends, as you say, without a lengthy conversation about what's troubling me.”

Disappointment is plain on her face, and she starts to turn away. Garak touches her arm, stilling her.

“Truly, I do not hold any grudge against you. But this is a matter I would prefer to keep private.”

She purses her lips unhappily for a moment. “Alright. I'll take it. Friends,” she says with a nod and a sigh, “I had hoped that Iloja of Prim was the exception, but I I'm starting to think all Cardassians are stubborn.” Her expression softens, “Let me know if you change your mind. The door is always open.”

“Commander,” he calls after her as an idea comes to him. She stops and turns. “Perhaps there is a way you can assist me. Would you be willing to tell me about yourself?”

She tilts her head, “What do you want to know?”

“If it's not too much of an imposition,” he closes the gap that had formed, “I would like to hear about your experience becoming joined with Dax. I know the broad strokes of course, but hearing the details may provide some insight into my own dilemma.”

A smirk creeps across her face. “Alright. It's a long story though. Why don't we go somewhere we can sit down instead of taking up space on the Promenade?”

She chooses the upper level of Quark's, where it's quiet enough for discussion, but loud enough that it doesn't feel clinical.

“So, what did you want to know, specifically?”

“Why don’t we start with your life before you were joined? What path was your life on before you suddenly became a host?”

“Not asking much, are you?” she says sarcastically.

“I won’t be offended if you refuse.”

“No, it’s alright.” She pauses for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “I guess you could say I was on a path that felt like it was my own for the first time. My father was absent most of my life, my mother was overbearing, judgmental, and controlling. I joined Starfleet to get away from home, get out from under her thumb. I had an interest in psychology, and I was really happy with that career track at the time. But I think I would have felt great studying or practicing just about anything. Just being able to make a choice without my mother trying to sabotage it somehow was a huge relief. I was doing really well in my studies, too. And I had a boyfriend!” she starts, as though she has almost forgotten. “Brinner. It wasn't especially serious, but I really thought we had potential.”

“And then, Dax?”

“As Ezri Dax I didn't see any potential with Brinner at all,” she says, almost to herself. “I ended it mostly because I needed to sort myself out. I had a lot of conflicting feelings about Worf back then, like he was a complete stranger and my husband at the same time. But I also realized that part of what I liked about Brinner is that my mother wouldn’t object to him. He was a great guy but he was very… safe.”

“And what of your career aspirations?” he asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to the part he deemed relevant. “I've often wondered if your career change was related to your joining our some other factor, given it was some years later that you gave up counseling.”

She hums in agreement. “It was all a part of figuring out my new identity and what I wanted to do.”

“Then why, if I may be so bold, did you stay on that career path for as long as you did? It seems as though it may have served you better to take a sabbatical to reevaluate, would it not?”

“No,” she says with a lilt, considering. “It's one way to do things, and it would be helpful for some people to take time off, but not for me. Too much was changing for me; I needed something to keep me grounded. Keeping my career on track helped me focus—helping others through counseling gave me something to focus on besides my own misery.”

An interesting insight, but not one that would help him, personally. Garak’s misery revolved around his career; focusing on it more wouldn't help him escape it. “And aside from counseling others, what else helped you cope with this situation?” he asked.

“Coming back here mostly. I wanted to be with people who knew me and cared about me. If nothing else, I knew Benjamin wouldn't steer me wrong.”

Garak doesn't find this particularly relevant either. There are only two people in Garak's life who he feels close enough to discuss the matter, and he'd already done so with little success.

“Is any of this helping?” Ezri asks.

“I'm not sure,” he admits. “I'm glad that focusing on your work and spending time with close friends assisted you, but I'm not sure such conventional therapies will work for my situation.”

Ezri snorts. “Sorry,” she says, “but I think that’s the first time anyone has described my first year as a joined Trill as ‘conventional.’”

Garak doesn’t follow and he tilts his head, inviting an explanation.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you forgot. Reassociation? You had to have heard about Jadzia and Lenara.”

Indeed, it comes back to him. Some obscure (and frankly, questionable) rule for joined Trill. “Was returning to the station as you did frowned upon? I was under the impression that reassociation only pertained romantic relationships.”

She nods with some reluctance. “I was basically observing the rule of the law, but not the spirit of it, and the Symbiosis Commission could tell. In a lot of ways, it looked like I was just picking up Jadzia’s life where she left off. Since the whole point is to bring new experiences to the symbiont,” she rolls her eyes and gives a futile wave of her hand. “I’m sure I would have been disciplined if I were anyone else, but they went easy on me since I never intended to be joined.”

“In light of such context, I suppose ‘conventional’ isn’t an apt description.”

“But seeing my friends again was really something I needed.” She pauses, stirring her drink. “If you really have an unconventional problem, it might require an unconventional solution.”

“That is something worth considering.” Garak says with an incline of his head. He's still not sure where how to take such advice, but it's refreshing nonetheless.

