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Chapter Text

They deposited him back on the Bellerophon as if he is so much flotsam, tossed back onto Starfleet’s shores.

He could feel the chilly wind from the abyss, how close he had been to being dragged under by the bureaucracy and efficiency of Romulus. He could sense the ghost hands of Tal Shiar agents around his throat, the phantom iciness of an interrogation cell.

As it was, he was instead sat on a biobed in the sick-bay of the Bellerophon trying not to watch the ship's medical staff go about their work on him. He remembered the curious detachment he was currently experiencing from his time in Unit 371, the way in which he had had no control over his own personhood and so had let it go completely. He wondered how long it would take him to come back to his body this time. He wondered if he ever had.

The staff did not comment on what must have been obvious had happened to him, even had he not been dropped through the doorway by two practised Romulan guards. He appreciated their compassion, and the way they realised he did not want to talk.

He felt some sympathy for a young doctor who had started treating him, but had been sent away after become too obviously upset; Julian could tell, by the hard set of her jaw and the dark circles under her eyes, how difficult a week this had been for her. A valuable learning experience though, perhaps. For all his years as chief physician on DS9 had not inured Julian to the horrors of the Cardassian occupation that was plainly told in the medical history of the station’s Bajoran inhabitants and visitors. He’d often thought that that was a failing, that he should be more battle-hardened and world-weary by now. And perhaps he should be, perhaps things would hurt him less.

He asked to be discharged as soon as possible; he allowed them to heal only the most serious injuries, and all the superficial facial ones. He was told to reapply treatment or bruising would reappear, and the rest would be slow to heal. He declared himself capable of following directions and near enough fled the infirmary.

He was grateful for the privacy of his quarters and the comfort of his bed, but he didn't sleep. His mind churned with questions and righteous anger. He got up and left his quarters. He argued with Admiral Ross. He returned, but didn’t sleep - his emotions now as a raw and as the rest of him.

He docked, eventually, on the station. He avoided questions, avoided friends, avoided any contact apart from debriefing.

He continued to not sleep. Unlike on the Bellerophon, he could not stay in his room in his restlessness. Sloan’s habit of appearing in the shadows made him jumpy, made him unable to find security in his own quarters.

He took to wandering the station at night, passing dreamlike through a space normally so familiar and full of life.

Until one night, he was found by another of the station's currently nocturnal residents.

Garak was leaning on the promenade railing. Julian was sure he had not been there a minute ago, but then the upper walkway was all shadows and crevices; a perfect place for skulking.

“Had you been up waiting for me?” he asked.

If Garak was visible now it was because he wanted to be seen. Garak smiled, insincere in the twist of lips though genuine in his eyes.

“Why doctor, I don't know what you're accusing me of.” he said.

Ah, thought Julian, we're doing the whole dance. Normally the darting interplay of words, the denial, the accusations, the mock affront, would have invigorated him. Now the thought of it simply reminded him of how tired he was.

“I only mean,” Julian said, “that surely a man of your many talents has more to do than observe my late night wanderings”

Garak disappeared from the railing, and Julian wandered over to the staircase he knew Garak would be emerging from. Indeed, Garak stepped onto the lower level and began talking as if there'd never been a pause.

“On the contrary.” he said, and his voice dropped from it's usual ironic register to something deeper, to something that told Julian that no matter how light his words, Garak was sincere in what he was saying, “You have been the most interesting thing on this station for the last few days.”

“How so?” Julian said. He was curious to see how this was answered.

“Distracted, careless” Garak said, his voice lilting as though he was listing off a pre-written list. “Obvious signs of torture, brooding, a certain light has gone out of your eyes. And I of course know where you've been for your conference the last few days.”

Julian didn't know whether to hurry Garak into a private room or to confront him here. He felt his breath stolen as though he had plunged into an icy lake. Garak knew. Garak knew he wasn't OK.

“Who else has noticed?” he said, finally speaking, his voice low in his throat, pained to have to ask.

“Your colleagues are not stupid,” Garak said, “But they do not have such a professional eye for what has happened to you”

Julian nodded, and slumped back against a wall. He pulled his head back into the shadow of the promenade's arches; he was already too exposed to Garak but any chance to hide his expression was welcome.

Garak did not speak for a while, and the silence began to take on a new quality. Normally Garak’s silences were an interrogation in themselves, a way to draw out an opponent. This time Julian became aware that it was a pause before Garak spoke, before he made himself vulnerable. The air was thinly frozen water, waiting for the pebble to shatter it

“You do not…” Garak paused, “I do you the credit, doctor, of thinking that your medical skills are advanced enough to effectively deal with whatever the Romulans may have done. And yet you still seem physically uncomfortable”

Julian smiled ruefully beneath the shadow of the archway

“And I, in turn, judge you to be a sharp enough investigator to have theories as to why.” he said.

“Ah” said Garak.

Julian felt him weigh which way to play it, and felt he moment Garak decided to press his advantage.

“You either want nothing to do with what happened to you," he said, "you have detached yourself from your physical form and any medical treatment would bring you back rather painfully - you are too good a doctor to not be aware of what is necessary." He paused, watching Julian's face.

