Archive of Our Own

“You still talk to Julian fairly often, right?” Kira asks, abruptly, during one of the bi-weekly conversations that constitute the most concrete of Garak’s nebulous duties as advisor to Cardassia’s new, democratic leadership. In theory, the meetings are a less formal way of gauging the political climates of their respective governments; in practice, of course, they usually devolve into gossip, so the direction isn’t entirely unexpected.

“Occasionally,” Garak replies, which is an understatement so extreme it might as well have been a lie. To his continued delight, he and Doctor Bashir found time to speak weekly, at least, and far more frequently when they were having a particularly rousing discussion, and they would tax that subspace filament through the wormhole to its absolute limits. Garak allows himself a moment to recollect a particularly intense debate that inspired Julian to a flurry of one-word responses and several paragraphs of a furious rebuttal, before he forces himself instead to focus on the here and now. 

“Oh, thank the Prophets,” Kira groans. “So you must have heard about Tanith.”

The name is familiar, but only thanks to the natural infallibility of Cardassian memory—Julian’s mentioned it perhaps once, ages ago, when briefly outlining some of his fellow officers. But that doesn’t seem to be Kira’s experience, and Garak’s curiosity is piqued. “In passing,” is how he decides to respond  

“In passing? Are you joking?” Kira exclaims. “He can’t shut up about her!” She plants her hands on the edge of her desk and pushes away, head dropping back as she affects a caricature of Doctor Bashir’s accent. “‘Oh, Kira, Tanith said the funniest thing the other day—’ ‘Oh, Kira, Tanith had the best idea on how to deal with this issue I’d been having—’ ‘Oh, Kira, Tanith is just the loveliest, most delightful woman I’ve ever met; I feel like we’ve known each other for years.’ I mean, you know how he gets, but he is in rare form.” She leans forward again, planting an elbow on the desk and plopping her chin in her hand. “It’s been going on for a while; I think he’s really serious about her. But he hasn’t said anything to you?” 

“I suppose we simply talk about other things,” Garak offers, blithely, despite suddenly feeling anything but. 

“Still subjecting him to Cardassian literature, then?” Kira muses, and then crinkles her nose. “You don’t think he’s avoiding the subject because the two of you…”

Garak scoffs, flicking a hand. “You know as well as anyone that was a matter of pure practicality—which, of course, I’m sure he’ll bring up, if he is indeed so committed. Until then, I’m afraid I won’t be able to commiserate with you about being a sounding board for the doctor’s infatuation, so perhaps we could talk about someone we are mutually familiar with. How has Ziyal’s first semester as an instructor been going?” 

The subject change, of course, is so blatant that Kira probably wouldn’t have let him get away with it, if he hadn’t strategically selected the one subject he knows she can’t resist; sure enough, she squints suspiciously at him, but ultimately accepts the redirection into enthusing about Ziyal’s recent turn as a teacher at the Bajoran Academy of the Arts. Garak wishes he could allow himself to be so easily distracted—and certainly he would have, if it had been anything else; he enjoys hearing about Ziyal about as much as Kira likes talking about her. But today his attention stays fixed on the idea of Julian, alight with the familiar glow of infatuation: a new love he hadn’t seen fit to mention to Garak.

Afterward, Garak doesn’t admit to himself that he’s waiting for the message until the day it comes. Short, to the point, with no time wasted on pleasantries or an attempt to gracefully redirect the correspondence they had been having. 

I know this is somewhat abrupt, Garak, but—I think we should get a divorce. 

The whole situation had been a moment of weakness.

Rather, it had been a moment of weakness on Garak’s part, not that he could entirely blame himself, in said moment, for being weak. For his dear doctor, it was presumably something more akin to desperation, because of course Julian Subatoi Bashir couldn’t let suffering on the magnitude that the Cardassian people were experiencing go unanswered. This was a man who had stayed on a low-tech planet for literal weeks, mixing solutions by hand, in an effort to produce a viable vaccine for a plague; who had worked for days without sleep and committed multiple crimes to chase down a cure for Odo. 

Starfleet, naturally, was flatly against leaving one of their officers on what had been, until a few hours ago, enemy soil, and Garak could hardly blame them. It would have been one thing if Damar, so committed to a new Cardassia, had survived to take up the mantle of leadership, but as it stood there was no telling who would arise to assume power in the vacuum left behind, and a Federation doctor could so easily be painted as a poison instead of a much-needed balm. The answer, Captain Sisko told them—though not without compassion—was no. 

And as Garak watched those beautifully expressive features firm with resolve in the aftermath of the rejection, he realized, with a somewhat disorienting sense of wonder, that Julian would not leave Cardassia, but he would be willing to leave Starfleet.

Garak had options. The most expedient, of course, perhaps even the smartest, would have been simply allowing the doctor to resign his commission. It would deliver Julian into his hands not just for the reconstruction effort, but the foreseeable future, which was a prospect almost intoxicating in its allure. But Garak knew, in the depths of his heart, that would only lead to sorrow: that once the immediacy of the problem had diminished, Julian would be left adrift, regretting. Perhaps even resenting. Years ago, such an outcome wouldn’t have caused Garak even a moment of pause, so sure was he that his little infatuation would have eventually faded. But oh, he had learned, in those intervening years: there would be no eventually, no even far off point in time when his feelings would diminish. Julian Bashir was not a plaything or a tool or even simply a passing fancy, and Garak would do unforgivable things to keep him safe and happy. 

(There are some that could point out that all of that wasn’t entirely relevant; that instead, locked in a paroxysm of grief and horror, Garak had simply reached out with both hands for the closest thing he could get to comfort. But it didn’t truly matter if his actions were calculated or not, because the result was the same either way. 

A moment of weakness.)

“Surely Starfleet couldn’t deny Doctor Bashir’s request for leave to Cardassia if he had an established connection to the planet,” Garak offered, neat as any stitch. 

It was not an enjoinment. That would have been much too elaborate and, frankly, impossible to arrange, given the situation; that it would have been far more binding and harder to exit was something that Garak didn’t look at too closely. Instead they were married that very day in the Defiant’s ready room, in bland but expedient Federation fashion, by Captain Sisko (much later, he will hear—somewhat to his amusement—there are some Bajorans disgruntled by the fact their Emissary’s last ceremony on the physical plane was marrying a human and a Cardassian). There were no extravagant vows, and certainly no kiss, though Julian’s eyes did flutter down to Garak’s mouth for just a moment (or perhaps that was merely wistful thinking). Instead the doctor had smiled, and lifted a hand, and Garak felt something small in him, almost insignificant but still terribly present, unwind—just a little; just enough—as he raised his own to press their palms together. Chaste, but a connection none-the-less. The situation on Cardassia was still overwhelming in its enormity, but there was a pinprick of relief in knowing he wouldn’t be alone. 

That Starfleet still wasn’t happy was inconsequential: Julian was now a Cardassian citizen through marriage and, quite honestly, not worth the fit they would have to throw to keep him on Deep Space Nine. He put in for a truly staggering amount of accumulated leave that Sisko approved immediately, requisitioned the greater majority of the remaining triage supplies they had stockpiled for the war, and stepped down from his position as Chief Medical Officer. And then he beamed down to Cardassia, and stayed there for two years. 

Two years. Garak should have said something. Oh, not immediately, of course: in the immediate aftermath, he was dividing his time fairly evenly between digging survivors—then bodies—out of the rubble and assisting in organizing something approaching a workable government, and Julian was managing to run even his genetically modified body ragged treating patients for days straight without rest in the bombed out ruins of Cardassia Central Hospital. There was no time to even think in those first, harrowing months, to say nothing of having embarrassingly honest conversations with the man sharing your bed (the reasonably intact shack behind Tain’s mansion was only big enough for the one, after all, though all they ever did was sleep, and often not together, so staggered were what could laughably be called their schedules). 

The closest they ever got to talking then was when it all became too much, after Garak had helped unearth yet another unintentional mass grave or Julian had lost one too many patients, and they couldn’t help but turn to one another for comfort. Of course Julian had to be the one that started it, on the horrible day they had gone down into the basement together to retrieve Mila’s body for a proper burial; afterward, the doctor had taken one look at Garak and—seemingly without thinking, heedless of the grime and the heat—pulled him into an embrace. It was more than they had ever touched before, more than Garak had been touched in years, and it was so overwhelming he had to hide his face against Julian’s shoulder to fight back the shameful tears. After that, it was easier—to allow himself to be comforted, and to offer comfort in turn, especially after the first time he drew Julian into his arms and his dear doctor shuddered before going perfectly boneless with exhausted relief. 

There was meaning in those embraces, even more blatant than the furtive touches Garak had allowed himself back on the station, but they weren’t words. But for all that words were his stock-in-trade, he couldn’t think of how to use them, for what did he have to offer Julian Bashir, especially then? A shack on a bombed planet? Too little water and even less food? A steady stream of desperate patients too far gone to save? A broken-down spy shoved into the light and still incapable of true honesty?

Cardassia needed Julian, and Garak was ever an extension of the state, for better or worse. But Julian did not need them, and eventually he would leave, and Garak would let him. 

Until then: he grew used to waking up with Julian sprawled over him like a blanket, to holding him on the bad days and increasingly often the good, to taking turns cooking and cleaning—eventually, when things began to stabilize, to spending evenings discussing the books they both could recall from memory. The arguments were old, well-worn, but there was a comfort in that, too, the knowledge that they were still recognizable to one another; that they, like Cardassia itself, were battered but still wholly themselves.  

