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Chapter Text

…

The comm from Odo is brief and terrifying: “Station evacuation imminent. Bashir en route. Make your escape now."

Garak closes down his shop, locks it as securely as he is able (which is PRETTY DAMN SECURE), and somehow Julian is already inside, sitting at the desk in the back where Garak does his accounts, one leg crossed over the other and a great big beaming smile on his face.

“Ready for a trip?” he queries, as if that’s something a man can just spring on a decent, reasonable Cardassian who also happens to be a claustrophobic post Obsidian Order exile. And while wearing the ridiculous onesie Starfleet insists is a uniform, no less! Did no one in the Federation study the fine art of seduction? Garak would like to see some collarbone, maybe some ankle!

“I was hoping for a medically induced coma, actually,” Garak replies, noting the suitcases. Yes, two of them; one is open and empty, obviously waiting for Garak’s belongings.

“We can go anywhere!” Julian enthuses, jumping to his feet. “We can go to Bajor — well, we can avoid Bajor, too. We can go to Risa!”

Garak waits, teeth bared in what even Julian knows is not a smile, but Julian offers no other options in all of the Alpha Quadrant. “We can go to Risa, eh?”

“There’s also that medical conference on Casperia Prime,” Julian says, still giddy. “We can arrive a few days early. Maybe we can start up early, have a pre-conference, talk about our experiences with Zanthi Fever. Oh, except that you refuse to tell me what your symptoms were.”

Garak will never tell anyone what his symptoms were. He drinks every time he thinks he might remember them — argh! “Kanar,” he says shortly, and Julian immediately hands him a glass. Garak immediately downs it.

“So, Risa,” Julian begins again, rubbing his hands together.

“How about Ventani II?” Garak counters. “There’s a bar there.”

“A bar,” Julian repeats, after a short pause. He seems bemused.

Garak waves a hand. “Among other things. It’s where Tret Akleen was born, of course.”

“Of course,” Julian repeats again, after another short pause. “I don’t know who that is, but I now know where they were born.”

“Tret Akleen was the father of Modern Cardassia,” Garak tells him, putting the glass on his desk and thinking about getting another. Julian hands him a second one — certainly an effective tactic, but truly, a flash of forearm would have helped.

“Oh really?” Julian says brightly, and flutters his eyelashes. “Do you think he would have approved of me?”

“There are plenty of what Federation Standard insists in referring to, in its speciesist fashion, as Humanoid alien visitors there,” Garak snipes. “You will blend in. The first Terrans I ever met were on Ventani II.”

“In the bar?” Julian asks. Garak envies how easily he projects innocence; Garak can only reliably manage sarcasm.

The full station announcement breaks their repartee:

“ATTENTION ALL RESIDENTS AND VISITORS TO DEEP SPACE 9. DUE TO THE ONGOING SITUATION, ALL NON-ESSENTIAL PERSONNEL WILL BE REQUIRED TO EVACUATE FOR APPROXIMATELY THREE DAYS. PLEASE SELECT YOUR EVACUATION VESSEL ACCORDING TO YOUR DESTINATION VIA STATION COMPUTER SYSTEMS. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS WILL BE AVAILABLE THERE. THANK YOU.”

“I like how a heartbroken, maudlin Q is just referred to as the ongoing situation,” Julian says cheerfully. “Anyway, I don’t think any of the evacuation vessels are heading to Ventani II. But I know one of them is headed to Risa…”

“What I remember of Risa is that you went there to end your relationship with Miss Leeta,” Garak points out, and draws in a dramatic breath. “Are we…?”

“Don’t even try that with me,” Julian snaps, pointedly moving the open suitcase closer to Garak. “We get a vacation. We’re taking it. You’re wearing shorts. Let’s go.”

“I am most certainly not wearing shorts!”

…

Julian and Kira are the only two senior officers who Q doesn’t want to drink with him at Quark’s, and thus are escaping the madness entirely. He seems to vacillate between singing Klingon battle hymns with Dax and Worf, and seeking “Terran Parent” advice from Sisko and O’Brien.

Kira is, of course, going to Bajor. Julian is still cheerfully pulling for Risa. Garak, who has not only managed to pack his own suitcase but to redirect Julian long enough to dump his awful selections and fill his suitcase with proper attire, is carefully steering them in the direction of the mercantile ship Itapax, one of a few larger vessels meaning to stay within range of Deep Space 9, and the only one not Federation-aligned. Garak is owed a few favors among the station’s Ferengi that he can call in, and the Itapax has some larger suites available.

“My dear Garak,” comes a voice, and there is suddenly, in the midst of the grumbling residents of Deep Space 9, a confused-looking Cardassian man. “What is happening? I was supposed to meet with a Miss Leeta…?”

“Roc,” Garak says, surprised. It is indeed Eskall Roc, bowing in trades-fashion, trying not to be bowled over by the many Bajorans streaming through the Promenade along evacuation routes. Julian is almost bouncing next to him, clearly awaiting an introduction. “Ah. Doctor Bashir, this is Roc, the jeweler I mentioned to you—“

“It’s wonderful to meet you!” Julian bursts out, holding up his palm with glee. Roc touches palm to palm, teetering on the edge of overwhelmed. “Please call me Julian.”

“He will not be doing that,” Garak snaps.

“Oh, I can’t do that,” Roc says at the same time. “A doctor and an officer? I must and will offer the proper level of respect, Doctor Bashir.”

Julian pouts while Garak directs them to the side of the Promenade, out of the stream of people. “Miss Leeta is either on her way to Bajor, dear Roc, or has been pressed into service over the ongoing, ah, situation.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that,” Julian says, looking alarmed.

“This is my luck,” Roc says faintly. “I finally get to Terok Nor, and there’s an immediate evacuation — Deep Space 9! Deep Space 9, I’m so sorry, I misspoke!” He bows deeply to Julian, who continues to look alarmed.

“It’s — it’s all right?” Julian tries, and flaps a hand near Roc, trying to get his attention. “It’s an easy mistake to make!”

“It’s a terrible and derivative name and no insult attaches,” Garak says almost absently. A terrible suspicion is growing in his mind. “Roc, how did you get here?”

An arm slides around his waist and Garak controls a groan by sheer willpower. “I gave him a ride,” Pral says, grinning up at him. “Hi, Garak.”

Then she whips around him to stand in all of her not quite meter and a half glory, holding out a palm to Julian. “Hello! Please call me Pral. What an absolute pleasure to meet you, Doctor Bashir! You’re so much prettier in person.”

Julian makes a few inarticulate sounds, a deep blush coming over his face, but he gamely presses his palm to hers.

“What are you wearing?” Garak demands.

Roc is, of course, dressed conservatively, trousers and tunic in understated shades of yellow and green. Pral is wearing some sort of voluminous jumpsuit in the most vivid pink Garak has seen outside of Lwaxana Troi’s wardrobe, and along the hems are offensively orange leather braids.

“It’s Terran,” Pral says proudly. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“I love it,” Julian breathes.

“We’re leaving,” Garak tells him, and links their arms hurriedly. “Let’s go to Risa.”