They're both content to leave Ezri’s story, and instead move on to topics more conversational than biographical. The ship she’s been promoted to, the USS Tian An Men, is older, but much beloved by the crew. They spend most of their time at the edge of the Delta quadrant surveying, though there's the occasional dust-up with the Romulans.

Now that she isn't prying into his personal life, he's content to invite her to join Julian and himself at lunch; he knows Julian wants to spend time with her as well.

When Julian arrives, Ezri greets him with genuine enthusiasm as opposed to somewhat-stilted excitement that Garak received. The two old friends fall into a conversational rhythm and Garak chimes in when appropriate. Ezri laughs as they tell her about a misunderstanding the last time Julian came to Cardassia. When Julian tries to tell them about a nasty Telarian parasite that's on the rise, Ezri gives him a shove before Garak can lose his appetite.

Lunch is over too soon. Julian returns to the infirmary and Ezri has more details to attend to for the party, leaving Garak to himself once more. He decides to pick up his stroll around the Promenade where he left off.

He walks past the Earth-Bajoran fusion restaurant Julian had told him about. Captain Sisko’s culinary heritage had become well known on the station during his tenure. After his departure, a much-regarded Bajoran chef wanted to pay tribute to the Emissary by opening a restaurant that blended Earth and Bajoran dishes. Captain Sisko's father had agreed to meet with the chef to go over his recipes, and according to Julian, neither knew quite what to make of the other. The chef had treated Joseph Sisko with reverence as family of his Emissary, while Joseph Sisko approached everyone as a close friend. They must have met halfway, because the restaurant is thriving now.

As he follows the curve around, he realizes he's about to walk past his old shop. There's a certain part of him that's been dreading this. Not because he had any love of that shop; it holds no shortage unpleasant memories from his exile. Without his shop, however, he imagined there was nothing stopping Quark from renting the space out for the Argelien massage parlor he always wanted, and he had always hoped his shop would never be replaced with something so tacky.

As it comes into view, he can see that the door is closed, and no plaque hangs above the entrance. It's vacant, apparently.

A few steps closer, and he pauses. There's a mannequin in the window that looks terribly familiar. He quickly completes the walk over, and gazes in through the glass. There's his shop, largely unchanged from the day he left it. Oh, there's a layer of dust over the surfaces, and he can see boxes just behind the counter that he never put there - someone must be using the space for storage. But otherwise, not a thing has been moved out of place. How?

He hears footsteps as someone approaches, and finds Kira on her way over. “I can open it up for you, if you want,” she says, offering a smile in lieu of an actual greeting.

“Commander,” he returns, “I was just puzzling over how my shop could still be here after all these years. Surely there's some other merchant who would want to make use of the space?”

“I've had a few offers,” she says.

“Then why keep my shop?”

“You'd have to ask Julian for specifics. He's the one who requested it to be kept like this.” She taps in the key code and the door slides open. “Even when he was still with Ezri, it was obvious how much he missed you.”

Garak isn’t sure whether to feel touched at the sentimental gesture, or mildly embarrassed that Julian keeps such a sentimental reminder on public display.

He can taste the stale, recycled air. He calls for the lights, and it’s almost like stepping back in time to the day he left with Kira to meet Damar’s resistance. A young lieutenant’s completed dressing gown is nearby, ready to be picked up. She had died just days before he left; he had never decided what to do with the gown. There were pattern pieces out for a dress for Molly O’Brien that he never got the chance to start. Though he would be seeing the girl very soon, she had long outgrown the dress he’d been designing. There’s even a stack of PADDs on the desk containing the last of the transmission codes he’d been working on.

“If there’s anything here that would be useful to take back with you, feel free,” Kira offers.

“One can never have too many seam rippers,” he returns with a polite incline of his head.

“Heard anything about Pentath III?” Kira asks.

The planet in question has become a major point of contention ever since Bajor joined the Federation. Bajorans had had a modest colony there a century ago before Cardassia forced them out during the Occupation. The Klingons took it from them, and then the Dominion-Cardassian alliance took it back. The Treaty of Bajor reverted all territories back to how they were before the Dominion War, and thus Pentath III was held by the Klingons ever since.

“Frankly, I'm not sure why Bajor wants it. The planet changes hands more often than latinum in a game of tongo.”

“And whose fault is that?” she says with a sarcastic smile. “We have a historic claim to it.”

“It's the Klingons who need convincing.” The Klingons didn't recognize Bajor's claim. They only acknowledged Cardassia as “conquered” former occupants, and therefore able to challenge the Klingon Empire's claim. “You'll get no argument from me against Bajor's right to it, nor from Gielon Dric for that matter.

She blinks back some surprise. “Dric is in favor of giving it back to Bajor?”

“Is it really that shocking?”

“Yes. Since when have Cardassians ever done anything that didn't benefit them in some way?”