Two years, and there was a reasonable facsimile of a government in place to appeal for—and receive—Federation aid. Julian’s most extreme shifts were capping out at, barring emergencies, a nearly sedate 16 hours; Garak had time enough to start a small garden and begin contemplating rebuilding Tain’s mansion (with Julian’s encouragement, a wry, knowing twist of his lips: Take everything that was his and make it your own). It was as good a time as any for the message to arrive from Starfleet command: their parley with the Dominion had turned to the subject of the quickening virus, which was apparently only one of many such punishments visited upon civilizations the Founders had deemed unsatisfactorily obedient. As a show of good faith and proof of their commitment to turning over a new, less dictatorial leaf, they were willing to work with a Federation doctor to manufacture the vaccines they had been previously uninterested in creating. And, of course, Julian Bashir was not merely the man with the most experience in Dominion virology, but also one of only two Starfleet scientists that the Founders truly came close to trusting, the other busy on Qo’noS with the results of the very first successful Trill/Klingon pregnancy. 

Julian had looked at him over their scavenged table after they had both read the missive, lips parting as if to speak, and then closing again. He simply stared silently instead, eyes wide and conflicted, and Garak realized, all at once, that the doctor was seeking permission. 

The morning light was coming in from their small, singular window, catching in Julian’s hair and painting his skin gold. He still wasn’t getting quite enough sleep and his hair was a bit too long and he was thinner than when he had arrived on Cardassia, and he was, without question, the most beautiful thing Garak had ever seen. Would ever see, perhaps, if this was the last time they encountered each other; Garak entirely expected as much. Men like him didn’t get forevers—he had only ever been operating on borrowed time, and he had known it. And so he simply let himself drink in the sight, to etch it that much more entirely in his infallible memory, and then he smiled. 

“It sounds as if you are needed elsewhere, my dear doctor.”

That their marriage had continued existing for the next three years was basest sentiment. Oh, Garak had no end of excuses waiting on his lips should someone ask—it had simply slipped from his thoughts! (Never mind that he possessed an eidetic memory.) They simply hadn’t had the attention to spare! (Never mind that a divorce would have taken one form filed to the proper authorities.) It would come in handy if Julian ever wanted to return to Cardassia! (Never mind that Cardassia had already accepted Federation assistance, and in fact Julian had been operating in official aid capacity for over a year by the time he left.) But at the end of the day, what it truly came down to was that Garak wanted to be married to Julian; that, in fact, the title of “Doctor Bashir’s husband” was the one he was most unambiguously proud of carrying, at least when he could ignore the fact it wasn’t real. 

As to why Julian had never sought to dissolve their marriage, Garak couldn’t begin to guess. Perhaps the doctor had honestly forgotten, perhaps he hadn’t seen a need. Perhaps he had simply assumed Garak would take care of it, being the one that suggested the arrangement in the first place. Whatever the reason, Garak had been braced for that day, the day Julian would ask, for years. The only thing that truly surprised him was that Julian had asked, or rather, that he hadn’t simply written that he needed an annulment and had taken the liberty of filling out his half of the requisite form, and was just sending it over to be completed. Instead: “I think we should get a divorce.” As if it were a suggestion; as if it would be perfectly acceptable for Garak to refuse.  

Garak couldn’t, truly, of course. But it did leave the opportunity to not exactly agree, but to instead neatly suggest that Julian come to Cardassia (It’s been far too long!) so they could discuss it, and mention he had arranged for Quark to book passage on a transport from Deep Space Nine (He’s been paid for the best, so do not allow yourself to be cheated, my dear doctor!) whenever worked best for Julian. He did not, of course, bring attention to the fact he had only offered enough for one seat; if Julian expected any differently, he should have mentioned any potential guests to Garak some time ago. 

Even then: Garak wasn’t wholly expecting Julian to agree to come. But that’s exactly what the doctor did, and how Garak came to be standing in Cardassia Prime’s spaceport, waiting. 

It’s the same place he had seen Julian off Cardassia. He was far too weak then not to indulge in one last hug from his doctor, trying to commit as much of him to memory as possible, heedless of who might be watching. It could have lasted hours, and wouldn’t have been long enough; letting go and stepping back felt like a monumental task. 

“Good luck, doctor,” Garak said. 

“You, too, Garak,” Julian said. “I’ll send you a subspace message just as soon as I’ve settled in.”

“Oh, by all means, take your time,” Garak responded. “The longer I can go without having to hear your pedestrian defenses of the supposed genius of Oscar Wilde, the better.”

Julian opened his mouth just as the boarding call for his transport came over the jury-rigged com system. Garak smiled with every ounce of blatantly false innocence in his soul at the doctor’s narrow-eyed look of irritation. 

“Goodbye, Garak,” Julian huffed. Garak half thought he would stalk off in an exaggerated snit, but instead—Julian lifted his hand, just as he had in Sisko’s ready room, and despite himself, Garak felt his breath catch. He almost said something terribly ill-advised, but he trapped the words in time, shoved them back down. What would the point have been? Julian was leaving; he had to leave, and Garak would not force some sort of… last second confession on him. 

And so, instead, he had raised his own hand to press their palms together, and murmured: “Until we meet again, my dear doctor.”

Julian’s smile sat somewhat strangely on his face—a brightness at odds with the look in his eyes, Garak realized. But before he could entirely decide what that meant, the doctor was already gone, boarding his ship, and all Garak could do was linger in the port, watching until it had disappeared into the atmosphere. And then he had returned home and did nothing so much as sulk, right up until Julian’s first message arrived containing general greetings and breezy information about his new facilities and then a blistering four paragraph literary argument of the sort one produces when they’ve had days to think about it. That is when the situation finally felt tolerable again, but it hadn’t stopped him from longing for this moment, when he would finally actually be with Julian again, for very nearly every day of the last three years. 

“—rriving from station Deep Space Nine,” the intercom announces, drawing Garak from anticipation to the very moment at hand, and he straightens up, scanning the passengers as they begin to disembark. He’d passed along a minor bribe to Quark and studied the flight details; both ventures seemed to indicate that Doctor Bashir was traveling alone—there was no Tanith on the manifest, and the only woman Julian was seen spending any significant time with on the station was when he was catching up with Kira—but Garak hasn’t survived for as long as he has with an underdeveloped sense of paranoia.

And then he spots Julian, and all thoughts of anyone else are driven from his mind. 

Of course Garak had spoken with him over subspace video, when they had the opportunity, but it’s something else entirely to see his dear doctor in the flesh, unimpeded by a computer screen. At times, he found himself wondering if he wasn’t over-exaggerating Julian’s beauty in his mind—surely, no one could be that lovely—but: no. Not exaggerating in the least. Even mussed from a long transport, Julian is breathtaking.

Their eyes meet, and even that is enough Garak almost does something deeply foolish; he’s not sure what, honestly, but it takes every ounce of self-control he has to simply lift a hand in greeting as Julian makes his way through the crowd. The doctor’s hazel eyes flick over the spaceport before they settle back on Garak, and the desire within him coalesces: he wants desperately to draw Julian into his arms and hold him close, as he would have years ago, but the younger man is holding himself stiffly, uncomfortable, and so Garak forces himself into stillness and summons a smile. 

“Welcome back to Cardassia, Doctor Bashir,” he says. 

“Thank you, Garak,” Julian replies. His Kardasi is beautiful and so is his answering smile, though it isn’t the effusive expression that Garak had always hoped would accompany his return to Cardassia. “It’s good to be back.” 

“And we’re glad to have you, as always.” He steps back and motions for Julian to proceed past him, and then falls into step next to the doctor. “I daresay you’ll find it much more comfortable; the rebuilding isn’t complete, but it continues apace.” Garak realizes, embarrassingly, that already he’s leaning into the urge to ramble. “You’ll have to forgive me—I’ve already told you all about that over subspace.”

“You have,” Julian agrees, looking away, but the expression that curls over his lips this time is refreshingly sincere. “But it’s another thing entirely to actually see it.”

“Which is exactly why I’ve a skimmer waiting,” Garak says, quietly grateful to have been saved from himself. “I thought you might like to actually see the city, instead of simply teleporting.”

“I would, actually!” Julian says, unambiguously brightening. “When did you get a skimmer?”

“I’ve hired a skimmer; I’ve grown too accustomed to walking to make regular use of one,” Garak replies, and smirks. “But certainly I could employ it for the length of your trip, if you think you might have trouble, after spending years on ships and stations and in labs—”

“I’m sure I can more than keep up with you, Garak,” Julian fires back, and then—he visibly catches himself and corrects. “That is, I mean to say—don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine.” 

“I understand, doctor,” Garak offers, politely, though the much greater majority of his attention is on that slip, and how he might make it happen again. 

The skimmer is waiting where Garak left it. Once they’re inside, he gives the address of his home to the pilot and settles in only to find Julian looking—startled. Garak arches a ridge curiously.

“Oh, I just—I had thought I would be getting a room,” the doctor explains, and Garak blinks. 

“Well there’s hardly a need for that,” he replies. “Frankly, you’ll be spoiled for choice with regards to guest accommodations; the place is far too large for one person, as you’ll no doubt recall.”

Julian’s features are, briefly, for once in his life, very nearly opaque. “Still just one person, after all these years?”

Garak isn’t entirely sure how to take the question. He’s certain even this stiff imitation of his dearest friend wouldn’t be so cruel as to mock him for his solitude—perhaps it’s Julian’s attempt at gauging whether Garak might have similarly found companionship, as a way of assuaging any guilt? “I’m certain I would have told you if that had changed, doctor,” is what he decides to offer. 

Julian’s expression settles into something dubious, a rueful smile tugging at his lips as he turns his gaze to the window. “I’m sure you would have.”

