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Chapter Text

—in the beginning of love, our time is spent not in finding out what love is made of, but in trying to make sure we can see each other tomorrow; and at the end of love, you do not try to ascertain the nature of your sorrow, but only to voice it in what you hope is its tenderest form to her who is the cause of it. You say things you feel the need to say and which she will not understand.

from In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust

translated by James Grieve

“Have a good night, Doctor Bashir,” Nurse Jabara called after him as he grabbed his things and made his way to the doorway of the infirmary on Deep Space Nine.

“You too,” he replied around an overly drawn-out yawn. “Nice work with the annual samples. It’s not exactly thrilling work, I know.”

How she kept that pleasant tone after such a monotonous day, he didn’t know. 

“Get some sleep, it’s another long one tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me.” Her eyes shot him a look as the façade seemed to have finally found its limit and he smiled at her despite it.

Julian Bashir rubbed his temples as he left the infirmary, a stack of peptide resequencing protocols tucked under one arm. He wanted quiet. And tea.

The replimat was crowded this time of night with young ensigns laughing too loudly, and the night-shift crew finishing what might’ve been dinner, or even their breakfast. He wasn’t quite sure. 

He slid into his usual seat near the back, nodding gratefully as a server set a cup of Tarkalean tea beside him. The earthy scent curled up to meet him. He closed his eyes and let it sit, before diving back into his work. 

A slow prickle of unease crept over him. The unmistakable feeling of being watched. His eyes lifted from his work and quickly scanned the room.

Nothing. 

No, perhaps not, he thought, until the faintest of breezes prickled the hairs on his neck as someone had crept into the space beside him.

He felt his chest tighten. 

Oh, gods, he’s right next to me.

Julian had heard the rumors. He hadn’t been told anything specific about the single Cardassian left behind on the station who operated a tailoring shop of some kind. After all that Cardassia had physically and emotionally stripped from the Bajorans during their fifty years of occupation and slave labor, the last person he’d have expected to run any kind of shop on the promenade would be a Cardassian. 

There had to be more to it than a simple exile choosing to call a Bajoran station home.

No way he hadn’t been carefully selected to stay, to observe Starfleet, watching closely as they courted a beleaguered Bajor towards a partnership, undoubtedly noting the aim of the United Federation of Planets to scoop up the remote system, claiming it for their own. 

“Doctor Bashir, isn’t it? Of course it is, may I introduce myself?” 

In one smooth sweep, he took the chair beside him.

“Uh, yes, yes, of course.” Shit .

“My name is Garak. A Cardassian by birth, obviously. The only one of us left on this station as a matter of fact, so I do appreciate making new friends whenever I can. You are new to this station, I believe.”

“I, I, I am, yes.” Act casual, this is totally normal to have a chat with a Cardassian. “Though… though I understand you’ve been here quite a while.” 

A stutter and a confession that he knew exactly who he was talking to had fallen out of his mouth before he thought better of his words. 

Maybe it would go unnoticed.

“Ah, you know of me then.” 

The unblinking eyes held his. They had indeed noticed his slip and Julian knew it. Worse, they seemed intrigued.

“Would you care for some of this Tarkalean tea? It’s very good.” 

Julian waved for another tea. Partly out of politeness, partly in the desperate hope someone might interrupt. 

“What a thoughtful young man, how nice that we’ve met.” 

The man’s eyes were about to burn a hole right through Julian’s own eyes.

“You know, some people say that you remained on DS9 as the eyes and ears of your fellow Cardassians.” 

He said it. 

Stars help him, he said it. 

His tea felt suddenly too hot in his hands.

“You don’t say! Doctor, you’re not intimating that I’m some sort of spy, are you?” 

It was very noticeably not a denial.

“I wouldn’t know, Sir.” 

He knew exactly.

“Ah, an open mind. The essence of intellect. As you may also know, I have a clothing shop nearby.” 

Garak leaned in with a cloaked civility. 

Julian could smell a trace of something sharp and clean. Citrus, or something that passed for it. His soap, maybe. 

Eyes narrowed beneath a peaked brow.  

“If you should require any apparel or simply wish, as I do, for a bit of enjoyable company now and then, I am at your disposal, Doctor.”

He took a sip of his tea to wet his parched throat. 

Enjoyable company? Oh shit, he wants to fuck me! He’d fit me for clothes. I’d be naked in his shop. Then we’d have sex. Then he’d kill me.

Julian set the tea back down with a wavering clink of cup against saucer.

“You are very kind, Mister Garak.”

“Oh, it’s just Garak. Plain, simple…”

“Garak,” they completed in unison, Julian nodding along, further drawn into the piercing stare.

“Now, good day to you, Doctor. I’m so glad to have made such an interesting new friend today.”

The spy stood up smoothly and began to leave. He was almost through this. 

Then—hands.

Heavy, sudden, pressing down on his shoulders.

His throat began to constrict, surely preparing to be choked.

Thumbs pressed into his tired muscles. It was almost… soothing. But the hairs on his neck were still on end.

Finally, after a lingering rest, the fingers released. The hands lifted.

The man was gone.

Julian stayed frozen, eyes flicking across the room, looking for someone, anyone, who might confirm what had just happened. 

No one so much as glanced back at him. 

Had they really not seen? Or had they just chosen not to?

Maybe the rumors were exaggerated. Maybe this Cardassian really wasn’t what he’d been led to believe. 

Maybe it was all in his head. 

He turned it over and back in his mind, the whole interaction already dissolving into a blur.

Either way, his thoughts were consumed by it as nervous energy built up in his muscles, sending him on his way to walk it off back towards the quiet of his quarters for the night. 

***

The next few weeks passed in a haze of work, half-slept nights, and awkward run-ins with Major Kira. And through it all, Julian kept one eye, subtly, on Garak. 

He’d dutifully brought his concerns to Odo, who had waived him off, completely dismissing the selfless offer of his services for gathering information on the man. 

“Everything is under control, Doctor Bashir. If I find myself in need of your services, you will be the first one I let know.”  

So Julian continued onward, diving headlong into his work. He gradually fell into the developing rhythm of routine and continued his efforts to make real strides in his work as well as forging friendships, though he was frequently backpedaling to overcome prior gaffes. 

“Major Kira, it’s a pleasure to meet you! Your reputation of bravery and leadership in the resistance precedes you.” He’d said, thrusting his hand out towards the Major.

She took it, eyeing him skeptically.

“Likewise, Doctor Bashir. I’ve heard all about the brilliant new Starfleet doctor.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, Major. You’ll find my skills quite impressive. I’ve even developed…”

“I’m sure you have,” she cut in, dryly. “ We appreciate any assistance we can get. But just so you know, we’ve managed without Starfleet for years now. I have work to do. Excuse me, Doctor.”

She gave a sharp nod and walked off.

And that was before he went on to further embarrass himself by calling Bajoran space a far-flung outpost in the galactic wilderness. 

He knew his talkative and confident nature could be off putting, but he was just enthusiastic. 

In this distant and remote corner of the sector, he’d seemingly found a remaining piece of the unknown in Deep Space Nine. Far from Earth. Away from his parents. And even further from the truth of what he was.

It might give him some space to breathe. To do his unrestrained best without feeling guilty for stealing an opportunity from someone who’d genuinely earned a position in Starfleet. Here, he could grow into himself, to be who he wanted to be, not just who he was supposed to be. 

Here, he might find a home.

His days were spent in the infirmary, his evenings in his office, and most nights saw him eventually settle in at the replimat. He’d sip his Tarkalean tea, its sweet, earthy scent the first real comfort he’d have all day, and attempt to unwind by reading something of one sort or another. 

On one particular night, it was a just released paper about the bio-neural gel packs Starfleet had been working on for the circuitry in their new starships. He closed his sore eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

No relief. 

His eyes were simply aching from poring over some bacterial cultures an admiral wanted him to take a look at he’d somehow obtained on Risa III, off the record, as personal favor. 

Julian had pointedly chosen not to ask how the admiral had acquired the sample, though he had a fairly good idea.

He couldn’t bear to turn his eyes back to that PADD for even one more minute. He let them take a deep field scan to relax the muscles, 

Oh! 

Julian flinched. 

There he was again. Mr. Garak. 

No, just Garak he’d said. Plain, simple Garak. 

Whatever.

Julian studied him from a distance. Anything to give his eyes a break from the close work. Though he was the only Cardassian in a sea of faces, he sat calmly and with a seemingly perfect ease. The man was reading on his own PADD. Julian wondered what a dashing spy might read about. Starfleet security secrets? Medical files of all senior staff members on the station? 

As he sat staring, lost in curiosity, the Cardassian seemed to have felt eyes on him. He looked up from the PADD and turned towards Julian. 

Oh hell, look busy. 

Julian fumbled with his PADD, but it was too late. Garak smiled and waved him over. The doctor was caught. There was no way out of this one. 

He sighed, smiled thinly, and walked toward Garak, his unnervingly direct eyes already watching him.

“Doctor Bashir, what a lovely surprise to see you again tonight.”

“Hello, Garak, the pleasure is all mine,” though he wasn’t entirely sure about that. “I see you’re reading, I don’t want to impose. I was just…”

 Julian stood guardedly, shielded by the PADD tucked into an arm folded across his chest, his teacup and saucer balanced in the other hand.

“Not at all Doctor! Please, sit! In fact, I’ve read this one many times. It’s quite a classic. Ask any Cardassian and I’d wager they could quote it back to you. A bit of required reading back on Cardassia.”

Tentatively, he set his things on the small table and pulled out his chair to sit. 

“Oh? Like a manual of some type?”

Garak gave a throaty chuckle. 

“No, not quite. It’s more of a love story, actually.”

“A love story? I’ll admit, you don’t strike me as the love story type.”

“What is that charming Terran phrase? Never judge a book by its cover, isn’t that right? I am quite the romantic at heart, Doctor.” 

The look in his eyes read as anything but romantic.

Julian glanced down to the heading on Garak’s PADD.. 

“The Never-Ending Sacrifice? I’ll take your advice of not judging a book.” He laughed. “But, I suppose I’ve been involved in a few romances of my own that could fit that description.”

“Well, what an intriguing take you have on just the title alone! Though, that’s not quite what this one is about.” A sly grin swept across the tailor’s face, “You’ve made me wonder now, Doctor. Are you the one who tends to sacrifice for your partner, or do they for you?”

“Ah, well, I… perhaps those stories are for another time.” 

He tried to laugh it off, but a flush crept up his neck and burned down his neck.

“Yes, perhaps another time.” 

Garak smiled back and took a sip of tea. Maybe Julian was off the hook.

“I’m free tomorrow, would you be available to join me here for lunch at, say, noon?”

No, that would have been too easy. 

“Alright, noon. It’s a date.” 

He had walked straight into that one. A date? Sure, he was always fumbling in uncomfortable situations, but why did he say such idiotic things to this man?

“Wonderful. A date.” 

Smiling eyes continued to probe him, unblinking.

How does he keep them open that long? He made a mental note to check the medical literature on Cardassian ophthalmology.

Julian’s smile was tight, but gentle.

“It’s late, Doctor. I believe I’m ready to turn in for the night. So lovely to have had this opportunity to catch up with you. I look forward to continuing our fascinating conversation tomorrow.”

He rose smoothly from his chair, inclined his head for a nod, and said, “Good night.”

“Good night, Garak. See you for lunch.”

Back in the safety of his quarters, Julian stood motionless for a moment. Then he began to pace. 

A date, he chided himself, rolling his eyes.

He thought about the hands on his shoulders again—the way they’d lingered. He couldn’t remember another touch that had crept so intensely under his skin. It was too close. Too personal. Too… dammit.

The memory of it buzzed beneath the surface, and he tried to shake it.

At any rate, he gathered his thoughts and his clothes for the next day. If they were both going to be on the station—for better or worse—he might as well make it for the better.

He replicated a jumpsuit and laid it neatly over the back of a chair, then dropped himself across the bed with far less care.

“Computer, turn off the lights.”

Tomorrow .

Chapter Text

Nurse Jabara dropped her satchel onto her desk with more force than necessary, the thud followed by the faint clatter of glass vials as she sorted through supplies across from Julian’s workstation. It was unusually quiet between them. The soft clink of instruments filled the space where her usual morning commentary would’ve been.

“Good morning to you, too,” Julian said dryly, not looking up from the microscope viewer. “What’s got you so wound up already?”

“I heard a rumor, Doctor.”

That drew his attention. He blinked and lifted his head, squinting against the overhead light to find her watching him closely.

“A rumor about what?”

She leaned in, shadow cutting across his hands. 

“If you’re going to be seen with someone like him, there are things you ought to know.”

“Someone like—?” 

He glanced around the lab as though it might offer context, then met her eyes. 

“That Cardassian, Doctor!” Having lunch with him in the replimat, plain as day, right in front of everyone.”

“Oh. That.” 

An uneasy twist stirred in his stomach.

“Yes, that,” she said pointedly. “He asked you, I assume?”

“Well, see, he’d asked me to a few evenings ago and it just seemed rude to say no. There really is nothing more to it. I didn’t mean any harm by it. Honestly, he was…strangely agreeable. ”

The word sat awkwardly in his mouth. He still wasn’t sure if that was the right one.

Jabara arched a brow. 

“Agreeable? What could he possibly have said that made you think that?”

“Well,” he said, hesitating, suddenly forced to consider why he would share company with a Cardassian. 

He was well versed in the state of the sector, the violent oppression of Bajor at the bloodied hands of Cardassia. But there was a magnetism in Garak’s demeanor that made him wonder. If it happened that he wasn’t actually a spy, could he really be so bad if he chose to spend his exile here among Bajorans? Could he have somehow been a sympathizer? 

He wasn’t blind to the suspicion Garak attracted, or the way his proximity had unsettled him, even from their first meeting. The rumors hadn’t painted a flattering picture. And yes, Garak leaned in too close. Yes, he stared too long. But there was something else, something unexpected. A self-effacing charm beneath the practiced civility. A strange gravity that made Julian want to stay and keep listening, even when he knew better.

“He likes to read,” he offered. “As I do. And before tailoring, he was a gardener. Apparently spent time on Romulus. I thought that was… interesting.”

He could feel little beads of sweat beginning to gather in his hair behind his temples.

Jabara exhaled sharply. “Doctor Bashir,” she said, lowering her voice. “It is no accident that he is the only Cardassian here. In fact, even just one is still on e too many. He’s an exile. His own people don’t even want him. No one wants him.”

Julian looked down at the countertop. The words hit harder than he expected. 

“I know.”

Exile. The world sat cold and familiar in his chest. He’d lived with the fear of that in one form or another his entire adult life. To admit Garak was beyond redemption would be to question whether he himself was ever truly accepted. If Garak’s presence here meant he wasn’t worth keeping, what did that say about someone like Julian?

“Cardassia crushed Bajor under its heel for far too long,” she continued. “Every Cardassian brought this ruin on themselves and every Bajoran in the sector has reason to be distrustful . Don’t fool yourself into thinking this one is different.”

Julian swallowed. 

“I wondered if the rumors about him were exaggerated,” he said, more to himself than to her. “When we were at the replimat, no one from Starfleet even glanced his way. He gave me an isolinear rod of a Cardassian novel. The Never-Ending Sacrifice. I thought it would be a good place to start to try to better understand Cardassian history and culture.”

Her lips tightened. “Are you hearing yourself? Starfleet service members didn’t notice. That Cardassian propaganda isn’t worth much more than its giver. Be careful, Julian.” She softened, reaching across the workstation to touch his hand. “You’re a good man and my friend. I’d hate to see you pulled into something you can’t walk away from.”

“I appreciate your perspective and concern,” he said quietly. “And I’ll be careful.”

He meant it. And yet…

Julian knew how people saw him. He could be annoying and overly enthusiastic. But Garak, for all his inscrutability, actually listened. Not just out of politeness, but as if Julian’s words genuinely interested him. That curiosity, sharp and watchful, almost hungry, was difficult to shake. And though Garak rarely offered anything personal, Julian had the persistent feeling he was being studied just as closely in return.

There was something unsettling in being watched so closely, and something equally flattering.

What Julian hadn’t expected was how easily Garak drew him in. The man left no opinion unchallenged, no conversation unprovoked. He didn’t deflect with charm. He used it as a weapon, and Julian found himself enjoying the duel.

The meetings had begun as coincidence. Now, they were a pattern. A habit. And though Julian could never quite tell what Garak meant with those subtle smiles and occasional brushes of contact, he couldn’t deny he liked being seen by him. Even if he didn’t understand why.

He’d come to accept a strange kind of uncertainty with Garak. An understanding that every truth might be half a lie, and every lie might hold a truth buried somewhere within it. And still, he kept coming back, trying to tease out the meaning behind every word.

Nurse Jabara wasn’t wrong. There would be consequences to being seen with Garak. People would talk. Some already were. 

Some would justifiably question his purpose and allegiances. Hell, if Julian was honest with himself, even he was questioning his own judgment in pursuing the friendship. But whatever this tenuous, strange, and utterly consuming friendship was, it had already begun. He’d agreed to meet Garak again next week.

And he would go.

Chapter Text

Julian lingered in the doorway of the clothier’s shop, one hand resting against the frame as if debating whether to step fully inside. 

Garak had extended the invitation often enough for a year now, cordially, insistently, with that smile that always seemed to carry a second meaning. 

Even so, he always kept walking. Some days slower. Some days pretending not to look.

But this was the first time he’d actually paused. The first time he’d let himself look.

Julian hovered just inside the threshold. Quiet. Watching. The shop was still—too still, almost like it was waiting for him.

He still couldn’t quite see how an exiled Cardassian was running a tailor shop on a Bajoran station.

Maybe Starfleet hadn’t asked. Maybe they hadn’t cared. Either way, the logistics didn’t add up. The optics even less so.

Julian had wondered if it was all a front. A trap, maybe. Or something else he still couldn’t quite put his finger on.

And yet, here it was. Small but carefully arranged. More curated than he’d expected. The garments hung like gallery pieces, balanced between utility and presentation, lit with soft, deliberate precision. The space felt welcoming in a way that was too intentional to be accidental.

Julian let his eyes drift over the racks. The silhouettes were familiar. He’d seen them often enough on the Promenade, worn by civilians and officials alike. 

So Jabara had been wrong. Or at least… not entirely right. Bajorans were buying from him.

Garak called himself a “simple tailor,” but nothing about this space, or the man, had ever struck Julian as simple. The shop was real. The tailoring, undeniably so. But something about it all felt too perfectly composed.

He stepped in a little farther, drawn in despite himself.

Maybe this was him stepping forward. Testing what yes might feel like.

His gaze wandered, caught between interest and doubt. He followed the sharp line of a Tholian silk shirt, the shimmer of embroidered piping, as Garak emerged from the back.

Unhurried, Garak carried a bundle of garments over one arm. He moved with familiar precision, hanging them carefully before adjusting something behind the counter, just out of sight.

Julian cleared his throat, quiet and unintentional. He didn’t mean to be heard.

But Garak looked up at once.

“Oh!” 

Garak straightened, his face brightening with what looked like genuine delight. 

“Doctor Bashir, what a wonderful surprise.”

He set the garment down carefully, his eyes never leaving Julian as he stepped out from behind the counter. His movements were fluid, practiced, but they held an ease that felt disarmingly sincere.

Julian flushed. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead to come up with a reason for being here. He ran a hand through his hair a little too quickly and managed a smile he hoped passed for casual.

“You truly have a remarkable shop,” he said, stepping in more fully. His voice was lighter than he felt.

“Why, thank you.” 

Garak’s eyes glinted, and he inclined his head as though accepting a rare compliment. 

His smile curved. Not wide, but unmistakably warm. 

“Tell me, are you in search of something specific… or simply surrendering to curiosity at last?”

Julian hesitated just long enough for it to register—and for the pause to mean something.

“I’ve been meaning to come by,” he said. “I wanted to see your shop.” A breath. “And you.”

Garak didn’t respond right away. But his gaze didn’t shift, either. It held steady, studying Julian the way he might study a pattern just beginning to reveal itself.

Julian’s hands, unsure what to do with themselves, drifted toward the nearest display. He ran his fingers lightly across a row of garments. The fabric was cool and absurdly fine. He smoothed it once, then again, watching the way the light shifted across the weave.

“I see you’ve found one of my personal favorites,” Garak said behind him, “Triaxian silk.”

He half-glanced over his shoulder, not quite meeting Garak’s eyes. 

“It’s… lighter than it looks,” Julian said, his voice matching the quiet of the room. “Like it might vanish the moment you let go.”

Garak hummed in agreement. “It behaves that way. Nearly impossible to handle properly, but very rewarding when one learns how.”

Julian moved on to a dinner jacket in slate-gray Vitarian wool, according to the tag. Subtle ridging lined the shoulders. His hand lingered longer than it needed to.

“Very popular this season,” Garak said. “It has… a quiet authority, wouldn’t you say?”

Julian nodded without looking up. “Something I might wear off-duty—if I were trying not to look like I’d thought about it.”

“A noble ambition,” Garak murmured. “To appear effortless while being anything but.”

Julian smiled faintly and moved to the next piece: a long garment layered like scales, the fabric smooth and cool beneath his fingers.

Maybe it was the craftsmanship. Or maybe he just wanted to stay in the moment a little longer.

“You have a good eye,” Garak said behind him, voice lower now. “That one took weeks. Every detail placed by hand. Nothing left to chance.”

Julian let his hand fall. When he turned, Garak was closer.

Not too close. Just… closer.

He wasn’t sure when the distance had changed, only that it had. And now he felt it.