“Risa? Why would you go to Risa?” Pral demands. She beams at Julian and adds, “We’re going to Ventani II. Ever been?”

“I haven’t,” Julian says, starting to grin again. “I’ve heard there’s a bar.”

Roc hides his face with a hand as Pral enthuses, “They had a Terran jazz band there once! A jazz band! It was amazing. Have you ever seen a saxophone? I love saxophones.”

“This woman is a decade older than you and a weapons smith,” Garak says tartly. “Do not be fooled.”

“And the French thing, the starch?” Pral continues, holding out her hands. “They’re fried! They’re a tuber!”

“French fries,” Julian says, and he’s laughing now, as excited as Pral is. “Made from potatoes. Also called chips!”

Pral steps closer, dropping her voice. “They grow them there. They always have the French chips.”

“I will wear shorts,” Garak tries, but Julian is completely under Pral’s spell.

“Let’s go to Ventani II,” he says, and leans against Garak so he can look up at him to bat his eyelashes. “I want to visit Tret Akleen’s birth place.”

“There is an awful museum in Alakat City,” Pral announces. “We never go there. Let’s go to Delakar’i!”

“Let’s go to Delakar’i!” Julian echoes, squeezing Garak’s arm.

“You don’t even know this woman,” Garak tells him, exasperated. “How do you offer her your complete trust at your first meeting?”

“I am a member of the Cardassian Union Network of Trades and Skillscrafts,” Pral says grandly, stepping back to take Garak’s other arm. He shakes her off and without a hint of shame she goes to take Roc’s. “I would never offer any harm or disrespect to another member, or their entourage.”

“I’m your entourage!” Julian whispers to Garak with wildly inappropriate glee.

…

And so they’re going to Ventani II, with a message left in Captain Sisko’s inbox and an estimated return of exactly three days. Pral is chatting with Julian about something called the London Underground, gesturing wildly.

“What is really happening?” Garak asks Roc, watching the two of them suspiciously. Julian appears to be having the time of his life, sipping on kanar and fighting Pral cheerfully to get a word in edgewise.

“Have you encountered many members of Starfleet Intelligence?” Roc asks in return. He carefully brings them to warp. “They like to pair them, one obvious and one not.”

Garak has been interviewed at least seven times by the less obvious ones. “They’re present, but more or less harmless in my experience.”

“Section 31 isn’t.” Roc looks troubled. “They’re not official, for one. Starfleet refuses to confirm or deny.”

Not a good look. “Infiltration?”

“Usurpation, maybe. Lang is worried.”

It would indeed be a blow to the Cardassian democratic resistance movement if they couldn’t count on Federation allies. “And they have an interest in Julian Bashir?”

“Augmented Humans in general. Making lists; trying various methods of recruitment. Gaimlo thinks they’re appropriating Cardassian techniques for the future.”

Garak rolls his eyes. “We’ve never been secretive about our abilities in genetic orchestration.“

“Saying they come from Terran scientists. Refusing to acknowledge origins. Rewriting the history of the Federation, even, so that Humans are its originator and savior.” Roc shrugs. “Other xenophobic things of that nature.”

Not a good look at all. “A supremacy movement.”

“With all that entails, yes."

Garak sits back, continues frowning expressively at Pral. She ignores him with ease. Julian, on the other hand, catches his eye and winks, grinning. “So we make public some conflicted loyalties on Julian’s part and endanger his professional life further? I understand you aren’t yourself interested in men, but I would like to continue having sex with him.”

Roc sputters, hitting the control panel and making the cabin lights flicker. “My dear Garak!”

Pral bursts into laughter and calls out, “Don’t embarrass the child!”

Julian makes his way to them, still grinning at Garak. “What’s so embarrassing up here?”

“I mentioned that if you and I were on the Itapax, we’d already be mid coitus,” Garak explains smoothly, and Roc jumps up from the pilot’s chair, scandalized. Garak gets a grip on Julian’s hip, urges him closer. “How do you feel about making use of a supply closet?”

“You know,” Julian tells him, tracing Garak’s aural ridge as Roc scurries away, “There’s an old Terran custom, known as joining the Mile High Club.”

“Those ancient Terrans and their ways,” Garak purrs. “Tell me about this club.”

Julian’s eyes gleam. “If we find that supply closet, I can show you.”

…

Chapter Text

…

They don’t go to a supply closet. Pral’s tatty little ship, which is barely more than a runabout, has two small cabins, and Garak and Julian duck into the larger of the two, because the claustrophobia is still very real and present. Less so when Julian is pressing against him, urging him back against the wall, and putting his hand —

Firmly over Garak’s mouth. “I highly enjoy Pral,” he says seriously. “She’s very delightful and very distracting, but I have been trained and tested by Jadzia Dax, the master of delightful distraction. What’s Section 31?”

There are times when Julian leaves Garak breathless. “Just how good is your hearing, dearest?” he asks into Julian’s palm.

“Starfleet Intelligence, Humans, and Augments.” Julian lists off the rest of the Standard Garak and Roc had used, moving his hand to cradle Garak’s jaw. He leans forward, pressing his sweet smooth forehead to Garak’s, and says in a low, intense tone, “It’s pretty damn good, Elim.”

It’s getting increasingly difficult for Garak not to evert. “I don’t actually know much more than that, myself.”

“Mhm.” Julian’s other hand comes up, fingers separating and then twirling a lock of Garak’s hair. “So tell me why we’re going to Ventani II.”

“You make an excellent interrogator, though your technique is a bit peculiar—“

Julian’s grip on his hair tightens just enough to make Garak gasp, pleasure lighting up his skull. “Why are we going to Ventani II?”

Garak hasn’t been idle. His hands are on Julian’s ass, trying to get him to press closer, maybe push a thigh between Garak’s own and give him something to ride. But Julian can be very stubborn.

“Didn’t you want to go to the bar?” he asks innocently, and Julian bites his jaw.

He’s everted. Garak realizes it dimly, a moan hanging in the air — oh, that was him. Julian is still holding himself away, just enough that Garak almost can’t tell he’s sporting an erection. Almost.

“I’ll suck you if you tell me why Ventani II,” Julian whispers, and Garak grins, all teeth.

“You’ve gotten very bold. Why, just a week ago we were merely BFF—“

“The Mile High Club,” Julian says, tugging on Garak’s hair again and scratching, scratching hard, down his neck, “is a custom that predates transporters. When Humans traveled from city to city by airship, and would…”

He follows the hard scratches with soft lips, warm tongue, before finishing sweetly, “Would fuck while the ship was in air. Silly thing to do, and not often very comfortable.”

“I’d have you anywhere you’d have me,” Garak sighs, massaging Julian’s bottom, taking care with his claws.

“Ventani II.”

“Not in Federation Space, mostly overlooked by Central Command. Alakat is fairly well patrolled, but the rest has little interest to the Union as a whole.” Garak gives a tiny bite to Julian’s ear lobe and smiles at the shiver this gets him. “It’s an easy place to hide, and to think of what to do next.”