After that, the ride is—polite. Having remained in such close contact until so recently, the occasional comment on the scenery aside, the only new thing they have to discuss is Julian’s stopover on Deep Space Nine, and while the doctor is obviously enthusiastic enough about having had the opportunity to catch up with Kira and Quark and Morn, it still feels… strange. Their relationship, after all, has never been overly polite. Garak did come on rather ridiculously strong, what with the blatant invitation and the touching, and Julian had responded beautifully; even once it was clear that there had been some intercultural crossed wires and their association had settled into mere lunch dates discussing literature, there had always been a quite singular depth of connection Garak had shared with no one else. He’d been embarrassingly honest when he admitted that he had always both looked forward to, and enjoyed, his conversations with Julian—enough so that the wire probably had only lasted as long as it did because he could dial it back once a week—and it feels surreal to be picking carefully through subjects as he would with a mere acquaintance.

He’s immensely grateful when it ends, and they are delivered to what Garak still can’t help but think of as “Tain’s mansion”, no matter how long it’s been simply his home. 

(Admittedly, there might be a part of himself that’s just amused by the title, considering how little of Tain remained.) 

“Oh,” Julian exclaims, any coolness forgotten, as they step into the front garden. “The pictures didn’t remotely do this place justice!”

“Why, thank you, doctor.” Garak doesn’t bother trying to disguise his self-satisfaction. Tain had kept a garden of his own, but it was a stolid, ornamental affair he had no interaction with, leaving its upkeep instead to hired help. It had naturally been devastated by the bombings, much like the rest of the estate, and when Julian left, the only thing that Garak had managed to coax from the damaged soil was a small selection of the hardiest fruits and vegetables to bolster their rations. 

The simplest course of action was turning what he already had into a viable culinary garden, but that still left a significant amount of land untouched, and when Garak had looked at the rest of the grounds and pictured the same carefully contained beds of ornamental flora, he found the mental image… wanting. On the station, there had been something appealingly neat about exactingly tending what small space he had in the arboretum, but he is in many ways a vastly different man than he was then. Discontent, he mentioned it to Julian in passing—only to have the doctor respond, days later, with a suggestion. 

Apparently, on Earth, in the past, humans had preferred sterile swaths of grass as an indication of status, but there had eventually been a movement towards revitalization through biodiversity. “What do you think?” Julian had asked, sending over pictures of lovingly cultivated collections of assorted vegetation in luxuriously abundant sprawls, and Garak could only reply, “I think you may be onto something, doctor.”

It had called to him, for reasons he couldn’t entirely communicate, at least until it all started coming together, the Edosian orchids and Indigo sunsearchers and mekla that had featured in his father’s garden allowed to develop freely, right beside—after careful study—non-native species that could benefit Prime’s long-faltering ecology. He had planted trees and shrubs and flowers in profusion, until it looked less like a cultivated garden and more a part of nature itself, until he was waking up to the calls of rengar and regova that had found new places to nest in what had once been nothing but rubble. That is when he stepped back, and realized just why he had so badly wanted to see something that had been so tightly controlled by Enabran Tain grow and flourish without restriction. 

It felt somewhat ridiculous, in retrospect. It also felt very good.

And to see Julian in his garden, looking around with wide eyes and visible delight, is rather affecting in a wholly new way. Garak allows himself to do nothing more than quietly drink in the sight, as Julian pauses to brush his fingers along the stem of an iris and then flashes him a smile full of unguarded warmth. 

“If the garden looks this good, I can’t wait to see the house,” Julian says.

“Oh, by all means,” Garak says, and leads him to the door. The lock is still keyed to Julian’s biometrics, but Garak is ever a creature of immense drama, which—in this case—involves opening the door and then stepping aside with a flourish to allow Julian to proceed. The doctor smirks, but the expression promptly drops off his face once he’s gotten a look inside.

“Oh, Garak, it’s gorgeous,” Julian breathes. 

Once upon a time, Garak truly had dreamt of emulating Enabran Tain in all things, and that included his sprawling estate, filled with dark, rich colors and textiles almost too fine to touch, but when he stood in the bombed-out shell of his one-time home… it wasn’t merely something left wanting, as it had been with the garden: in contrast, the thought of trying to reconstruct the mansion as it had been made his stomach actively roil. And so, instead, he had knocked down what walls that still stood to create open, airy spaces decorated with the kinds of vibrant hues and bold patterns he preferred in soft, comfortable fabrics; windows had been somewhat hard to come by even years after the war, and so Garak had elected to use mosaics of recycled glass that caught Cardassia’s gentle sunlight beautifully. 

In the end, in fairly every way, both inside and out, the mansion has become the antithesis of what it once was. A home, as opposed to an edifice to affluence where—by design—only its master could ever feel truly welcome, and it makes something in Garak settle, as if he had been waiting, to know that Julian approves. 

He very, very deliberately steps away from that thought, and gives his doctor a smile. “Shall we have a tour?” 

It is, admittedly, mostly perfunctory—Garak is proud of what he’s made of his home, but it’s not exactly novel, and the tour is mostly just a means of familiarizing the doctor with a space he had seen only in ruins. The only space that he’s truly interested in Julian seeing, at the moment, is saved for last: Garak’s workshop. 

It used to be Tain’s office, the center of his domain, and therefore associated with nothing but negative feelings in Garak’s mind—inadequacy, most often, but also fear and guilt and helplessness. He had, therefore, taken a certain amount of vindictive glee in tearing out the ruined moldings, ripping up the singed carpets, and putting in a bank of windows looking out onto the garden that had likewise become a symbol of the man Garak allowed himself to be, when freed from his father’s shadow. On the slightly more petty side of things, he also appreciates the incredible irony of what he’s chosen to use the space for.

“Garak! You’ve taken up tailoring again?” Julian comments, when realizes what he’s looking at. He drifts inside, looking around with what seems like fond reminiscence and a familiar interest, before he’s drawn, as Garak rather hoped he would be, toward the three mannequins that had been set up to one side of the room.

“Oh, yes. In fact, if it’s not too much of an imposition, I was hoping you would take these off my hands,” Garak says, motioning to the display. “You should find the fit acceptable, give or take—I can always make adjustments.” 

Julian gives him a sharp, surprised look. “You—made me clothes?” the doctor asks, reaching out to touch the sleeve of the nearest ensemble. It’s constructed from a type of Vulcan silk specifically made to be breezy and breathable in the heat, a cobalt deep enough to look black, but possessing a lovely teal iridescence that had reminded Garak of the doctor’s uniform. It was something of an experiment, more light and flowing than the geometric lines his designs usually favored, and it’s the one piece with an utterly daring neckline; most Garak had designed with something properly demure, unsure of what Julian had picked up of Cardassian fashion and not looking to scandalize the man. But that one had been a moment of indulgence resulting in a wide, shallow neck that would bare just everything from the delicate line of Julian’s clavicle up.

“As ironic as it might sound, my rather unofficial position with the Cardassian government can leave me with a certain abundance of free time,” Garak says, circling slowly from beside Julian to behind the display. “Enough to find myself, yes, actually wanting to indulge in my former profession. I'm still undecided if I wish to keep it as a mere hobby or actually pursue it as a vocation—perhaps as an obscenely expensive personal tailor—” He flashes a smile at Julian from over the shoulder of the mannequin. “But with restless hands and a need to fill my time, I called upon what measurements I could remember from my time on the station, and thanks to all of those holoprogram costumes of yours…”

“Mine were the ones you remembered the best?” Julian concludes. 

“Of those I thought might appreciate the gesture—and were most in need of my skills.” Garak casts a baleful eye at the doctor’s outfit. It’s not the sort of mishmash of clashing colors that Julian had once been prone to, but it almost seems as if he had overcorrected in the other direction, with a bland, neutral tan and washed out blue-gray that does absolutely nothing for his gorgeous skin tone. 

“I do appreciate the gesture,” Julian says, dropping his hand away. “But I can’t accept this.”

“And why not?” Garak asks, arching his ridges. “I’m certainly not going to wear them, and they’ve served their purpose, as far as allowing me to brush off my old skills. But, of course, I’d hardly force them upon you, if they’re truly unwanted. I’m sure I could find something to do with the fabric—a quilt, perhaps?”

Julian visibly wavers, looking at one of the other pieces—a cream number which makes up for its simplicity of color with intricate floral embroidery at the shoulders and hems. It’s actually the first Garak had made, in the most immediate depths of his loneliness, when he had sought to distract himself with the delicacy of detail work. 

“Well,” Julian says, at last. “I suppose if you really have nothing else to do with them—”

“Oh, thank you, doctor. I’ve never been overly fond of quilting,” Garak says, and smiles when it makes Julian snort. 

Julian demurs from sharing a meal that night, citing lag, and goes to bed early; it’s quite a feat for Garak to force himself to do the same, though at the very least he’s been saved from the discussion about their impending divorce sure to ensue when he doesn’t have something to distract the doctor. 

In a similar vein: the next day, over breakfast, Garak quickly offers, and Julian just as quickly accepts, a trip to the rebuilt Cardassian Central Hospital to allow the doctor the opportunity to catch up with the friends he had made back in those first two years—which, apparently, is the entire senior staff, given how they seem to come out of the woodwork to swarm around Julian once his arrival has been noticed, all affectionate greetings and recriminations for being gone for so long and demands to know how his research has been going. Eventually the chief of surgery herself, a tiny woman named Nilmi, bullies her way through the developing crowd to hook an arm through Julian’s, less offering a tour so much as ordering one, and Julian’s eyes find Garak’s. He looks flustered and very slightly shell-shocked—but when Garak tilts his head in question, Julian nods quickly. 

“By all means, doctor: take your time. I was warned in advance,” Garak assures him, and watches with amusement as Julian is dragged off. 