“What is it you’re looking for, Doctor?” Garak asked, quiet and calm. 

Julian hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said finally. The words came out softer than he’d intended. Less certain. Almost like an admission.

He wasn’t even sure they were still talking about clothes.

Or if they ever had been.

And maybe he didn’t mind.

“Fortunately for you,” he murmured, voice low and even, “I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it gathered weight. Not a pause, exactly. Something quieter. Warmer. Closer.

Garak didn’t move, and his gaze didn’t falter.

“Though I confess,” he said, “I’ve always wondered what lies beneath all that regulation. What Starfleet chooses to make of you… and what you might choose for yourself.”

Julian blinked. The air between them felt denser now. As if charged. His pulse had quickened without him noticing.

Was he really here, now, doing this ?

He wasn’t sure what surprised him more—that it was happening, or that he hadn’t stopped it.

What he felt, more than anything, was seen. Not just noticed.

Garak’s eyes held him, not demanding, but searching. As though waiting to see if Julian would step forward or away.

“Is that what you always wear, Doctor?” he asked. “Even when you don’t have to?”

Julian shifted, suddenly aware of how closely Garak was watching him. The question lingered between them, touching something just beneath the surface. 

“All I really wear are uniforms,” Julian said, offering a faint, self-deprecating smile.

“Yes,” Garak replied. “I’ve noticed.”

Julian gave a soft laugh. His shoulders loosened, but not entirely. There was still something wound beneath the surface.

“They’re rather heavy,” he added after a moment. “And they get a bit hot.”

Garak tilted his head, thoughtful. “Perhaps something custom, then.”

Julian hesitated. He heard what Garak wasn’t saying—felt it, just beneath the surface.

His eyes lingered on Garak’s for a breath too long. “All right,” he said quietly. “Maybe.”

Garak stepped closer. “Let me see. What is this made of?”

Garak’s hand lifted without urgency, as though drawn more by instinct than intention. His fingers found the sleeve of Julian’s uniform, brushing along the seam with quiet precision.

Julian didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if he should.

Then almost without realizing, he raised his arm slightly to give Garak better access—though “access” wasn’t quite the right word. His breath caught, light and uncertain.

Garak’s touch was slow, deliberate. From shoulder to elbow, then sliding down to the cuff. He rubbed the fabric gently between his fingers, weighing its coarseness, his thumb just grazing the skin beneath.

Garak lingered at his wrist. The motion was slow. Intentional.

A faint shiver ran down Julian’s spine. His pulse skipped.

The contact wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t professional, either. And it felt… good. Not clinical, not accidental. Just quietly, intimately observed.

He knew exactly what it would take—just the smallest shift, a brush of his fingers in return. To let it become something more.

But he stayed still. Watching. Wanting.

His breath slipped out, soft and unguarded.

“I usually just replicate them,” he said, voice thinner than intended. “Even the damn tag. Always scratching right at the back of my neck.”

He winced inwardly. Brilliant, Bashir. Rambling about laundry tags in the middle of—whatever this was.

Garak’s eyes didn’t waver as he considered the fabric. 

“Ah,” he said softly, with the faintest lift of a brow. “There’s potential here.”

It wasn’t just about the uniform.

“I can work with this,” he added, tone measured but warmer now. “Dare I say, improve it, if you’ll allow me.”

He hadn’t meant to hold Garak’s eyes, but now he couldn’t look away.

“And perhaps,” Garak said, with a glint of something unreadable, “you could be persuaded into something a bit more interesting for your off-duty attire than standard-issue Starfleet.”

Julian swallowed. 

“I suppose I could use some other options.” A short, uneven laugh escaped him. “Actually… yes. Maybe. Though it’s probably a bit unconventional to have something like that custom made.”

He hesitated, then looked away. 

“Forget it. I’m embarrassed now. Just the uniform would be fine.”

Garak leaned in, interest piqued. 

“I assure you, Doctor, my services are broad.” His voice smoothed, teasing. Low. “Try me.”

Julian cleared his throat, both to fill the silence and to steady himself. “Do you do… pajamas?”

Garak finally released Julian’s wrist. 

“Pajamas?” he echoed, his tone edged with amusement.

Julian frowned. 

“Yes.”

“I’d assumed the colorful and creative designs Starfleet came up with for uniforms were meant to serve double duty.”

Julian gave a small breath of laughter. They did look like pajamas, after all.

“Sleepwear isn’t my specialty,” Garak said, “But for you, Doctor… I believe I can make an exception.”

He let the words linger, his smile curving just enough. 

“And when you slip them on, I suspect you’ll find them much softer, and better suited to being seen in, should the occasion arise.”

Julian smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, the way he did when he wanted to disappear.

Garak moved toward the work counter, gesturing to a neat array of stacked fabrics. 

“Come. Let’s see what might suit you.”

Julian followed a step behind, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy trying not to touch anything.

“Let’s see what draws your attention,” Garak said, his voice soft, almost indulgent.

Julian stepped closer as Garak lingered beside him.

One of Garak’s hands drifted to the fabric on the table, fingers brushing over Julian’s as if by accident. But he felt the weight of it, as if the touch hadn’t stopped at all.

He dropped his gaze, directing it toward the samples instead.

Up close, the craftsmanship was even more apparent. The stitches were impossibly precise, the patterns elegant and balanced.

Julian ran his fingers gently over the fabric. “Garak… your work is genuinely spectacular.”

“Flattery, Doctor?” Garak replied, watching him. “I’m touched. Though I do pride myself on having the sharpest eye for the smallest details.”

He smiled faintly. “Do take your time. One mustn’t rush matters of taste.” A pause. “In the meantime, shall we take your measurements?”

Julian nodded. “All right.”

“There’s more room in the fitting alcove,” Garak said, gesturing toward a curtained space at the back. “Unless you’d prefer to stay out here.”

Julian hesitated. Then, quietly: “The fitting alcove.”

“Very good,” Garak said, parting the curtain and guiding him through.

The space was softly lit, quiet, mirrored on three sides. There was a small raised platform in the center—unassuming, but oddly formal. Julian stepped onto it, surrounded by his own reflection. A version of himself from every angle, caught in the stillness.

“Step just there,” Garak said gently, gesturing. “It helps me get a better sense of proportion.”

He moved closer with deliberate ease, the scanner humming softly as he swept it in a slow arc along Julian’s side. Each quiet trill marked a measurement—oddly intimate in the hush between them.

Julian stood awkwardly, unsure where to place his hands. The mirrors didn’t help.

Garak’s gaze moved between the scanner and Julian’s form. He looked calm. Focused. Precise.

Julian felt exposed—absurdly so, considering he was fully dressed. But the sensation crept in anyway, quiet and undeniable.

Despite how much he’d come to enjoy Garak’s company, even mostly trust him, there were still boundaries he hadn’t named, let alone crossed.

And now Garak stood inside them.

Julian remained still while the scanner passed over his torso and shoulders. 

“Breathe normally, I’ll have everything I need in just a moment.”

Julian stared ahead, trying to stay composed. But it wasn’t just nerves or anticipation. Something sharp flickered at the edge of his thoughts.

The air thickened. His spine tensed.

What if it wasn’t just a sizing tool? Cardassian tech could be anything—a biosensor, a probe. Garak had the connections. The secrets. The layers no one could reach.

What if it detected his enhancements?

Julian wondered again—how did a former operative end up here?

He shifted his weight, but it felt like moving through static. The room seemed closer now, the mirrors crowding in.

This should have been nothing. Garak was a friend. Or acting like one. Maybe Julian was too. Maybe they both were.

Gods , what was he doing?

“Doctor. Breathe.” Garak’s voice was calm. Still not looking up. As if he noticed the unraveling, but chose not to name it.

Julian tried. But his chest felt brittle, as if it might crack under the pressure.

If Garak found something unusual—if he pieced together the truth—he could report him. Leverage him. Starfleet wouldn’t hesitate. Court martial. Scandal. Everything gone.

“There we are. All done. Now, let’s talk about—”

“Maybe you could just choose for me.” The words burst out louder than he’d meant. “Surprise me.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. “I should get back to the infirmary. I’m sorry, Garak.”

“As you like.” Garak’s eyes moved over him, not unkindly. Amused, perhaps. But layered with something else.

“By next lunch, you’ll have both. The uniform and the pajamas. My gift.”

Julian managed a smile—small, tight. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. Not really.

“You’re too kind. Thank you.” His voice had steadied again. “I’ll look forward to it.”

He stepped down from the platform, the mirrors catching one last glimpse of his reflection before he turned away and slipped through the curtain. It swayed behind him, then fell still.

A few steps into the shop, he heard the soft rustle of the curtain parting again.

Julian didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. The weight of that gaze pressed gently between his shoulders.

The door hissed open as he reached it. He paused for half a breath.

Then walked through.

He hadn’t touched Garak. But he’d thought about it.

And if Garak had pressed the moment, just slightly, he might not have stopped him.

That thought alone unsettled everything.

Chapter Text

Julian stood in silence as the replicator hummed to life, assembling his lunch with indifferent precision. Steam curled from the plate, but the food already looked tired. He stared at it for a moment, then lifted it with one hand and his raktajino with the other, crossing the replimat toward the table he and Garak had shared for well over a year—third row from the back, near the viewport.

After his awkwardness at the shop months ago, he’d thrown himself into work, filling his days with purpose and the beginnings of real friendship. Even Miles O’Brien, of all people, had begun to see him differently. They started spending more time together in springball matches and long games of darts—the kind of easy routine Julian hadn’t realized he’d missed.

But when the hours stretched too long and the station quieted, Julian found himself turning to hollow distractions: late nights, casual company, the kind of encounters that ended before morning. The dabo girls never lingered long enough to notice the distance behind his smile.

None of it was meant to be serious. That was the point. Nothing that might stay long enough to ask questions he couldn’t afford to answer. Whatever he’d felt in that fitting room, whatever he’d nearly let slip, he’d sealed it away before it could be seen. Before Garak could look too long and see him.

Still, to Julian, the time they did spend together felt inviolable. Even when he’d had to cancel, usually because Miles was juggling time when Keiko returned from Bajor, he always made a point to reschedule, always following through. 

He never wanted to miss more than he had to. Those lunches had become an anchor, a ritual that mattered. 

So when Garak started postponing with vague apologies and didn’t suggest new days, Julian told himself not to overthink it. But the shift was there. And it stung more than he was ready to admit.

Garak had remained himself: clever, enigmatic, infuriatingly charming.

Julian had matched him with a polished kind of distance, always present, never quite exposed. 

Both had been careful—not just with their words, but with their silences.

Until one day, Garak simply didn’t come.

Today, like the last two Tuesdays, Julian sat alone.

In the replimat, life continued undisturbed. The clink of cutlery and the quiet rhythm of conversation with the occasional burst of laughter were all normal and innocuous. Everything was maddeningly unchanged. There was nothing to suggest the quiet ache that had taken up residence in his chest.

Three Tuesdays gone. Now a shuttered tailor shop. And still, no word.

He unfolded his napkin, smoothing it over his lap with a slow, pointless care. Across from him, the chair remained empty. He tried to eat, but the food held no appeal, and his fork merely pushed it in circles.

“Mind if we join you?”

Jadzia’s voice broke through his thoughts gently. She smiled at him, soft-eyed. Beside her, Worf lingered, his gaze sweeping the room for an alternative table, ideally one less occupied.

“Please,” Julian said, gesturing to the seats and nudging his untouched meal inward to make room.

Jadzia sat beside him, her presence comforting as ever, but even she couldn’t lift the heaviness pressing on his chest. Worf dragged a chair across from him with quiet reluctance.

“Will Garak be joining us?” Jadzia asked.

“No,” Julian said, keeping his voice neutral.

 He caught what might’ve been a faint grin ghosting across Worf’s face and ignored it.

“Busy at the shop?” Jadzia asked, reaching for her napkin.

“No,” Julian said, sharper than intended. “It’s been closed for almost a week. Before that, he’d already been “too busy,” for the last two weeks.”

She looked at him with soft curiosity. 

“That’s not like him. Did something happen? You two are usually…”

“I don’t know where he is,” Julian interrupted, then took a breath and lowered his voice. “He didn’t say anything. One day, he just stopped showing up. He’s never been forthcoming about personal matters, but this…” He shook his head. “The least he could’ve done was tell me if he was leaving. Or why.”

There were few explanations for why an exiled Cardassian could reasonably be gone for so long, even fewer being positive. 

“Perhaps he has finally left for good,” Worf said, as blunt as ever. 

Jadzia laid a hand over Worf’s before he could continue. 

Julian gave a dry smile. 

“Something to consider. Thank you, Worf.” 

He forced a bite of food.

“I checked with Miles again,” he added, turning back to Jadzia. “He says OPS intercepted a transmission from a Cardassian ship near the Bajoran border. Encrypted. They’re still decoding.”

“You think Garak might be involved?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I want to say no. But… he’s not here. And I don’t know why.”

Jadzia studied him for a moment. 

“You’re probably just letting your emotions get the better of you.”

Julian leaned in, voice lower now. 

“I haven’t been able to sleep. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and every time I close my eyes I see him. A thousand possibilities and most of them awful. Captured. Hurt. Dead. Anything could be wrong and I wouldn’t even know.”

“I know that feeling,” she said quietly. “The helplessness of waiting. It’s the worst part when you care about someone.”

“I do care about him, you know?” Julian said, meeting her eyes. “He’s one of my closest friends.” 

He poked at his food again and considered taking another bite.

Jadzia nodded. 

“I know. But that’s not what I meant.”

Julian blinked. 

“What?”

“When Worf’s away,” she said gently, “even knowing how capable he is, my heart aches for him. That’s not friendship. That’s something else.”

“You do not need to worry about me, Jadzia,” Worf said stoically.

Jadzia squeezed his hand without taking her eyes off Julian. “The fear doesn’t care how strong someone is. It just exists.”

Julian exhaled, a little too forcefully. 

“You’re reading into this.”

“Am I?” she asked, kind but insistent. “Julian, does he even know how you feel?”

“Oh no. No, no, Jadzia, you’ve got it all wrong. There’s nothing to tell. I mean…” 

He leaned back, crossing his arms. 

“Even if I did feel something, and I’m not saying I do, but even if I did, it’s not that simple.”

“It never is.”

“If I acted on it, I could lose everything. My career. My reputation. I don’t think Starfleet wouldn’t take too kindly to one of their officers getting involved with a former operative of the Cardassian Obsidian Order.”

She nodded slowly. 

“But you think about it.”

His eyes dropped to his plate. 

“If I were interested in him,” he said, quieter now, “do you think I’d be reckless enough to risk everything?”

“Maybe. If it mattered enough.”

Julian didn’t respond. He nudged his food once more, then pushed the plate away. Across from him, Garak’s chair stayed empty. The silence across the table pressed louder than the noise around him and sharper than anything the replimat could offer.

________________

With still no word from Garak by the following Tuesday, Julian took his lunch in his office, away from the replimat and the familiar ache that came with it. The ritual itself had begun to turn on him. Tuesday after Tuesday, no Garak, no message, not even the vaguest excuse. And now, layered atop the worry, a fresh undercurrent of indignation: Jadzia’s quiet certainty that he cared for Garak as more than a friend.

He set his tray down and reached for a PADD, but something else caught his eye: a glint of amber red on the far side of his desk. An isolinear rod, tied neatly with a blue ribbon.

The sight stopped him as surely as a voice.

The bow was unmistakable. Garak had used the same flourish when he gifted him The Never-Ending Sacrifice two years ago. 

But this hadn’t been there before. 

He looked quickly around the room, startled by the sudden, impossible presence of it.

He turned toward the door.

“Nurse?” he called, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “Did someone come by while I was out?”

“No,” came the distant reply, slightly muted as she sat with her back to the door, scanning through her patients’ files. 

He rolled his eyes at her inattention and stepped toward the rod. 

“You’re sure no one came in?”

“Doctor, I would have seen them. And they’d have to come through the same door you did. “Were you expecting someone?”

“No, just wondering.” 

But his pulse had begun to race.

He reached out carefully, as though the rod might vanish if touched too quickly. It was cool and smooth in his palm, the ribbon still crisply tied. He turned it over. 

The label was in Kardasi. 

His chest clenched.

It had to be from Garak.

He checked the time. Just past lunch. There was no way to slip away, not with his full afternoon schedule. He already had patients waiting, and rounds were not yet done. But his mind had already left sickbay. The moment the last duty ended, he would go.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of forced efficiency. He tore through paperwork, spoke in clipped phrases, and cleared his queue at a pace that bordered on aggressive. Hours later than he wanted, but still earlier than he should have, he left, the rod clutched tightly in one hand, his work files cradled under the other arm.

The walk home felt endless. 

His thoughts spiraled. This had to be a message, something too sensitive for official channels. Coordinates. A warning. A desperate signal. 

He pictured Garak trapped somewhere, unable to call for help except quietly, secretly, trusting Julian to find him. 

It had to be that. What else could it be?

Almost in a jog, he worked his way through the seemingly endless series of corridors.

He rounded the last corner—

—and stopped.

Miles stood outside his quarters, ringing the bell, his wool-trimmed bomber jacket unzipped, flight goggles dangling loosely from one hand.

“Hey! Running a bit late?”

Nearly out of breath, Julian’s face scrunched in confusion.

“Battle of Britain!” Miles grinned, lifting the goggles. “Holosuite’s booked and ready.”

Julian stared, catching his breath. Then, “Oh, gosh Miles, I totally forgot!”

“No worries, Mate. Still time to make it. Just get changed and we’ll go.”

“I can’t.” 

Julian glanced past at the stack of work tucked in his arms to the screaming importance of the isolinear rod gripped in his fist. 

“Ask Quark if we can come tomorrow.”

“What?” Miles frowned. “That’s not… This is the last night I’m off before Keiko comes back.”

“I know,” Julian said quickly. “I just… I’ve got work. Deadlines. Today was chaotic.” 

“But Julian…”

“I’m sorry, Miles, I just can’t.”

“Alright then. See ya around."

The door hissed shut behind him. 

Julian dropped the files on the table without ceremony and made straight for his PADD. He undid the ribbon, slid the rod into place, and stood motionless as the data loaded.

It took too long. The wait scraped at every nerve.

Finally, the screen lit up.

Sun Rising on Tomorrow.

A novel.

He stared at the title, expecting it to shift into some hidden message, or something encrypted. 

But the file opened. 

Pages. Chapters. Nothing else.

His hands fell to his sides.

“…What?” 

This had to be a joke. 

Of all things he hadn’t expected and wasn’t hoping for. 

He let out a breathless, bitter laugh. 

“Of course,” he said aloud. “Of course it’s a bloody novel.” 

He set the PADD down hard on the table. 

“Where are you, Garak?”

There was no answer. 

Only the low hum of his quarters and the rush of the day finally catching up to him. He threw it down onto the sofa cushion beside him and headed to the refresher.

The silence of the shower was absolute. 

With nothing but the low vibration of the sonic pulse around him, Julian felt himself dissolve. The tightness in his chest hadn’t lifted; if anything, it pressed in harder, like a vice turning slowly inward. 

He rested his forehead against the cool tile and closed his eyes.

He’d spent years peeling back the layers of Garak’s evasions and riddles, and his relentless charm. Their conversations had rarely moved in straight lines. But the accumulation of them, week after week, year after year, had revealed something deeper.

Garak wasn’t just a tailor, or a former operative, or a convenient distraction. 

He was brilliant. Infuriating. Magnetic in a way Julian had never been able to explain—even to himself.

To anyone else, they must have looked mismatched. But underneath, they weren’t so different. Both liars in their own ways. Both desperate to be seen, and terrified of it. 

And somewhere along the way, Julian had stopped asking himself why he wanted more. 

He just did. He always had.

Where are you?

The question looped through his mind. He pictured Garak somewhere far away, unreachable. Laughing, perhaps. Safe, at least, but unthinking, while Julian waited in silence.

He let the sonic stream wash over him, staring blankly ahead. Thoughts blurred into static, replaced by a dull heaviness that asked nothing, expected nothing. 

He stood there for a long time.

Eventually, he turned the shower off. 

Mechanically, ran his fingers through his hair, and crossed to the dresser. 

He opened the top drawer. 

And paused.

There, folded with meticulous care, lay the pair of dark navy pajamas. His hand hovered over the fabric, and the memory came rushing back—sharp, vivid, intact.

“Doctor,” Garak had said, presenting the bundle with theatrical grace, “as promised. A new uniform and a set of pajamas. Neither bears a tag, nor a single synthetic fiber.”

Julian had taken them with both hands, fingers reverent as he traced the lines of the uniform. Then the sleep shirt and trousers, letting the fabric spill over his lap like water—smooth, cool, and indecently luxurious for something meant to be worn to bed.

“They’re Triaxian silk,” Garak added, pleased. “The fabric you liked, and my personal favorite. Incredibly difficult to come by, and quite temperamental to work with. But, I knew how much you enjoyed how it felt in your hands. There simply was no other choice.”

Julian had lifted the shirt to his cheek, letting the fabric whisper across his skin.

“And,” Garak added with a satisfied smile, “it drapes beautifully. A small detail, but I do think it matters.”

There had been, as promised, no tag. 

In its place, Garak had hand-stitched a scripted swirl of Julian’s monogram. Grosgrain piping trimmed the edges in soft white, drawing out the depth of the dark silk. 

The craftsmanship was flawless.

“Garak,” Julian had said, stunned, “I’m speechless.”

“Wonders never cease,” Garak teased lightly, with the faintest hint of real pleasure. 

“I love them.”

Garak waved off the gratitude. 