"Or, you want some evidence. You’re angry, confused, and hurting. And you feel a dermal regenerator will erase your rights to those feelings. You are nursing your bruises because they are easier to blame for your pain than the mental violation of being discovered and tortured by the Romulans of all people." He curled his voice around 'Romulans' as though it particularly disgusted him, in such a way that Julian nearly smiled in spite of himself.

But it was not the Romulans that were causing him this pain, Julian knew. It was Section 31. It was Starfleet. It was the whole damn Federation and their betrayal of everything he had thought they stood for. It was being used by the people he had given his life to, it was being an asset in war he had not consented to waging.

But it was easier, far easier, to blame the Romulans.

“Ever insightful.” said Julian to Garak.

“Well one learns a lot about what people hide, and why, as a tailor”

Now he had stopped, stopped and admitted that something had happened, it was very difficult to start moving again.

He was dangerously close to a wall.

He had been for a long time

He wanted to stay here, to sink to the foot of the wall and lie here and not move again. But he thought if he was to die now he would find his body too tired to die, and really what was this spectral half life he had been drifting through anyway, would it be so different to death.

Garak’s words, when he interrupted, were gossamer, barely there and delicate. They floated into his hearing, and registered in a way shouting would not have. In a way shouting had not, in a way screams, threats or orders had not.

“Let me help you. Let us go to somewhere, preferably your quarters and take care of things”

And Julian realised, all at once, that he did not want to say no.

Chapter Text

Julian kept medical supplies in his quarters, but seemed confused at the idea that they should use them.

“It would hurt my professional pride to have to use them for myself,” he said

“Ah, I suppose you are a self-healing Starfleet officer?” Garak said, “So well trained that you don’t even take time away from being useful.”

He wasn’t sure if he had meant to make the comment come out so barbed; he was usually in such good control of his tone and his affect, but then he was also unused to offering sympathy.

Julian gave a half wistful smile, “Something like that,” he said.

He lapsed into silence again, his eyes drifting back now and then to the corner opposite his bed. Whenever he did that, he tensed. It would have been unnoticeable to a human, but Garak could tell by the way the cloth pulled around Julian’s shoulders, by the way the fabric down his spine smoothed out. He could tell that there were minute tightenings of the muscles beneath the uniform.

Attacking that issue head on would not get him anywhere yet, he had to circle the issue gently, soften the ground with sympathy. But whatever was at the core of Julian’s distress was in the corner beneath the window.

Garak had found Julian’s quarters neater than he would have expected; however the doctor was expressing his breakdown, it was not via his housekeeping. Julian had sat on his bed and made no further move. Garak had paused, for a moment uncertain of how to proceed and realised he would have to take the lead here.

And so he had ended up with the med kit in his hands and a Starfleet doctor unable to look him in the eye. Garak opened the med kit, and stared at it somewhat nonplussed. The equipment he did recognise, he had certainly never used in a way that lessened pain. It was strange, laying out his tools to be constructive.

“Well,” Garak said, laying the items out on the desk, “I am rather in your hands on how this all works.”

The look in Julian’s eyes as Garak set out the tools was stormy.

Garak didn't know whether he was sad that he was causing Julian distress, or pleased it would make getting the job done easier. As with everything involving the federation on this blasted, frozen station, the answer lay somewhere in the middle.

“I am not used to taking direction” he said, with a bob of his head towards the doctor to indicate it was his turn to speak, “But I am willing to learn.”

He picked up first piece of the medical equipment and began his work with gentle instruction.

Julian clearly wished to stay disconnected from what was happening to him, so Garak tried a round about way of getting the answers he needed. He asked roundabout questions. He asked hypotheticals.

“Now, if a tricorder reading indicates deep internal bruising in the lower abdomen what would be the treatment?”

They both knew the subterfuge that was going on, and they at least did not hide that they knew. There was less cushion there than in their normal dance, Garak was used to more layers.

Julian had to remove the uniform jacket, then undershirt. Garak did not like the new starfleet uniforms, at least not on Julian; the high shoulders and structured greyness were too Cardassian.

He told himself that his discomfort was merely professional distaste for the uniform, or for the ever growing evidence of Romulan clumsiness. Certainly Garak’s eyes recognised the patterns of bruising and incisions he was uncovering, but he had rarely had to use such unsophisticated methods. It spoke to a lack of professional pride.

“Who is the man in the corner?” Garak asked after some time of working in quiet.

“Who?” Julian said

“The one you keep looking for”

“Ah,” said Julian, “Sloan.”

Of course. It had been mentioned that Section 31 could get on and off the station undetectably. It was how they had gotten to Julian last time.

“It did not bother me too much, the first time it happened.”

Garak waited patiently, pointedly not making a comment on the apparent ease of kidnapping the good doctor.

“But now I know that Admiral Ross was party to it, that he had a direct hand in what happened on Romulus. Starfleet does not feel so safe anymore”

Something within Garak twinged; a sympathetic pain of a loss he did not know he was capable of recognising.

“I understand… discomfort with one's own government” he said.