For his part, Garak fills his time with running errands, the kind of light busywork he had been neglecting in his preparation for Julian’s visit. When he returns to the hospital hours later, his guest is apparently still occupied, though a nurse sheepishly promises that the doctor should be finished soon, which turns out to be true. Julian reappears in a smaller but no less enthusiastic crowd of medical professionals, and only truly manages to escape after promising to forward some paper or another to them, if he’s “so determined to leave once again.”

Garak tries not to think too deeply about the implications of that statement, and instead flashes Julian a smile as they make their way out. 

“You seem to have survived intact despite their enthusiasm,” he notes, and Julian laughs. 

“Somehow! Mireiss was so excited to actually show me the improvements they’ve made I thought she might well pull my arm off, the way she was yanking me around. God, but it was good to see them all again.” There’s relief in Julian’s voice, stark in just how obvious it is, and he sighs, shoulders dropping. “I just…”

“You just?” Garak prompts, after a moment. 

“It’s going to sound stupid.” 

“While you may often fall prey to the very human folly of inflexible thinking…” Garak drawls, and smiles at the half-hearted glare he gets for it. “I have yet to ever find you stupid, doctor.”

Julian sighs through his nose, looking down. “I just—worried. In the Gamma Quadrant. Of course I was still in touch with Mireiss and the others, but I knew every single one of them would downplay any potential problems they might have had. And I also know that I’m just one man, and it’s not as if things would just fall apart when I wasn’t around, but it didn’t entirely help.” He runs a hand through his hair, glancing back at Garak. “As I said: stupid. That Federation arrogance of mine, even.”

Garak scoffs. “You spent two years in that hospital when it was less a sanctuary for healing than it was a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding of an entire city. You are a good doctor, and more than that a good man: of course you would worry over a still-delicate situation you no longer had any control over. You’ll have to try harder than that to be considered arrogant among Cardassians.”

Julian pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. “Garak.”

“You’ve met Dukat.”

“Well, that’s hardly a fair comparison. Gul Dukat made you look earnest and humble.”

“You wound me, doctor!” Garak says, pressing a hand to his chest and reeling back. “When have I ever acted as anything more than I am: a plain and simple tailor?” 

“Oh, I wonder.” Julian grins at him with a familiar kind of teasing delight—and then Garak sees the moment when the doctor remembers himself, because his eyes drop away, expression settling back into polite distance. 

Again. Just like yesterday—and it won’t be the last time. Garak walks with Julian through the encroaching evening, to dinner at a restaurant overlooking the river, and over the course of their meal that incongruous shift happens several more times. It seems, when both he and Julian can forget why the doctor has come, all the reasons not to indulge in the closeness they had become comfortable with, that it’s just like old times. And there is a part of Garak—perhaps even the better part of him—that wants to be selfish. To take advantage. To let himself touch, to get closer, to press in on those moments of distraction until he has successfully driven the very idea of anyone else from Julian’s mind. There’s a voice in Garak’s mind that whispers he couldn’t even be blamed! It’s not as if the doctor has said anything about why he’s pulling away. 

But: no. Even if it worked, Julian would feel horrible about it afterward—and Garak isn’t sure if the ugliest parts of him would be willing to forgive the doctor’s indiscretion, or if he would win Julian only to come to mistrust and resent him.  

It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

On the second day, Garak similarly seeks to fill their time as much as possible—and, strangely, despite Julian’s self-inflicted coolness and his stated purpose for visiting, he agrees to every suggestion.

In this case, it’s a tour of the capital at large. It has not regained its pre-war splendor—and, as Garak has had to accept, never will again, at least not as it was—but it is still remarkably transformed from when Julian left. Back then, the order of operations was merely constructing viable shelter and then just removing debris, but in the intervening years the greater part of the city has finally been rebuilt, if possible, or cleared away to create public spaces. He takes Julian into the city center, where the majority of retail establishments have sprung up, to reintroduce him to a Prime three years less shell-shocked and desperate. 

What Garak hadn’t entirely expected, though he probably should have, is that Julian—with a memory on par with a Cardassian’s and his former position in the capital’s then only hospital—recognizes several people while they’re out. He lights up every time it happens, and their morning of casual shopping turns into a considerably longer affair, though Garak hardly minds. (Quite the opposite, in fact, as he watches Julian show such obvious concern for the Cardassian people—but Garak is rather trying to ignore that fact.)

“This has also been something of a relief, I imagine?” he suggests, after a quick stop for zabu kebabs from a street vendor had spun into a half hour affair because Julian realized he had treated the woman’s daughter four and a half years ago. 

“It has,” Julian admits, ruefully. His expression goes a bit distant when he looks back at the vendor; he lifts a hand when she waves at him, but he doesn’t entirely seem to be looking at her. “It could be—overwhelming, seeing patient after patient and doing my best to help them, and then having to send them back out into the rubble with no idea if I had made any damned difference at all—”

“Doctor, I believe you’re rather desperately underestimating the effect of just knowing someone cared enough to try,” Garak murmurs. “Your simply being here made a difference.”

“If that’s true, I’m glad,” Julian demurs, looking at his hands. Ah, his dear doctor, always needing to do more, unaware of what it felt like to be saved from having to suffer alone by the minor miracle of Julian Bashir’s singularly indefatigable ability to care.  

“It is. After all—I would know,” Garak says, simply, and meets Julian’s gaze evenly when he lifts his eyes in surprise—and thankfully, when they drop away again, it is not with the wrench of the doctor’s enforced distance, but something gentler and more earnest. 

“Then I’m glad,” Julian repeats, but he sounds sincere, and his smile is genuine. “But I’m even gladder to be able to see it in person, too.”

And at that, Garak can only tip his head in agreement. He, after all, got to see Cardassia’s recovery every day; he’s hardly going to fault the doctor for finding his own comfort in it. 

That it helps keep things from becoming too awkward between them is also something of a relief—they aren’t left alone with their own thoughts quite so often, and when they are, it’s easy enough to discuss whichever encounter Julian had just had. But occasionally, still: a joke lands too close, a memory is too sharp, and the doctor will actually look at him for a minor, agonizing eternity before glancing away again.

It’s livable. 

For now.

They settle down to have dinner at another restaurant, for lack of a better term; the food is delicious, but it’s served from a gutted and refurbished skimmer to a lot full of scavenged furniture. It’s familiar to Julian, because it was initially just a station for handing out rations to survivors, and one they had both visited before—”But eventually, Mister Zaim,” Garak says, and tips his head towards the chef (who, of course, Julian had also recognized), “Was able to incorporate actual ingredients, and that’s when people started forcing him to accept payment.” 

“Oh, as well they should have, he deserves it,” Julian comments. “This is amazing!”

Garak hums. “It still technically operates on a voluntary basis, but at this point I really believe that if he wanted, he could afford to find an actual space to renovate, but he says that the dirt enhances the flavor. I think he’s just comfortable here.”

“I can hardly fault him that,” Julian muses, and then proceeds to prod Garak for information about other volunteers that they had become friendly with over the course of the reconstruction, and Garak does his best to dutifully provide—which is to say, of course, they pass the rest of the meal with mostly gossip.

Towards the end, though, Julian seems to grow quiet in a way that’s terribly familiar. It’s not the uncomfortable silence that’s come to fill the gaps in their conversations; it is, instead, the kind of stillness that had settled ever increasingly over the doctor when the Dominion War was at its worst. 

And so Garak is not entirely surprised by what Julian requests, when they’re finished.

“Will you take me to the memorial?” he asks.

“Of course,” Garak says, after a moment, and thus they end the night in the most central of the capital’s plazas, where the largest war memorial stands.

“There are others, of course,” Garak says, as Julian gazes at it. “In every city. There are too many names to have just one.” This one is merely symbolic of the final, horrifying attack itself: a sea of 2500 pillars, constructed from stone reclaimed from ruined buildings, each one representing some 400 thousand lives lost. It’s easy to get lost in the space between the columns and find yourself wandering seemingly endlessly, surrounded by death on all sides, a stark and disorienting experience echoing that of Prime itself after the war; the first time Garak had visited, he had ended up collapsed on his knees in the center of it, entirely overwhelmed by his own worst memories. But—eventually. Eventually he had picked himself up, and walked the rest of the way through, until he got to the edge and emerged to a rebuilding Cardassia, proof that despite the horrific waste of life, they had managed to survive.

It had not been a popular installation amongst the most conservative members of the recently formed Cardassian Assembly, who rather wanted to ignore the whole thing and pretend that the war had been nothing more than a brief stumble in the Empire’s history of greatness, but their voices had been outnumbered by those that knew that this experience could not be forgotten. It’s perhaps a morbid stop on what was an otherwise relaxed tour, but. Julian had asked.

And the doctor does stand, quietly, for a very long time. He does not go in, but his features are stark, and Garak wants terribly to draw Julian into his arms, to comfort his friend as they once had. He forces himself to simply stand beside him, equally silent, until Julian finally takes a deep breath.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” he murmurs.

“You’re welcome, doctor,” Garak replies, softly.

By the time they return home, another day has gone by without mentioning why Julian is supposedly here.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll need to take some time to work out in the garden today,” Garak says, over breakfast on the third day. 

Julian’s eyes find his, and the doctor doesn’t immediately respond, which seems to indicate Garak hit the exact memories he was quite deliberately aiming for: when it was the two of them in the shack outside, and he was still trying to coax the first few sprouts from the blasted soil. Julian had offered to help, because of course he had, but Garak had gently rebuffed him—the doctor’s shifts at the hospital often left him so dead on his feet that he was good for little more than a sleepy chat if he could stay awake at all, and Garak would not encroach on what little rest his companion could get. And so, instead, it had become something of a habit for the doctor to join him outside, just for the company, making meandering conversation about whatever subject could keep their attention while Garak worked. Certainly not their most stimulating discussions, but Garak had cherished those early moments of peace. 