“It’s nothing, my dear doctor. Just a modest token of appreciation for all the hours we’ve spent together.”

He’d paused. 

“And, one hopes, the many more to come.”

Now, all that remained of that evening was the garment itself.

Julian pulled on the sleepwear slowly, almost ritualistically. They were still the nicest thing he owned. 

Afterward, he replicated a mug of tomato soup. No spoon. Too much effort. He set the blue ribbon carefully beside him on the sofa and picked up the PADD again, letting it rest idle in his hand before turning it on.

If he couldn’t see Garak, he could at least read something Garak had once read.

Lately, he’d found himself returning to Cardassian literature more and more. Re-reading titles Garak had recommended. Trying to remember how he’d described them, what commentary he’d offered

Julian would try to imagine his voice and dry expressions, endless qualifiers and asides. 

He’d grown to appreciate the Cardassian aesthetic more than he expected. Their obsession with pattern, with legacy, with veiled confession.

And yet…

Three weeks in, Julian felt like he was living inside one of those repetitive epics himself. Endless cycles. A protagonist growing increasingly isolated by the chapter. A story with no clear ending.

Garak wasn’t lost. He wasn’t injured. He had simply chosen not to speak.

Nothing more.

He should have felt relief. 

Instead, all he could feel was anger.

He sat in silence, soup cooling beside him, the PADD face-down on the cushion.

How many nights had he spent like this now? Alone and anxious, spinning every silence into something worse. Meanwhile, Garak, apparently unbothered, had slipped a ribbon on a data rod and vanished.

Enough.

He stood abruptly. 

He’d promised Miles a game tonight, and he’d been the one to suggest it in the first place.

He tapped his badge. 

“Doctor Bashir to Chief O’Brien.”

“O’Brien here,” came the response. “Is something wrong, Doctor?”

Julian looked down at the PADD, then over to the ribbon, still curled neatly on the cushion.

“Yes,” he said. “Something’s very wrong. I’m sitting here while we’ve got a battle to win. Get dressed, Miles. I’ll meet you at the holosuites in ten.”

Chapter Text

Drunk and still singing the battle hymns of the empire from the holosuite, Julian stumbled into the door of Miles’ quarters, barely waiting for it to slide open all the way.

“Jesus, man, slow down,” Miles reached out to help Julian brace himself, as if he were in any condition to steady either of them. Miles staggered over to his sofa and fell full body into its cushions lengthwise.

Julian managed enough stability to make it over to the liquor cabinet to set down his empty Romulan ale bottle, and then grabbed the unopened bottle of kanar; the very bottle he’d gifted Keiko for her last birthday. He pinched two glasses between his fingers for him and Miles and returned to join him on the sofa. Seeing he’d left no room for him, Julian set the kanar and glasses on the coffee table, and dropped down to the floor with a thump and a laugh in surprise at the hard landing. 

“Next time we play, I’m taking the pilot’s seat.” He leaned over the coffee table and poured a glass for Miles first, then himself, before tipping back against the sofa. Steadying his already spinning head, he leaned it back against the seat cushion. “You can’t fly for shit.”

“Julian,” Miles began with a serious look, “Keiko’s going to be back from Bajor tomorrow. She says I can’t keep going back to the holosuites with you whenever you want. She says once she and the kids are back, my priorities have to be them, not you and the Battle of Britain.”

“That’s not… what? Miles, the game won’t advance without you!”

“She said you’d say that and that you just have to get over it.”

“Damn Keiko.” Julian murmured. 

“Watch it,” Miles warned, swirling his kanar and taking a tentative sniff. 

“No offense meant, Miles. One thing I can say is she’s a quality woman. Smart, kind, beautiful. What I wouldn’t give to find a partner like Keiko.” He raised his glass in tribute to her, “To Keiko!” before clinking glasses with Miles and slugging down half his glass. 

“I mean look at you and Keiko. She’s a perfect balance for you. That's what I need. But besides you, the only other person I spend much time with is Garak, and I have no idea where he is or if he’ll even be back.”

“He is back.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since yesterday. I saw his name on the transport logs this morning. Figured you knew already.”

“Where the hell was it coming in from? Never mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t care.” He downed the second half of his drink. If telling Julian that he was back wasn’t a priority to Garak, then he wouldn’t be a priority to Julian. The isolinear rod in his office hadn’t been the mystery he’d thought it was after all.

With a tight throat and a pinched smile, Miles made a suggestion. “Now that Garak’s back, how about going to the holosuites with him? He can’t play Falcon, but you guys could do one of your other Agent Bashir programs. He kind of seems like he’d be the obvious choice for you in there, being former Order. If you two aren’t the perfect blend of weird together…” he said, trailing off.

“Forget it. Last time I let him stay there with me, I shot him in the neck. And believe me, he hasn’t let me forget it. I think that time was enough.” 

“Well, what about that one girl you were talking to, uh, what’s-her-name. She seemed tolerable. You’re not seeing her anymore?”

“Garak thought she was too nice. He didn’t trust her.”

“Ehh,” Miles swatted his hands at that. “You’ll find someone.”

“When I’m with Garak, I don’t have to pretend to be something or not be something. It's like everything just fits together, you know what I’m saying?”

“I guess.” 

“He’s funny, and brilliant, there’s nothing he can’t talk completely off the cuff and at length about. I can completely be myself with him. When he smiles, it makes me smile, even if I don’t want to. Forget Keiko, what I need to do is find someone exactly like Garak.”

“What, do you fancy the guy? Jeez.” 

“No, Miles, come on! That’s all the whiskey talking,” Julian looked into his empty glass, tipping it back to take the last drop.

Julian craned his body around to look at Miles through spinning eyes. ”Have you ever noticed those cute little wrinkles he gets at the corners of his lips when he’s frustrated with me?”

“Uh, no. Why the hell would I notice something like that?” Miles froze mid sip. “Oh my god.” He turned and assessed Julian in a hard stare. “Julian, you are into him. You don’t want someone like him, you want him !”

“What? No! It’s not like that.”

“Does he know that you, you know, like him, like him?”

“Of course he doesn’t. I mean I don’t! Like him, like him, that is.”

“You need to tell him.”

“Why would I do that?” He grabbed the bottle and took a swig. “He has quite literally never expressed any interest in me other than literature, lunches, and occasionally dragging me in to fit me for new clothes. I mean really, what do I even know about him? Can you imagine him ever loosening up to actually have a relationship with anyone? In public no less? Please, Miles. Talk about a blueprint for disaster!”

“Just tell him.”

“There’s no point in saying anything to him. He’s not interested.” Julian’s expression dulled as he slumped flat to the floor and buried himself in a toss pillow. 

“Well, then I’ll tell him! Let’s call him and tell him our revelation and see what he has to say about it!” Miles tipped his head up and back and laughed out, ”Computer, call Garak!”

“No!” He choked on his drink through his laughter at the ridiculousness of it and jumped up to muffle Miles’ big mouth with his hands. “Don’t tell him that!”

Miles, now with kanar all down the front of his uniform, pushed Julian off him and back down onto the floor. “Garak!”

“Computer!…” Julian cried out.

Miles shouted, “Julian’s in love with you!” as Julian lunged back up and across the couch in a full tackle. His hand shot out again, finally making contact with Miles’ mouth.

“Belay that order! I’m not telling him anything.” Julian puffed out. 

Through a drunken battle of wills, Julian eventually gained the upper hand, and held Miles somewhat pinned down with a knee to the chest. 

“Garak is stubborn, argumentative, and he’s always trying to prove me wrong. In fact, I think he may be physically incapable of telling anything but a lie. Garak is a total pain in my ass.” 

Miles stilled, listening, his breath and pulse beginning to regulate themselves.

Julian let go of him and they fell apart heaving, somewhat out of breath from the tussle. “Besides, what would I even say?”

 Miles took a long pause. He gave Julian another hard look. “That you love him.” 

The words hit him with their bluntness. Those four, few words made his heart clench because they were so clearly true. He could now see why he would nervously anticipate their time and sparring together, why he would blush the way he did at Garak’s prodding of him, why in Garak’s absence, Julian had practically fallen apart, lost sleep, worried himself sick.

“That I love him,” he whispered.

Julian had never admitted having feelings for Garak, not even to himself. But here they were. I love him. He’d said them out loud and he found the feeling suited him.

“You know what the worst thing is about you, Miles? No matter how wrong you are, you’re always right.”

 ***

After weeks upon weeks of quiet planning and preparation, Garak was finally back home from the Far Point Textile and Garment Trade Show on Deneb IV. Despite his pathological fears of failure, he had been a rousing success. 

He melted down into his favorite reading chair in the corner by the window of his living quarters. He was finally able to relax after a very long day of fittings, refitting, and a discreet review of the station’s security logs. 

As he glanced out and into the distance of the quadrant beyond his window, a nearby upper docking pylon lit up in reflection of the wormhole opening. He lamented not having a better view. 

He rubbed the strain out of his eyes and turned his attention to more important things; A hot cup of red leaf tea and Julian’s latest reading recommendation. He’d been trying in earnest to work his way through Love in a Time of Cholera. There would be no way to sugar coat this one; It was a pointlessly chaotic mess of misused lives. Though breaking it to Julian was hardly a concern, as he was rarely if ever polite about sharing his distaste of the Cardassian classics.

But, Garak was determined to get through it. Now that Keiko would be back on the station, Miles would finally be out of his way and he’d no longer have to vie for Julian’s spare time. Perhaps more time in the holosuites with Julian, though Garak would never admit how much he really enjoyed the Agent Bashir character.

“Call from: Miles O’Brien”

“Julian’s in lo…” The sound became muffled, unintelligible.

“…lay that order! I’m not telling him anything.” 

Julian? What was he doing calling him from the O’Brien’s quarters? “Jul-“ Just as he began to ask, the voice on the other end continued. He leaned in towards the comm, closely listening to what sounded like maybe a scuffle? What was he not willing to tell him? Was Julian in danger? No, he was laughing.

“…is stubborn, argumentative, and he’s always trying to prove me wrong. In fact I think he may be physically incapable of telling anything but a lie. Garak is a total pain in my ass. Besides, what would I even say?” 

Garak froze, listening to the conversation, but the call went silent. 

At last he said, “Computer, end call.”

He continued to sit there, considering what he’d apparently just overheard. There wasn’t much to go by, but could Julian really be talking about him that way? Oh, if Julian knew the irony of it all, he thought. If only he were Cardassian, Garak thought. Everything would be so much simpler.

Chapter Text

Just as Miles said, Garak was back on Deep Space Nine, already serving his customers with quiet diligence. He’d returned exactly as he’d left. Unannounced, and unbothered. More significantly, just as Julian had said, he was in love with Garak, though it seemed to matter very little now. When they saw each other again, Julian didn’t ask where he’d been. They slipped easily into old habits, and he let the silence between them speak for itself. One more mystery in an ocean of them.

Not that Julian was innocent of concealment himself. Of all the unintended benefits his genetic enhancements offered, intuition was the one he least trusted. Take Garak, a man for whom trust was a liability. And yet, he’d kept Julian in his orbit for years. It couldn’t have just been attraction, could it?

He would have known everything by now. The details of Julian’s academic record, his ranking, the wide-open doors that came with it. He could have posted anywhere. Instead, he’d chosen the edge of nowhere, a half-functioning station on the edge of contested space. Frontier medicine, he’d called it. Where the adventure is. 

Everyone else had accepted his story. Julian had even half believed it himself. But not Garak. Garak would have seen through it and known, he always knew. Julian was no adventurer; Julian Bashir had something to hide.

That Garak never asked about it made things simpler. It meant he’d made his own conclusions, and for Julian, that was enough. So he returned the courtesy. If Garak ever wanted him to know where he’d been, he could say so.

Still, there were moments. Too many, really, when Julian let himself imagine something more. The way Garak’s hand lingered on his shoulder, how his voice dipped, softened. What once unsettled Julian had become something else entirely. These days, he welcomed the ambiguity. He even craved it. It was the rhythm of their friendship now, coded and unspoken.

He’d grown used to Garak speaking in riddles. Everything was layered. Multiple answers, multiple truths. Everything meant something else. It was part of the game, part of the appeal. Julian sometimes wondered if his intonation was a Kardasi cultural affect, or simply an artifact of the universal translator. Plenty of other Cardassians spoke that way too. Dukat certainly did, especially with Commander Kira, and no one ever accused him of being romantic.

Still, there had been a shift since Ziyal arrived. She and Garak had grown close, perhaps even more so during the month Julian had been replaced by a changeling. While Julian rotted in a Dominion prison camp, Garak had gone looking for Enabran Tain and found Julian instead. Filthy. Half-starved. Forgotten.

Anything could’ve happened between them in his absence. Garak never volunteered much, and Julian never asked. At the time, it hadn’t mattered. But now it did. Because now, when he watched them together, he saw familiarity in every glance.

Ziyal was charming, gentle, and endlessly warm. They made sense. She didn’t provoke Garak the way Julian always had. There were no barbed comments, no raised eyebrows, dry retorts, or heated debates. 

His head didn’t roll back in laughter when Ziyal’s opinion differed from his. He didn’t huff or make faces of incredulity at her other than a gentle smile. He was polite and courteous by anyone’s standards. All steady conversation and soft smiles.

Of course, why wouldn’t he be? She was a beautiful, sympathetic, and lovable young woman. Her sleek black hair and a face fresh as a Felaran rosebud. Her delicate figure surely cutting a lithe silhouette against the endless night of his exile. 

She glowed around him like he was the last man left in the quadrant. Maybe he was. For her. Just two castoffs, clinging to each other against home planets that didn’t want either of them; him an enemy of the State, her a Cardassian Bajoran. A bond he could never hope to compete with.

 Julian hated how easily that thought lodged in his chest.

Then, one Tuesday, it happened. He’d just retrieved his Talerian stew from the replicator and was weaving through a crowd of Klingons towards their regular table when he saw them. 

Garak and Ziyal, standing close, palm to palm. Her cheeks and chufa had flushed that telltale Cardassian blue, her hand rising modestly to her chest as she stepped away. She disappeared into the crowd, Garak staying behind.

Julian watched from across the replimat, something cold tightening in his stomach.

He smiled as he approached, just as he always did. Or tried to.

“Hello, Garak,” he said evenly, settling into the seat Ziyal had just vacated, still warm beneath him.

“Doctor,” Garak greeted him with a slight bow. “Punctual, as ever.”

Julian busied himself with aligning his plate, his utensils. “She’s a lovely girl, Ziyal.” 

Garak didn’t sit. The smile he’d worn for her lingered faintly on his face. “She is that.”

“She’s Dukat’s daughter.”

“That, too, is among her many charms.”

Julian smoothed the napkin over his lap. “Then why exactly are you carrying on with her?”

Garak swizzled the spoon in his red leaf tea, then tapped it on the rim of the teacup several times before setting it on the saucer. 

“If you must know,” he began lightly, “we’ve dined together now and then. Visited the holosuites once or twice. There’s a Cardassian sauna she enjoys. Far too warm for humans, I’m afraid. As for today, I arrived early, saw her on the promenade, and invited her to join me. That’s all.”

“How nice.”

“Is it so hard to believe, my dear doctor, that someone other than you might find me to be enjoyable company?”

“Do you find her enjoyable?” The question came out before he could stop it.

Garak didn’t flinch. “How I find her is hardly the point.”

Julian noted it was not a denial.

“That’s exactly the point. That girl clearly has feelings for you.”

Garak took a long sip from his cup. “Is that so?”

“It is. And what you’re doing is cruel. Intentions aside, you know full well Dukat will see this as a personal provocation. He won’t tolerate it for long, this,” he swirled his hands between Garak and the direction Ziyal had walked away, “whatever this is between you.”

“Well,” Garak said, setting his cup down with precise care, “it seems you’ve sorted everything out already. So clever, as always.” He slowly shook his head, tongue clicking in mock amazement.

“I just don’t want to see her get hurt,” Julian said, arms crossed, tone clipped. “That’s all.”

“That’s all.”

“For her sake.”

“Of course. Always thinking of others.” Garak’s smile thinned. “And never mind ‘that girl’ may be the only Cardassian in this quadrant still willing to be seen with me.”

Julian fell back into his chair, eyes dropping to his hands. He smoothed his napkin again. What a fool he was. He’d let jealousy twist itself into something righteous, and now he was sitting in its wreckage, feeling worse than before. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of their hands pressed together. Garak’s palm against hers. The way Ziyal had blushed. He’d never seen Garak touch anyone like that. Not even him.

He took a slow bite of stew, swallowed hard, and changed the subject. “Anyway. I finished it.” He pulled a PADD from his bag and set it down between them with more force than intended.

“Sun Rising on Tomorrow!” Garak said with bright enthusiasm. “At last. I’ve been waiting to hear your thoughts on this one!”  He lifted his cup again, eyes dancing. Dryly, he added, “your understanding of Cardassian customs and relationships being as commanding as they so evidently are.” 

“It was a disaster.” He was rarely this blunt or ineloquent. 

Garak paused, visibly disappointed, and set the cup back down without a taste. “Oh, come now, Doctor.”

“The protagonist abandons his family to practically starve to death, while he runs off to serve the State. Years later when he does come back, she ridicules his affections for her and their child and sends him back, telling him to get out and never return. And then their son grows up to do the exact same thing.” Julian reached for his cup.

Garak’s hand darted out, hovering just above Julian’s. “Precisely!”

Julian froze.

He didn’t move his hand. Not at first. The space between them compressed. Every nerve in his fingers went sharp, alert, aching for contact. The air beneath Garak’s palm was cool. Heavy with intention. A nearness that almost hurt.

But the hand remained hovering above his, a hair’s breadth away from holding it, pinned down beneath its gesturing. 

Julian lifted his hand slowly, wanting to hold the silvery, nimble fingers of the tailor gently within his own, to caress the back of it with his thumb, learning its textures, its contours, every minute detail as only a lover could. But he faltered. 

His reflexes instead pushed past the moment altogether, his fingers curling around the teacup and drew it back. The moment broke like tension from a wire.

Garak didn’t seem to notice, or pretended not to. 

“I’ve always understood family was rather important in Cardassian culture.” 

“It is the most important aspect, in fact,” Garak said simply.

“And yet she throws him out!” Julian said, steadying his frustration. “And the kicker, being a classic repetitive epic of course, is that their son grows up and repeats the cycle. No one learns anything.”

“Ah, I see. Permit me to spell this one out for you as I see you’re not as open minded today as you normally are.” 

Garak tilted his head, voice gentling as eyes were firmly upon Julian’s. “She had to send him away. She was his weakness. They both knew it. To protect his honor, to protect the family, The State, she did what he couldn’t. Pushed him out. And through that sacrifice, he honors her. He honors them both through his loyalty and devotion to the State. Simple, you see?”

“No,” Julian said, biting off the word. Another mouthful of stew, chewed like resentment.

Garak scoffed and Julian bristled even more. “They choose duty over desire. That is the essence of love, for us.” 

Julian stared back under a raised brow.

Garak sighed. “Doctor, they’re able to partake in the greatest love of all; Self sacrifice in service and loyalty to the State. What could be more loving than that?”

“Anything.”

Now Garak leaned in, hands flat on the table. “It all comes down to a question of loyalty, Doctor. He must choose between staying behind selfishly, or serving the State in his family’s name.”

Exasperated, he paused, hoping Julian was following. As he clearly wasn’t, Garak continued. “It’s not merely about what he wants, or she wants. It’s about what they give. Together. That is love. They chose the State, as would I every time. ”

Julian stared at him. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just say what they mean? Choose each other and be happy?”

“My dear doctor,” Garak laughed, head thrown back, lips parted, eyes gleaming with disbelief. “Where’s the romance in that?”

There it was, right on cue. The contradiction. The maddening joy Garak took in disagreement. That damnable crinkle beside the pout of his lower lip. The lip Julian had dreamed of kissing.

Julian sometimes swore Garak argued just to be contrary. Today, it grated against Julian’s nerves more than ever, especially after seeing how kind and gentle he had just been with Ziyal. 

“And they’re both expected to know all that? That’s a great deal of subtext to wade through. That’s your literature’s great flaw.”

“Not a flaw,” Garak said. “Not for a Cardassian. You still don’t understand, do you?” He paused rhetorically, then leaned forward, gaze sharp and steady. “After all we’ve read together. All I’ve explained. This is the simplest love story there is. Denial of self for the greater good.”

Julian pushed his half-eaten stew away. “Then I suppose I’ll never understand Cardassian culture. And frankly, I don’t think I care to. I could never live like that.”

But wasn’t that exactly what he’d done? Hadn’t he already chosen service over happiness? Starfleet over love? Over Garak?

All for the greater good. He was more frustrated than he was when he’d sat down.

He looked down into the remains of his tea. Across the table, Garak remained silent, but his eyes lingered.

Chapter Text

“I’m glad you were willing to meet me here instead of the replimat today. I think I needed a change of atmosphere after last week’s lunch.”

“And I would agree with that assessment. Although,” Garak said with playful trepidation, “I do recall what happened last time I joined you in a holosuite program. Perhaps try to refrain from shooting me in the neck this time, Doctor?”

“I’ll make no promises,” Julian rolled his eyes and put on a sly grin.

“What’s the setting today? One of Agent Bashir’s favorite Terran haunts?”

“Not quite. Quark got this program from an Andorian trader. Some kind of beach, apparently, and thought I might like it. Though he always says that. And, much as it pains me, he’s usually right.” He made a face.

As the door to the holosuite slid open, the bright sunlight pulled at them. It was a welcome change from the station’s disconnectedly cold, retrofitted artificial Starfleet lighting. 