Julian pulls away a little and Garak frowns at him, tugs insistently. “You think Starfleet Intelligence is up to something that involves Human Augments, and you’re, what, trying to get me out of the way? They already know about me, Elim.”

“We’ll find out more when we meet up with Iyor,” Garak says, and pinches Julian’s bottom — which makes him yelp, and jump, and Garak can reel him in again. “Which will happen on Ventani II, to answer your next question, and to fulfill my end of the bargain.”

“Bargain— oh!” Julian laughs, tossing his head back and baring his lovely neck. “You want the interrogation over so quickly?”

“I don’t think I can take much more.” Garak licks his lips. “Please, Julian, have mercy.”

…

Julian is more amused than put out by Garak having swapped his vacation wardrobe, by a scale. Or, as a Human might say, by a hair. But they have their delight, followed by a sonic shower, and Garak is more pleased than he would like to admit to dress Julian in proper Cardassian attire.

Not too proper, of course. They are headed to Ventani II. He chooses the tunic and leggings dominated by a rich red, cut to strengthen the svelteness of Julian’s figure. Garak doesn’t intend for his Human partner to start a riot.

Julian is less impressed by Garak’s choice for himself, however. “Green? We’ll look like a Christmas card. Put on the black one, please, for me?”

“Delakar’i is fairly dark; you’ll want to be able to find me,” Garak tells him, brushing Julian’s greedy hands from his waist. Undeterred, Julian plucks the comb from Garak’s toiletries and gets to work on his hair.

He’s very set on this being a vacation. Garak doesn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned about it; Iyor isn’t the type to jump at shadows. But Julian doesn’t know that.

“So is Delakar’i the bar, or a city?”

“It’s… a district,” Garak says after a pause. Julian’s nimble fingers are putting tiny braids in Garak’s hair, and each gentle pull sends shivers along his scalp. “A market district, really.”

“How large is it?”

“A few kilometers square.” Garak smiles as Julian leans over his shoulder to meet his gaze, frowning suspiciously. “It’s a large market.”

“With a bar.”

“Or several,” Garak admits. “I don’t think anyone knows just how many, as venues are taken up or abandoned at will. There’s a sort of, ah, municipality by mafia, if that’s a useful Federation analogy.”

Julian stands back, surprise and delight coloring his voice. “We’re going to a mob city?”

Garak hums thoughtfully. “It’s not entirely — there are elected officials. They’re simply… tradesmen.”

For a very rare moment in time, Julian Bashir is speechless, and his restless hands are still. Garak turns and looks up at him, sees a thousand questions fighting each other for use of his vocal chords. “Does your Cardassian network union rule Delakar’i?” he finally asks, breathless with excitement.

“Cardassian Union Network of Trades and Skillscrafts,” Garak corrects primly, and checks his hair. It feels appropriately coiffed, so he stands and carefully combs his claws through Julian’s locks in return. “And no, it doesn’t rule the district. Delakar’i belongs to the Cardassian Union and is therefore subject to its laws and mores. No, the tradesmen merely… police Delakar’i with more tact than another governing body might.”

Julian catches Garak’s hands with his own. “Do the Ferengi know about this?”

“My dearest. The Ferengi know opportunities for profit you and I can’t even imagine.” Garak brings their joined hands up and kisses the back of Julian’s, enjoying the flush that paints his cheekbones. “Of course they know about Delakar’i.”

…

Pral simply declares them apprentices and gives them false names (“Hamm Sandvich,” Julian repeats, gesturing to himself. “Do I look like a Hamm Sandvich?”) to gain transport privileges. This is fairly standard protocol for Ventani II, outside of Alakat.

It makes Garak cringe a bit. The Cardassian Union isn’t this lax in any other colony, and he hates to think of how it must look to Julian.

They transport to the hub planet-side, on the “Xeno and Trade” stage. The greater amount of transports will continue to various stages in Delakar’i, in one of four generalized quarters: Trades, Skills, Services, and Medicine.

“Alternative medicines,” Garak explains hastily, at Julian’s wide-eyed stare. The signs in Delakar’i display in fifteen different languages at a time, and Federation Standard is among them. “Emotive massage, steam, electrochemics—“

“And my favorite cosmetic treatment of all time, offensive dentistry,” Pral chimes in cheerfully. “They’ll put all sorts of things in your teeth!”

“Oh no,” Julian says quietly, hands coming up to protectively cradle his own jaw.

Roc keeps them moving, as is his duty as the junior of the group. The Services transport takes them deep into the bar, restaurant, and music alleys, which carve through Delakar’i in a spear-thrust from the north.

Delakar’i was, at some point, a traditional Cardassian market, with paved streets and orderly buildings that could be leased according to size. Now it’s a maze of old, unkempt structures hastily built onto, stands in the narrowed and overcrowded streets, lights strung to emphasize a shop rather than illuminate. Invasive plants twist along crumbling infrastructure and parasitize each other, opening strange flowers and stretching across open spaces, blocking the sky where various panels and tarps haven’t already been utilized to condense the frequent, humid mists. Proprietors and their employees cheerfully or otherwise call out to passersby, looking for custom, and street musicians fight for whatever space they can claim.

Julian, hands now up over his ears, shrinks against Garak and stares around almost in a panic.

It’s a short way to the tasting bar, the unnamed spot Iyor has ruled with an iron fist for nearly a decade now. Garak keeps Julian tucked close as Pral leads, bright as a star in her awful pink getup, throwing elbows and slamming her boots into the backs of knees. A stroll in Delakar’i is often and more accurately referred to as a brawl. The sounds blend easily enough for a Cardassian but the scents battle, and Garak is pleased to keep his nose and mouth full of Julian’s heady Terran musk.

Ducking into the worn stone archway, into the dark, high-ceilinged room full of wooden beams and rich hanging cloths, it quiets enough that Julian risks dropping his hands. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that many people in one place in my life,” he says, eyes huge in his wan face.

“Cardassian colonies tend to be crowded, and this one more than most,” Garak tells him, urging him to the far end of the room where the immense old bar top has seemingly held court for centuries. Iyor keeps it polished to a fine shine, replacing the finish every seventh month without fail.

And the vintner herself, Kinoel Iyor, awaits them, seated at the far end of the bar with a sparkling wine glass already in hand. In front of her sit two tasting flights and two more glasses, one dark and one very light. She’s wearing her fine long hair down this evening, and that along with the rings adorning her hands as they emerge from her long, loose sleeves reveal that she isn’t planning on running the bar tonight.

Julian whispers into Garak’s ear, “She kind of looks like Keiko, doesn’t she?”

“Hence Dozad’s immediate flirtation,” Garak murmurs back. At Julian’s quizzical stare, he adds, “Iyor and Dozad are enjoined.”

Julian mouths an “oh” as Roc bustles ahead, ensuring seating and shuffling their drinks around under Iyor’s stern eye. She stands, revealing her full, enviable height and looks Julian down and down before holding up her palm. “Doctor Bashir. What a pleasure to meet you. Call me Iyor.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” Julian manages, touching her palm almost shyly. Pral ducks around them and grabs the dark wine from Roc, taking a swig that makes Iyor’s eyes narrow to slits.