Now, Julian’s gaze drops. He gnaws on his lower lip. “That’s fine. I could probably do with catching up on my subspace messages, anyhow.”

“As you say, doctor,” Garak responds, with a smile, and the rest of the meal passes in silence. 

Afterward, alone with his thoughts in the garden, Garak decides once and for all that the situation is untenable. Julian’s trip is halfway over, and he has no idea what will happen afterward. Is this to be their relationship going forward? This half-life of an association, until they eventually stop speaking altogether?

Just weeks ago, their most recent subspace correspondence had been about a short series of ancient human literature that Garak had actually been quite enjoying—oh, not for their quality or content, especially given Julian’s claims that these were stories for children; what point did it serve to teach the young that the world operated through nothing but confusing encounters that the titular Alice had almost no agency in resolving? But the books were also, apparently, heavy with then-timely references to politics and allegories about, of all things, mathematics, and Julian was prepared to expound on them, at length, for as long as Garak would let him, and there were very few things lovelier than Julian Bashir excitedly explaining something. Even before their impromptu reunion was planned, Garak had imagined what it would be like to sit across from his doctor once again, Julian’s eyes alight and his hands dancing through the air as he detailed this inconsequential tidbit or that with very nearly the same enthusiasm as he would discuss the most tantalizing of medical miracles. And then, usually, Garak had been forced to stop imagining it, lest he do something ill-advised, like take a ship and fly off half-cocked into the Gamma Quadrant simply to try and have lunch. 

Now, this distance Julian has erected between them disallows not just literary discussions, but anything that could even remotely lead to a disagreement. Back on Deep Space Nine, just after they had met, Garak knew that the doctor had no idea what their exceptionally argumentative meals would have signaled to a Cardassian, but surely, at some point, Julian would have learned. If not from someone on the station, certainly someone on Cardassia, and the fact that Julian had never stopped responding to Garak’s blatant invitations for debate—had, in fact, occasionally joined him in bed while still arguing this point or that, resulting in feats of self-control Garak quite genuinely wouldn’t have expected from himself… well, it had given him a certain measure of hope. He hadn’t even been entirely aware of it until he didn’t have it anymore. 

Though that does bring up a small mystery in and of itself: Julian will not argue, purposefully avoids it, so he knows. He must. And so—why had Julian kept offering debates, inviting disagreements, until very nearly the day he had asked for a divorce? Kira said he had been speaking of his paramour for months, and Garak would have assumed the doctor had grown out of carrying on blatant flirtations when he was serious enough to marry. At the very least, not with Garak—surely, Julian wouldn’t be so unkind.

It all leaves Garak full of frustrated curiosity—and no small measure of desperation, if he’s to be obscenely honest with himself. And so, by the time he’s done outside, returned to the house and washed up for lunch, he has the shape of what could be considered a plan, if one was feeling deeply generous and in need of a good laugh. 

One last stab, after coaxing Julian into the sitting room after another awkward meal. Garak makes a transparently incendiary and distinctly unfair comparison between one of the doctor’s favorite novels and a frankly pedestrian enigma tale even Garak hadn’t bothered to finish; the kind of blatant pass a youth would make, when they were full of hormonal longing but hadn’t quite grasped the nuance of naturally slipping into a rousing debate. Certainly obvious enough for Julian, whose eyes flare wide, lips parting—and then, again, like always, he looks away, jaw tightening.

“Garak, please don’t,” he says, quietly, and well. Surely that answers any lingering questions, and if Garak has to watch those beautiful eyes drop away from him one more time, he may very well scream. 

“Very well, Doctor Bashir,” he replies, voice clipped more than he would have liked. “Then let us fill out that form of yours, so you can get on with your life with whatever lovely young thing you’ve decided you wish to spend it with.”

“Wait,” Julian says. “Who I’ve decided—?”

Garak arches his ridges in sarcastic retort. “Of course I suppose I’m just making assumptions, seeing as you felt no need inform me about them—”

“But—you’re the one…” Julian trails off, brow furrowing, and Garak is suddenly somewhat adrift himself. The doctor is capable of remarkable obfuscation, when he has to be, but Garak has known him long enough, closely enough, to recognize honest bewilderment. 

“I’m the one?” Garak ventures. 

Julian’s jaw works soundlessly, for a moment, before he finally offers: “Keiko might have—mentioned something?” 

Professor O’Brien, honestly? They do speak fairly regularly—their shared interest in horticulture had drawn them into contact in the station, where he found her remarkably more friendly than her husband, and they had resumed communication after he reached out to her in a professional capacity during the massive effort to reinvigorate Cardassia’s ecology. But they keep to either work or light, casual subjects: the health of her family, the state of their individual gardens, and the like. He’s never confided in her. 

“Professor O’Brien indicated I was… seeing someone?” he ventures, to be certain, and receives a nod. He can’t help but frown. “And so you requested a divorce?”

“Well,” Julian says, shifting in his seat. “Yes. She made it sound as if—as if you were truly happy, couldn’t stop mentioning them even if you weren’t being outright about it, of course, and I just—you had never mentioned anything to me. I thought you might be holding yourself back on my account, and I couldn’t stand that.” He looks miserable at the very idea, narrow shoulders hunched up in distress. “You deserve to be happy, Garak! You deserve to have good things in your life. If I was keeping you from that—” 

“My dear,” Garak responds. This situation is so far outside of what he was expecting that all he’s left with is, horribly, complete sincerity. “You are the best thing I have ever had in my life. There is no one that could make me happier.”

Julian‘s shoulders drop, and he stares. He says, “Oh.”

“I must admit,” Garak says, stung despite himself, “I might have hoped for something more than oh, had I dared allow myself to hope at all.” 

“I’m sorry!” Julian says, jumping from his seat to pace, agitation evident in his sweeping gestures. “I came here expecting to—to—give you up to some pinnacle of Cardassian perfection I’d have no hope of competing with even if I tried, and instead… you’re making it sound as if you honestly want to be married to me!”

“I would have preferred an enjoinment, but we were rather strapped for time,” Garak snaps back.

“Oh my God,” Julian moans, concerningly. “Why didn’t you ever just say that, you awful lizard!” And then he promptly turns on a heel to throw himself into Garak’s arms, which is significantly less concerning. 

It’s been so long since he’s held Julian; it’s almost overwhelming to be surrounded once more by the doctor’s warmth and still-familiar scent (now layered with that of a healthy Cardassia, of home, and isn’t that something). He strokes his fingers into Julian’s soft hair and focuses on not embarrassing himself too entirely, eyes closing. 

“Given the circumstances,” Garak murmurs, “I was somewhat reluctant to risk what I still had. It was enough to have you by my side; I forced myself to have it be enough.”

Julian makes a noise, pressing what feels dangerously like a kiss to Garak’s hair. “I should have said something, then,” he replies, quietly. “I just—with everything, it never seemed like the right time; I didn’t want to be another burden.”

Garak scoffs. “You have never been a burden, doctor, and especially not then. I thought I was being horribly obvious about that much—but then, if you had thought I was merely reaching out to the closest thing I could get to comfort…” Garak feels the doctor nod, and he sighs, momentarily pained. Julian Bashir, simply a willing body in the right place, at the right time—the very idea. As if Julian, in his beautiful entirety, isn’t everything Garak could ever think to want.

“Oh, my dear,” he murmurs. “I can only hope that my behavior over the last few days has proven I do not have to need for comfort to want you in my life.”

“The last few—you mean, everything you’ve been doing on this trip, taking me around and giving me clothes, asking me here in the first place! You were trying to convince me to stay?” Julian pulls back enough to look at Garak. “You want me to stay.”

“I never wanted you to leave,” Garak admits. “And it felt like you took a part of me with you when you did. But you were needed elsewhere.”

“Garak,” Julian whispers, eyes bright. “I…” He trails off, lips parted, but apparently he can find no more words. Instead… 

Instead. Julian lifts a hand. As he had during their impromptu wedding; as he had when leaving Cardassia. But this time, when Garak—of course—raises his own, Julian tilts his palm to slot their fingers together, slow and deliberate, unambiguously romantic and unambiguously Cardassian. 

And oh, but he immediately understands his beloved doctor with utter intimacy: truly, in this moment, Garak could not even begin to try to fit the whole of his emotions into something as unwieldy as language. 

“Julian,” is all he can say, a single word breathed like a prayer, and then they are kissing.

He isn’t even sure who moved first—it’s quite possible it was a mutual decision—but he can think of very little that matters less. Garak has dreamed of kissing Julian, but the reality of it is so much better: the warmth and weight of the doctor against him, their fingers twined together, the plushness of Julian’s generous mouth. In this, as with so many things, they fall in sync astonishingly quickly, and the only way that Garak could truly recognize it as any sort of first kiss is in that they both seem to be trying to fulfill years of longing with the sort of desperation a man dying in the desert would have for water. It’s not an entirely unfair comparison, in Garak’s opinion. 

And even once Julian pulls away, it is only far enough to press his forehead to Garak’s, fingers curling on Garak’s shoulders like he’s physically restraining himself from continuing what they had been doing long enough to speak. 

“I’ll stay,” Julian manages. “On one condition.”

“Name it,” Garak replies, without hesitation, and he can hear a smile in Julian’s voice. 

“I want an actual enjoinment ceremony, here, with all of our friends.”

Garak hisses, delighted beyond words by the concept. An actual enjoinment, on Cardassia. The opportunity to drape Julian in beautiful traditional fabrics and jewelry and bind their lives together beneath coppery Ithian leaves glittering in Cardassia’s gentle sun. 