“Maybe we just like you,” he says, affecting an innocent a look as he can. “Allow me to disavow you of any philanthropy on our part. We're sick and tired of having the Klingons camping out in our front yard.”

“Why not just take Pentath back for yourselves then?”

“According to Councilman Dric, there’s not much there for us. We already mined the resources that were easy to take when we were there. What resources remain would be costly to extract, and we're still some years away from being able to invest so freely. No, we would much rather strengthen our stance with the Federation and be done with the place.”

“Has Dric spoken with the Klingon High Council yet?”

“You didn't hear it from me, but there's a summit scheduled for next week. I'll let you know how it went as soon as Councilman Dric comes in for his next fitting,” he says with a smile.

“I owe you one,” she says, looking relieved, “Do you know what Pentath would mean to us?”

“No, but I'm guessing it involves a prophecy?” he guesses.

Kira just offers a wry smile. “I’d better get back to Ops. I'll see you around.”

“Likewise,” he inclines his head.

She leaves the shop and he’s alone with his memories of the place. He never expected to see this place again, let alone just as he remembered it. He opens a drawer behind the counter. Not precisely as I remember it. He kept a small wallet of petty latinum here; it seems to have gone missing in the interim.

He heads to the backroom and takes mental stock of the fabric. Most of it will be salvageable for his shop on Cardassia.

If…

No, now's not the time for such thoughts.

He wanders over to the work table where more PADDS are scattered with his notes and a crumpled outfit-in-progress. His outfit-in-progress, he recalls. In the months before his departure, he'd started on a new suit for himself. He had no real need of it at the time, but it kept him busy, got his mind off of transmissions when he could afford to take a break.

He holds up the jacket and shakes it out. It was nearly complete when he left, something he worked on to distract himself from the uncertainty of wartime and an increasingly distant Julian.

It should still fit. Holding it up to himself as he checks the mirror, he allows himself a moment of quiet appreciation of his own work. These past five years have been detrimental to his wardrobe. First, with no resources to spare for a suit of this quality. Later, the resources were available, but he had no events to attend that would warrant something this elaborate.

I’ll wear it tomorrow, he decides. It’s far finer than what he’d brought with him. All it needs is a final hem done up and a cycle in the clothes refresher and it will be ready to wear.

He fetches the stitcher from its resting place on the work table, flips the mouth open and feeds the raw edge of the fabric inside—

—and his head swims and the air escapes his lungs like a deflating balloon.

Backing away from the work table, he collapses in a chair along the walls. It takes a few minutes to regain his composure. He puts the heels of his hands to his eyes and curses the affliction while he waits for the crushing sensation to ease up.

Very well, he thinks, breathing rapidly, if I can’t do this the usual way, maybe it’s time to go back to basics.

After he’s calmed down, he gathers the suit, some thread, and needles for hand stitching in turn. In the homier atmosphere of Julian’s quarters, he’s able to finish off the hem, stitch by patient stitch. By the time Julian arrives at the end of the workday, Garak has the suit hanging in the closet, ready for the party tomorrow.

Julian tells him about this afternoon's patients and training a new nurse over a dinner of salmon with Vulcan greens. They’re well onto dessert when Garak gets the chance to bring up what he's wanted to ask all evening.

“I ran into Commander Kira this afternoon, just outside my shop. Imagine my surprise when she told me it was you who asked to keep it unchanged all these years.”

“Oh, it really wasn't any trouble,” Julian brushes it off as if it were as simple as keeping any other memento. “There's always been space available for rent on the Promenade.”

“Is that so? The retail spaces on the Promenade seemed quite occupied as I strolled around today. In fact, I don't recall a single storefront for rent.”

“I may have persuaded Kira to reclassify your storefront as storage.” Julian smiles, found out. “What can I say, it was lonely around here. You left and then so did everyone else. It felt good to walk past your shop, imagine that you might come back any time.” Between bites of tuwally pie, he adds, “Of course, I haven't had to imagine in a while. Maybe it's time to let someone else move in.”

“It's not as though I'm using the space. Just as long as it doesn't go to Quark.”

Julian considers him for a bit and cautiously inches forward. “Have you thought anymore about Placement and your attacks?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Garak says plainly. “I thought I’d finish up an old project I found in the shop, and no sooner had I picked up the stitcher than I was reduced to a quivering mess.”

Julian pushes a bit of crust around his plate. “I’m not sure I understand why having an assigned job is so dear to you. Surely, you have to know that by helping other Cardassians, you’re helping Cardassia as a society?”

Garak held his mouth open, studying Julian. It’s still not easy, being open with him. Julian knows him so well now, there’s no secrets left, no weaknesses he doesn’t know about. And yet it still takes Garak conscious effort to be this honest with him.