Roc has a padd out and is checking messages, reporting, “Boll is en route. Kaith sends regrets; Lairrat insists on a thread of messages that I have sent her no messages.”

“It’s good to know she’s still alive,” Pral chortles directly into her wine glass.

“Boll will have the latest information,” Iyor tells Garak. “Let’s sit, shall we?”

“If you’re going to be pushing wine on Julian all night, you’ll have to give him food, real food, first,” Garak says severely, grabbing Julian’s elbow before he can sink onto a stool.

“CHIPS!” Pral roars, throwing back her wine. “French fries to you,” she adds, speaking to Iyor, as she hops up to hand the glass across the bar directly to the carefully blank-faced Kressari bartender.

“Please forgive her,” Iyor says rather tartly to Julian. “She’s been obsessed with anything Terran since fucking her way through a jazz band in 2364.”

“We’ve all been there,” Julian says, and abruptly looks appalled as he registers what he’s said.

Iyor’s eyes narrow once more.

…

Chapter Text

…

There is a pre-warp Terran “punk” inspired Vulcan scream band headlining the bar that night, and Julian is all eyes. Garak desperately wishes he, personally, could be no ears.

Pral’s cheerful shout is barely audible over the Vulcan shrieking on stage. “Incredible, right?”

Julian’s answer is lost to the noise, but his hand is wrapped tight around Garak’s wrist and he is openly ogling the shirtless Vulcan man.

“My dear, eat your chips and let’s get back to the quieter bar,” Garak murmurs in his ear, and then has to shout it.

“I didn’t think Vulcans did nipple piercing!” Julian shouts back, and lights up at the sight of the platter of chips that has appeared while he was focused elsewhere. Garak passes along a bowl of yamok sauce and a shaker of redspice.

“Try this one, too, on the house,” shouts the Ferengi barkeep, pushing a bowl of pureed something-or-other, certainly some sort of bug, to Julian. “Tube grubs for my Deep Space 9 friends. How’s that bastard Quark doing?”

Julian, who had managed to shotgun one of the wine flight glasses before Garak could get him out of Iyor’s clutches, almost splays himself over the bar. “He’s entertaining a Q who certainly won’t pay his bill! Do I know you?”

“I’m Pel! I worked for Quark briefly — doing a lot better here, let me tell you!”

“We have friends everywhere,” Garak sighs to himself, and waves his hand when Julian looks at him quizzically. “Nothing, my dear!”

Pral has disappeared into the throng of what one might charitably call “dancers,” and in order to keep Julian safely at his side, Garak is forced to allow him to feed Garak a few of the chips. They… aren’t terrible with yamok sauce.

“I’m pretty sure they just insulted your dad,” Julian half-shouts into Garak’s ear, gesturing to the band. Well, they wouldn’t be the first.

This is not Garak’s preferred scene. He doesn’t mind busy or crowded, on occasion, but he resents the sheer chaos and lack of any sort of propriety — his vision is not all that acute, but the Draylaxian drummer is very obviously shirtless and very obviously bouncy. And yes, all right, he also resents that it’s a bar for Terran enthusiasts, and not a single patron has missed a chance to ogle Julian.

“No, they definitely insulted your dad,” Julian says as the Vulcan begins shrieking the ostensible chorus of the song: “Kicking Tain in the taint! In the taint! In the taint!”

“Taint?” Garak repeats.

Julian, laughing so hard tears are squeezing out the corners of his eyes, explains, “The soft bit I like you to press.”

“Cardassians don’t have that corresponding anatomy,” Garak mutters to himself crossly.

Julian gets up from his seat to plaster himself along Garak’s side, hugging him and speaking directly into his ear. “Garak, I love you, but they’re selling shirts to fund their tour and if we could convince Odo to wear one, I could lord it over Jadzia for all of linear time. I understand if it’s too rude to his memory—“

“He’s dead and I owe him nothing,” Garak interrupts, and wraps a possessive arm around Julian’s waist. “Let’s get the entire Command crew shirts.”

…

Pral has a “kick Tain in the Taint” shirt pulled over her jumpsuit when they find her later outside the bar, and a short, tattooed Vulcan man on her arm. “I’ll meet up with you all later,” she tells them, winking at Julian, and then the two of them wander off into the crowded street.

“They’re like matching salt and pepper shakers,” Julian says, and then snort-laughs at his own observation. He’s had a further two ales of dubious origin, sent as they were by anonymous patrons through Pel.

So Garak takes over kicking and shoving their way through the streets back to Iyor’s. Julian is clutching their purchases to his chest, beaming around at the dim insanity of Delakar’i, tucked close to Garak’s side — and it’s nice, in its own way, to have an excuse to hold him close, and to perform even perfunctory violence for his benefit. Garak won’t have much chance in Federation space to declare his regard in Cardassian fashion; he was barely able to coach Julian satisfactorily in flirting in the Cardassian style.

What a delight that Julian had simply been a natural.

Iyor has moved their council to a far, dark table when Garak and Julian get back to her tasting bar, as the place has filled up. The clientele here is dressed more like Garak and Julian themselves, talking in more modulated tones, and despite his enjoyment of the venue bar, Julian’s shoulders relax in the quieter atmosphere.

“Oh, more of your friends are here,” Julian teases, squeezing Garak’s arm. And sure enough, Boll and Lairrat have joined Iyor and Roc.

It doesn’t quell Garak’s nerves any. That five of Dozad’s network have heard enough of this Section 31 to believe that Julian’s risk is their own, even Cardassia’s own, is concerning.

“Introductions,” Iyor announces as they approach, standing and nodding formally to Garak and Julian. “Lieutenant Commander Doctor Julian Bashir of the United Federation of Planets, and of Starfleet, connected to us by our own dear Garak. Please sit and be welcome.”

Julian, still clutching his shirts to his chest, blushes charmingly. “Thank you, and, um, hello.”

“May our communion strengthen the state,” Boll intones.

“This is our dear Boll, the last great traditional mercer of the Cardassian Union, because he has failed us utterly by refusing apprentices,” Iyor says gravely. “His craft will be forgotten and we will sell his looms to the Ferengi for five lek.”

“I am merely forty-seven; I have time,” Boll answers without changing expression. Garak has to guide Julian to a seat as he watches them avidly.

“Pral is forty-three and has given us twelve apprentices, four of which have continued on in her traditions,” Iyor snaps back, and then bows shallowly to Roc. “And some of whom have gone on to other worthwhile pursuits.”

“I have a worthless apprentice I can bounce to you,” Lairrat offers, sipping at her wine. “The child has a keen mind, excellent work ethic, but is so clumsy…! Hello, I work with glass,” she says, turning to Julian, extending a palm in her placid fashion. “Call me Lairrat.”

“Is there any chance you’d call me Julian?” he tries, and Lairrat shakes her head firmly.