Inside, a pale mint sky stretched overhead, twin suns blazing in soft pink arcs that bathed the shore in warmth.

Garak walked in ahead of Julian’s yielding. “Of all the planets I’ve traveled, I’ve never seen one quite like this.” 

He held out his arms, flipping them over and back, carefully inspecting the scales on his hands reflecting in the suns’ light. They flashed as oxidized copper with greened highlighting, rather than the normal silvery gray. 

"Did Quark say whether the Andorian mentioned where this program might be from?"

"If he was told, I'm sure he wasn't listening.”

The reflections of the suns overlapped in crisscrosses, glittering across the water as the waves crested and fell before them. Banded clouds stretched their extremities, wrapping across to both ends of the horizon, seeping out into the aether and ringed the planet. It looked every bit the otherworldly vision it was.

As Garak was lost in the striking color ways of the scene around him, Julian settled on the rise of a nearby beachgrass dappled dune facing the water, placing himself and his bag in the soft warm sand.

“Here, come sit with me,” Julian invited. He smoothed his hand along the fine sand beside him into a seat for his companion.

He removed his shoes and neatly cuffed his trousers and sleeves. Joining Julian, he settled into the seat shaped for him, the warmth of the sand seeping into his body.

“This is lovely. I still find myself fascinated by the vastness of the bodies of water some planets have. Cardassia is so dry. As a child, I never could have imagined something like this.”

His eyes scanned the horizon, marveling at the reflectiveness of the water, which mirrored the colors that swept across the sky.

“I’ve always loved the seaside,” Julian began after a deep breath. “When I was very little, you know, before everything, my parents would take me to the south of England. A small beach town, Saint Ives.”

His eyes traced his surroundings, placing memory alongside him in the present.

“I was free to run up and down the shore, exploring as I wanted to. No expectations or pressures from others. Just me, the way I was. And it was wonderful.”

He dragged his fingers through the fine, damp sand, its coolness deepening as it sifted around his hand.

Garak offered a pinched smile. He, too, had known that feeling once. That one shining memory of his tiny hand in Tain’s.

“My father would swing me in the waves, my mother waiting for us on the shore with a soft towel to scoop me up in before we’d sit down to a picnic lunch of cucumber sandwiches and sun sweet tea with ice.

“I remember it so fondly, just the three of us, building sandcastles together. I’d decorate them with shells and bits of shining iridescent green and blue sea glass we’d collected. It was all so perfect. I always wished those days would never end.”

He looked down at his hands and at the sand that covered them, feeling the grit between his fingers.

“Those were some of the only times that Jules—that I—was ever enough.”

“That does appear to echo a vision of perfection,” Garak said.

Julian gazed out at the water, deeply feeling the rhythm of the waves as they crashed into and smoothed up and over the shoreline, reducing to foam before being pulled back into the undertow of the next wave rolling in.

“When I was a very young boy, I was shuffled from household to household, never belonging to anyone.”

Garak’s hands swished about before dismissively waving the image away entirely.

“Eventually I found stability with Tolan. You know the story.

“Anyway, he always had me out working with him in the garden. Always lecturing me about the different plants and their individual needs.

“I didn’t like the hard, slow work with no guarantee of any outcome, let alone a successful one. It was dirty and tiring. And at times, lonely.

“But he was also teaching me how to find contentment where I was at any given moment in time. Caring for and tending to something other than myself. How to root myself in my service to Cardassia, to others.

“I believe somewhere along the way, you learned that lesson too.”

Pausing, he looked briefly over at Julian.

“Doctor,” he said, their eyes meeting, truly seeing each other, “you were enough back then.”

Julian straightened slightly at that, surprised by the softness in Garak’s voice. A cool hand settled momentarily over his own, and he stilled beneath it.

“You always would have been enough. It was never the enhancements that changed that.

“And now… you are enough.”

Garak’s gaze returned to the waves, his fingers combing idly through the sand, letting the grains slip through as if something unspoken might fall with them.

Julian cleared his throat, quiet and strained. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, steadying himself.

“Well, what’s done is done. It’s all behind us now, brighter days ahead, right?”

He wiped sand from the palms of his hands onto his pants. 

“Would you care for a bite to eat? I made these for us,” he said, removing two sandwiches neatly wrapped in waxed paper from his bag. 

“The cucumbers are from the arboretum garden. They’re not replicated. Keiko grows them for me.”

“I’ve never had a cucumber. I suppose I might like to try one, thank you.” 

He took the sandwich and momentarily considered the green slices on it. With sudden recognition he added, “Ah, I’ve seen Mrs. O’Brien tending to these! In fact, I’ve had the occasion to water them for her once or twice. I didn’t know they were yours.”

They ate in companionable silence, watching the waves rise and fall along the shoreline. The heat of the day pressed gently against them, and Julian removed his uniform jacket, laying it behind him before pulling off the undershirt. 

His skin caught the twin suns’ light and deepened to a soft, golden rose. It shimmered faintly iridescent as sweat began to gather along his collarbones and chest.

He lay back on his jacket, shifting to carve out a shallow cradle in the sand. Garak looked over. Of course he’d noticed the beauty of this human. How could he not? That warmth, that softness, the quiet ease with which Julian rested beside him. It would be impossible not to admire such grace in a life form.

Without a word, Julian sat up and reached for his discarded undershirt. He shook it out gently and laid it beside Garak, smoothing the fabric into the sand behind him.

“There,” he said softly. “So you don’t get sand on your shirt.”

Garak glanced at the cloth, then at Julian. For a moment, he said nothing. But the faintest crease touched the corner of his mouth—something close to a smile, unspoken and sincere.

“Thoughtful as ever,” he murmured, and slowly settled beside him. 

“It’s beautiful here. I’ll have to remember this program. Maybe we’ll come again for lunch sometime, Doctor.”

“Oh, well I don’t know,” he teased, “and pass up our table at the replimat?” He gave a little laugh and a deep breath of the sea scented air. 

“Garak,” Julian said, shading his eyes against the twin suns as he looked over at him. “Do you realize you’re the only one who never calls me by my name?”

“Would you prefer I did?”

“After all these years… yes. I think I would like you to call me Julian. Especially when it’s just us.”

“All right… Julian.” 

It was rare to hear him say it. Rarer still to say it so plainly. And it stirred something in Julian that ached a little, just beneath the surface.

A moment passed in the warmth between them. Then, more quietly:

“You may call me Elim, if you like.”

Julian blinked, taken aback—not by the name itself, but by the offering. He’d never heard anyone speak it aloud who wasn’t trying to wound or expose him. That Garak would offer it now, here, felt more intimate than any confession.

But there was no irony in Garak’s expression. Only something cautious, and strangely unguarded.

“I would like it very much, Elim.”

“Julian,” he said again, softer this time. His voice caught slightly on the first syllable. 

Garak was fluent in Federation Standard. Julian had heard him speak Kardasi before, and on a few rare occasions, he’d heard him speak Standard without the translator—his natural accent unmistakable beneath the words. It had fascinated him. 

He suspected the translator was just another mask, a way to keep even that truer voice of his hidden. Protected from exposure unless absolutely necessary.

“What does my name sound like in Kardasi?”

“Well, like—” He clicked off the translator, and with a lightness rare in Kardasi, hummed the name. “Chu’lian.” A breath later, he reactivated the translator. “It’s actually quite a beautiful sound in Kardasi. A shame it’s always rendered into the hardness of Standard.”

Julian’s chest tightened as his eyes met Garak’s. “A shame,” he sighed.

It was beautiful. All of it shimmering with a quiet loveliness. The day, the sea, the man beside him.

Julian glanced at Garak’s hands, pressed into the warm sand, and wondered what it would feel like to hold one. Not fleetingly. Not as part of some polite exchange. But with purpose. With tenderness.

He imagined brushing his fingertips over the ridges of Garak’s knuckles, tracing the contours of his scales like reading a language written just for him. Maybe Garak would let him. Maybe he’d lean in, curious, unresisting. Maybe his hand would turn in Julian’s, returning the touch.

Julian pictured their bodies angled toward each other, knees brushing, breath shared in the salt-laced air. The kiss wouldn’t be rushed. Just the press of mouth to mouth, quiet, unhurried, the kind that deepens not from urgency, but from permission.

He imagined Garak’s skin—copper, catching glints of green, reflecting light the way sea glass used to in his childhood hands. It would darken where Julian’s touch found him. The weight of him close, fingers slipping beneath the edges of fabric, discovering him by feel rather than sight.

They would move slowly. Carefully. As if they were making something new from what had nearly been lost.

Skin to skin, reverent, not hungry. A touch here, a breath caught there, the gentle unfolding of something long held back.

Julian let himself wonder how Garak might sound beneath him. Not in words—Garak would never give those away so easily—but in the quiet things: the way his breath might stutter, the way his hands might tighten without meaning to. The way he might say his name.

He let the image settle. Not chased by need, but anchored in longing. He didn’t have to know what came next. Only that in this imagining, Garak wanted him too. Not just as a companion, but as someone he could reach for without retreating.

Julian let out a soft breath and turned back to the water. The image receded like the tide pulling from the shore.

Garak hadn’t moved. The sun still warmed the sand between them. But something inside Julian had softened, just slightly.

Even if it lived only in his mind, the feeling of being wanted lingered. And somehow, it was enough to carry him through the quiet.

Maybe one day. Maybe not.

But the ache of it felt real. And even so, he found himself wishing this day, like those from long ago, might never end.

“Julian, I…”

Turning to listen with a guarded breath held, “Yes?”

Before Julian would hear what he hoped Garak would say, the yet unspoken truth he already knew, the gravity fields holding the scene in place disintegrated, the projectors’ photons releasing, leaving them on the cold ground of reality.

“Your session’s time is now up,” Quark’s recorded voice alerted. “Thank you for your patronage of Quark's Bar, Grill, Gaming House and Holosuite Arcade,” 

“I must thank you for a lovely time. This really was extraordinary,” Garak continued, standing up after uncuffing his trousers, smoothing the wrinkles from them. 

Collecting himself from his daydreams, Julian too stood up. “Yes, of course!” he said with a smile and slight unevenness in his voice. “And see? Not a scratch on you. I told you I can be rather harmless in the holosuites.”

“Mmm, indeed you can, Doctor. Julian.” A little smile played on his lips as he corrected himself.

Next time. 

The same tired promise he’d whispered to himself too many times already.

I’ll tell him next time.

Chapter Text

Julian had tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, unable to sleep but for the few transient moments between worry and dreamless discontent. As he lay alone in the dark quiet of his quarters, his thoughts remained fixed on the most recent list of reported casualties.

 Jadzia’s voice floated in his mind. “ These names. Every one of them had a life. Every one of them had a family. And now, they’re gone. They deserve to be remembered.”

Now, hidden away in the relative safety of his bed, those names and faces of the dead haunted him. They demanded to be remembered. Just more proof of the Dominion's ever expanding reach, continuing to cast ever longer and darker shadows across the Alpha quadrant. There wasn’t much time before they would come knocking at the front door for them, too.

He rolled over once more, tightly cocooning himself within his covers in a final bid to shut out the cacophony of death in his mind. The visions of countless millions dead and dying, and those not far behind, overwhelmed him. With the harsh reality of the situation pressing down on him like a lead weight, he couldn’t continue laying in bed. 

Throwing aside his blankets, he sat up in bed, rubbing the tension from his face. He took off his pajamas. After pulling his turtleneck back on, he zipped up his uniform from that day. With a glance of his weary expression in the mirror, the best he could do was to run a comb through his bent hair. Julian then found himself heading for his door and was off towards the one place he knew he’d find quiet.

Julian had continued seeking comfort in the familiar routine he had with Garak. But as of late, it was proving to be an exercise in futility. Their lunches had waned to chance meetings of friendly catch up, becoming ever fewer and farther in between. 

With very little in life being certain anymore, it wasn’t simply a question of whether he’d be keeping a lunch date or what ne'er do well of the week was planning to wreak havoc on the station. It was the stability and continuity of the entire Alpha Quadrant at stake, its inhabitants teetering on the brink of annihilation. 

One way or another, things would be coming to an end for all of them here, clearly. Garak’s constant presence in his life, and he in Garak’s, had become a given anymore. Julian found it impossible to imagine a future without Garak. But time and war wait for no one. And now, their time was up. 

After navigating the long maze of corridors and tucking himself into shadows to avoid other late night wanderers, he’d arrived at last. He squared his shoulders as he stood before the door of H-3, 901. Breathing deeply to shake free the thoughts haunting him, he gave three soft knocks. 

He stood in silence. A moment. Two. This is stupid. He put his hands in his pockets. He’s probably not even here. I don’t even know why I’m here. 

Over time, Garak had found himself an unlikely but trusted ally of the Federation. His services had become irreplaceable as a Cardassian code breaker and interpreter. He’d worked all angles and called in all favors from former Obsidian Order connections he had remaining in his bid to restore stability to his home world. If Starfleet and the greater Federation were able to benefit from his efforts for Cardassia, so be it. 

As such, Garak had been away more often and for longer stretches of time. A near total destruction of Cardassia seemed imminent at war’s end, and he would be staying on Prime permanently. He hadn’t actually said as much to Julian, but he didn’t need to. 

Unsurprisingly, he was developing somewhat of a folk hero status among some local populations for his participation in the resistance. He might finally have the opportunity to reclaim his beloved home world and he would not wait a moment longer than necessary in returning. Cardassia needed a reconstructionist more than DS9 needed a tailor. It wouldn’t be a tough decision for him. Julian would surely offer his full support for that choice. He loved him and he would let him go.

This, he supposed, is just how it's going to be from now on. Just as Julian began to turn and walk away, partially hoping that he could get away before the occupant would even discover his presence, it slid open. There stood Garak with a smile of pleasant surprise before dimming to one of concern.

“Doctor, is everything alright? What are you doing out so late?”

As relieved as Julian was that Garak was indeed there, he resented the bitter taste of the moment he’d stood there alone, a reminder of Garak’s impending departure still before him. His eyes fell down to his shoes. “Another list was posted today.”

Garak moved aside wanly, extending his hand toward the open door, silently inviting Julian to step inside.

As Julian did, his shoulders dropped as his eyes looked at Garak's. In a voice barely above a whisper, Julian murmured. “This war, the toll it’s taking, the sacrifices. All the lives ruined, the lives lost. Has the cost been worth it?” His words wavered with regret.

Garak’s gaze met his, his expression unreadable. “We’ve been left with no other choice,” he said quietly.

He sighed. “But I can’t help wondering if there couldn’t have been another way.”

Garak motioned for Julian to head over to the couch. Following behind him as Julian walked, he made his way over to his reading chair.

Garak undoubtedly shared Julian’s unspoken feelings that this would likely be one of the last, if not the last, time they’d be alone like this in each others company; safely tucked away in the soft, gentle light of his quarters, shielded from all the horrors that surrounded them not so far off beyond the steel shell of the station. 

Julian slouched completely uncomfortable on Garak’s bland gray couch. “How in all these years have these cushions and upholstery never softened a bit?”

“Yes, it’s a wonder, indeed. All the wild social gatherings I’ve had here.” A smile played on the corners of his lips.

“Well, I always enjoyed the times I shared with you here. I’ll always be grateful to you for that. You’ve always afforded me a place to spout off about whatever was on my mind.” His thoughts swirled, wishing he could say more. I wish I could tell you how it’s all been too much lately. But lately I find myself struggling to find the right words anymore, to stay upright against the torrent of loss. 

I wish I could tell you that in all these years we’ve grown together, I’ve found you to be evermore irreplaceable in my life. How acutely I’ve felt your absences, as you take a little more of my heart with you each time you leave. I’m terrified that soon I’ll be without you and I might never feel whole again. Soon, I’ll have lost the best thing I never even had.

“Doctor, I assure you, the pleasure has always been mine.”

Exhausted, Julian’s mind drifted, staring numbly through the darkness beyond the window. Wistfully, he turned back to face Garak. Their eyes locked in a silent exchange of unspoken words. A silence lingered between them. Do you ever wish things had turned out differently between us?

Garak's expression softened, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability crossing his features. Had Julian actually asked Garak, surely he’d have replied, Everyday, Julian. And more than you know.

They’d said everything that there was to say. Seven years of opportunity, seven years of Julian’s silence. Whatever remained unsaid, likely was meant to stay that way. You can’t be with him. You’re on your path and he’s on his. Julian thought. His head leaned back against the couch and lolled to the side with a sigh, hands briefly lifting in resignation of, well, everything, before falling limply beside his legs.

Seeing this, Garak got up from his chair, walked over to his replicator, and pressed his preset number one on the control panel. Silently, he brought the item back over and carefully held it out for his companion.

“Tarkalean tea, extra sweet.”

Another sigh slipped unconsciously from Julian. 

“Julian…”

“Hm?” He looked up towards the voice, then into the depth of his eyes, and smiled softly. It felt comforting to be held by Garak, if only by his eyes. “Oh, thank you.” He sat up and reached for the tea.

As he sat down on the sofa beside Julian, Garak watched as he held the cup in both hands. He brought it right up under his nose and inhaled, his eyes closing.

“I remember years ago, sitting in the replimat. I was still new here.” His eyes flitted at the memory, recalling it fondly. “I sat enjoying this same tea. The smell, sweet and earthy, whatever that even means anymore. And I remember you sneaking up behind me, remember that? Gods, what must you have thought of me?” He gave a slight laugh. “I completely froze.” 

Blue eyes continued staring back at him, remembering it well. Julian couldn’t have known that Garak always thought of the day they met whenever he smelled Julian’s Tarkalean tea. He could still see it like it was yesterday and remembered exactly what he thought the first time he’d laid eyes on his dear doctor. 

Oh, he had most assuredly taken immediate note of the young man when he arrived at the station. A tall, bright eyed, optimistic Federaji, rife with naïve idealism. All dressed up in that slightly too big uniform. A soft coif of Delavian chocolate brown hair atop his head, not a curl out of place. So handsome and full of unbridled optimism. An intriguing sight to be certain. Were Garak not a master of his expressions, an eyebrow would most certainly have been raised over an indecently long stare in the doctor’s direction.

Julian couldn’t have known how Garak had been watching him with hungry eyes prior to their first meeting. Oh, the things he would do to him. Soft, full lips just whispering  to be bit into. Skin as flawless as satin, begging to be teased at and licked thoroughly from tip to toe.

He’d wait for the perfect moment to begin seducing him, imagining exactly how he’d make the doctor writhe beneath him, slow and devastating, at the earliest opportunity. It had been pictured a thousand ways, but he decided to go for the simplistic and uncomplicated nature of the traditional Cardassian approach. 

Years of shoulders caressed, hands stroked, minds passionately challenged, all of which only served to fuel his desires and increase the sexual tension between them, or at least within himself. He had given Julian erotic literature and explained it in embarrassingly simple terms to the doctor, but it always managed to slip right past him. 

Either that, or Julian simply wasn’t interested. 

The details of his face were completely memorized by Garak. He knew the way his eyebrows delicately framed the wide brightness of his eyes. How they danced with Julian’s emotions. He’d watched each and every fine line and crease slowly accumulate across his smooth skin over the years. He knew the gentle curvature of his cheekbones, peach and plump. He knew just how much his cheeks dimpled and where when he smiled back at Garak’s endless prodding.

At night, he’d head back to his quarters alone and imagine the softness of his delicate skin yet unseen. In his dreams, Julian would stand there before him, just inches away. Garak would press his chufa to Julian’s smooth forehead. Julian would undoubtedly lean in for a kiss. He’d feel lips parting and his tongue against his, likely tasting of extra sweet tea.

Their shared breaths would fill each other’s lungs and he’d finally get to remove that hideous Starfleet uniform and watch it fall to the floor, revealing that warm, silken, mammalian figure carved out by the gods themselves. 

He’d imagine what their naked bodies would look like tangled in his bed. Julian beside him, inside him, a damp mixture of sweat and sex. His head resting on Julian’s chest, rising and falling against his breath as he listened to his beating heart, recovering its pace from just having made passionate love. 

He imagined the smell of Julian on him and in him, surrounding and filling him. Julian’s arms wrapped around him, claiming him as his own as he heard, ‘I love you,’ being whispered into his ear.

He could never allow himself to act on it. To do so would mean risking the only good thing still willing to sit beside him without flinching. And Garak knew himself well enough to know he didn’t deserve that kind of hope.

So instead, he dreamed.

Julian couldn’t have known how deeply he wanted to bring him to Cardassia with him, rebuilding a new life and a new world together. They’d live simply, if not easily—years of reconstruction ahead of them, yes, but a future still. Him tending the garden, Julian maybe pushing a child on a swing in their front yard. 

He’d watch the gray beginning to thread through Julian’s hair, gradually replacing the warm brown. At night, they’d sit side by side on their porch, asking after the other’s day before heading to bed together, hand in hand. 

As he always did in these quiet imaginings, Garak felt his heart beat faster at the thought of Julian’s fingers fitting perfectly within his, laced within his. Julian’s was all his. Forever. 

He could just about see it.

Julian couldn’t have known he had been the very reason Garak had continued living, when he had every reason not to. Here was this beautiful creature who, despite all Garak’s past transgressions, saw hope for him, the goodness in him. Because of Julian, he’d chosen to live when death had seemed his only recourse. 

No, Julian could not have known that he had become both the beginning and the end of Elim Garak. For all his hardness. For all his practiced evasion, Garak was completely and irretrievably in love with him. There could only ever be Julian. 

And Julian wouldn’t be coming with him when he left. That much was certain. Not that the possibility had ever truly been on the table. Garak would never allow it.