“I've never actually been a part of Cardassian society, you realize. As Tain’s illegitimate child, I was hidden, and later, moved about like a kotra piece. In the Order, my entire life was lived in the shadows. After that, I was exiled, and then finally, I was allowed to return to Cardassia. And I thought I would finally be able to live in the public sphere, no longer held back by Tain’s whim or Dukat’s well-earned grudge.”

A crease had formed between Julian's brows. “Tain and Dukat are both gone, as are the systems that formed them. Why does Vocational Placement matter in light of that?”

“Not only is Placement is impartial, it is, or was, a guarantee that my knowledge, my skills were being put to their best use. Someone in Placement looked over the whole of my life and said, ‘I know the perfect place for him.’ Now, I’ll have no way of gauging if anything I'm doing is worthwhile.”

Julian, apparently, is still unable to follow. “I don't see why Placement should be the only way to determine the worth of an occupation,” he shakes his head. Changing tactics, he says, “Earlier, you said that you weren't needed.”

“It comes to the same thing. In the past, everyone on Cardassia was a valued, contributing member of society, but the value was assigned. I'll give you that our post-war society has adapted and learned flexibility on this front, but our path forward was obvious. Everyone has always had a place, and with that, has known precisely what they were giving back.”

“I don't think that's been true for a long time,” Julian says. He's almost apologetic, knowing how little Garak cares to hear such critiques. “You don't get dissident movements growing out of societies where everyone feels valued and secure.”

“But even your criticism suggests that there was a time where such a system worked, and our history says much the same thing. There's no reason that Vocational Placement can't thrive in the right hands.”

“Assuming that's what everyone wants, and I'm not sure the rest of Cardassia does.”

Garak rolls his eyes, “And so, we're back to where we started. Our elected powers-that-be have decided that Vocational Placement is no longer necessary. Therefore I am no longer necessary, as I quite literally can't imagine what to do in its absence.” Garak gets up and begins clearing the table.

He knows the conversation isn't finished, and that Julian is only considering his next move. Such delicacy has become a hallmark of their serious disagreements; Garak would have never thought him capable of such patience based off the bawdy debates they have for fun.

When he joins Julian on the couch minutes later, the man's brow is furrowed in concentration and he's turning over a data rod in his hands.

“What have you got there?” Garak asks.

“Hmm? Oh, just some research about the biogenic weapons. I haven't gotten around to putting it away.” Julian reaches to put it back on the side table and then stops, his hand paused mid-air. His face alights, “Maybe that's it.” His hand resumes it journey and deposits the data rod on the table. “Maybe Cardassia was sick.”

“Sick?” Assuming the universal translator isn’t offline, Garak can’t imagine what Julian is trying to say.

“No, wait, elderly.” Seeing Garak's expression, he backtracks a little bit. “Will you humor me with a metaphor?”

Garak gives a skeptical nod.

“You've been saying that Vocational Placement was a necessary system to give you purpose, but I think the Cardassia of old was more like an elderly parent. Your people overextended their resources and Vocational Placement was created to keep Cardassia functioning, and demanded more and more sacrifices from her people as time went on. Not unlike how a parent might require more care as their health declines in old age. You had to devote everything to Cardassia just to keep it alive. And that old Cardassia finally passed away.”

“An intriguing metaphor, if a bit morbid. Where does current-day Cardassia fit in to all this?”

“This Cardassia is more like a child. Immediately after the war, the new Cardassia was an infant and needed just as much attention and care as the old Cardassia did. Vocational Placement still served a purpose as your people reformed their government and rebuilt their world from scratch. But children grow up and begin taking care of themselves.” Julian shifts on the couch, pulling a leg up and angling his body more towards Garak. “In some regards you might be right. Maybe Cardassia doesn't need you in the same critical way it used to. But doesn't it feel good that you've helped create a world that doesn't need Obsidian Order, or corrupt leaders, or Vocational Placement just to survive?”

Garak casts his eyes on the floor. There’s a ring of truth to Julian's words. Recent years had not been easy, but he is proud of his people's ability to rebound from the devastation.

“And,” Julian adds, “just because you're not needed the way you used to be doesn't mean you're not needed at all.”

Following the metaphor, Garak could admit to himself that there was truth in that as well. Learning to survive was paramount, but what parent would willingly ignore their children after such a lesson had been learned?

Ah. That answer came all too quickly.

But that mental baggage could be unpacked another day. Or never, preferably. Instead, he refocuses on the here and now.

“Your metaphor is clever, but there is still one dilemma before me. I may feel more at peace with my relative unimportance, but I’m still at a loss as how to spend my time. I’ve never truly been left to my own devices.”

“Why not let Cardassia take care of you for a change? Your people aren’t suffering, your world is stable. Take whatever time you need to decide what to do!” he says with some enthusiasm.

It's not a real answer, but with the larger weight lifted off his shoulders, Garak is happy to indulge in the pleasantry. “Your suggestion would be borderline-heretical in the culture I was raised in,” he teases. “There's no telling what I might start believing if I continue to associate with you.”