“No, it’s not polite in our circle. I’ve contracted with Starfleet on and off for over a decade; I know how you Federation types are. Calling a Cardassian tradesman by their surname is a form of respect. Politest is to say, my dear Lairrat, my dear Garak, and so on.”

Julian puts his wine glass down with exaggerated care. “Wait. You contracted with Starfleet?”

“The trades are not political,” Boll says firmly. “We will work with anyone. Thus, our usefulness to Starfleet Intelligence.”

Iyor raises her glass to Garak. “And our enmity with the Obsidian Order.”

“You knew he was—“ Julian’s eyes are very wide in the dim room as he whirls to face Garak. “You infiltrated their network!”

“He was the only operative they had who was successful,” Lairrat says matter-of-factly. “None of the rest of them bothered to apprentice, bothered to work a real trade. They bought other tradesmen’s work and tried to pass it off. As if we couldn’t tell where and from whom the work had come!”

“But our dear Garak is a fine tailor,” Iyor says, and her approval is obvious. “How could we deny him access to our network? His eye for color, for pattern, is surpassed only by my own darling Mes.”

“And so we worked around him,” Boll continues. “And with him. We helped him set up on Terok Nor, and when he was actually exiled, we continued to support him.”

“It’s true, they kept my little shop open in those first few months,” Garak sighs. Julian is transparently awash with wonder. “But we are still at the epicenter of the Dominion War and I will not take an apprentice at this time.”

“This war won’t last forever,” Iyor warns him. “You will give us apprentices, or we will sell your patterns for three lek.”

“You sound like my mother,” Julian mutters, and abruptly giggles into his glass.

“Do you know anything about Starfleet Intelligence, Doctor Bashir?” Boll asks, leaning closer. He has a predatory cast to his features in general, and in such a dim room, looming like that, Julian is a bit unnerved and leans sideways onto Garak.

“I, I mean, I know they’re around,” Julian says vaguely, and waves his hand. “I tried to avoid them, before I got found out. Now I just — well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“It always matters,” Boll says gravely, sitting back and steepling his fingers. It’s a terrible habit of his. “Privacy is dignity, dear Doctor, and dignity is the basis of citizenship.”

“I might be a little too drunk for this,” Julian tells Garak. He is absolutely too drunk for this, and Garak tries to move his tasting flight away. Julian adroitly grabs the glass of white, saying, “Oh no, I’m fine for that!”

“You find yourself in a position few in the Federation understand,” Iyor attempts to explain in turn. “A member of the exploited underclass. Criminal in your very nature, by no fault of your own; a ready victim for the predacious.”

“Is she quoting a play or something?” Julian whispers, unfortunately quite loudly. Roc is staring determinedly at his padd, but where Iyor and Boll are getting frustrated, he’s trying not to laugh.

Lairrat, unimpressed as always, pipes up. “A secret Human supremacy sect within Starfleet Intelligence wants to use Augmented Humans to do their dirty work, and we caught wind they were planning to recruit you now that your secret’s been exposed and you’re in a vulnerable position. We can talk about this like regular people,” she adds, pointedly.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Garak asks, and gets Julian laughing into his aural ridge as reward. “But, my dear and esteemed Boll, there is more to the tale, I’m sure.”

Boll pushes a padd across the table, eyes glittering in the dim light. Garak, long practiced in speed-reading, stills even as Julian squints against his drunkenness. “Doctor Bashir, you canceled your trip to Casperia Prime two days ago.”

“I did not,” Julian protests, and manages to pick up the padd on his second try. “To whom it may concern, due to the demands of my patients and the still unfortunate lack of adequate support — ridiculous! What is this? Who wrote this?”

According to the meta information, which Boll has left unencrypted, the message was sent from Deep Space 9, from the Infirmary. Garak feels the last pleasant vestiges of his own alcohol consumption dissipate. “All available evidence suggests it came from you, my dear.”

“It did not,” Julian protests again, indignant. “I want to go to Casperia Prime! I’m looking forward to this conference. I want you to go with me!” he adds, turning to Garak in a huff.

“That might have thrown them for a loop,” Lairrat says, amused, and Iyor shakes her head.

“They could have interrupted your journey at any point, with none the wiser,” Garak says softly, arm sneaking around Julian’s waist again.

“Who is they?” Julian demands, looking around at the assembled Cardassians. “Why cancel my trip? So that I don’t have a room when I get there and I have to bunk with someone else?”

“So that no one wonders why you aren’t there when you don’t arrive,” Boll explains flatly. “Section 31 doesn’t make requests, Doctor Bashir. They present inevitabilities.”

“They meant to abduct you, much like the Dominion had,” Garak says softly.

Julian, presented at last with a situation of enough gravity that it pierces the veil of his own drunken silliness, grows quiet and still. Garak sees the tightness of his jaw, can almost feel a sympathetic ache in his own.

“Fortunately, the CUNTS don’t stand for things of that nature,” Iyor proclaims.

…

Chapter Text

…

There are hotels and rooms for hourly rent on Delakar’i. They are not for sleeping. Garak takes Julian, who is still tipsily careening back and forth between rightfully angry and dizzily jubilant, back to Pral’s ship to rest. Pral is still with her Vulcan and Roc has kindly (and gratefully) taken up with Iyor.

“Your padd is flashing, darling,” Garak says absently, taking the shirts from Julian and laying them out so he can fold them correctly. Julian hops onto the bed and situates himself right in Garak’s way, so that they can both see the screen as he answers the comm.

There is a sleeping vole on screen.

“Hi guys!” Jadzia’s voice comes cheerfully from behind the unfortunate closeup. “Say hi to Stinky Pete!”

“You caught him?” Julian gasps, shifting to sit on his knees. Garak patiently moves the shirts.

“You think I’m going to entertain a Q without getting something out of it? He caught him. Quark helped me drug him. And now, Garak—“

Garak looks up. “My dear Dax.”

Jadzia pulls the vole back a bit, and reveals her own face lit up in terrifying glee. “I need you to outfit him. I’m giving him to Odo as a mascot and pet.”

“Oh!” Julian bounces on the bed, and Garak shifts the shirts again. “We have to go back to the bar. We can get him a Kick Tain shirt!”

“Wait, what bar?” Jadzia sets Stinky Pete down somewhere. “Julian, tell me everything.”

“What happened with Q? Did the Enterprise get there already?”

“Sure did. And Q and Captain Picard are best friends again — ah, as in, friend-friends, I think,” Jadzia says, frowning a little in thought. “Not like the best friends you two were.” She circles a finger at the screen.

“As far as you know,” Julian points out.

“I mean, that’s true. Anyway. A bar? You went all the way to Cardassian space to go to a bar?” She shakes her head and grins at Garak. “Aren’t you exiled? Isn’t this a risk? Is Quark’s kanar really that bad?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I believe it’s five yes-es in total,” Garak says, still folding shirts. “But the risk isn’t terrible as long as I stay in Delakar’i.”

“Did Curzon ever go to Delakar’i? It seems like his kind of place,” Julian says, bouncing lightly on the mattress. Garak finishes up with the last shirt and goes to tuck them into his suitcase. “We were in a Terran fetishists bar. I got free drinks!”