He would never ask Julian to give up everything he’d built—his work, his calling, his place in Starfleet. The worlds he had saved, and the ones he had yet to. The reputation he had fought to earn. Julian belonged to a future Garak would never ask him to forfeit.

 Julian was where he was supposed to be.

So, he didn’t say anything.

Julian let the moment breathe between them, then spoke quietly. “But, I’m grateful you did walk over to me that day.”

“As am I, my dear Julian.”

They sat a while longer in the soft quiet. Then, once he’d finished the last of his tea, Julian stretched out along the couch and closed his eyes. “Just for a moment,” Julian murmured. 

Garak watched over his dearest doctor in silence. As Julian’s breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep, Garak rose and stepped into the darkened bedroom. He returned with a pillow and the finest blanket he owned.

Carefully, he slipped the pillow beneath Julian’s head, smoothing his hair back from his brow. It was even softer beneath his fingers than he’d ever imagined. 

He tucked the Vitarian wool blanket gently around Julian’s shoulders, up to his chin. He stood for a long moment, just watching him. Julian was so beautiful in his sleep.

Garak took one last look before dimming the lights all the way. Then, in a voice no one else would hear, Garak whispered:

“My dearest. My love.”

Chapter Text

It had been the end of things with Julian, just as Garak had anticipated. 

The gentle sound of Julian at his door remained in his thoughts. He, too, had been awake that night unable to sleep, lost in thought—when Julian came to his door one final time, weighed down with worry, looking for respite from his despair. 

Garak stared out his window into the blackness. From his quarters, he didn’t have a view of Cardassia’s star. At this distance, it might as well be any of those tiny pinholes of light. But in a matter of days, he would be closing in on it.

“Commander Kira to Garak.” 

Her voice broke through the silence, sharp through his combadge.

“I’m here Commander,” he replied, snapping back to the moment. Alongside Commander Kira, he was leaving Deep Space 9 one final time. 

Their mission was clear, if daunting. They would rendezvous with Damar and his team on Cardassia in one last attempt to liberate the system from the Founders’ grip. Regardless of what would happen to him over the upcoming weeks, he would finally be home.

His mind raced with thoughts of the impending departure. He’d finally be rid of the cold of the station, its lights too bright, its walls too confining. Its population, in Garak’s view, far too Bajoran. He still found himself in disbelief of the fact he was working with Starfleet, alongside a Bajoran, and mounting an invasion of Cardassia. 

“The ship’s going to be ready within the hour. Make sure you are too.” 

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about me, Commander,” he said smoothly. “I’ll be ready.”

Garak had already packed the essentials he would bring to Cardassia. 

Whether his exile would be revoked through victory, or whether he would die in the process—he much preferred the former, of course—things would not conclude with him returning to the station. Of that much he was certain. 

He’d been sentenced to spend a lifetime longing for Cardassia. Her brilliance had haunted him for years, flaring only in memory. He could still see the sunset painting the landscapes in gold. The pale glow of her three moons, illuminating the night sky over the vast ridgelands beyond Cardassia City, reaching towards the rugged terrain of the Mekar Mountains from his youth.

He remembered it all with aching clarity.

Though only memory, Cardassia’s majesty still resounded through her valleys and peaks in his dreams like an endless symphony. And now, she was so close he could nearly see her.

Despite the shadow of war dimming her beauty, he held fast to hope, that some small portion of her still remained, waiting, offering the possibility of solace. Of renewal. Anything else was too unbearable to imagine.

For Cardassia was not merely his home, but the very essence of his being. Without Cardassia, there was no Garak. And now, without Garak and those like him, Cardassia and her people were doomed. 

Leaving Deep Space 9, he knew, was indeed the easy part.

What weighed him down was what he was leaving behind. No, not the clothing he’d poured countless hours into over the seemingly endless years, which were now destined for the recycler. Not his holonovel collection or his tired furniture. And it was most certainly not any of the paraphernalia from his shop. What he was leaving behind, he lamented, had already been lost long ago.

“Ah, Julian,” he whispered softly. “This is how it ends.” 

Turning from the window, he glanced at the couch where Julian had slept that final night. Garak picked up the Vitarian wool blanket he’d wrapped Julian in. It was still neatly folded and draped over its back, just as Julian had left it. Bringing it to his nose, the barest scent of Julian lingered.

Although he already prepared to disembark, there was no more time for nonsense. With a renewed sense of urgency he continued discarding unnecessary items without hesitation. Whatever did not fit in his shoulder bag would not be coming with him. 

As he continued on into his living area, Garak pressed open the concealed compartments in his wall. He’d already packed the data rods, security files, and classified Starfleet transcripts with the most strategically advantageous information. He withdrew any remaining odds and ends that had fallen into his hands over the years. 

Carefully, he resealed their hiding places and walked them over to the replicator for their recycling. With one tap of the touchscreen, it was gone. He’d leave no trace of himself behind. There was nothing here that was irreplaceable given time or effort anyway.

But the loss of Julian? Well, that had already been a long time in the making. So slowly, in fact, that even he hadn’t picked up on the initial pattern of the occurrences for months. Maybe their timing had been off, purely coincidental. 

“Doctor, I was free early so I figured I’d come get you if you’d care to walk with me to the replimat today for our lunch? I’ve got a new book for you. I think you’ll be very interested in attempting to tear this one apart.” 

“Oh Garak!” Julian had said with that charmingly boyish smile, “It completely slipped my mind, I’ve been overrun at work this week. Next time?” 

“Yes, of course, duty calls! Next time!” Smiling, Garak nodded and went on about his day. 

He’d been reluctant to believe that maybe those “forgotten lunches” were Julian’s way out from the stigma of associating with an exiled Cardassian. No, he thought, that wasn’t the Julian he knew. Julian had been a good friend to him for years. It wasn’t reasonable to expect the station’s Chief Medical Officer to devote every free moment of his time to him, no matter how much Garak craved the Doctor’s attention. There had been less and less of Julian to go around as the station grew busier.

Next, he headed to his nearby bedroom, swiftly and methodically opening each bureau drawer. Tunics, trousers, undergarments. Then the closet. It was a simple process, really, and he found no need to drag things out. He’d grab a bundle at a time, maybe two, then toss them into oblivion with another press of a button.

Eventually Garak did make the connection. He’d noticed their relationship slowly began to unravel once Chief O’Brien had come to Deep Space 9. The Chief took up more and more of Julian’s time. Surely Julian hadn’t gone out of his way to lose himself in the holosuites in their Battle of Britain. Certainly, the simplicity of beating Miles at darts couldn’t have been more interesting than their lunches. Even making those stupid models of the Alamo with Miles was not of any pressing importance. 

Garak finally resorted to confirming with Julian the day before they were supposed to meet. After the umteenth missed lunch in seemingly as many months, the task was wearing thin.

“Doctor, you are under no obligation to maintain a lunch routine with me,” He’d said with a hint of annoyance. “If you’d rather scale back or take a break from our lunches, seeing as you’re too busy lately…” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to have lunch with you tomorrow, but Miles' shifts have changed to the overnights. He’s only available during the daytime. You understand, don’t you?” 

“I see. Well, of course, Doctor. You enjoy yourselves, ” he’d said politely, the customer service smile he wore long faded as he retreated within his shop.

Garak noticed a subtle distance in Julian’s gaze, the way his smile lacked its usual warmth. With a sinking feeling, it became clear to Garak that Julian believed their connection had faded, and with it any potential for something more. 

And what had he done? Nothing. He just sat there silently and let Julian slip away, telling himself it was mercy, when in truth, it was fear. 

Perhaps “let” wasn’t quite the right choice of words. Julian didn’t belong to him. Surely Garak had never done anything worthy of love from a heart as true as Julian’s. 

Even with all the ways Julian’s presence governed his life—his thoughts, his days, his silences—Garak remained, by design, inaccessible.

In all the ways Julian would have deserved to be treated, he couldn’t reach him.

So he called it mercy.

But it was fear.

As he was about to disintegrate the last bundle, Garak paused, his finger hovering over the touch screen. Staring at him was a remnant piece of navy blue Triaxian silk fabric. Julian’s pajamas.  

“Garak, I’m speechless!” The memory came flooding back as he rolled the scrap between his fingers, nearly as soft as Julian’s cheek had been on his hand several nights before. 

“They’re brilliant! You’re brilliant!” Julian’s exclamation rang in his ears. 

He’d jumped out of his seat and rounded the table to give Garak a hug of appreciation. His chest tightened as he remembered Julian's warmth against him, the sound of his delighted laughter echoing in his mind. 

He would be lying if said he didn’t thrill at the fact that Julian held the embrace a little longer, a bit tighter, than either of them expected.

 Julian’s cheek pressed against his for just a moment as he said, “I love them,” softly and directly into his ear. 

In time, he’d make Julian a thousand more pieces hoping to elicit this reaction alone.

He’d have spent the rest of his life dressing the man in beauty, piece by piece, if it meant Julian might see in himself what Garak had always seen.

“Anything you want, Doctor. Just ask.” Truly anything. He was Julian’s. 

Garak’s gaze lingered on the fabric, a silent question haunting his thoughts. Was it all for nothing? Countless moments he’d shared with Julian pulled at his heart and flooded his thoughts, lingering like ghosts in the corners of his mind, each one a painful reminder of what he lost.

Commander Kira’s voice came over his combadge again. “Ship’s ready, Garak. It’s time to go.”

Garak's hands trembled slightly as he continued to stare at the scrap from Julian's pajamas. He clenched his jaw, fighting back the surge of sentimentality threatening to overwhelm him. Remembering himself, he came back to the task at hand. 

“So it is, Commander. I’m on my way.” He closed his eyes, willing himself to push aside the pain of what could have been and pressed the button. It was all gone. 

The silence of his quarters mocked him—a hollow echo of the void Julian had left. He surveyed the empty room after the final erasure of the scant few last items. All but his best Vitarian wool blanket. He left that where it was. Julian might eventually find it, maybe even keep it, and perhaps think of him from time to time as he lay safe and warm beneath it. 

Steeling himself for the unknown that awaited him beyond the station’s walls, he slung his bag over his shoulder. His stomach lurched at the uncertainty that lay ahead of him. His footsteps faltered as he approached the threshold of his quarters one last time. He took his first step onto the lonely road towards redemption and the door slid closed behind him. 

He did not look back. 

There was only Cardassia, and her people, now.

Chapter Text

Julian stood in his cramped quarters of the Defiant, his eyes fixed upon the worn reflection staring back at him from the cracked mirror. He rubbed the tiredness from beneath his eyes, hoping to lessen the dull ache that pulsed behind them. 

With a frustrated sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair. Slouched with exhaustion, the reflection only accentuated the toll the relentless war had taken on both his body and spirit.

“Nevermind,” he mumbled, determined to carry on with his morning.

He pulled up his posture and braced for the day. If he went now, he could be there and back before anyone would know he'd left. The door’s handle clicked quietly under his touch as he slipped out of his quarters. He was careful not to be seen on his way through the dimly lit corridors 

Upon reaching the shuttle bay, he heard only the soft hum of machinery filling the air. He crept over to the nearest shuttlepod, still careful to remain undetected. He appeared to be alone. 

As he climbed into the pod, he heard someone call out behind him.

“Julian!”

Startled, Julian stumbled as his hand slipped off the hatch door. “Miles! You scared me!” He put his hand to his heart and laughed.

“Jumpy, eh?” Miles joked. “Uh, where are you going?” 

“Um, nowhere. Just heading planet side to get some air really.” Julian stammered, shaking his head innocently, staring wide-eyed with a broad smile across his face.

Miles raised an eyebrow. “Some air. Down there.” He thumbed toward the planet “In that heat?” 

“Well, there’s something I need to take care of. It’s nothing, just a little thing,” he said, pinching his fingers toward each other squinting at the distance between them, his free hand hovering on the door latch once more.

“Yeah, well don’t take too long. I don’t want to spend an extra minute orbiting this rock.” 

“I won’t.” Julian spun around, breathing a sigh of relief, and continued on his way. 

“Say, Julian.” Miles said with a clipped tone and narrowed eyes. “Hang on a minute.” 

Breath held, Julian froze in the doorway and turned back toward him. 

“What do you possibly have to take care of… on Cardassia?” Miles’s eyes rolled as it struck him, “Ah, him.”

“I can’t just leave and not tell him goodbye.” Leaving Garak behind felt like leaving a part of himself, yet he knew it was necessary if he had any hopes of moving on. “I’ll be back soon.” 

Miles’s head dropped in exasperation. “Well, hang on. I can’t just let our Chief Medical Officer go down alone into that.”

“Oh come now, Miles, you can’t be serious. You’re really going to try to stop me…”

“No, I mean I’ll go with you. I feel kind of responsible for putting you on this course with him in the first place.”

“Honestly, you were right,” Julian admitted. “Looking back, I was already long gone by the time you made me say it. You just figured it out before I did.” 

As Miles stood there with arms crossed, Julian sighed and finally waved him to come along. “Alright, get in. We’d better get going.”

Once on Cardassia, Miles entered the coordinates of Garak’s last reported location into the navigational tricorder, directing them to the Founder’s former command center. They followed along through the streets slowly filling with the hushed murmurs of people discussing the daunting task of rebuilding. Miles’s ears strained to pick up on bits and pieces of each group, but most Cardassians carefully muted their conversations as they passed by, bracing for the inevitable post-war Federation occupation of the Cardassian Union. While they were all focused on basic survival, his mind was fixed on Garak. 

“Why didn’t I just tell him, Miles? We had all the time in the world. I was so caught up worrying about my enhancements being exposed. How it’d look to be with a Cardassian. But, you know, I don’t think most people would’ve even given a damn!” Scoffing, he added, "And then Starfleet involved itself with that very same Cardassian!” 

Miles listened.

“What if Garak won’t see me? What if he doesn’t even care?” 

“Julian, he cares.”

The time for regrets had long passed. even if it meant walking away. As they tend to, all things, whether war or peace, good or bad, come to an end. And the time had finally come. He would let Garak go.

They weaved their way through the throngs of Cardassians and Federation forces converging on the decimated city center. “ Hard to believe it’s finally over.” Miles said.

“I know. I figured it was only a matter of time, I just never thought it would really come to this, you know? ‘This is the way the world ends...’” he said, softly trailing off.

“Yeah, it’ll be pretty rough on a lot of people for quite a while.”  Miles agreed. 

Julian kicked up a pile of dust. “I’m not sure who’s going to even notice, really, let alone care either way.” 

“What? Are you mad!” Miles stopped in his tracks. “Julian, look around you! Plus, the whole damn sector’s up for grabs. Literally everyone knows!”

“Of course, the war,” he said, embarrassed.

“Yes, the war! What’d you think…” Miles’s face was sheer disbelief. “Sorry, you thought I meant you and Garak.”

Julian rubbed the tension in his eyes again. “Miles, I think I’m going to take the rest of it from here by myself. I need to clear my head before I see him.”

“Apparently. But one more thing,” Miles handed Julian his tricorder, then grabbed him by the arm and stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Julian. I hope you find whatever you’re hoping to find.” 

A smile crossed Julian’s face as he took Miles’s hand and pulled him in for a hug. The wistful look in his eyes said everything.

Beads of sweat began to rise on his skin as the sun rose higher above the eastern horizon. As he walked, Julian couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread settling over him. The Founders had reduced Cardassia City’s buildings to rubble. 

Streets were strewn with glassy, charred debris crunching underfoot as he walked. An amber haze of dust and dirt hung low and still around the city. The tall, curved spires of the buildings, once an architectural signature of the city’s culture and vibrance, lay in ruins. Now toppled and jagged, they looked more like broken bones poking out of dead animals. 

He whispered the next line of the poem to himself, the words heavy with resignation, “‘This is the way the world ends.’”

Each step he took echoed in the broken silence of the city. The familiar sounds of life were absent, replaced by the haunting clangs of destruction. Occasionally, a rumble reverberated through the air and ground. Perhaps another structure was finally collapsing.

“‘This is the way the world ends.’” Julian blinked back tears as the dust in the air stung his eyes, a painful reminder of the devastation surrounding him.

Seeing it up close for the first time like this made him hyper-aware of how far Cardassia had fallen and how long the climb back up would be. Despite the devastation, a small part of him longed to stay, to cling to the familiarity of this broken world. It wasn’t his home, but it was Garak’s. This is what he would be leaving him behind to deal with. This is where he was leaving Garak. 

“‘Not with a bang, but a whimper,’” Julian’s voice tinged with melancholy. In that moment, they were the only truth he knew. 

Over the past seven years, he’d watched Garak’s seamless transition from an exile and simple tailor, to liberator of worlds, and into the adept leader he was always meant to be. He was finally home and where he belonged. For Garak to be here, helping raise Cardassia up towards a newly reimagined future, was more than either of them could have dreamed. 

This was what Julian had wanted for Garak, wasn’t it? But why did it feel all wrong? He was just being shortsighted and selfish. It wasn’t about him. Not now, not with the planet just shy of complete annihilation.

The tricorder sounded, signaling his destination. Julian wiped the sweat from his palms, unsure if it had been from the sweltering heat, or stress for what was sure to unfold in the coming hours. He made his way through the compound to the Founder’s former briefing room, where Garak was hunched over the center console, scrolling through data, pressing the occasional button. 

Julian stood silently, watching the scene before him with a mix of emotion. Garak appeared completely at ease, as if he had been destined for this new life all along. Yet, beneath his mask of confidence sat layers of unspoken pain that Julian knew all too well. 

Memories flooded his mind, each one a reminder of the burdens Garak had carried in silence: the rejection by his own people, the betrayals of trust by Enabran Tain, and suspicions of countless others back on the station.

As Julian cleared the dust from his throat, Garak looked over towards him. “Doctor, I’m surprised to see you here. How did you find me?”

Julian made his way beside Garak, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I was hoping to…” Reading the screen before them, he trailed off, his stomach dropping. “Eight hundred million dead.” 

“And casualty reports still coming in. Well, aren't you going to congratulate me, Doctor? My exile is now officially over. I've returned home. Or rather, to what's left of it.” 

That was exactly what he should be doing. “Listen, I know that this must seem bleak, Garak…”

“You know, some might say we’ve gotten just what we deserved. After all, we’re not entirely innocent, are we? And I’m not just speaking of the Bajoran occupation. No, our whole history is one of arrogant aggression. We’ve collaborated with the Dominion, betrayed the entire Alpha quadrant. Oh, no, no. No, there's no doubt about it. We are guilty as charged.” His voice edged on a disconnected yet completely focused madness.

“You and I both know that the Cardassians are a strong people. They’ll survive. Cardassia will survive,” Julian offered.

“Oh, please, Doctor, spare me your insufferable Federation optimism, of course it will survive. But not as the Cardassia I knew. We had a rich and ancient culture, art, literature, music, art was second to none. And now, so much of it is lost. So many of our best people, our most gifted minds.”

“I’m sorry, Garak, I didn’t mean…” But his comment sounded clinical, vapid.

“Oh, it’s quite alright, Doctor.” The customer service smile he applied held Julian at a distance. “You’ve been such a good friend. I’m going to miss our lunches together.” 

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” He looked down, couldn't even look him in the eye, couldn’t face the end. It was a whimper in the end, indeed.

“I’d like to think so, but one can never say.” A gentle hand settled on Julian’s shoulder, just as they’d begun. Emotion welled through Julian and his chest seized up. Garak continued, “We live in uncertain times.”

“Garak, wait.” He hadn’t expected to say what he said next. The words surprised even him. Ah, sentimentality. One of his greatest weaknesses, so he’d been told. What if this didn’t have to be the end? “I’ll talk to Captain Sisko. I could stay with you… for a little while. Help get things off the ground.” He shifted his weight awkwardly as he stood there. “For Cardassia.” 

“You can’t stay, Doctor.” 

“I wouldn’t mind.” Though it had been without forethought, it wasn't what he meant to say, or certainly how he’d have meant to say it. 

“Not this time, but your willingness is appreciated,” Garak replied with a tone of gratitude.

"Why not?" Julian's heart sank at Garak's refusal. He did sincerely care about the Cardassians’ welfare. But in truth, he selfishly cared more about missing Garak. “Surely I could help somewhere.”

Garak sighed, his expression twisted in pain. "Julian, you know it's not that simple. Our... association could cause complications, especially in this delicate political climate we find ourselves in.” 

"We're past all that.” Julian's brow furrowed. “Garak, no one cares! No one cared about my genetic enhancements, no one cared about a Cardassian helping the Federation liberate the system. In fact, they’ve been grateful for your work,”  Julian said as Garak’s gaze softened. “Besides, we’d take on whatever challenges came our way together. We could start a new life on Cardassia.”

“Julian,” Garak turned away. “You think you’d be helping. But this isn’t some pristine Federation outpost. Cardassia is a ruin, held together by scaffolding barely holding it up. It’s not a noble cause waiting for a Starfleet savior. It’s a planet still bleeding from its own delusions. There’s no place for you here. You’re meant for something elsewhere. Something purer.”

“Then I’ll leave Starfleet. For this,” his hands, sweeping between them. “For us…”

“Oh, stop it Doctor,” he interrupted, laughing flippantly. 

“I have done good elsewhere. I’ve worked tirelessly to repay my Father’s debts for my enhancements, and then some. It’s my turn to choose now. And there is a place that needs help, and it's here, on Cardassia. With you." 

“And tell me, exactly how long have you been considering leaving your position within Starfleet?” 

“Well, I hadn’t,” Julian admitted, trying to keep eye contact. “Until now.”