Julian smiles and clambers over to Garak's side of the couch. He pulls himself into Garak's lap, and lets his fingers idly trace the spoon on Garak’s chest through his shirt. The tension has been thoroughly dispelled, and Garak is happy to let his hands come to rest on Julian’s hips.

“I think we should put that to the test,” Julian says, “You, Elim Garak, are worth much more than whatever usefulness you might serve to Cardassia.”

“Did I say you were clever? I must have been mistaken,” he shoots down the compliment even as he moves his hands upward, working his way towards Julian’s shoulders.

“Maybe what you need is practice,” he reaches his fingers into Garak's hair. In a low voice, inches away from Garak’s ear, he says, “How about you tell me exactly what you want? All you have to do is ask.”

Garak shivers; Julian’s breath on his ear and neck overwhelm his senses, and yes, that does help him narrow down what he wants, at least at present. He captures Julian’s lips with his own, and pulls him in closer. When Garak breaks off the kiss, Julian is quick to move his attention to Garak’s neck, forcing him to concentrate. “You seem eager to give me what I want already. I hardly need ask for anything.”

Julian’s attention to his neck stops, and a puff of laughter against Garak’s skin again sends tendrils of desire racing from his scalp to his toes.

Julian stands up, taking Garak by the hand and pulling him towards the bedroom. “Luckily, I know how to make you beg.”

Chapter Text

They take their time the next morning, sleeping in and eating breakfast at a leisurely pace. Over croissants, Garak brings up the holosuite he reserved yesterday. “You recall the novel Outside the Night?”

“How could I forget,” Julian says, leaning over his plate. “A novel somehow more repetitive than The Never Ending Sacrifice.”

“Nevertheless, I overheard your conversation with Parmak in the hospital, and thought you might want to try a holonovel based on a classic repetitive epic.”

Julian's eyes light up in interest. “Oh, some enterprising Cardassian decided there was a market for holonovels after all?”

“Not exactly. The program in question is decades old.”

“Why didn't you show it to me before?” Julian is focusing on entirely the wrong thing. “I would have loved to try a Cardassian program other than Enigma Tales.”

“Because, the author of this particular program took some… liberties with the source material. Frankly, I hesitate to show it to you at all, but I have strong suspicion that you'll enjoy it.”

“Well you've certainly got my attention with an introduction like that,” he grins. “What sort of liberties are we talking about?”

“It's only an adaptation of Midava’s story, leaving out the other generations of the family. It abandons the repetitive aspect altogether.”

“That sounds perfect; her story could easily stand on its own.”

“You should also prepare yourself for some truly baffling dialog changes, plot threads that go nowhere, and an unreasonable amount of story space devoted to a fad diet that supposedly ‘elevates the lipids.’” At Julian's puzzled expression, he clarifies, “The author was an eccentric by the name of Kurrom Dol who embraced quackery. He expressed dissident leanings on a number of occasions, but he was considered an asset to the Union as he made the dissident movement look crazed and disorganized, and so he was allowed to continue doing as he pleased. This holonovel was another of his bizarre pursuits.”

“Well,” Julian said, eyes wide, “It sounds like a spectacle if nothing else.”

“You have no idea. You'll want to wear a raincoat.”

“Do I even want to ask?”

“I'd hate to ruin the surprise,” he smiles.

As breakfast concludes, the computer announces a subspace transmission for Garak. Kianatt is on the other end.

“Do you have a minute?” she asks, anxiety apparent in her voice.

“Of course. What's the matter? Did Temolin miss her appointment again?”

“No it's not work-related. Business is great,” she stops and thinks for a second, “Actually, I did want to ask where the spare power cells are. One of the PADDs is acting weird.”

“In the backroom, the storage unit in the left corner. They should be in the green bin. Now,” Garak says, “what is your primary reason for calling?”

"I just wanted to get your opinion on something," she says, and pulls back the sleeve on her right arm, revealing a massive welt. "A viphri flew into the shop this morning. I thought it would be fine, but it just keeps swelling. It's not supposed to do this, right? I've been stung once before, but it wasn't anything like this."

"Well it doesn't look good," Garak says, and at the alarm on her face, clarifies, "but I don't know that you need to go to the hospital for it." He doesn't want to scare her, but allergies weren't especially common among Cardassians, and he's never seen a reaction like this before. At the same time, he'd always been told that the sign one should worry about was difficult breathing, and she was clearly fine in that regard. "Why don't we get a second opinion?" he suggests, and without ado calls for Julian to join them at the console.

Kianatt immediately starts waving her arms to get him to stop.

"What?"

"Don't drag him into this!" she whispers urgently.

"He's a doctor."

"Well he's not my doctor!"

"You're being absurd." She still had moments like these. "If you're going to let old prejudices get the better of you, just ask Dr. Parmak."