Julian looked up at him, his eyes dark and sad, and perhaps feeling the unspoken emotion Garak was not able to articulate. Certainly the doctor had depths of sympathy Garak himself could only dream of.

“I am going to get you a clean shirt.” he said, and left Julian’s bedside.

Garak often despaired of starfleet wardrobes, row after row of nearly folded shirts of the same colour and shape. His own wardrobe had not been much more varied before exile of course, perhaps he should not judge so harshly, but imagining dressing for utility instead of effect made him shudder.

He picked up one of the Starfleet medical shirts and held it in his hands. He did not use blue often in his designs, Bajoran fashion ran to earth tones and warmth and richness. The blue was a reminder of the Federation’s alienness to this area of space, and the life Garak had made for himself here. The blue meant medical and science, meant the higher callings of Starfleet’s mission. The blue, to Garak at least, meant Julian.

And then a glint of metal amongst the clothes caught Garak’s eye.

“Oh doctor, why do you happen to have a phaser in your drawer?” he said. His voice was light with barely contained amusement; here at least was an interesting development.

“Night time visitors” Julian said with a rueful bitterness.

The amusement burst, and Garak’s smile became a grimace

It was unnerving to think of the doctor being driven to hiding weapons around his room.

When he reentered Julian was studying the tricorder, reading the report it had generated of its scans and treatments.

“What are you doing?” Garak said.

“Reminding myself of my own uses” he said, “To the Federation. There seems to be less and less want for doctors in this war.”

Garak did not know what to say to that, but the pain within him deepened.

The realisation had been happening slowly for Garak, and now it crystalised all at once into a certainty with sharp edges. It was not the Romulans to whom Julian held any enmity, it was not to them he owed his violation. It was the Federation.

“My dear doctor,” Garak sat on the bed again. He gently removed the tricorder from Julian’s hands, replacing it with the soft fabric of the blue shirt he had brought for him.

“When I first came to Terok Nor”, he stopped, swallowing a grimace.

The honesty tasted wrong in his mouth, cloying and sweet, but if there was anyone he was willing to bend his morals for it was Julian Bashir.

And so he continued in spite of himself. “I found it strange how the station slowly stopped being Cardassian. Its bones are, still. It’s shapes and its colours.” he sketched in the air, gesturing to the room around him - its windows and screens and pillows “But others live here now. Others such as your esteemed self.

“I wonder perhaps, if there is a similar feeling within you now. You can see the Starfleet uniforms, the ships docking, hear the voices of those you are so familiar with. But it is become alien to you - another entity props up its bones.”

The doctor didn’t look at him, didn’t look anywhere but out of the window at the background stars for a long time.

Sometimes it startled Garak how earnestly Julian still believed in Starfleet. He often forgot, so wrapped up in his own cynicism, what idealism was like. And he often ignored the parts of Julian that had attracted him to him in the first place: the naivety, the reckless hope, despite the darkness. Because that naivety could not survive a war like this. And if Julian was still that idealist then he would not survive, someone would come to snuff that light out.

It was his own possessiveness he knew. He was willing to smother what he loved to keep it invisible. He was willing to ignore what he loved so completely that he stopped noticing it himself, so it never became a target. Perhaps some of this could be laid at the feet of his upbringing. But not all.

He wanted to keep pushing, to continue to drive the point that Julian should never have had so much faith in the first place. Instead he offered the only thing he could: the harrowing compromise, the constricting pain of how he lived his life.

“I am a patriot.” he said, “I resent what I am patriotic for. I believe in an inerrant Cardassia. I want Cardassia to be better. I am ashamed of my past. I am ashamed of my people. I am not. I am a proud Cardassian.”

Finally Julian turned to look at him, and if his eyes glinted with tears they were at least softened by affection.

“How does someone as claustrophobic as you survive in a mind that compartmentalised?” Julian said.

Garak let out a short bark of laughter despite himself; he liked to be surprised.

“It is the only way I have ever known how to live - very few are offered the reassurance of certainty”

“I suppose I can at least rely on your instincts for how to survive.”

Julian stood and stretched. Garak watched, admiring his handiwork, and also noting where Julian still winced at times.

The doctor unfolded his shirt and shrugged on his left sleeve. The other arm, still bare, he held out in front of him, caught in momentary curiosity. He contemplated his forearm, stretching and relaxing his hand and wrist. That arm had been particularly marred, mottled with lacerations and bruises; it was still discoloured, despite Garak’s best efforts and Julian’s despondent instructions.

“Something interesting?” Garak said

Julian pulled on the shirt the rest of the way and reached for his uniform jacket.

“I am just reminding myself, of what has happened” he said. And when he met Garak’s eyes his look was fathomless and cold. “If this is how I must live, then Sloan must also live with what he has wrought.”

The warmth that had kindled inside Garak at watching the doctor finally relaxing and talking abruptly licked out. Then Julian smiled. Not widely, nothing like his normal bright and boyish grin, but just enough to be both present and genuine.

Garak realised that perhaps some of Julian would survive this war after all. When Garak spoke next he was relieved to find his voice managed to find its regular arch and teasing pitch.

“Ah but doctor,” he said, “If you become what Section 31 so desires to make you, who will I look to for my moral judgements?”