Julian knew that leaving Starfleet for Garak would be a mistake the moment he said it, fueled by conflicting emotions and misplaced hope. But as the words came out, he couldn’t ignore their overwhelming pull of his feelings. In Garak, he'd found a home worth fighting for, a future worth pursuing, and a love worth sacrificing everything for.

“Ah, I see. A well thought out plan. Very good, Doctor.” A hint of sadness filled his eyes. “But, I can’t let you do that,” he said as he turned away again. “I have cared for you. Deeply. Perhaps more than I should have at times. And I can't in good conscience let you give up everything you've worked for, your career, your reputation. You continue to have a bright career ahead of you in Starfleet, and I won't be the one to stand in the way of that. The answer is no.” Having believed he’d ended the topic, he turned to walk towards another computer console.

“Garak, listen to me.” He grabbed him by the arm, turning him towards him, their eyes locked. “Whether I stay or go, it's not your decision to make,” he stated, pitch rising sharply.

He stared squarely into Garak’s eyes, frustration evident in his stilted breathing while Garak remained calm. But there was a barely readable look of, what, anger? Expectancy? Desire? 

Bleary-eyed, his heart pounding, he stood there for a moment, holding Garak firmly by the shoulders. This is it. It’s now or never, there are no more ‘tomorrows’ or ‘next times’. No more room for ‘what-if’s’. What is there to lose except what I’ve already lost? It's time to tell him.

His heart felt as if it had sprung a leak, a gentle warmth flooding through him. Julian reached out and caressed Garak’s cool jawline with the backs of his fingers. Gods, he’s beautiful. With each passing second, the warmth eroded a bit more of the wall holding it back. The more desperate he became, the more he felt it crack. He feared he’d be overwhelmed, unable to recover.

Julian gently took Garak’s face in his hands, running his thumb along his chin with a pained expression. A flush spread across Garak’s cheeks, his lips softly parting, and a torrent of emotion swept Julian away. As he leaned in closer, Julian’s eyes fell closed. The warmth of Garak’s breath brushed against his lips, pulling him closer; their lips gently touched. He ached as the softness of Garak’s full lower lip skimmed along his.

Julian kissed him softly. He’d dreamed of this for so long, and it was exhilarating. He was free.

Garak pulled back, gasping for air. “Julian,” he said, a soft plea in his voice, his eyes darting between Julian’s eyes and lips and back again. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I need you," Julian said, his heart racing as he felt he might drown in his desperation. He swallowed hard and a gasp escaped from the tightness of his chest. “And because I love you, Elim.” 

Julian kissed him again. He smelled good and he tasted good, like red leaf tea and longing for more. Grabbing a fist full of Garak’s shirt in each hand, he brought him closer, his body against Julian’s, kissing him deeper. 

The smooth curve of Garak’s lower lip quivered slightly at Julian’s touch as they melted together, their breath mingling in the air between them. As he was washed further down the river, there was only Elim. 

Garak’s breathing hitched as Julian began unfastening his tunic. His mind spinning, struggling to reconcile the Julian who’d prioritized Miles over him for so long, and the Julian who, on a whim, with no forethought, was promising to leave his entire life behind to be with him. His fingers toyed at the zipper of Julian’s uniform, his heartbeat and a million possibilities palpable beneath it. 

Sparks of electricity were sent through Julian’s body at Garak’s touch and a thrill through his groin. He placed a kiss on his darkened neck scales, nearly navy black along the ridges, kissing each one gently, softly, reverently. He felt them coarse and cool against his lips, his cheek against the crook of Garak’s neck. He whispered into his ear, “Tell me you don't love me, Elim,” followed by another kiss. “Tell me you don't want me here.”

Almost breathless with want, he whispered his beloved’s name. “Julian.” With hesitation, his fingers wrapped around Julian’s shoulders and pushed him back. "I don't want you here." 

“I know you don’t mean that.” His voice trembled, betraying his desperation for Garak’s affection. A chill swept over him as they stood facing each other in silence, the tension tightening like a noose around his throat. “You’re lying.”

They had years to speak up, to express anything. Yet, neither did. Julian hadn’t planned to confess his love here. By his own admission, this had been spontaneous, and surely fleeting. The last thing Garak needed now, he tried to convince himself, was a regretful, distracted Julian, vacillating between whichever fascination held his attention next. 

The slow withdrawal of Julian from his life was not something Garak would subject himself to again. Not now, not when he’d need to be more clear thinking than ever. For Cardassia, he told himself. Always, for Cardassia.

Frustrated at his exposed vulnerability, he asked pointedly, “Where did you think things would go with us?” 

“I don’t know, I just…” Julian reeled back from the sharpness, struggling to find the right words.

“You could stay here and have your own little version of a Cardassian happily-ever-after ending like in one of your Terran story books?” His words shredded him as much as they did Julian, each syllable a knife.

“No.” What had Julian been thinking, telling him all this, touching him like that? 

“Ah, then it seems you’ve allowed your imagination to run wild, My dear Doctor.” Smoothing his hands over his hair and down the front of his tunic, he continued to reset himself. Julian watched, feeling a sense of helplessness.

“Your sentiments are indeed flattering, Doctor, though I fear their practicalities do not suit our present circumstances. Let’s not indulge in any further flights of fancy that may only lead to disappointment.” 

Julian recognized this detached mask well, though he couldn’t remember a time he’d seen it worn for him. After all the years they’d shared together. All the time they’d spent investing in each other’s lives. Their countless conversations delving into their philosophies and perspectives on life, culture, and literature, their politics and world views. After all they’d been through together, Julian simply could not reconcile the uncharacteristic nature of the man who stood before him with the one he cared for and loved. How could Garak push him away like this?

There was only one final thing left to say. “Well… then congratulations on your homecoming. I wish Cardassia and you all the best.” 

“And to you as well, Doctor,” Garak said with a courteous nod, his expression betraying none of the turmoil churning within him. Beneath his tone, though carefully masked for Julian’s ultimate benefit as much as for his own, lay total resignation of his unwavering dedication for Cardassia and the Greater Good. 

With seeming ease, he turned and exited the room, leaving Julian, and all the impracticalities that would come along with him, standing in stunned silence.

Miles stood watchfully over the shuttle pod waiting for Julian’s return. Julian had been gone awhile, much longer than he’d anticipated when he’d agreed to let Julian go off without him. Through a haze of dust, Miles had watched figure after figure materialize as it neared, but there was still no Julian. The worry was beginning to be enough that he was about to message the Defiant for assistance. Still hopeful, he watched as another figure broke through the dust, tall and slim. Thankful to finally see Julian approaching him safely and in one piece, he waved and called out, “Took you long enough!” But the closer Julian came, the more Miles' relieved smile faded to uncertainty. 

Julian walked up towards an increasingly concerned Miles. He acknowledged Miles’ worried look with a pinched smile. “It’s all done. I'm ready to go home,” Julian continued on past him and up into the shuttle pod, Miles closely behind.

Chapter Text

Jules Bashir loved looking up into the night sky. He loved hearing bedtime tales about the fearless Captain Jonathan Archer and his mighty crew of the NX-01. All that excitement out in the galaxy just waiting to be discovered. 

Some nights, long after his parents had retired for the night, he’d climb down from his bed and tiptoe to the window, easing it open with a quiet creak. Elbows on the sill, chin cradled in small hands, he gazed at the stars dreaming of adventures in the vast unknown. He was captivated by the starships floating along in their geosynchronous orbits. “One day,” he whispered to himself, “I’ll explore the stars just like Captain Archer.”

Where would he one day travel? What alien species would he encounter? What mysteries might he uncover? Ad Astra per Aspera, the helmeted astronaut on poster above his bed proclaimed, pointing heroically towards the sky. He knew when he grew up, he’d join Starfleet and it could all be his, too.

Even at such a young age, he would pour countless hours into any picture books he could get his hands on about the Solar System or children’s books of illustrations and schematics of the various ship classes. In school, Jules was captivated by pictures in his teacher’s lessons of space. The other children quickly caught on to the increasingly complex material while he stumbled over the most basic concepts, falling further and further behind.

Federation-themed trading card games were an endless source of entertainment for him and his classmates. They pitted Romulans against Klingons, Warbirds against Constellation class starships. Triphasic emitters against disruptors. Every child had memorized the details of each ship, weapon, and species from the series. All of them but little Jules Bashir.

Things at home weren’t much easier, either. The more difficult things became at school, the more his parents fought. He’d hear them yelling when they thought he wasn’t around. They yelled about him. Sometimes, things would get broken. One time, his father even yelled at his teacher.

Richard and Amsha’s hearts ached for their little boy’s pain. But, they could “make things right,” his father hushedly told his mother. “There is a way.” 

One night after supper, as his year two of school began winding down, something remarkable happened. While his mother cleared the table, his father gave him some exciting news.

“Jules, we have a big birthday surprise for you!”

“Silly Daddy,” Jules giggled. “It’s not my birthday!” 

“Your mother and I have planned the trip of a lifetime for you! One your classmates could never be so lucky to take!” Richard announced with a grin, glancing at Amsha before turning back to an eager Jules. “How’d you fancy meeting some real aliens this summer holiday? Just like the ones in your games?”

Jules’ eyes lit up as he turned to his mother, his excitement palpable. He wouldn’t have recognized her expression, but behind her smile was a hint of strain, her arms tensing against the kitchen counter.

Jules hopped out of his chair and shot over to his mother, bowling her over with a hug. “Really, Mummy, really?” She dropped to her knees, embracing her little boy. She brushed his hair from his face and kissed his cheeks. Her watery eyes held firm on Richard.  

It had indeed been an adventure, his birthday trip, dotted with sports and even a little school work while he was there. “Why did you sign me up for these little kid classes, though,” he asked his father who laughed with amused pride. The shuttle trip had been a highlight, especially the moment when he got to sit in the captain’s chair on the way home. In the stillness before bed each night, he lay cradled in his mother’s arms, watching the stars streak by.

“Look at all those stars, Jules,” she whispered to him.

“They're all so much shinier up here!”

“I know, Baby. And they’re shining just for you. It’s all going to be yours. Name anything you want, Jules, anything at all, and it's yours.” 

After a summer unlike any other, the Bashir’s moved house and Jules began the school year in a new town and a new school. Still, he braced himself for another difficult year as the token source of ridicule for a whole new set of children. But like fog lifting, things had become clearer. How had he never realized how juvenile his school lessons were? Before too long, the children at this new school were coming to him for gaming strategies. Suddenly Jules was the one with the answers. The world was indeed becoming his, anything he wanted. 

At age fifteen, the world ground to a halt as devastatingly as it was unexpected. Jules’s heart had raced as he read the invitation to the youth tennis summer training, a grin still spread across his face. He couldn’t sit still, his mind buzzing with anticipation. He rifled through his family’s document files, flipping through the papers looking for his birth certificate and Federation passport. He found an envelope marked, “Bashir, Richard and Amsha, re: Bashir, J.S.

He neatly ran his finger under its flap and withdrew its contents. Excitement turned to dread as he read the document, realization dawning. His heart pounded with a mixture of anger and disbelief as he stared at the document in his hands. Just when Jules thought he knew everything, here it was in black and white; answers to the one question he’d never thought to ask.

 “Adigeon Prime Institute of Life Enhancement” dated 29493.08898. He effortlessly converted the date into Standard. That made it 29th June, 2352; Exactly two months before his seventh birthday. The same summer as his “birthday trip of a lifetime”.

Richard and Amsha looked up as a shadow fell over them from behind. Papers in hand, Jules glared at them with dull eyes. They nervously exchanged glances as he confronted them with the truth. 

“We did it because we love you,” his mother pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. 

Each passing day made it increasingly difficult for Jules to meet his parents’ gaze without feeling a surge of resentment. Their once close-knit bond seemed to fray with every exchanged glance, just as the duality of his existence widened. Regardless of whether he remained the nothingness he was before his parents ‘fixed’ him or the fraud he felt he had become, he knew he’d never be enough. Nothing of him remained but the hollow shell of his name.

As he stepped into this new beginning, no longer as Jules but as Julian, he was driven by an obligation to repay a debt he never was to owe. Quietly, he dedicated his life’s work to rectifying his parents’ wrongs. Despite the burden of the lie forced upon him, it was his deepest shame. He sought redemption the only way he knew how. The memory of that young ten year old girl he’d seen die from lack of medical care years earlier remained a driving force in his life. He knew that he was exactly where he was meant to be – making a difference in the lives of those in need.

After suppressing his intelligence for years, he finally muted his abilities one last time and threw his final Starfleet Academy exam. He graduated second in his class and was offered his pick of postings. He finally gained a true sense of purpose and fulfillment, able to make a difference in lives anywhere he went. He refused to be shackled by that truth any longer. 

Whether stitching wounds or administering medication, his dedication was evident in every precise movement and comforting word spoken to those under his care. Julian felt a renewed sense of purpose with every life he touched and ailment he healed. Among those who needed him most was where he belonged. He would save others, even if he couldn't save himself.

Chapter Text

Julian stirred in his sleep. Blinking, he shifted beneath the covers and stretched, long and slow. The time glowed quietly on the bedside console. He turned his face into the pillow and let his eyes fall shut again.

In the quiet space between waking and dreaming, he half-registered the soft hum of the ventilation above. A rhythmic hush that reminded him of waves.

It carried him back to a familiar memory: breezy days at the beach from his childhood. Or maybe it was a dream. Or something in between.

He was lying on warm sand. The sea rolled in and out in slow pulses, each wave tracing its arc before retreating. The sky stretched pale and wide, two suns crossing paths through a high pink haze. Dune grasses stirred in the wind. The horizon shimmered.

He wondered how he’d never noticed the rings before.

A hand slipped into his, fingers lacing gently through his own.

“You were always enough, Julian,” a voice murmured.

Warm breath brushed his ear.

He turned his head and found Garak beside him, cheek cool against his own. Julian lifted a hand to his face, tracing the familiar contours—brow, cheek, the ridge of his jaw. His palm drifted down the nape of Garak’s neck, fingers curling into his hair as he drew him closer.

Their lips met, slow and unhurried.

Garak’s body settled against his, the weight of him a welcome anchor. With every touch, the world around them blurred a little more, until nothing remained but the gentle roll of waves, the warmth of skin, and the quiet ache of something longed for and finally found.

Nothing else mattered. Not here. Not now. In this soft world of dream and salt air, only they existed.

“Tell me, Elim,” Julian whispered.

Another kiss. And another. Each one steadier. Deeper.

Garak’s voice, when it came, was barely above a breath. “You know I do.”

Julian’s eyes fluttered closed. “Say it.”

A pause. Then:

“It’s only ever been you, Julian.”

His PADD beeped from the table beside him, cruelly wrenching him from the warmth of the dream.

Julian rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced at the time: 04:55. Still half an hour before he needed to be up. Whatever it was could wait. 

He turned onto his side, pulled the blanket close, and buried his face in the pillow, chasing the last of the dream’s warmth and the hush of imagined waves. The press of Garak’s body beside his.

There was no urgency. Mornings were always the same now.

Since Garak’s departure, each day had taken on the weight of repetition. A quick shower, and a solitary breakfast, which usually consisted of replicated eggs, strawberry jam on wheat toast, and a raktajino. 

Then the infirmary: a steady churn of checkups and fielding requests, and assisting in the slow handover of medical authority back to the Bajoran staff.

Julian threw himself into it, as if the busyness might spare him from thought.

Lunch, if remembered at all, was usually eaten standing, wedged between consultations.

Most of his friends had gone. Their lives had taken new shapes, ones that no longer included this station. Or him.

Evenings were quieter. He spent them in the lab, where hours might slip away. He’d linger over research, or update records long past when he should have stopped. It was easier that way. To keep moving. To not feel the stillness.

Sometimes, he had dinner with Ezri Dax. Her presence, her lightness was easy, familiar, giving a much-needed distraction from his troubles. They’d had their moment, brief, bright, and already gone. 

What remained was a gentle friendship, unthreatening in its simplicity. She made him laugh. He was grateful for that.

Then he’d return to his quarters. Maybe read a while. Then sleep.

The routine dulled the edge. As weeks passed into months, it even felt like he’d made progress. The hurt had thinned into something quieter. Manageable. 

Almost.  

This was the life he’d chosen for himself, after all.

Once, he’d told Miles about Palis Delon—the ballerina he’d once called his “perfect woman.” The way they’d been crazy about each other during medical school. How close he’d come to leaving Starfleet when her father offered him a position at a top medical complex in Paris, promising he’d be chief of surgery within five years.

He’d nearly taken it.

He used to wake up in the middle of the night, wondering if he’d ever find anyone that wonderful again.

He had.

And this time, he hadn’t just been willing—he’d been ready to give it all up.

Garak had turned him down.

It beeped again.

He groaned, reached for it without lifting his head, one hand groping across the nightstand, one eye squinting against the light of the screen.

The soft glow cut through the dark around him, too bright, too sudden. For a moment, he didn’t move. Just let his eyes adjust. 

Then—

Oh. 

Oh, gods no.

Julian sat bolt upright, breath catching. The PADD glowed, clutched in his hands, its brightness throwing soft shadows across the walls.

The message blinked. Waiting.

His fingers trembled as he scrolled, heart thudding with a rising hope edged in dread.

The blanket slipped from his shoulders. He caught it without thinking.

Vitarian wool. Pale gray. Still faintly scented with Garak.

The only thing he’d left behind.

Julian stared at it, fingers gripping the thick weave. It had been folded on Garak’s couch when he’d gone back to his quarters. Untouched. Just as he’d left it.

Just as he had left Julian.

Hunched over the screen, he began reading.

Doctor Bashir,

I hope this message finds you well. Forgive my silence these many months, a regrettable lapse on my part for which I extend my sincerest apologies. Your absence has been conspicuous, to say the least.

Julian’s breath caught. After all this time… Could it be that Garak was writing to say he missed him? 

Memories stirred, unbidden. The glint in Garak’s eyes when they’d argued for the joy of it. The warmth of his hands on Julian’s shoulders. The quiet, improbable tenderness that had surfaced between them in rare, private moments. 

Julian had tried to put it behind him. He’d tried to believe it hadn’t meant what he’d hoped. But here it was again, rising through him like breath held too long.

His heart clenched with a familiar ache.

The scale of destruction is beyond comprehension, but amidst the remnants of what was once the vibrant heart of Cardassia City, I am reminded of the resilience of my people—their unyielding determination to rebuild from the ashes. It is a testament to the indomitable spirit of Cardassia, a spirit I am proud to serve.

Progress here has been slow. Agonizingly so. 

The task before us is daunting, to be sure. Generations of work lie ahead. 

If one thinks cutting through bureaucratic red tape is a slow process, they’ve not considered the process of designing the bureaucracy from which such tape might one day be cut…

Julian’s eyes skimmed ahead. He couldn’t focus on political reorganization or infrastructure reports. Not when his chest was tight with the hope that somewhere in these lines, Garak might reach back toward him. Might say what he hadn’t before.

Aid is urgently required in the south and I’ll soon be departing for Lakarian City.

Julian sat up straighter.

This was it. A chance. A reason. A place where he might be needed. Maybe even wanted.

His heart leapt at the possibility, breath quickening. Was this an opening? An invitation to join Garak on Cardassia? 

Julian’s yearning swelled, quiet but relentless. It had never really faded. It had only tucked itself away, buried beneath routine and duty and the hollow stretch of days without him. 

Since Garak’s departure, he’d carried it like a phantom limb. A dull, constant sense of absence. Of something once vital now gone.

He missed him. Fiercely.

Not just the idea of him, or the comfort of his voice, but the weight of Garak’s hand resting on his shoulder. The way his gaze softened when no one else was watching. The rare, unguarded moments that had made Julian feel, if only briefly, chosen.

His eyes fluttered shut. He could still feel the press of Garak’s lips against his own. The warmth of his body. The shape of him beside him in the dark.

It hadn’t been so long ago. Not really.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the thought of being by his side didn’t hurt.

It gave him hope.

But your correspondence to me would still best be sent to the offices of the Ministry of Information and State Security in Cardassia City.

Julian’s eyes widened. The words blurred on the screen. He blinked, once, twice, trying to make sense of what he was reading.

“Correspondence.”  

He said the word aloud, voice flat with disbelief. His grip tightened on the PADD until his knuckles whitened. The gentleness from earlier was gone. In its place: confusion, resentment, the slow crawl of anger.

Garak hadn’t just sent him a message. He’d sent an address. A redirect. A formality.

It pulled him back to those last bitter words: Julian, I don’t want you.

Not, No thank you, you are needed on the station.

Or, This is a matter for Cardassians to learn from.

He had said pointedly, I don’t want you.

Cruel. Deliberate.

Julian stared at the closing line, jaw tight.

I look forward to hearing from you.

—E. Garak

That was it.

 He let the PADD fall, landing with a dull thud on a heap of unrecycled uniforms. The silence that followed felt louder than anything Garak had written.

What had he expected? A confession? A change of heart?

No. Not after everything. Not from a man who could write “ I look forward to hearing from you,” and sign it like an afterthought.

Julian sat motionless for a moment, the sting spreading low and slow through his chest. All he’d ever wanted was to be of use, to help Cardassia, and maybe, if he was honest, to be wanted in return. Not for his skills. Not for what he could offer. Just… for himself.

For Julian.

And instead, Garak had offered bureaucracy. A polite deflection, neatly wrapped in a formal tone and forwarded to an office that would lose the message long before Garak ever read it.

His fingers clenched into the Vitarian wool still pooled across his lap.