"For the love of-" she throws her arms up, "I didn't want to get any doctors involved! I only wanted your opinion!"

“Too late,” he says, as Julian has arrived at the console. Garak turns to him and says, "Kianatt would like you to take a look at something."

She glares before sliding her sleeve back up.

"Ooh,” Julian sympathizes, “what bit you?"

"A viphri stung me." She flexes her arm a bit. "It's getting harder to move my wrist."

"Have you had any trouble breathing or swallowing?"

"No."

"How about more welts forming places other than the site where you got stung?"

"No."

"Well, if any of those things do start to happen, you should go to the hospital. But as it is now, the welt should heal itself. It will be uncomfortable for a week, maybe two, but it won't do any lasting harm. An antihistamine from the replicator should reduce the swelling a little, but if it gets to be too uncomfortable, Dr. Parmak should be able to give you something stronger.”

“An old home remedy says that a cold slice of larish should provide some relief as well,” Garak adds, recalling something Mila told him once.

She nods a bit, “Okay, thanks. I just wanted to be sure it wasn’t serious.”

The transmission concludes and Garak sighs. “I’ll never understand how someone as intelligent as Kianatt can still harbor such foolish tendencies. Calling someone with no medical training light years away, when there’s any number of professionals she could have reached out to.”

“Oh, I think I know why,” Julian says, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “Somehow, you’ve convinced her that you’re trustworthy.”

Garak snorts a repressed laugh. “If that’s the case, she’s even more foolish than I thought.”

The O'Briens are scheduled to arrive shortly, so Garak and Julian get ready and make their way to docking pylon two.

The first door of the airlock rolls away, and Kirayoshi somersaults through before it finishes moving. In a flash, he's at the second door, bouncing on his heels. They can hear the muffled shouts of both parents scolding him for his recklessness as they catch up to him at the second door. He slumps, rolls his eyes, and says something semi-coherent to acknowledge the rebuke.

The last time Garak had seen the child, he’d still been a toddler. Garak leans over to Julian, and says under his breath, “Unless I'm mistaken, Molly got all of her combined parents’ patience, and left none for her brother.”

Julian stifles a laugh, “You have no idea.”

The second door rolls away and they can hear a fatherly voice scold, “These doors can take a limb off if you're not careful.”

Kirayoshi barely heeds these words, running ahead as soon as the door is safely tucked away. He comes to a halt directly in front of them. “I’m not gonna lose like last time!”

“Will you give him room to breathe?” Professor O'Brien says as the rest of them shuffle through the airlock toting their bags.

“Oh, well I guess I’ll have to stop holding back!” Julian teases, and stoops to give the boy a hug.

“He might actually give you a run for your money,” O’Brien says to Julian, stepping in for his own hug. “He’s been beating me at darts lately. How are you?”

Garak addresses Keiko, allowing the two friends time to catch up. “Doctor O’Brien, a pleasure seeing you again. How was your journey?”

“Not too bad,” she says with a smile. “It’s good to see you too. We did have one little mishap along the way,” she says, reaching into her luggage. She pulls out a damaged dress shirt— her husband's from the looks of it. “We were in a hurry and the cuff got caught in the closure of the bag. Come to think of it, I know it’s short notice, but is there any chance you could fix it before the party?”

“I think I should be able to patch it up for you. It wouldn’t do for the professor to wear something replicated.”

Molly, who had been glued to a PADD finally puts the device away and offers Garak a slightly awkward greeting. A young teenager now, he expects that she's heavily invested in keeping contact with friends. Julian had indicated that was the norm for humans her age.

They continue their greetings in the corridor for a few more minutes, and then Julian ushers them towards the habitat ring. It's as good a time as any, and Garak excuses himself to repair the sleeve. The tear is such that he needs his equipment in the shop.

As he sits down at the workbench with the stitcher, a calm comes over him. The threads line up and fibers join back together as Garak runs the stitcher over the tear. He doesn't feel the crushing weight of the room closing in or darkness clouding his vision.

The shirt is returned to like-new condition, and Garak trims the excess threads. He shifts his eyes around the room once more, just to be sure that it's not going to come crashing down on him suddenly.

He exhales through his mouth. It could be a fluke, but it's a relief to regain some sense of control.

That's one dilemma resolved. Now I just have to get the rest of my life in order.

Garak examines his work on the cuff, thinking. It's an expert repair, and it's only a minor example of what he can do with cloth. He knows he's good at this. He even enjoys it, in a sense.

But to do just this the rest of his days? To adopt the persona he performed with disdain as his primary self? After all he'd seen and done, playing dress up could never satisfy him.

He flicks the sleeve back on to the table. Much as it pains him to admit it, Julian is right on several counts. The networking he does with politicians while he designs their garments is far more compelling, even if it is beyond Placement's regulation. In absence of a Union-determined role, that is where he feels he has the greatest impact.