Garak looks up in mild offense. “It isn’t—“

“Wait, like Cardassians fetishizing Terrans?”

“Not just Cardassians. Everyone there was fetishizing Terrans!”

“Terran culture,” Garak stresses, and frowns. “Such as it is.”

“Pral slept with an entire Terran jazz band—“ Julian starts to say, but Garak cuts him off.

“That was years ago!”

Julian rolls his eyes and flounces back to the screen, turning his back on Garak. “So it turns out Garak’s friends aren’t actually just regular tradespeople who like to gossip, they are a real life underground information network and they say Starfleet Intelligence is out to get me, and we’re in a city that the Cardassian government ignores because it’s too full of black market goings-on to effectively police, and how did you know we were in Cardassian space to begin with?”

Jadzia has gone still. “Because someone from Starfleet Internal Affairs is here asking where you are, and Ben is concerned.”

“Internal Affairs?” Garak repeats, coming up to put his hands on Julian’s shoulders. “Did you get a name?”

“Luther Sloan,” Jadzia supplies instantly. “Deputy Director, or so he says. There’s definitely something off about him, guys. Palpable yuck.”

“How unfortunate for him,” Garak says breezily, squeezing Julian’s shoulders comfortingly. “The Cardassian Union Network of Trades and Skillscrafts is known to a few key individuals in Starfleet Intelligence. There’s no risk there.”

Jadzia’s eyebrows draw together, but she blinks a few times and changes tack. “Are you still planning on returning soon?”

“I would like to see a little more of what Delakar’i has to offer,” Julian says innocently. “The Vulcan punk band was fun. And the wine has been spectacular.”

“You’re trying to make me jealous,” Jadzia says, and she looks it, a bit. “But I have a vole. And his name is Stinky Pete. And Nerys and I had commsex before she found out I have a vole—“

“You do realize these messages can be intercepted,” Garak points out as Julian’s shoulders start to shake.

“Of course I do. That’s why I started singing the handwashing song just as Nerys—“

“Oh no!” Julian yells, and falls back against Garak, laughing uproariously. Garak shakes his head at the universe in general and Jadzia Dax in particular, and bids her good night. Then he leaves Julian cackling to himself on the bed and goes to gather their sleep things.

“You know she’s keeping that vole,” Julian announces from the bed, still giggling a bit and wiping at his eyes. “That’s Jadzia’s and Kira’s pet now.”

“Does that mean I don’t have to outfit it?” Garak asks without much hope.

“Not at all. That vole is going to need a Science uniform. It’s going to have a wardrobe to rival Lwaxana Troi’s.”

At least he’ll have steady work going ahead.

…

“Does Pral care if we christen every part of this ship?”

Garak blinks his eyes open in the near-dark. “My dear?”

Julian’s voice is very, very patient. “Would Pral care if I had sex with you in every part of this ship?”

He’s looming over Garak, bed shirt half undone, and the clear bite mark from earlier darkening to a beautiful bruise on his neck. Garak is a disciplined man, a conscientious man. He very much doesn’t care if Pral would care.

But sex in the small areas of a small space ship is even less appealing than it sounds, and if Julian is bored of their quarters already… “There are themed rooms we could rent planet-side.”

Julian’s hand, which had been creeping up Garak’s hip, pauses. “Themed how?”

“Care to find out?”

They slept for four hours. Garak is still a bit tired, but Julian is already back to playful and excited, and they’ll have time to sleep again on the day-long journey back to Deep Space 9. So Garak hands over his padd and goes through their suitcases again as Julian starts perusing what Delakar’i has to offer.

“This is almost as funny as Quark’s holoprograms,” Julian announces cheerfully. “Look, there’s a Starfleet conference room themed suite. Why?”

Garak pulls out the midnight blue ensemble he crafted for Julian, before he ever knew he would be the one to tie up the criss cross lacing of the back. “People are what people are.”

“They could be doing this with holosuite technology,” Julian continues, still scrutinizing the padd. “Why build and decorate an actual room?”

“Delakar’i hasn’t historically always had steady power,” Garak points out, and takes the padd from him. He’s paused on a room that looks like a cave, with a glowing pond in the center.

“I have to send that to Jadzia,” Julian says, pulling his bed shirt off. “Don’t lose it.”

They dress, Garak insisting on the light jacket that accompanies the laced shirt despite Julian’s declaration that he will simply take it off and let the Terran fetishists have it. Then they transport, Julian hugging Garak’s arm, as wide-eyed as the first time they beamed planet-side. “Can we see the alternative medicines?” he asks sweetly, and Garak laughs aloud.

“No, thank you. Arguing is seen as courtship in Cardassian culture, and I won’t have you flirting with anyone but me.”

Julian winces still when they beam near Iyor’s bar, but recovers swiftly; really, his adaptability is remarkable. Garak won’t let him be responsible for the brawling, not yet, especially not when he can hold Julian close and keep a nose-full of his scent.

“I’ll have to eat something soon,” Julian shouts into his ear, and nods towards a vendor cheerfully extolling the virtues of their I’danian cuisine.

“No French fries, then?”

He’s still well within budget — especially if Julian is correct, and Jadzia intends to outfit her vole like a fashion model — but even if he wasn’t, he would buy every little thing Julian asks for, filling his arms with carefully packaged treats. They carry their bounty to Iyor’s bar, and the fearsome vintner is once again in attendance, with Roc and the inestimable Ieres Gaimlo.

“Doctor Bashir!” Gaimlo cries out, and stands up to greet them. “A pleasure to meet you. I’ve read your work on biomolecular replication! I could not believe it when I heard you’re barely thirty years old. I still don’t believe it.”

Julian is flushed with genuine pleasure, and after dealing with the irreverence of Pral and the dramatics of Iyor, Garak is himself pleased to have a serious-minded tradesman to introduce to his darling doctor. He gently directs Julian to sit with Gaimlo, and turns his attention to Iyor.

“Luther Sloan,” he tells her.

Iyor’s eyes flash. “I haven’t heard the name, but my wife’s cousin may have. Your contact is certain?”

“Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax. She’s certain.” Garak pauses, then adds, “Captain Sisko will corroborate. Apparently the man is calling himself Deputy Director of Internal Affairs, and on board Deep Space 9 now.”

Iyor looks over at Julian and Gaimlo, and shakes her head. “While I doubt it will round the map out much, any data points are welcome. Her cousin has made a compelling argument for recruitment in academic counseling.”

“Starfleet Academy?” Garak blinks, thinks of the files he’s illicitly read about Sisko’s adventure in San Francisco. “Seems ripe for it.”

“They won’t stop him,” Iyor warns, and taps her claws on her water glass. “It will be up to you and yours.”

“I’ve always fought for what is mine,” Garak says simply.

Julian’s voice breaks through their quiet conversation. “You are amazing. How did you do this?”

“It’s my trade!” Gaimlo laughs, and winks at Garak when he glares at her. “Allow me to visit your starbase and see what I come up with.”