“Marry me, Elim Garak,” Julian murmurs. 

“Yes,” Garak gasps, pulling Julian into another kiss. Even had he the desire to hold himself back, it would require a feat of impossible strength that he is utterly uninterested in. Instead, he sweeps the doctor into his arms to carry him out of the sitting room entirely, and proceeds to get all the way to his bedroom door before he realizes what he’s doing long enough to pull away. 

“I may be—getting ahead of myself,” Garak notes, breathlessly. 

“Oh, you are absolutely not,” Julian pants, and then a certain gleam comes to his eye. “If anything, you’re years late, you recalcitrant lizard.”

His expression is challenging, his grin bright and teasing: angling for an argument while practically demanding to be taken to bed. 

Garak adores him. 

“Oh, I’m the difficult one?” Garak scoffs right back, continuing through the door. “Whatever happened to that callow Starfleet lieutenant falling over himself to impress whatever pretty thing had caught his eye that week? And you wouldn’t even make a move when we were sleeping in the same bed!” 

Ah, speaking of—Garak unceremoniously drops his armful of now-giggling human onto the waiting mattress, and promptly crawls over him to claim the doctor’s lips once again. It’s more playful now, the blank desperation of years spent waiting giving way to the heady joy of actually being together. Julian is still so warm, and he can’t actually seem to stop smiling, laughing every time his curving mouth breaks another kiss and nipping in teasing apology, at least until Garak allows himself to indulge in venturing down the column of that gorgeous neck. He must be gentler than he would be with a Cardassian, of course, but how lovely that his beautiful doctor seems similarly enough affected, gasping and squirming at each experimental bite. It’s only his simmering desire to see more, to lavish his attention on every part of Julian, that convinces Garak to sit back, straddling the doctor’s hips, so they can at least attempt to undress. 

“The problem with treating you like everyone else,” Julian breathes, gaze avid on Garak’s hands, “Is that I didn’t love any of them, not like I love you. Oh, Elim.”

The combination of the sentiment and his name, whispered with such reverence, is intoxicating. Garak’s normally steady fingers stutter on the hidden clasps of his tunic. 

“It’s rather a first time experience for me, too, my dear,” he replies, and watches Julian’s eyes go dark with delight at the implication. 

“Plain, simple Garak, not knowing what to do?” he teases, biting his lip. “I suppose that is a first.”

“Oh, I think I’m figuring it out,” Garak replies, rolling his hips with purpose, and Julian throws his head back. 

“Elim,” he moans, which may be even better than the whisper. “Oh, God, finish taking that off before I tear it off.” 

“Deeply tempting,” Garak admits, almost willing to see if Julian could—but this is one of his favorite ensembles, so instead he strips off his top in record time. He lets it fall as neatly as he can manage, but he can’t truly bring himself to care about the finer points of clothing maintenance, not when Julian is already tracing over Garak’s ridges, down over his chest and stomach and along his sides. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Julian murmurs so fervently that Garak is half inclined to believe him. He can think of no better response than leaning down to kiss his dear doctor once again, swallowing up Julian’s ecstatic hum. 

Julian hands are as warm as the rest of him, and they seem to be everywhere, as if he simply cannot touch enough—at least until they curve up over Garak’s ridges, thumbs gently drawn along his jaw before settling over the third scale down, and then— 

It’s not exactly a pinch, but instead a glorious roll of nearly-perfect pressure that makes Garak hiss, every ounce of his attention suddenly dedicated to keeping himself from everting in his pants like some untouched youth. 

It doesn’t leave him any to spare for his hands on the hem of Julian’s thin shirt, and yes: there’s a definite, audible rip. Garak pulls away somewhat guiltily. “Ah.”

Julian grins, looking wildly pleased with himself. “Don’t worry about it, I know a tailor.”

“It remains to be seen if he’d be willing to bother with a drab thing like this,” Garak scoffs. 

“I really can’t win,” Julian notes. “I wear color and it apparently clashes; I wear neutral tones and it’s drab. I suppose I’ll just have to let you make my whole wardrobe from now on—” Garak hums approvingly, and Julian laughs. “God, does that gesture make more sense, now!” 

“What in the world did you think I was doing?” Garak queries. 

“I had no idea! Letting me down gently?” Julian says, squirming out of his top and throwing it somewhere; Garak couldn’t begin to keep track, not with the expanse of slim chest suddenly available for his exploration. He allows his hands to wander, and Julian’s breath catches. “O-offloading some rejected designs from whatever pretty Cardassian had caught your eye?”

“My dear,” Garak says, reprovingly. He strokes his thumbs over those incongruous brown nubs on Julian’s pectorals, and the doctor gasps.

“Of course, n-now I know you just wanted to tart me up,” Julian continues, with a breathy chuckle. “The neckline on that blue piece, Elim!” 

“Oh, I was in something of a mood that day,” Garak agrees. 

“Could I even wear that thing in public?”

“It’s not technically inappropriate. Your problem would be fighting off potential new paramours, as opposed to being arrested for indecency.” 

“I’ll have to save it for nights in, then,” Julian says, and Garak cannot help the sound he makes at the casual promise in that idea. He bows his head to press a kiss to the doctor’s sternum, trailing downward, and Julian sighs contentedly, reaching up to run his nails through Garak’s hair.

“I almost wore it today,” he confesses.  “But I thought it might make me look a little—desperate. Now I’m just sorry for denying you the opportunity to divest me of it.”

“Another time,” Garak promises, and presses his lips to Julian’s nipple. Obviously, they are unambiguously alien to one another, but this has always been one of the strangest differences, at least as far as Garak is concerned. Apparently, the sensation varies from person to person, but it seems Julian is indeed in the quite sensitive camp, given how he moans and grabs at Garak’s hair, just this side of pulling, when he experiments with sucking, or a light drag of teeth, or even a delicate bite. It’s not entirely unlike playing with someone’s ridges—though, unprotected, significantly more responsive with significantly less effort. He gets a bit lost in testing Julian’s reactions, until the doctor is all but squirming beneath him, making lovely little noises, and—yes—definitely pulling, and quite sharply, now. 

“Elim,” he finally grits out. 

“Patience, my dear,” Garak purrs back, making Julian shiver. “I would have thought you of all people would appreciate my dedication to anatomical research.”

“Yes, well, at the moment I'm a bit more interested in comprehensiveness than thoroughness, so either take off my pants already or get off me so I can do it myself.”

Garak is half-tempted to offer a teasing “make me” and see just how hot and bothered he can make his dearest doctor, but while there’s a definite allure in the idea of a bit of roughhousing, it’s not a direction Garak is interested in for tonight. 

He wonders when the idea of having a future with Julian will lose its luster. If it ever will. Garak cannot truly imagine himself waking up even decades later and not being delighted to have his husband—his husband!—in his life. 

“Very well: I bow to your years of experience in xenophilic relations,” Garak says, earning himself a pinch. 

“Rude!” Julian says. 

“Oh, you’re right, and terribly unfair,” Garak allows. “Since we’ve already covered your uncharacteristic hesitation.”

“For a man I’ve supposedly kept waiting, you’re taking an awfully long time to get on with it now that you do have me in bed,” Julian notes, looking meaningfully downward. “Getting cold feet, Elim?”

“Hardly,” Garak says, unwilling to entertain the possibility even as a joke. He still takes his time about it, of course, dragging his nails down the beautiful lines of Julian’s hips and along the hem of his pants before finally taking mercy on the man. Garak truly does remember Julian’s measurements perfectly, but it’s one thing clinically to draw a laser ruler along the line of a seam, and another entirely to be able to follow the same path with his hands on bare skin, and even he finds himself surprised by how Julian’s legs just never seem to end. 

Once Garak recovers from that little revelation, he can’t help but smirk at the doctor’s plain, Starfleet-issues boxer briefs. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll have to let you make me underwear, too,” Julian notes, before driving every potential response out of Garak’s head by shoving those plain underthings down his impossibly long legs and leaving himself entirely bare. 

Through shamefully extensive research (which had not been hard to pursue: by the State do humans love their pornography), Garak had discovered that while no means uniform, by and large humans fell into two general configurements; not knowing which Julian possessed, he had spent his lonelier nights fantasizing about the two interchangeably. 

Now, he has his answer—the doctor is built not entirely unlike a Cardassian, albeit with a lovely thatch of hair as opposed to a chuva, and a very short, external prUt full and perked, presumably thanks to Garak’s ministrations. He’s absolutely gorgeous and, Garak discovers, smells utterly fucking divine. 

“Julian,” is what he attempts to say, but, embarrassingly, it comes out mostly as a growl. “The things I want to do to you.” 

The doctor indulges in a frankly obscene stretch along the sheets and a haughty grin, which Garak allows, because he certainly deserves to preen. 

“Aren’t you still a little overdressed for the occasion?” Julian comments, with a glance down at Garak’s lower half. 

“Even for you, that was blatant,” Garak notes, sweetly. 

“Oh, I can do worse,” Julian promises, eyes glittering. “How’s this: take off your pants and you can do whatever you want to me.”

Garak cannot imagine how dark his ridges must be. “A dangerous offer, my dear,” he purrs. 

“I trust you, Elim,” Julian murmurs, which is absolutely intoxicating in a way that’s quite genuinely shocking. 

Garak can think of no response beyond doing exactly what’s been asked of him. 

Even with his ridges flushed and swollen with arousal, it must be a terribly uninteresting sight to a species so used to having everything so garishly displayed, but Julian hardly seems disappointed: in fact, his expression suggests that if given half the chance, he would try to eat Garak alive. 