For now, anyway. Even his meager diplomatic contributions feel as though they have a shelf life. As Cardassian politicians become more experienced and familiar with other interstellar powers, he’ll have less relevant knowledge to share. He can’t possibly expect to keep his finger on the pulse of galactic events if things continue the way they are.

It is a start, however. He's identified a way he can still serve Cardassia, even as it continues to grow stronger and less reliant on people like himself. And, as Julian loves to point out, he doesn't have to hash out the details right this moment. The needs of his world have been met, tailoring and insight are enough to sustain him for now, and he can wait and see where fate takes him.

Garak leaves his shop, resolved.

A short walk later, and he's back at Julian's quarters. The kids are playing darts with a magnetic board Julian had replicated while the adults talk and catch up. Julian is technically playing too, throwing the occasional dart and hitting the bullseye from his seat on the couch, making Kirayoshi howl in frustration.

Garak passes the repaired shirt back to Keiko and takes a seat as well.

“Thank you Garak,” Keiko says, “I'm sorry to put you out like this.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” he says, waving off her thanks.

“How's Cardassia?” she asks.

“We've come a long way,” he answers.

The visit continues as Keiko asks about what flora has made a comeback, and how their ecosystem is faring. Both O'Briens have questions for Julian about the research breakthrough, and Miles takes him down a peg when he starts to sound a little too full of himself. Miles confesses that he’s a little tired of the rigmarole of teaching at Starfleet Academy.

They serve lunch, much to the protests of Kirayoshi who wants to keep playing, but Julian promises to continue the game later. Shortly thereafter, the O’Briens depart to their own guest quarters to prepare for the party. Garak and Julian begin their own preparations: while Julian clears the table, Garak quickly changes into the suit he recovered from the shop.

“What do you think?” he asks, adjusting the sleeves.

Julian looks up, taking in the entirety of the outfit and nods appreciatively. “I haven’t seen you wear that one before,” he says.

“It’s been here, sitting incomplete in my shop until now,” Garak walks forward, “It seemed the perfect time to finish it off.”

“Well,” Julian says, running his hands from the shoulders down Garak’s sleeves, “I’d say you’ve outdone yourself, but since you did most of it years ago, I’m not sure that I should.”

Garak inhales. “If only I’d found something in the shop for you to wear tonight too.”

“Oh,” Julian dismisses, “I’m going to wear the shirt you made me last year with some nice slacks.”

“But that’s hardly appropriate. It’s a common linen, all we had on Cardassia at the time. Is this not supposed to be a celebration?”

“Unless you’ve got something else stashed away for me, that’s the best-fitting garment I own. Besides, I really want to wear something that you made for me, even if it isn’t proper,” he says with a flourish.

Garak looks into his eyes, so clear and more earnest than any he’d ever seen on Cardassia, and it all fell into place. Of course. It was right here in front of him all along, he’d just never bothered to consider it.

Julian, concerned with this lack of reaction, asks, “Hello? Are you still in there?”

Garak puts a plan in motion immediately. “My apologies, I was taking mental inventory of what I saw in the shop yesterday. If you truly want to wear this, then so be it, but I think I may have something for you in the shop after all. I’m already dressed; I’ll head to the shop and see if it could work for tonight. Why not get yourself ready and meet me there?”

Julian’s eyebrows arch, “Oh, well that would be lovely, if that were the case, but you don’t need to go through the trouble—”

“I assure you, my dear, I much prefer it this way. I have a reputation to uphold; I won’t have you looking like a Cardassian peasant on a night when all eyes are on you. I’ll see you shortly,” he says walking to the door, and he’s on his way before Julian can argue.

As soon as he can be certain he’s out of earshot, he comms Kira. “I hate to do this to you, but I'm calling in a rather significant favor.”

Julian arrives just minutes after Kira leaves the shop. Garak has just enough time to replicate an appropriate dress shirt for his beloved with a few custom specifications. He tells Julian it was for a cadet of a similar build, and he’d forgotten it clear at the end of the rack.

They attend the party, and everyone is in high spirits. The party is more intimate than Jadzia's elaborate celebrations, but Ezri had come through where it counts. Jake Sisko and Nog have turned up for the occasion, and to Julian's delight, Jake asks to profile his research team for an article. Kira arrives a little late, saying she had a call from a Bajoran Minister that couldn't be ignored. No one notices the nod she gives Garak at the first opportunity.

Keiko gives Miles a small nudge, and he proposes a toast to Julian's success. Ezri follows up with a drink to his continued success with the remaining biogenic diseases, and Julian himself salutes the rebounding health of the Gallorth population.

The evening is filled with laughter and commiseration and what-ever-happened-tos and can-you-believes. As it begins to wind down, Garak excuses himself before the others claiming he can feel a headache coming on. He retreats to the new quarters Kira kindly assigned to him.

Assigned to us. I must get used to that.