“So we’re here,” Julian says, trailing his finger along a bit of canvas roughly thirty by thirty centimeters — ah, Gaimlo has produced a map of Delakar’i. Garak continues to glare, because she only does these things when she’s trying to impress. “Where is the medicine quarter?”

“You are not going to shut down alternative medicine clinics on Ventani II,” Garak snaps, reaching for the map.

Julian quickly twitches it aside, out of Garak’s reach. “What if I want an emotive massage? I still don’t know what that means.”

“A Betazoid will massage your emotions,” Roc explains. Julian looks perturbed. “It can be very soothing for anxiety.”

“And what reason would any Cardassian tradesman have for anxiety?” Iyor demands, despite the preponderance of evidence. But she finishes strongly: “Deal with it like the rest of us, and have another glass of wine.”

Julian has hidden the map somewhere on his person — Garak will have to ferret it out later — and is trying clumsily to change the subject. “Do you have any apprentices, my dear Gaimlo?”

“I’ve taken three,” Gaimlo confirms. “I’m not quite as prolific as some, but I have done my duty by my trade.”

“So is it like a, a having children thing?” Julian asks, sneaking a sassy little look at Garak.

Gaimlo shrugs. “Tradesmen were, traditionally, those who took on the orphans and bastard children of Cardassia, and brought them up to be worthy citizens. Anyone who didn’t, ah, fit, in one way or another, could join the trades and still serve Cardassia.”

“And become a full and lawful citizen, with all attendant rights and obligations,” Roc adds.

“Provided she has proven herself as a tradesman and taken three apprentices at minimum,” Iyor says sternly, and turns to Julian. “Three at minimum, fully brought up in the trade and so certified by the Detapa Council.”

“I thought they were, uh.” Julian hesitates, and seesaws his hand, making a face.

“They are indeed—“ Iyor seesaws her hand in the same fashion, though her expression remains haughty. “But as the military sidelined them more and more, they offloaded their duty in respect to the tradesmen of Cardassia to the only seeming governing body within the trades.”

“The CUNTS!” Julian gasps, and beams at her in honest delight. “You decide who’s a tradesman and who isn’t!”

“That we do,” Iyor says, and she and Gaimlo both nod their heads in a stately fashion. “We are, after all, the best judges of such things.”

“What are we judging?” Pral demands, popping up behind Julian all of a sudden, hair mussed and shirt askew. She reaches for Julian’s food and Garak shoos her away.

“Have you exhausted your Vulcan already?” Iyor asks, frowning at Pral’s shirt.

“They have a whole tour they’re on,” Pral says vaguely, scooting around the table to sit across from Gaimlo. “And I have my own things going on. What are we judging?”

“Iyor was explaining the taking of apprentices,” Roc tells her.

“The inexhaustible Cardassian breeding instinct!” Pral cheers. “Lineage by loins or by learning!”

“Oh, write that down for Dozad,” Gaimlo instructs Roc. “She’ll like that.”

Pral suddenly swipes one of Julian’s packaged treats, opening it and making a face at the spiced bread puffs inside before passing them back. “So did we get all the creepy Human kidnapper gossip? Are we good on that? When do you two need to be back?”

“Soon,” Garak admits with a sigh. Delakar’i will never be one of his favorite places, but sometimes, as the Terran proverb would have it, a change is as good as a rest. He feels rejuvenated, almost; feels more connected to Cardassia, to his own tradition and culture just for a visit to a Union planet, with Julian beside him.

“We still have to try out that Never-Ending Sacrifice themed sex room,” Julian reminds him.

…

Chapter Text

…

It’s on their way back to Deep Space 9 that Garak finally cracks. “Are you really not concerned about Section 31 at all?”

Julian, who has been deviously trying to divest Garak of his socks, stops and looks up. “Should I be?”

“Should you be?” Garak repeats, and sits up, swinging his legs around to do so and resting his feet on the floor. Julian makes a mournful little sound and, somehow, this just makes Garak feel crazier. “My darling. Imagine if I were trying to abduct you — do not imagine it as a sexual escapade,” he adds, because Julian is starting to grin.

“All right, all right,” Julian grouses, and sits back further on the bed, resting his back against the wall and drawing his legs up, arms wrapping around them. “You can just mention our Changeling camping trip again. I remember it quite well.”

“This is different,” Garak tries to impress upon him. “This isn’t about your position, or keeping you out of the way. This is an organization preying on your societal status, and trying to manipulate you, personally. This is personal.”

“I’m not stupid,” Julian says, and raises an imperious hand when Garak tries to speak. “No, I understand what you’re saying, and I understand that I don’t understand, but I need you to understand that I understand I don’t understand because you intervened.”

Garak… might understand. But his hesitation is evident, because Julian unfolds, legs falling into a position he has called “criss cross applesauce” with no ready evidence of jesting.

“Elim. Your underground trades network heisted me off-station and warned me about Section 31, and showed me evidence they meant to do me harm. I’m not stupid,” he says again, insistently, putting his hand on Garak’s knee and shaking it. “I’m just, just a little, um.”

“Confused,” Garak offers up, and Julian shakes his head sharply.

“No. I think I got more clarification in this little trip than I’ve had in all the time I’ve ever known you.”

“That’s fair,” Garak has to acknowledge, and puts his hand on top of Julian’s, which is simply resting on his knee now.

“Did you know,” Julian begins slowly, his eyes focused on their hands, “that I was going to write a, a sort of will, when I found out my parents spilled my secret — really, our secret — to Zimmerman?”

“A bit dramatic,” Garak says, squeezing Julian’s hand. It’s gone a little colder than usual. “You weren’t dying, my dear.”

“I thought I lost everything. My whole life. Starfleet, my commission, my friends.” Julian smiles a little and shakes his head, but his eyes remain fixed. “You, Deep Space 9, the respect and trust of everyone I cared about. I was going to leave you my books, of course.”

“Darling, I hate your books.”

It has the intended result: Julian bursts into surprised laughter, and Garak can a take a moment to sit more comfortably on the bed, back to the wall, so that Julian can lay down and rest his head on Garak’s lap, grinning up at him.

“I had a point,” he says, and reaches up to curl his fingers through Garak’s hair. “I forget it now.”

“You’re not nearly concerned enough about a rogue intelligence agency’s interest in you—“

“—because of the other rogue intelligence agency’s interest in protecting me, yes, thank you,” Julian interrupts, and then sighs happily when Garak starts petting his hair. “Oh, you’re so good to me.”

“You’re going to rely on the CUNTS to protect you,” Garak says dubiously, utilizing the acronym pointedly.

“I’m going to rely on you, and my friends on Deep Space 9, to protect me,” Julian says archly, capturing Garak’s other hand and bringing it to rest on his warm belly. “I’ll rely on the CUNTS to protect you. I told you I’m not stupid. I’m very, very aware that they were vetting me.”

Garak tries not to let his surprise show, because he really didn’t think Julian had realized that. “Oh?”