“Look at you,” the doctor whispers, and Garak feels something of an urge to preen himself. 

“Now that I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain—” He draws his fingers along Julian’s hip, and settles in the space between those lovely legs. “Anything I want, wasn’t it?”

The view up to Julian’s face is incredible; considering the doctor’s expression, he seems to be enjoying his angle just as much. “I’m nothing if not a man of my word,” he agrees, and Garak grins. 

He cannot help himself, with the sudden bounty available to him: he nuzzled a kiss to the soft skin of Julian’s inner thigh, indulging in a testing bite—and then, when the doctor makes nothing but approving noises, he allows himself several more, until he’s left a smattering of marks over the silken flesh. He doesn’t know if they’ll bruise—he rather hopes they do, because the idea of Julian carrying his marks makes him rumble with deep satisfaction, but ensuring it would require a conversation he isn’t willing to waste his time with right now, not when he has so much else demanding his attention.

Namely: the doctor’s prUt. Garak smoothes a hand upward, letting his thumb drag along its length, and watches Julian twitch at the first touch. 

“Given my lack of hands-on experience, verbal feedback is appreciated,” Garak notes, keeping very careful control of his voice, and Julian laughs breathlessly. 

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” 

“You have a point,” Garak allows. “To simplify: talk to me, my dear.”

“I’ll do my best-t,” Julian says, voice catching wonderfully as Garak takes his prUt between his fingers and strokes. 

The request is honestly probably unnecessary: Julian is beautifully responsive in pleasure. But it’s a special kind of joy to hear him vocalize it as well, gasping approval and entreaty and, sometimes, simply, Garak’s name, as if it’s all he can remember how to say. 

Finally, when he feels as if he has a handle on things, Garak gives into the urge to lean up and take the doctor’s prUt into his mouth. The effect is immediate and gorgeous; Julian gasps sharply and shudders, a hand flying down to lace in Garak’s hair. 

“Oh I thought Cardassians didn’t do this!” he almost shouts. 

Garak releases the delightful mouthful, aiming a look upward. “And just how would you come across that information, my dear?”

“Picking my way through purposefully obscure, supposedly explicit novels, obviously,” Julian replies. “It was always ‘and thus he flooded his fields’ or ‘he washed over him like the sea’—” Garak can’t help his guttural hiss at the language, eyes flashing, and Julian grins mischievously. “But nothing about getting it straight from the tap, as it were.”

“Doctor Bashir,” Garak growls. 

“Not in bed.”

“Julian,” Garak corrects, and enjoys the shiver it inspires. “In the pursuit of correcting misinformation, it’s not that it isn’t done. It can simply be… overwhelming, from a sensory perspective.”

Julian blinks, and then his eyes narrow in realization. “Oh—I suppose you do have significantly more chemoreceptors, and they’re much more sensitive, so of course that close to—”

Garak interrupts him with a bite to the thigh—as much as he likes hearing his doctor talk, even about biology, it really isn’t the time—and is rewarded by the scent of Julian’s arousal spiking. “From what I observed, humans are considerably more orally oriented,” Garak notes.

“What you observed, huh?” Julian is smirking, but there’s something gentle in his eyes, and he lifts a leg to rub a foot along Garak’s back, which is both deeply odd and oddly comforting. 

“Yes,” is the only reply Garak offers to that, before he’s moving on. “And so—with your permission?” 

“With my—you don’t have to, really, if you don’t want—!” 

“As it happens, my dear, I believe I very much do want,” Garak confesses, “To be overwhelmed by you.”

“Oh,” Julian replies, smirk abandoning him in favor of an appealing fluster. “In that case—go right ahead.”

“Thank you for allowing me to partake,” Garak says, specifically choosing an archaic and overly polite form of speech just for the pleasure of seeing Julian laugh. And then he leans down, earning himself the additional pleasure of hearing Julian’s breath catch. 

Garak lingers, now. He draws his tongue along the short distance from the base to the sensitive tip, teasing at it until Julian has begun to writhe, and only then taking the entire thing into his mouth to suck. 

It is rather overwhelming. Garak could call it heady as a drug, but he’s had enough experience in that area to recognize that this is wholly separate, entirely singular. Julian’s scent is much different than a Cardassian’s—warmer, in point of fact, if such a thing is possible, but otherwise indescribable: complex and deeply human and simply Julian. It’s even more intense in his taste, and Garak finds it increasingly irresistible. 

It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to remember how much more he has at his disposal. He strokes over Julian’s ajan, finding it tantalizingly wet—but he flicks his eyes upward and waits to see how the doctor responds before he proceeds. He’s rewarded with an equally tantalizing moan and Julian spreading his legs that much more, tilting his hips beseechingly towards the tentative pressure, and that’s all the prompting Garak needs to slip a finger carefully inward. 

And, oh. Despite the mental comparisons to his own species’ anatomy, the sensation is entirely alien in the best way possible. Of course that mammalian heat is even more acute, here; Garak had been expecting that. What he hadn’t expected is the texture—soft and silken, giving beautifully around the second finger Garak presses within, and so slick. There’s a reason Cardassians speak of sex in fluidic metaphor, but the consistency of their waters is completely different, and Garak finds himself thinking in rather human terms, because he discovers he quite desperately wants to taste that, too. 

He leaves off his current oral occupation to instead dip his head down, lapping at the place he’s buried in Julian’s ajan. It feels a bit silly, leaving his nose nudging at Julian’s prUt, but the doctor sucks in a breathless “oh fuck” and flutters gorgeously around Garak’s fingers, at which point he promptly stops caring about what he looks like completely. Julian is everywhere, clouding his senses and sitting heavy on his tongue, even in the gentle sensation of a thumb rubbing encouragingly along the edge of Garak’s chufa, and Garak gives himself over to it entirely, focused only on how best please this beloved alien. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but Julian’s thighs are trembling when the doctor finally winds his fingers in Garak’s hair and pulls with significantly more purpose than he had been before.

“Stop, stop,” he gasps, and Garak does, pulling away immediately. The suddenness of it makes Julian open his eyes, and he laughs, breathy, waving a hand. “Sorry—sorry, you’re fine, I’m fine, I was just—getting close—” 

Garak relaxes. “That is rather the point, I thought.”

“Well, yes, but…” Julian’s jaw works silently for a moment, and then he presses a hand over his mouth and mumbles something, gaze skating away. How lovely to have that little habit reappear in such happier circumstances, so Garak can make newer, better memories of it.

“What was that, dear?” he prompts, sweetly. “You know Cardassian hearing isn’t quite as good as your own.”

Julian gives him a look of somewhat baleful shyness, but he does remove his hand. 

“I said, ‘I want to come with you inside me,’” he clarifies, and Garak, rather embarrassingly, everts entirely without meaning too. 

“Oh, wow,” Julian says, eying Garak’s prUt with a delighted grin and gratifying appreciation. “You’re doing wonders for my self-esteem, Elim.”

“As you deserve,” Garak responds, without much input from his brain, before he crashes into another kiss. A moment later, he realizes where his mouth had just been, and worries very briefly that Julian would prefer not to be kissed, but the doctor just as quickly drives that thought from his mind by responding with absolutely nothing but enthusiasm. 

And then—Julian’s hand drifts downward, fingers skating first along the edge of Garak’s chuva before tracing ever-so-carefully over his prUt. Garak breaks away with a hiss, and Julian pauses. 

“Bad?” he asks.

“No,” Garak replies. “Quite the opposite.”

Julian hums with approval, allowing himself to continue—a somewhat cursory exploration, given how impatient they both are, but long enough for Garak to fully appreciate the sight of those long lovely fingers wrapped around his length.  

“I want to get this in my mouth so badly,” Julian sighs, and smiles when it makes Garak twitch. “But I want you to fuck me much, much more. If you—I mean it rather seemed like we were in agreement—”

Garak kisses him again, both to reassure and also, simply, because he wants to. He very seriously doubts there will ever be a time he doesn’t want to kiss Julian. 

“We are,” Garak says. “In agreement. Though I must warn you that Cardassians are not given to—thrusting.” 

Julian breathes out a laugh. “How much porn have you watched, Elim?”

“Too much,” Garak admits. “And yet still not enough to stop longing for you.”

Julian makes a quiet noise, using his unoccupied hand to catch Garak’s and lace their fingers together; he drops a kiss on each of Garak’s digits. “You have me now,” he murmurs. “And—the thrusting isn’t always a requirement, at least for people built like me. Since I very seriously doubt you want me to go into an explanation of the distribution of nerves—”

“Another time, perhaps,” Garak offers, with, regrettably, complete honesty. 

Julian grins. “Just go with what feels natural. If it doesn’t work, we can try something else.”

“And you will tell me if something isn’t working.” Garak imagines he looks ridiculous—everted and ready but still fussing—but truly he couldn’t forgive himself if he hurt Julian. Or even simply left him unsatisfied. 

His dear doctor, at least, doesn’t seem to be put off, for which Garak is deeply grateful. “Absolutely,” Julian promises. “I’m not that self-sacrificial.”

“Good,” Garak says, quite sincerely. 

Apparently taking Garak’s concern for his comfort to heart, Julian takes a moment to rearrange himself to his satisfaction. He settles back against the sheets, gorgeous thighs spread around Garak hips, and he guides Garak’s prUt to his entrance; quaintly, a teasing brush results in near identical hisses from both of them. 

“Go ahead,” Julian breathes, stroking lightly, encouragingly. 