The door slides open and he finds the standard station furniture in its default arrangement. He begins pushing couches and side tables around into a configuration that suits him better, feels more lived in. He knows Julian will follow after him soon, and Kira will intercept and inform him of where Garak can be found.

Kira has more than repaid that favor. If she needs a new ensemble, it will be complimentary.

He’s just dragging the small dining table a little farther from the wall when Julian enters. He looks about the room and asks, “What is this?”

“Welcome home, my dear,” Garak says, placing the dining chairs in their proper place.

Julian gives a silent shrug of a laugh. “What's wrong with my current quarters?”

Garak moves to Julian's side. “They're too small for two adult humanoids to share.”

Julian boggles as the realization dawns on him. “You can't be serious.”

“Am I to take it you're opposed to cohabitation?” Garak asks raising his brows.

“No, of course I'm not,” Julian says, confusion and delight warring across his features. He plays it off. “I mean, of course, but we both know that’s not going to happen. You wouldn’t leave Cardassia.” A pause. “Right?”

“Not permanently, no. But I have come to a decision. You see, I’ve been considering your metaphor from last night. I’m not needed in the same way, and can take a step back, perhaps in a more literal way than either of us imagined in our previous discussion. After all, a competent child should be able to live independently of their parents.”

Julian seems a little breathless. He takes Garak by the shoulders, “You know what this would mean to me, but I could never ask you to leave Cardassia. You spent years just trying to go back there. It's your home.”

“It's more than my home. It's my life, and all I wish to do with my time is serve Cardassia to the best of my ability. I've realized that my greatest contribution is the advice I offer to those in power, though I never thought it viable in the long term. The more time I spent on Cardassia with my people, the more my knowledge of other worlds would invariably wane. However,” he continues, “if I were to spend time away from Cardassia…”

Julian picks up the thread, “Say, on a space station, where all sorts of important people pass through...”

“Where vital decisions are made regarding the Federation, the Gamma quadrant, even matters involving Klingons and Romulans…”

“Garak, if you’re planning on spying again, I can’t—”

He stills him with a hand, “Nothing so old fashioned. Just what I can pick up with a keen ear and an observant eye.” He places his hand over where Julian’s has remained on his shoulder. “I used to seek out information in order to act on it, contacting those who had their finger on the pulse of a given situation. Perhaps it’s time I become a source instead. Naturally, I’ll keep tailoring as my day-to-day business, as I’m banned from being a consultant in any official capacity. And,” he grips Julian’s hand tightly, “if I can come home to you at night, it will certainly mitigate my homesickness.”

Julian responds with a warm smile before a look of mild concern washes over him. “What did you mean by ‘not permanently?’?”

“Kianatt’s apprenticeship is nearly at an end. I believe that she may be amenable to running the shop on Cardassia for a few months at a time while I run the shop here on the station. Perhaps we’ll switch back and forth; perhaps I’ll hire someone new to manage the shop here when I return to Cardassia for an extended period. It’s a detail that can be worked out later, but ultimately I'd move between both locations to stay up to date on current events at home and current events here on the station.”

Julian finally gives himself over to joy. “This is actually going to happen, isn't it!? We can finally be together—live together—most of the time!” He throws his arms around Garak. “There was a part of me that started to doubt that it would ever happen. That the pair of us were cursed or something, our lives doomed to never fully align.”

“That outlook isn't without merit. We live in-”

“‘-uncertain times,’ yes, I remember you saying that ages ago, like we would never see each other again.”

“I can hardly be blamed, given the state my planet was in and Ezri tethering you to the station.”

“I should never have listened to you.”

“You didn't,” Garak says, leaning back enough to tilt his head. “Your transmissions began arriving as soon as I had the ability to receive them.”

“And you responded. You've never been as hopeless as you pretend to be.”

“Tell me, what else do you know about me that I don't know about myself?” he asks, leaning in to the sarcasm.

“You, Elim, have always a far better servant to Cardassia than she deserved.”

“Deservedness hardly enters into it,” Garak chuckles, “but I know it's a moot point to try and convince you otherwise.”

“There's something we can agree on. You know what I think?”

“Hmm?”

“That the world you're helping to shape will deserve all the devotion you’ve been giving it. And when they realize just how much you're worth, we can reevaluate; see if it still makes sense for you to keep commuting back and forth to the station. I'm not opposed to moving to Cardassia with you once these Dominion diseases are all cured.”

His offer wasn't a surprise; Garak recalled that letter Julian had sent him all those years ago. I don’t think either of us had any illusions about what would happen when I came to visit you.

What was it Julian had called their distancing at the time? “A soft restart?” Garak had been sure that was the death chant for their association with one another, but instead their relationship deepened and developed along a path he never could have predicted. Perhaps this was no different.

“Thank you, but I'm not sure if that will be necessary. This arrangement may be for the best; it's impossible to say. But with you by my side, I'm certain it will be worth finding out.”