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken it so personally. Maybe Garak was just protecting himself. Maybe the world was still burning and this wasn’t the time.

But he had taken it personally. Because it was personal. Because no matter how many times he reminded himself of Garak’s silences, his evasions, his half-truths—he still felt it. He always had.

And now it hurt. 

Again.

“Damn him,” Julian whispered, his voice hoarse.

He sat still a moment longer, then swung his legs off the bed and rose. The day would come whether he was ready or not. Whether Garak wanted him or not.

He dressed in silence, the weight still sitting in his chest.

Outside, the station was already stirring.

***

The weeks blurred past, each one folding quietly into the next. Garak’s letter had been relegated to the back of Julian’s mind where he’d filed other half-closed wounds. Just as he had nearly stopped thinking about it altogether, a second message arrived.

Doctor Bashir—

Lakarian City is unimaginable. Even the gravest warnings could not prepare me.

Two million dead in a matter of seconds. Simply… gone.

Just gone. Oh, their bodies are here, Doctor, of that we are all acutely aware. The stench of death is an unwavering companion these days. 

It’s grueling work, but work that must be done.

I am pleased to hear you’ve found Ezri Dax a suitable dining companion in my absence. She is a lovely girl, isn’t she, Doctor?

—Garak

Julian read the message twice, his eyes catching not on the horror, but on the final, maddening flourish. That line about Ezri. Light, offhand, needling. He had no idea who told him. The idea that Garak might be keeping tabs left a cold twist in his gut.

What right did he have? After everything.

Still, his focus returned to the beginning.

Two million. In one city.

Images of Cardassia City came flooding back. The rubble. The unnatural silence. The shattered streets where once there had been precision and pride. But even those memories paled. Lakarian had been worse. Much worse. Two million people and the entire city annihilated in a matter of seconds. 

He imagined families vaporized before they could reach shelter. Infants buried in collapsed homes. Streets lined with the unburied dead. A shiver ran through him. He could not, and did not, envision the rest.

He thought of the last death toll he’d heard—eight hundred and five million lost across the planet. An entire civilization hollowed out.

For once, he was grateful he hadn’t stayed behind. Grateful to have missed it. And ashamed of that gratitude.

His communicator chirped softly from somewhere beneath the pile of clothes on the floor.

“Colonel Kira to Doctor Bashir.”

He exhaled sharply and dug through the pile, wishing it would chirp again. “Ah! There you are, you little bastard!” He grabbed it up and answered. “Yes? Bashir here.”

“Doctor, when you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you.”

“I’m free now. I’m on my way.” 

“Good. I’ll see you shortly.”

He stared at the communicator a moment longer than necessary. Kira rarely called for him directly these days. Still, he welcomed the interruption. Anything was better than the slow crawl of the days that had lately become his life.

The station felt quieter than ever. With the O’Briens gone to Earth, Ezri drifting into a gentler sort of friendship, and Sisko still lost to the Prophets, the core of his world had thinned. Jake and Kassidy had departed not long after. The gentle rituals of daily life now passed in quiet.

But peace could feel like pressure. And Julian, left alone with the aftershocks of too much hope and not enough closure, had learned to carry it badly.

He arrived at Kira’s office and rang the chime. Her voice called out, and the door slid open.

“Doctor! Come in.” She looked up from her desk with a polite smile that didn’t quite hide the fatigue in her face.

“Colonel,” he nodded with a smile.

“Sit down, please,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her.

He lowered himself into it.

“What can I do for you today, Colonel?”

“I’ve just received an update from Starfleet Central Command,” she said, leaning back.

 The Federation has continued their involvement with the restructuring of Cardassia and is watching every detail very closely, obviously. 

“I would imagine so, yes.”

“They’re expanding their efforts on Cardassia. With the system so unstable, the Federation sees a chance to establish a more permanent presence on the planet.”

Kira explained, unlacing her fingers and leaning back in her chair to cross her arms.

Julian tilted his head, brow furrowed. “I take it this involves me.”

“It does,” she said. “Resources are stretched. Starfleet’s ordered all non-essential personnel in the Bajoran system to prepare for reassignment to the Cardassian front.”

“Non-essential,” Julian repeated, voice light but pointed. “I hadn’t realized I’d been downgraded.”

Kira smiled faintly. “You haven’t. But things have changed. The station’s refocusing its mission on Bajor. Medicine isn’t central to that right now.”

He didn’t argue. 

Kira was right. Even he’d come to terms that he wasn’t the key figure he’d once been and had become a redundancy in the infirmary.

He could barely remember the last true emergency. If he was honest, he hadn’t felt necessary in months.

“I did what I could,” Kira continued. “They agreed to keep you here on a consulting basis. You’ll still report to DS9 between rotations. But your primary fieldwork will be on Cardassia.”

He couldn’t come up with a reason to stay and avoid relocating to the one place he wasn’t wanted. Anxiety began to well. He didn’t want Garak thinking he’d be coming by choice. Garak would undoubtedly know he was there. 

He nodded once. “How long until it begins?”

“Two weeks. Maybe less.”

“And how long will I be stationed there?”

“A month or two at a time, depending on the need. Then back here, briefly. It’ll be a cycle. It was the best I could manage, Julian.”

Julian sat back, absorbing the weight of it.

“What exactly will they want from me?”

“Anything you can offer. The situation’s worse than most know. Soil contamination. No replicators. People starving. There’s no infrastructure left. Basic medical care is all but nonexistent. You’ll be joining a provisional team already on the ground.”

He took a slow breath. “I’ll be ready.”

Kira’s gaze softened. “Julian. This really could be a once-in-a-generation opportunity to bridge the divide between Bajor and Cardassia. Not just for the sector, but for the entire quadrant. A chance to change things. But you need to go into this clear-headed.”

He looked at her, sensing the shift.

“I mean it,” she said. “Whatever happened between you and Garak, or still happening, you have to set it aside.”

He paused, then smiled thinly. “With respect, Colonel, there’s nothing happening between us.”

“There can’t be.”

“I understand.” His voice was calm, but brittle. “My focus is the mission. Always has been. Always will be.”

Kira raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t entirely convincing.”

He shrugged, playing at lightness. “A tragic tale of unrequited love between a dashing Starfleet doctor and a mysterious Cardassian tailor.” His tone was mock melodrama. “I suppose it’s not quite the sweeping romance I’d hope for, though. Garak’s loss, really.”

She allowed the joke to land, but didn’t follow. “Julian, I’m serious.”

“I know. And I assure you, there’s no issue.”

He wondered how much she knew about what happened on Cardassia. Or had guessed. Her words struck too close to home.

He had no intention of contacting Garak. He would hit the ground running.

“I believe you,” she said at last. 

“And for what it’s worth, I meant what I said. You’re going to make a big difference, Julian. You’re the right person for this. You always have been. 

“You were born to make the lives of everyone you meet better and happier. Through it all, you’ve never let things hold you down. I admire that about you.”

Julian looked down, suddenly shy beneath the praise. “Thank you, Colonel. I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.”

He left her office with a steady stride, but the moment the doors closed behind him, unease curled low in his stomach.

It wasn’t the assignment that troubled him. It was the gnawing and inescapable certainty that Garak would know he was coming. And worse, that Garak might assume he was coming for him.

Julian clenched his jaw. No. He wouldn’t give him that.

He’d show up. He’d do his work. He’d make a difference in the ruins of a broken world. He would save lives. And if he crossed paths with Garak again, so be it.

But he would not look back.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

Julian gathered the last of his necessities into a few neat piles in preparation for his departure to Cardassia. Once there, replication wouldn’t be an option. Packing every last thing wasn’t something he was accustomed to, so he’d taken extra care in checking his many lists of items. Extra jumpsuits, lab coats, and gloves. Even personal items such as a toothbrush and toothpaste. 

He’d need to bring all of it with him, along with any supplies he managed to scrape together from around the sector. Those were already down in the shipping dock, patiently waiting for him. 

Pulling out his travel bag from beneath his bed, he uncovered a compact storage box. It had been a while since he last looked inside. Removing the lid, he eyed and sorted through the various treasures he’d deemed important enough to save over the years, each holding memories dear to his heart.

On top sat a napkin from Quark’s, a memento from one of his first nights on DS9 when he met Jadzia for drinks. She’d made a little caricature of him from the ring mark her glass of blood wine had left on it. According to her, the droplets along the ring looked like his nose. He felt glad he had saved that one.

Among the items was also the small ripped half of the springball betting card from the fixed game against Miles. Quark was fit to be tied when they’d refused to continue the matches, relishing the chance to deny the Ferengi that gain.

Unfolding a white piece of paper revealed a crayon colored picture from Molly of the two of them holding hands. Seeing her little red smile made him miss her all over again.

Beyond the picture lay a bundle of holonovel isolinear rods. Each one a reminder of the years shared with Garak. All tied together in a thin blue bow with a tiny spot of blood from where he’d cut himself, hurriedly untying the rod the time he thought Garak had gone missing. He kept those in the box, only looking at them. Among them was the first rod he’d ever received from Garak, taken so cautiously from the Cardassian’s outstretched hand, feeling the cool fingertips grazing against his. He’d sounded so stupid when he had initially commented on the title of The Never-Ending Sacrifice.

But what if he hadn’t seemed so genuinely innocent? His boyish charm of long ago that Garak had routinely teased him about. Would Garak not have been compelled to have pursued their cat and mouse game of book club? It happened the only way it could have, he supposed. And he was glad it had happened at all, even considering…

With everything back in the box and the lid closed, he sighed and pushed it back under his bed for safekeeping until next time. Grabbing the travel bag, he hastily packed the remaining few bits. One last glance around the room confirmed he hadn’t missed anything. 

Seeing his mostly empty room, a sense of disconnection gnawed at him. DS9 had become more than just a station—it had been his home, a place where he felt a sense of belonging he hadn’t experienced since, well, as long as he could remember. But now, as he prepared to leave it all behind, and even though he knew his departure was temporary, he realized that any sense of permanence he once felt had already faded away.

As he zipped up his bag, Julian once again had the feeling of being set adrift, untethered from the sense of belonging he had found on the station. But deep down, he knew that life was about embracing change and uncertainty, understanding that wherever he ended up, DS9 had been a good home.

Tossing the bag’s strap over his shoulder, a slight tug drew his attention to the blanket on his bed, its fringe caught on the zipper. A certain blanket of Garak’s lay neatly across the foot of his bed. 

“Oh for the love of the gods. Absolutely not. You are not coming with me.” he muttered to himself, frustration and nostalgia warring within him as he untangled it from the zipper, letting the blanket’s corner drift to the floor. His hand faltered slightly as he hesitated, his eyes lingering on the blanket. A flood of memories washed over him.

“You old fool,” he chided himself, sentimentality winning against practicality. With a resigned sigh, he unzipped the bag, removed one of the lab coats, and made room for the blanket too. 

A little stuffed brown bear looked down at him from his shelf with heavy black button eyes silently pleading to join him on his journey.

“Sorry, Kukalaka. Non-essential personnel only. You’re needed here, old friend.”

He did not seem to agree.

“It’s nothing personal. I’ll be back before you know it.”

With that, he shouldered his bag and was off to save another world, leaving Kukalaka alone once again.

Julian’s arrival on Cardassia began with a descent through crimson clouds, the star-filled void giving way to the war-scarred terrain below. The landscape emerged in fragments. Rugged and battered cities were slowly rebuilding and beginning to heal.

At the spaceport outside Cardassia City, Julian stepped into a flurry of activity, already a marked change from the grim silence he remembered.

Cargo shuttles buzzed overhead, while Cardassian workers worked with quiet urgency. The air was red dust and determination with Cardassian resilience made tangible.

With his bag slung over his shoulder, Julian weaved his way through the busy spaceport, his eyes drawn to the skeletal frames of destroyed buildings looming in the distance. Each step brought him closer to his destination, his anticipatory excitement mixed with a helpless dread for the tasks ahead.

Julian had been assigned to the MHRR—Ministry of Health Resources and Redevelopment. He had some expectations not just from Starfleet communiques, but Garak’s letters. 

The provisional government, in its early stages, focused on reallocating resources crucial for the systems’ recovery. Julian expected his assignment in medical redevelopment outside Cardassia City, but the name of his new colleague came as a surprise.

He’d heard a few stories about a mysterious Doctor Kelas Parmak. Stories painted a vague picture, but one thing was clear: Parmak and Garak had history. 

Julian knew Garak had once tortured Parmak with a single, unwavering stare, like a serpent waiting to strike. Having been prior acquaintances, Parmak knew Garak’s reputation well and the lengths he’d gone to to break stronger men. Parmak hadn’t been willing to live that. 

If Julian guessed Parmak had loved Garak once, he’d know half the story. The other half being that Garak had been in love with him too. And who could blame him? Besides a reputation of gentle altruism, Parmak had an undeniably fragile beauty, with a fine bone structure and a long, slender neck that tapered into graceful ridges. In the heat of the planet’s summer, his low cut tunic necklines made them look all the more delicate.

His arrival was early that first morning. Outside, rubble littered the streets as construction clanged with a loud reminder of Cardassia’s devastation. Inside, it was eerily quiet; perhaps no one was in yet, he wondered. 

He stepped into the makeshift clinic, dim lights casting shadows over the worn-out equipment. Cracks spiderwebbed across the walls like old scars, and the faint scent of disinfectant barely masked the musty odor of neglect. 

Their meeting was informal, reflecting the lack of organization. 

“Doctor Bashir?” A kindly smile crossed the face of his Cardassian counterpart who had entered through a back doorway.

“Yes, hello! You must be Doctor Parmak.” Julian extended his hand out of habit, then paused, uncertain how the gesture would be interpreted. He withdrew it, opting for a polite nod instead.

“Indeed, I am! Welcome, Doctor Bashir,” Kelas said, extending his hand. “But please, call me Kelas. No formalities here.”

“Well, Kelas, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. And likewise, just Julian.”

“Alright, Julian.” His smile was gentle. Julian could see why Garak had fallen for him.

“I understand you were handpicked for your role by the head of the MHRR. You must have made quite an impression with your past accomplishments.”

“I do what I can,” Kelas replied with a modest smile. “It’s been challenging, to put it mildly, especially with the limited resources available. But come, let me show you around.” He motioned for Julian to follow him.

Julian’s eyes widened at the sight of bare shelves and outdated equipment. Only a few exam rooms were present, and even those were sparsely stocked. Though he had braced himself for limited resources, the stark emptiness still caught him off guard.

“Originally, this was a small storehouse. We’ve had to adapt. It’s not much, but we do what we can with what we have.”

Julian ran his fingers over a repair in a cracked examination table. “You’ve certainly done a remarkable job with what you have,”  he said, genuine admiration softening his voice. 

The way the place was pieced together, he couldn’t be sure how long it had taken. With all the work he assumed Kelas had put into making it functional, he didn’t dare ask.

Walking through the clinic, Julian couldn’t help comparing it to the well-stocked, pristine facilities he was accustomed to. The contrast was striking. The thought of Kelas and his team struggling daily made his own achievements feel trivial. Another reminder of the privileged position he often took for granted.

“The staff here are dedicated, but we’re stretched thin. ” Kelas’s shoulders slumped slightly as he spoke, his voice edged with the fatigue of long nights and endless challenges. “So what have you been told about our current standings?”

“I understand the third group of medical students just returned from their training on Andoria. Sounds like there’s quite a system in place,” Julian replied.

“Recruiting medical students is challenging. Many are torn between family and duty. But, yes, for the ones who do decide to continue in service, the off-world training has made all the difference. We’re simply without the resources to educate. Despite Cardassia’s past, thankfully others see value in rebuilding a stable new Cardassia,” Kelas said.

“Well, the new relationships and knowledge to be shared will benefit everyone. I’m eager to learn and contribute in any way that I can,” Julian promised, his tone sincere.

After more chatting about the current state of affairs, Kelas concluded. “Well, that’s about the long and the short of it,” he smiled. Kelas led Julian towards the exit of the clinic. “I imagine you’ll appreciate the chance to settle in and recharge.” He paused, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks. “Julian, I assume you were told you’ll be staying at my house?”

“Yes, they did,” Julian gave a reassuring laugh. “I hope I’m not an imposition.”

“Not at all, Julian! It’ll just be temporary until we are able to find you something more suitable, and perhaps more comfortable.” He looked apologetic. “I’ve got a room all set for you, though it’s pretty bare.” 

He paused. 

“But, it’s my pleasure, honestly. The truth is, I hope I don’t impose on you! It’s been a while since I’ve had company in the evenings.” Kelas’s eyes were warm as he smiled. A spark of optimism flashed in Julian, that despite the hardships, there was life here.

“It’s very gracious of you. It’ll be good to have a friend here.” Julian already felt a sense of ease from Kelas’s laidback, talkative nature.

Outside, Julian noticed that amidst the desolation of the clinic, a solitary flower pushed through a crack in the concrete walkway, its vibrant petals a stark contrast to the surrounding decay. Julian couldn’t help but marvel at its resilience, seeing in it a reflection of his own determination to make a difference in this war-torn world. In that fragile, simple flower, he found hope remained for them still.

It wasn’t a long walk to Kelas's house from their clinic. Since the sun had already set, Julian asked if they could take the long way back to acquaint himself with the area. Despite the cooling evening, heat radiated from the ground as they walked through the surrounding streets.

As they walked, Julian saw the city’s ongoing rebuilding efforts visible everywhere he looked. Shops and local markets, though still empty, showed signs of life as people continued working late, clearing away wreckage and debris. The road they followed passed through small neighborhoods of modest homes, each bearing some number of scars in testament to Cardassia’s tumultuous past.

“This section of the city flourished before the technological boom,” Kelas explained. “But then the later generations were drawn to the bigger city centers. Funny, it’s turned out to be a blessing for this area that it never built up more. The Jem’Hadar may have bombed Cardassia to within an inch of her life, but they left these outskirts unharmed, relatively speaking, thanks in no small part to our less developed infrastructure.”

Julian nodded, taking in the surroundings with newfound interest. “I noticed the damage was less severe here.”

After about a Standard hour, their walk eventually led them out of the valley and to Kelas’s modest, pre-prosperity era house. Its pale stucco-like exterior blended seamlessly with the surrounding landscape, designed to buffer the planet’s intense heat and humidity.

“It’s not much to look at anymore,” Kelas said regretfully, “but I hope you’ll find it adequate”

Julian smiled and replied, “It’s perfect!”

The air had finally cooled off significantly as Julian continued to settle into his new living space that evening. Julian sat on his bed, reading over some of the documents he’d been given earlier. He heard Kelas knock softly on the wall beside the curtain that served as the bedroom door.

“Care to join me on the porch for a night cap of a red kanar?”

“That sounds lovely, thank you!” Julian set the papers aside, zipped his suit up a bit, and followed Kelas to the living space.

“I found one stashed away a while back,” Kelas added.

“I appreciate you making me feel so at home here, truly.”

“I figure your first night here is as special an occasion as anything, let’s indulge a bit. Grab two glasses?” Kelas walked off into the kitchen. “They’re in the cabinet around the corner from the door, the clear ones.”

As Julian looked around, still familiarizing himself with the place, Kelas continued speaking. “I’ll open the bottle and find a chair for you. I usually just need the one.”

The house was small and easy to navigate Julian easily found the glasses. Things were sparse, yet warm and comfortably lived-in, so unlike the cool starkness of Garak's quarters. 

Outside, the porch was bathed in the warm glow of flickering lanterns, their shadows swaying with each passing gust of wind. Julian found Kelas waiting for him, his smile heartbreakingly easy as ever. Returning it shyly, Julian handed Kelas the glasses, their fingers brushing. 

“Don’t give me too much, I’m still getting used to the time difference.” 

“Of course. Some for tomorrow then, too!” 

As they settled into their chairs, Julian found himself acutely aware of Kelas's presence beside him. He continued to be drawn in by his calm nature; the way his hand absentmindedly traced patterns on the arm of his chair, the subtle shift of his body as he leaned in closer. Julian felt the nervous anticipation he’d been holding all day begin to relax. 

A canopy of stars twinkled beyond the lanterns overhead as Julian leaned back further into his chair, the wooden frame creaking softly beneath him. He breathed in the scent of the night air, light with the aroma of freshly renewing greenery.

Kelas raised his glass. “To you, Julian.”

“And to new beginnings,” Julian added. He raised his glass with a renewed sense of optimism.

Chapter Text

Kelas and Julian set out just before dawn that next morning, Kelas hoping to beat the heat for Julian’s sake. As they walked, the sky brightened into an orange glow, the sun’s rays beginning to overpower the soft light of the two moons.

Making their way deeper into the city, Julian couldn’t help but notice that the number of damaged buildings far exceeded the intact ones. It had been so long since he’d last been on Cardassia, but still so little had changed. As he took in the landscape, he was overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the work that lay ahead. 

Around one corner, he saw what looked to be an overturned baby carriage. It lay crushed beside the road. Julian forced back the thoughts of all the innocent lives lost, a lump forming in his throat.

“Kelas,” Julian said, breaking the silence. “How do you manage to stay so optimistic, I mean with everything that’s happened?”

Kelas glanced at him, a slight smile on his lips. 

“It’s not about optimism, Julian. It’s about necessity. If we don’t have hope, what do we have left?”

Julian’s eyes traced the jagged ruins around them. 

After a moment, he replied, “I suppose that’s true.” 

As he tried to process it all, his thoughts drifted to Garak. He wondered how he might be holding up with everything.

Their agenda for the day began with meeting their new medical students. Julian saw his younger, boundlessly optimistic self in them. He knew it would serve them well given the likely frustration and helplessness they’d face soon enough. But unlike his younger self, Julian began to question his own usefulness. The Federation had sent people, but little other tangible help.