Julian pokes him in the nose. “You think you’re so smart and so clever, and that just because I don’t say something, I don’t know. Like I keep bringing up your Zanthi fever symptoms without knowing that you wrote erotic poetry about Miles—“

Garak makes some kind of agonized, dying riding hound bellow and tries to extricate himself from Julian’s embrace, only to be wrestled to the bed, Julian climbing astride him in vicious, mocking victory.

…

Back at the station, Pral catches Julian before they can disembark and hugs him — a horrible Terran tradition that’s far too intimate for Garak’s liking. So he glares, and she cheerfully ignores him, asking Julian playfully, “So how did you like Delakar’i?”

“I’d like to go back for a longer visit at some point,” Julian says warmly. “Maybe see that horrible museum, and then get drunk and listen to a loud punk band about it.”

“We’ll do that,” she promises him, and then extends her hand to Garak. “Until I have to save your ass again?”

“Never speak to me again,” Garak tells her frostily, and taps his palm to hers.

“I’ll be twenty minutes,” Roc is saying, hair starting to frazzle as he frantically searches for Leeta’s commission. “I won’t keep you.”

“If it takes more than two hours, I’ll go to Garak’s shop,” Pral says, shrugging. Garak immediately locates Roc’s case.

They find Jadzia and Kira almost immediately, once back on the Promenade, and Jadzia is holding in her arms an enormous, dopey-eyed, pink-ribboned vole that seems, somehow, completely fine with this treatment.

“Julian!” Jadzia calls out, and shifts the vole so she can wave. The vole blinks sleepily and then buries its face in her hair. Kira looks like she might be considering a return to terrorism. “Come meet my son!”

“Oh no,” Julian says gleefully, pulling Garak along. Roc splits off, heading to Quark’s to rendezvous at last with Leeta. “Stinky Pete, I presume?”

“That’s Malodorous Petramin to you,” Jadzia sniffs. “Excuse his sleepiness; he’s diurnal.”

Kira digs her fingers into Garak’s arm, completely ruining his sleeve. “How do I poison it?” she hisses at him.

“They have very strong, adaptable stomachs,” Garak tells her, and can’t help a small grin at how quickly her face falls.

“That little freak is off the station — oh, that’s how I’m referring to the Deputy Director now, undercover style,” Jadzia says, when Garak looks at her sharply. “He’s short and he asked way too many questions about just how you two are connected, and I got in trouble for saying genital style. Anyway. Sisko wants to debrief.”

“You did not say genital style,” Julian says, aghast.

“She’s been in a bad mood ever since you sent those holos from the sex room, and by the way?” Kira shows her teeth to Julian in what definitely is not a smile. “Never do that again.”

Julian, who absolutely needs an entire rogue intelligence agency dedicated to his personal safety, makes direct eye contact with Kira Nerys and begins to hum the puppet hand-washing song.

…

Garak goes back to his shop while Julian heads to his debrief (only slightly worse for wear), knowing that he’s likely to called in and deciding to get the band shirts ready for Julian to hand out.

Screen-printed, and not very well, and on a fabric that will likely withstand little time or washing — how fitting. A very fitting remembrance of Tain. Garak smiles and refolds them, puts them in order of size. Considers offering to freely alter them, so that they best fit each of the Command crew.

As the hour hits, his computer lights up, signaling a comm. Garak thinks he may know who it is, and is pleased with himself when Dozad’s rainbow-bug-eyes appear. “My dear Dozad.”

“Is your young man safe, then?” Dozad demands of him, trying to peer over his shoulder. “My darling wife approves of him, even if he is a Terran. Says he can hold his wine. Aren’t you a lucky fool?”

“That I am,” Garak says easily. “Have you heard from your cousin already?”

“Not yet, but I promise you, she’ll have something to say. A name and a title, however fictitious! Such data points are always, always welcome.”

“Garak!” Julian half-sings, ducking into the shop. “Oh, Garak! The captain wants you to — are you on a comm?”

“I hear you, Doctor Julian Bashir!” Dozad cries out, trying again to see beyond Garak. “Submit yourself to my inspection! Come forth!”

“My dear Dozad!” Julian cries out enthusiastically, leaning into view. “Hello! How are you?”

“What scintillating manners you’ve developed, my dear doctor and friend,” Dozad says warmly, tilting her head in recognition and respect. “I am as well as ever, though it grieves me that I couldn’t greet you on Delakar’i with my darling wife. How did you enjoy the market?”

“I think the best word I could use to describe how I felt about Delakar’i is ‘surprised’,” Julian says, smiling widely.

“Ah, surprise!” Dozad laughs, and claps her hands together. “My favorite Standard word! Do you know, in Kardasi, the best translation is chaos. Chaotic! All negative, all unwelcome. We have plans, my dear doctor, and conversational scripts, and woe be to the fool who cannot parse them! There is no cultural space for deviation!”

“How does anyone survive Delakar’i, then?” Julian asks, clearly enjoying Dozad’s theatrics as much as she is.

“We must learn to make space, to create! To borrow from others, the understanding and appreciation of chaos, of the necessary element of surprise.” Dozad beams at Julian, her multi-flared lenses shining. “Cardassia will change to survive, my dear. It will take effort, and it will take time, and the Old Guard will resist with all their considerable might — but we will win.”

“But you’re no revolutionary,” Julian says, with the most impish of grins, and Garak feels, absurdly, proud. And turned on, but what can he say?

“Young man, I am a simple working woman; a tradesman; a realist,” Dozad proclaims. She tilts her head again and says, with resounding gravity, “A Cardassian.”

…

It’s when they retire at last to Julian’s quarters, Garak bringing along his suitcase so that he’ll have proper sleep attire, that Julian asks him, “Are you going to take on an apprentice, then?”

“My dear Julian—“

“Darling, I think,” Julian interrupts, raising his eyebrows. “Or are we on the outs?”

“My darling Julian,” Garak amends, because it is funny how quick he is to pick up on these things. “We are in the middle of a war. I can’t possibly take on an apprentice now.”

“Life doesn’t stop in the middle of a war,” Julian argues, and pulls out his own band shirt. “I think I’ll wear this and nothing else for bed.”

Garak is not amused. “Julian.”

“I think it would be sexy.”

“Julian, it has my evil dead father’s name on it.”

Julian looks down at the shirt in his hand. “Oh. Right.”

Garak rolls his eyes and goes to the refresher, pointedly by himself, to perform his pre-sleep routines. Julian is wearing another shirt when he exits, something frayed and worn from his racquetball days, and his bare legs are so long and the top so artless and ill-fitting that it is, somehow, rather sexy.

He can’t admit it. Julian is preening enough as it is.

“I just don’t think it’s fair,” Julian says, heading to the refresher himself, “for your super secret spy family to tell me how to legally marry you, when you won’t even do the basics of making yourself marriageable.”

The universe seems to grind to a complete stop.

“I — what?” Garak says witlessly. There’s a radio band of static playing in his head.

“You take on an apprentice, and I’ll consider us engaged,” Julian tells him, and smiles sweetly, just inside the refresher door. “And I don’t fancy a long engagement, Elim.”

…