By every god Garak’s never prayed to, sinking into Julian almost defies description. He’s silken and hot and so tight that Garak very nearly stops to check that the doctor is alright—but he isn’t having difficulty, and Julian is making nothing but utterly lovely noises, and he had promised to inform Garak if something is wrong, so he continues, carefully. Bottoming out, of course, is a revelation in and of itself, because that presses his irllun to the glorious slick heat of Julian’s ajan, and it feels so far beyond a word like good that it’s slightly absurd. Sublime might work better; perfect would probably, almost, suffice. 

Garak does withdraw his hips, slightly, which actually creates quite a lovely drag against the sensitive microscales, and then thrusts back in, grinding deep. He hisses, and Julian makes a gratifyingly desperate kind of noise. 

“Good?” Garak prompts, just in case. 

“Ngnk,” Julian responds. 

“I will need actual words, my dear,” Garak says, petting one lean hip. 

“Yes, it’s good, it’s so good,” Julian manages. “Now please keep doing it.”

Garak can’t think of any request he’d find easier to fulfill. His hands settle on Julian’s hips as he repeats the motion—another surge of pleasure, another gorgeous sound from Julian. Good. 

Garak gives himself over to his basest desires. As they fall into a rhythm, he presses his face against Julian’s throat, lavishing the unadorned skin with kisses and the gentlest bites he can manage, murmuring praise of his beautiful mate. Embarrassingly, he tends towards both the poetic and the archaic, but Julian doesn’t seem to mind, given the way he gasps out Garak’s name in response to the overwrought endearments. 

But he also finds himself, increasingly, beyond words, as they move together and the ecstasy mounts. Garak grinds hard and deep and Julian keens, drops a hand between them—to touch himself, Garak thinks, at least until he bypasses his prUt entirely and instead, incredibly, rubs at the place where they’re so intimately joined. 

“Julian.” Garak’s growl nearly skips past recognizable speech entirely; every ounce of control he has is on not finishing immediately—he has none left over to modulate his tone. 

“God,” Julian breathes, brow creased almost as if in pain. “Fuck. You feel so good.” He sounds practically confused, and Garak entirely understands. He’s imagined having Julian far too often, and he knew it would be good through sheer virtue of just how enamored he was with his dearest doctor, but this is so far beyond his wildest fantasies it’s hard to believe it’s actually happening—that, on top of somehow finding himself, unworthy as he is, gifted with Julian’s affection, their bodies should fit together so impossibly well. 

Now Julian shifts his hand up to stroke his prUt, and somehow it becomes even better. The additional pleasure makes him flutter enticingly around Garak, and results in teasing little brushes against Garak’s chuva; he doesn’t even have to look to know that his beloved human is getting close, not with the way his pace goes fast and messy with desperation. 

“Elim, Elim.” Julian’s voice is almost a sob. “Fuck, oh fuck—I’m so close.”

“Good,” Garak purrs. “Let me see you, Julian.” He slides his own hand down, winding his fingers with Julian’s and stroking over the sensitive tip of his prUt—not entirely intentionally, but it serves its purpose. Julian shouts as he comes, curling into Garak with his head pressed against a shoulder; his channel pulses as the climax washes over him, and Garak snarls at the deep, rolling pleasure. 

“My love,” he hisses, warningly. He’s terribly close, himself.  

Julian shudders. “Yes. Give it to me—fill me up—I want everything,” he gasps, and then he bites down hard directly over Garak’s kinat’hU. Garak would commend the doctor’s ability to set a goal for himself and see to its immediate accomplishment with devastating efficacy, but he’s rather intensely distracted by doing exactly what Julian asked of him. 

It has been… a very long time since Garak had anyone else in his bed, but he doesn’t entirely think that’s the reason it takes him several long moments afterward to remember he is, in fact, a person capable of movement—though it might be why, when he returns to his body, it’s to discover he’s trembling with something that feels like more than simple overstimulation. He decides to be kind to himself, just this once, and blame the prolonged celibacy, and unreservedly enjoy the way Julian is petting him, slightly clumsily but very gently, and pressing soft kisses to his chufa.  

When he has control of himself once more, he regretfully withdraws—though not without one last twitch at the sigh Julian gives when they separate—and then shifts to lie beside the doctor; he would have drawn Julian into his arms, but he finds there’s no need, for almost as soon as he’s settled, Julian has draped himself against his side and snuggled right in. For a time, all they can do is recover.

“Dear God,” Julian pants, at last. “Maybe it’s for the best we never did that earlier. I would have died in the Gamma Quadrant if I knew what I was missing.”

Garak chuckles breathlessly, nosing at Julian’s temple for a kiss. He feels himself unwind, almost imperceptibly, and only then realizes he had worried that, even now, his dear doctor might have found the whole endeavor distasteful. He decides not to mention as much, at least for the moment. “You might have actually been encouraged to take breaks,” he suggests, instead.

“That or give the wormhole aliens a hell of a show, with the kinds of things I would send you over subspace.” Garak growls at the concept, and feels Julian smile. “Though I suppose we still have time for that; I’m going to need a couple weeks just to make sure everything is wrapped up properly.”

Garak hesitates, but—eventually—he finds it within himself to offer: “I would understand if you were still needed there.” He wouldn’t like it, of course, but his dear doctor’s compassion was one of the traits that Garak, despite himself, had most come to love, and he can’t bear the idea of stifling it for his own selfish purposes. 

Thankfully, the sentiment is almost immediately repudiated by Julian nipping Garak on the jaw. “I’m not. Or rather, there’s nothing left there that I can’t continue researching here, instead. I was actually talking about it with Mireiss—trying to figure out what to do next, I mean, and she mentioned they might have a spot for me in pediatrics—” He pauses, and lifts his head to squint suspiciously at Garak. “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”

“I did not—well, not directly,” Garak answers. “I discussed your visiting with Doctor Nilmi, but that was all. I did have my suspicions, though; you are a very good physician, my dear, and any hospital administration worth their salt would try and snap you up if given half the chance. Generally, however, I just hoped that if I showed you how you’ve been missed here, you might be willing to stay.” He strokes a lingering hand along Julian’s spine, with no greater goal than the pleasure of being able to touch. “Even if we had separated, my life is immeasurably better just for having you in it.”

Julian makes a soft noise, pressing his lips to Garak’s chula with slow, loving purpose—until his head suddenly comes up again. “That’s right,” he says. “You acted as though you thought I requested the divorce because I had someone else I wanted to marry. Where in the world did you hear something like that?” 

“Colonel Kira,” Garak replies. It had hardly seemed a stretch—sheepishly, Julian had once admitted bounding into Operations the day they met, so Garak had no trouble believing he would have chirped excitedly about a new romance to Kira. In retrospect, however, and knowing what Professor O’Brien told Julian… his eyes narrow. “It seems we’ve been set up.”

Julian bites his lip, though it does little to contain his amusement. “I guess I was a little insufferable about how much I missed you and Cardassia.”

Ah. You and Cardassia. There was a statement to be examined at length, later. “And I suppose your name did come up occasionally during my correspondence with Professor O’Brien,” Garak allows.

“Just occasionally?” Julian prompts, laughingly. 

“More than any other,” Garak admits. Julian hums, and leans up for a sweet little kiss. 

“Well, I guess I can’t be too upset,” he says, smiling. “Considering the results.”

“You may have a point,” Garak murmurs, and then takes a moment of theatrical consideration. “But on the other hand… thanks to that little engineered misunderstanding, we have two and a half days of wasted time to make up for, now.”

“Oh, you’re right.” Julian pushes himself up from his sprawl to perch, instead, over Garak’s waist. “Luckily, I do have some suggestions vis-à-vis how we might get started on that, if you’re inclined to indulge me.”

His expression broadens into a wicked grin, and he’s so terribly gorgeous that Garak is struck briefly speechless by just how deeply he adores this man. And then, of course: he grins right back. “I believe I could be persuaded.”

“So—how was the visit?” Kira asks, at their next bi-weekly conversation. 

“Who—oh, of course, Doctor Bashir,” Garak responds. “It was pleasant enough, I suppose, if uneventful.”

Kira’s jaw works. “That’s all?” 

“Well, yes,” Garak says. “I very seriously doubt you want to hear a play-by-play of our tours through the capital, but if you do, you can always ask Doctor Bashir. He’s actually on his way back to the Gamma Quadrant as we speak; he should reach the station soon.” 

Kira, bless her, is terribly ill-suited to subterfuge, every emotion writ across her face. “He’s going back?”

“Of course,” Garak replies, blinking guilelessly. “I expect he’s eager to return to Miss Tanith—you were right, he does tend to effuse over her, if given half a chance.”

Kira opens her mouth, and then closes it, before she manages, “So—that’s it?”

“He came for the explicit purpose of acquiring a divorce,” Garak notes. “What did you think was going to happen, Colonel? That we’d eventually stumble onto your duplicity, confess our true feelings to one another, and immediately fall into bed as if we were characters in one of the Constable’s old romance novels?” He smirks. “The very idea.” 

“Prophets,” Kira moans, pressing a hand over her eyes. “You ass. I really thought I was going to have to deal with you idiots being even more insufferable because you had somehow actually managed to dump each other!”

“Oh, how bold of you to assume we’re not going to be insufferable anyhow,” Garak replies, blithely. “But Julian is still returning to the Gamma Quadrant to settle things before he moves back here, so don’t be surprised when he stops by drop off your and Ziyal’s invitations to the enjoinment.”

“Of course you’re getting even more married, how did I not expect that?” Kira laughs incredulously. “You’re right, you are going to be even more obnoxious.”

Garak smiles. “Shall I assume that’s a no on the RSVP?”

“Oh, no,” Kira replies. “I’ll be there. You owe me a drink, at least.”

“Perhaps we do. Thank you, Colonel,” Garak says, and allows her to think it’s just for agreeing to attend.