When watching Kelas work with the students, Julian couldn’t help but feel inspired. Kelas moved with confidence and his patience seemingly endless. He assured Julian he really was making a difference when he’d said he felt like just another body in the room.

Julian was tasked with helping the Cardassian team maximize their limited resources. They cataloged and used what they had, and requested what they didn’t. He knew it was an exercise in futility to ask the fledgling new government for more supplies, but at the very least, there would be a record of what was needed should anything become available.

But occasionally, things did arrive. Julian opened a small box and read the list of newly received medications. His stomach turned. 

“One course of antibiotics?” he complained, tossing the shipping slip aside, staring at Kelas in disbelief. “One course! Oh, and more damn gauze. Wonderful. But that’s all they sent!"

The image of the young girl who had died in his arms last week continued to haunt Julian. Her small, fragile body had trembled with fever. Her eyes were wide with fear and desperation, pleading for help he couldn’t give. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face, heard her faint, raspy breaths, and the way her tiny hand had clung to his.

Regardless of all his medical training and expertise, he had been powerless to save her. The limited supplies and resources at the clinic had forced him to confront the harsh reality of his situation: there were no miracles here. The memory of her was all that remained. Her tear-streaked face, her whispered cries for her mother, and the way her grip had loosened as life slipped away.

Witnessing death was nothing new to Julian, but here on Cardassia, it felt different. Every loss was personal, and the girl’s death was a cruel reminder of their limitations.

“We’re doctors, not miracle workers,” Julian said, slumping into a chair. “It feels like we’re just putting band-aids on bullet wounds.”

Kelas sighed, placing a comforting hand on Julian’s shoulder. “I know. We all feel it. But don’t get discouraged.” 

Julian watched Kelas carefully take the items from the box, admiring the calm in his face. The man seemed unshakable; sharply contrasting with his own frustration and uncharacteristic self-doubt. 

“Every day brings more failure,” he said, his voice thick with disappointment. “Back home, I could have saved them. Here, all we have to give is sympathy and empty reassurances.”

“It’s something more than we had yesterday.” Kelas reminded him. “Small victories matter.”

The weeks blurred together at the clinic, each day presented new challenges. Julian often wondered how many more lives could be saved if they had access to more of Starfleet’s supplies. Here, he faced a daily battle against overwhelming odds.

In DS9’s sterile infirmary, he had never questioned his abilities. Here, among the ruins of Cardassia, doubt was a constant companion.

On DS9, he did perform miracles. Here, he was reduced to a triage nurse, patching wounds with inadequate supplies, offering little more than false hope.

Sometimes Julian found himself watching Kelas as he cared to the sick and dying with a grace that belied the chaos around them. The way Kelas’s brows furrowed in concentration, his hands moving smoothly as he tended to something as simple as a patient’s wound.

Yet amidst the busyness, there were times Kelas appeared distant, lost in thought. Julian recognized that look of sadness and longing, though he couldn’t know exactly what it was for. Surrounded by so much loss and destruction, it could have been for anything, or everything. 

As Julian grew closer to Kelas, he began to understand the deeper reasons for that far off look. Each patient’s suffering he wasn’t able to ease was a reminder of his own inadequacies. Even with his outward confidence, Julian saw a doubt lingering within Kelas about his own capabilities. Behind his mask of hopeful strength, he too wrestled with his own insecurities.

All things considered, progress was being made. Despite the challenges of the assignment, the weeks passed quickly. Julian found the work intensely fulfilling. Each “small victory”, like Kelas said, was a step forward. Each life saved was a testament to their ongoing care and dedication. Personally, Julian was pleasantly surprised by how well things were going. He and Kelas were forming a strong friendship and working effortlessly together. 

One morning, as Julian was going about his tasks, he accidentally injured his hand. 

“Hey, would you pass me the dermal regenerator, please?” Julian asked, reacting out of sheer habit and wincing slightly as he examined the cut.

“A what now?” 

Kelas glanced up from his work, a glimmer in his eye. 

“Ah, yes of course, a dermal regenerator,” he responded with a smirk, theatrically rummaging through the mostly bare cabinets. “Alas, it seems we’re fresh out. You’ll have to make do with my exceptional bandaging skills instead.”

“Very funny, Kelas. Remind me to write a letter to the supply officer about our critical shortage of wishes,” Julian shot back, unable to suppress a smile.

“Alright, come here. I need a win today. This is an injury I can actually help with.” 

Kelas patiently and gently bandaged the cut. Julian insisted he didn’t need the assistance but appreciated it nonetheless. 

“And they say doctors make the worst patients,” Kelas teased, laughing at his indignant pout.

“Do I at least get a sticker for my bravery?”

“Sorry. Looks like they’re scheduled to arrive along with that dermal regenerator.” 

Kelas continued to keep a running tally of how many stickers Julian was owed, each one marking a moment of victory or resilience amidst the challenges they faced. From the absurd wins to the connections made with patients, the tally marks on the wall became a physical reminder of their time together.

But they also served as more than just a reminder of their efforts. In times of disappointment or when outcomes were less than joyful, Kelas would quietly slip an imaginary sticker into Julian’s hand, offering it as a silent reassurance— You did the best you could.

One particularly hard day, Julian found himself lost in feelings of inadequacy after losing a patient despite his best efforts. As he sat quietly with his head in his hands, Kelas approached him with a real sticker, small and brightly colored.

“You know, Julian,” Kelas said softly, “the successes aren’t only the lives saved. They’re in moments of compassion, the comfort and hope we give when there’s nothing left. You’ve done all that and more.”

During his deployment, Julian received occasional letters from Garak here and there. Julian knew Garak would know he was on Cardassia. But Julian found himself relieved by Garak’s silence. 

Instead, Julian kept himself focused on his work, determined to leave the pain of Garak’s rejection behind him. He was finally feeling hope for the future. Perhaps one here on Cardassia after all.

After working late into the evening, Julian’s final workday on Cardassia came to a close. He put the finishing touches on one last round of grant writing to the Federation and wish list making for the MHRR. With the press of a button, he sent them off into the endless, silent aether.

Out of habit, he checked his messages one last time. Julian sighed as he opened the one message he thought he’d dodged—yet another letter from Garak calling for his attention. 

Dear Doctor Bashir,  

Your presence in Cardassia City has not gone unnoticed, nor unappreciated. The road to our people’s recovery stretches long and arduous, yet your efforts have proven to be invaluable in easing the suffering of many. It is truly heartening to observe such dedication to the well-being of my homeland, particularly from someone of your talents.  

Julian’s eyes widened as he read. Was Garak watching him? Why? And more concerningly, how? The intrusion grated on his nerves. But it also pulled at his curiosity.

As for our intertwined paths, it appears fate has a rather persistent way of keeping us connected, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor? Despite my initial reservations, I find myself contemplating the wisdom of my choices…  

“What the…” 

Julian’s breath caught in his throat. Garak’s words struck a chord, stirring feelings he’d thought were finally buried. He continued reading, his hands trembling slightly.

…particularly in light of the comfort that companionship might provide during these most trying times. 

“A bit late for that revelation,” Julian muttered, mixed emotions simmering beneath his calm exterior. 

He was doing exactly what he’d originally told Garak he wanted to do, just with Kelas instead. As he read through to the end of Garak’s letter, he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe there was still a chance for them to make amends of some kind. 

Perhaps, one day, we might discuss these matters face-to-face, should circumstances permit.  

Yours sincerely,   

Elim Garak  

Julian sat still for a moment, each word in Garak’s letter dredging up memories he’d rather forget. But it was that one line that hit him. Did Garak truly regret pushing him away? 

He couldn’t deny the sting of missed opportunities, nor could he ignore the lingering questions Garak seemed to have about their fractured relationship. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t change anything.

Lacking the energy to parse the truth from Garak’s cryptic messages, he closed the letter and tossed his remaining items into his bag. Yet, the personal note chafed at him, stirring up unresolved feelings and a longing he believed buried.

But there was a bitter undercurrent of disappointment too. “One day” they might meet again, “circumstances permitting.” Always kicking the rock further down the road. If Garak actually wanted a face-to-face meeting, he could have asked. He didn’t want to see Julian, helping or not. Exhausted from a month of relentless work that culminated in only Garak’s distant acknowledgment, Julian again sent no reply. He grabbed his things and went home.

As Julian walked through the quiet streets of Cardassia City, the ruins cast long shadows that seemed to follow his every step. He clutched his medical documents against his chest, their physical burden insignificant compared to the emotional ones he carried.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every shadow seemed to hold Garak’s silhouette. Every whisper carried his name.

As he shifted the work in his arms, Julian tried to refocus on the day. His mind drifted to the young boy who’d presented with a severe infection yesterday morning. The child had been lucky. 

Supplies he’d been requesting had slowly begun trickling in earlier that week. With continued proper treatment, he had a fighting chance. Unlike so many others, whom Julian had watched helplessly as their conditions deteriorated, sometimes from the simplest things to treat.

His thoughts inevitably returned to Garak’s letter. “Yours sincerely,” Garak claimed. “Circumstances permitting.” He chuckled to himself, again remembering the ridiculous caveat. The acknowledgment of Julian’s efforts on Cardassia felt both strangely validating and insufferably infuriating, stirring up a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite untangle.

From the shadows a Cardassian woman approached Julian hesitantly. 

“Excuse me, Doctor Bashir?”

Slightly startled, Julian stopped for her.“Yes?”

“I just wanted to thank you for what you’re doing here.”

Julian smiled warmly. “Thank you. I wish it were more.”

“You saved my mother last week. She was so sick. Without you, I know she wouldn’t have made it.”

Tears glistened in her eyes. 

Warmth washed over Julian as he listened to her. Hearing firsthand the difference his work was making was both humbling and encouraging. 

“I’m glad we were able to help her. I fully expect her to make a complete recovery.”

The woman grasped his hand briefly before walking away leaving Julian with a renewed sense of purpose.

With determination in his stride Julian continued on his way. Lifted by the woman’s words and driven by the memory of the young girl’s desperate pleas, today and every day until he returned to Cardassia, he would focus on this most important goal; hope. Every “small victory” mattered in the journey towards rebuilding Cardassia and finding, eventually, his own inner peace.

Chapter Text

Finally through the door and exhausted from the day, Julian pushed it shut with a dull thud. He rested back against it for a moment, eyes closed, and sighed deeply. He set his stack of work in a pile on the floor and kicked his shoes off.

“Kelas?” Julian called out dropping his satchel.

“I’m in the kitchen. Get the glasses?” 

Still fixated on Garak and his prodding letter, Julian’s emotions surged as he fetched the glasses. His confession of love was something he increasingly regretted.

Determined to get his mind off it all, Julian resolved to enjoy his last night in peace and quiet. He found Kelas in the dimly lit kitchen, where a few candles flickered with the warm night breeze coming in through the open windows. Kelas stood with his back to the door, already opening the kanar.

“What’s the occasion?”

“You are. I think your many successes are reason enough to celebrate,” he said, looking at Julian.

“Hardly as many as we could have used.” Julian said as he watched Kelas smoothly take the two glasses, finding himself entranced by his movements. Kelas gave a small smile as he poured the kanar, silently acknowledging the attraction between them.

“It was enough. You absolutely were enough, Julian.” The candles’ glow cast shadows across Kelas’s eye ridges, accentuating the softness of his compassionate eyes. “You always did the best you could.” Kelas handed him his glass, his gaze betraying a hint of vulnerability  beneath his composed demeanor. It was in these too-brief moments that Julian glimpsed the profundity of Kelas’s own struggles, hidden beneath his facade of confidence.

Julian followed Kelas outside to the garden. Kelas’s easy smile ignited a spark within Julian, which cascaded through him. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, the night filled with possibilities.

Julian had felt their undeniable chemistry ever since he’d first laid eyes on Kelas. He’d become captivated by Kelas's striking beauty, and grew increasingly enamored with his compassion and empathy. That wasn’t even to mention his warm, open demeanor and straightforwardness; things Garak rarely offered. He often thought about pursuing something more than friendship, but the risks of mixing personal and professional relationships had kept him at bay. Now, as they walked through the garden together, Julian found himself rethinking that decision.

Julian’s attraction to Kelas was at stark odds with his lingering frustration towards Garak. But there was that one line in Garak’s letter: I find myself questioning the wisdom of my choices. That single sentence left him uncertain about everything. 

Kelas settled down on one side of a stone bench beneath a tree and Julian then sat beside him. As the silence between them thickened, Julian savored the calm quiet, appreciating the gentle breeze and the moons’ soft glow. The cool air carried the faint aroma of night-blooming flowers in the garden.

The scent of kanar mingled with Kelas’s presence in the evening air. With each sip, the space between them shrank until they were shoulder to shoulder. 

"Julian, there’s something I’ve wanted to say for a while.” Kelas’s eyes sparkled with the moons light as he spoke. 

Julian’s pulse quickened, leaning in slightly to catch Kelas’s hushed tone. “Oh? What is it?” His eyes mirrored the curiosity in his voice.

Kelas grinned coyly, then took a sip of his drink, leaving Julian waiting for his reply. Kelas’s gaze flickered between Julian’s eyes and lips, his voice soft. “Well, Julian, it’s your smile.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “My smile?”

“It has a way of lighting up the room,” Kelas said, leaning in slightly. “It’s one of the things I look forward to seeing every day.”

Julian chuckled awkwardly, feeling a flush creep up his neck. “Is that so?” he teased, a smile pulling at his lips.

"Absolutely,” Kelas admitted softly, his eyes lingering on Julian’s lips before meeting his gaze again. 

“That’s the kanar talking.” Julian took the last sip of his wine, trying to hide his embarrassment. 

"Not at all. It's quite captivating, actually. I’ll miss it."

Julian turned slightly, his gaze locking onto Kelas’s lips. For a moment, everything else faded away; the ruins of Cardassia, Garak’s letters, his own exhaustion. All that remained was the palpable draw he felt towards Kelas.

Inches apart, Julian hesitated. The warmth of Kelas’s breath brushed against his skin, drawing him closer, his pulse quickening. Finally their lips met in a gentle, tender kiss. Julian’s breath caught and a renewed surge of desire coursed through him. The kiss was electric, sending a jolt through Julian, Kelas’s lips soft and inviting. 

As he lost himself in the depth of the kiss, the world around them faded into insignificance. Julian couldn’t deny the connection they shared. In that moment, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there actually was something here. 

As the kiss deepened, Julian’s mind drifted to what might come next for them both, and the reality of the situation quietly seeped in. Holding Kelas closer, his fingers lightly brushing through Julian’s hair, he tried to stay in the moment. 

But thoughts of Garak surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome, weaving through Julian’s mind like an old, persistent ache. He could almost feel Garak’s watchful eyes from a distance. And now, as Julian replayed that fateful line in his mind, it was clear: Garak regretted his decision. It echoed in Julian’s mind like the haunting refrain of a distant melody that left him torn between love and the impossibility of moving on.

Kelas pulled back slightly, his eyes searching Julian’s. “Is… everything alright?”

Julian forced a smile while his emotions were an unsorted mess. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… you know, a lot on my mind.”

Kelas nodded understandingly, though there was a hint of hurt in his eyes. “I get it. It’s been tough for all of us.”

Julian looked away and swallowed hard, his throat dry. Unwarranted guilt filled him, reminding him of the loyalty he once silently pledged to Garak and the promises still unfulfilled. He longed to be fully present in this moment with Kelas, to embrace the possibility of something new. But Garak’s shadow remained, complicating his feelings and leaving him feeling torn. 

“I’m sorry,” Julian managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to…”

Kelas placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “It’s okay, Julian. We all have our ghosts.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the soft rustle of grasses and the distant chirping of night creatures. Kelas continued to point out some of the system’s constellations in the clear night sky as he had during their time together. 

As the night drew on, their laughter relaxed Julian’s tension, restoring a semblance of the easy conversation they usually shared. They recalled the month’s highs and lows, discussed their plans for continued progress, and what they’d work on until Julian returned to Cardassia. But in the back of Julian’s mind, the warmth of their kiss lingered. How in the world had he let himself get so worked up about something as simple as a kiss? Kelas seems so perfect, and now Julian had most likely ruined all of it.  

It was late. The kanar was long gone and the exhaustion had finally settled in. “Well, that’s about it for me, I’m afraid,” Kelas said, stifling a yawn and rubbing his eyes. “I can’t keep my eyes open much longer. Either that or the wine’s finally got me.” With a tired stretch, he pushed himself up from the bench, a weary smile on his lips, signaling the end of their evening together while Julian remained lost in reflective contemplation, his gaze fixed on the starry sky. 

“It’s been quite the experience, being here on Cardassia,” Julian said, a touch of sadness in his tone as he shifted his eyes to Kelas, then stood up. “I’ll likely be on my way before you’re awake, so this might be our goodbye for now.” He stepped closer to Kelas, pulling him into a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Opening your home, all of it.”

 Kelas returned the genuine gratitude. “Ah, it’s been nothing. Thank you for everything.” Taking a moment to reflect on their time together he added, “I hope you know you’re always welcome.”

Still holding him close, Julian kissed Kelas’s warm lips once more before releasing from their embrace. His fingers lingered on Kelas’s arm, then drifted to his hand, giving it a final little squeeze goodbye.

As Kelas headed towards the doorway, Julian couldn’t resist one final question. “Kelas, just one last thing.” Kelas paused, turning back with a curious expression as Julian continued, “Do you really think you’ll miss my smile?”

Kelas met Julian’s gaze. “Every single day.” He returned a gentle smile of his own. With one last lingering look, Kelas slipped into the house, leaving Julian alone with his thoughts.

As the night drew on, the chirping of insects waned, and the evening grew colder. He wished he could shake off the thoughts of Garak, to fully lean into the feelings he felt for Kelas. But for now, all he could do was wade through his murky emotions, hoping they’d settle into the elusive clarity he’d been searching for.

A breeze brushed his skin as he closed his eyes, imagining what a future with Kelas might look like. He saw warm evenings in the garden together, continued shared laughter, and a quiet comfort of an understanding companionship. Kelas’s gentle presence promised stability and a chance to build something new and start over, finally free of the ghosts of his past.

Yet he still held that damnable torch for Garak and a day he might finally drop his guard and let Julian in. With Garak, he could see days spent in deep, intimate conversation. Garak’s sharp wit and insight challenging him, igniting his mind in ways no one else ever could. 

In their endless devotion to one another, there would be times of tenderness too. Nights wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing stories and confessing secrets under the soft glow of starlight. Their bodies entwined, making love with a passion from only his deepest unspoken dreams; ones he’d held for so long that the dreams themselves had nearly become a cherished part of his very existence.

His mind drifted back to the day on that holosuite beach, the two of them lying together in the sand. The reflections of the suns’ beams dancing across the water as the waves crested and fell before them. And Garak, so handsome as the suns bathed him in their rosy light. You will always be enough, Chu’lian. Garak’s words echoed softly in his mind.

Eventually, he made his way inside the house and towards the warmth of his room. In the hallway before him were the doorways of both bedrooms. One led to Kelas and any future they might have together, the other to his few packed belongings, and Garak’s Vitarian wool blanket draped across his bed. 

As long as there was Garak, Julian could never be free. He wistfully clung to the hope of something more, unable to fully embrace the possibility of any new beginning that wasn’t with Garak.

With a sigh, Julian walked into his own room, the curtain fluttering softly behind him. As he settled into bed, the gentle caress of Garak’s blanket brushed against his bare skin, he whispered to the night, “Without hope, what do we have left?”

In the darkness, Julian closed his eyes, Garak’s question skipping in his mind like a broken holonovel.

It appears fate has a rather persistent way of keeping us connected, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor? I find myself questioning the wisdom of my choices.

Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t shake the thought of Garak’s subtle admissions. Garak really had meant he regretted pushing him away, didn’t he? The mere thought of a face-to-face conversation ignited a firestorm of conflicting emotions, each one an entangled mess of hope and nausea.

What if he had handled things differently when he said goodbye to Garak? Could he have avoided this situation altogether? No, there had been no other way, it had to be said. He’d meant every word when he’d said he loved him. He still meant it.

As he drifted into dream, his mind returned to the day he had kissed Garak as they said goodbye. The warmth of Garak’s lips on his, soft and full. In the haze of sleep, it was Garak he sat beside on that stone bench, kissing him, telling Julian he loved him and was a fool for ever letting him go. “I need you Julian. You’re all I need.”

Whatever the eventual resolution, Julian knew it would not be coming easily, and certainly not tonight. With his assignment over for now, he’d be back to DS9 soon enough. He looked forward to resting, deeply regretting that his Cardassian counterparts weren’t afforded the same luxury of escape. He could only hope that somewhere, in an uncertain future, they would all find answers. 

Chapter Text

Alone in the replimat at his regular table, Julian toyed idly with his food. It was quiet at this odd hour of the afternoon. Each time he lifted the fork to his mouth, it had just barely grazed through his food. There wasn’t even a real bite on it, just some of the brown sauce. The flavor was, well, a replicated brown sauce.

Slipping into the seat beside him, Ezri leaned in, wedging a bright, toothy smile between Julian and his food, quickly noticing the lack of smile in return. “Hey, you. You all right?”

“Hey, Ezri.” Julian sighed, his shoulders slumping further. “Fine, just tired.” He pushed the fork around his plate, avoiding her concerned gaze.

“You look much worse than tired.”

“Thank you. You always know just what to say to a guy,” he joked half heartedly.

“I’m sorry, you know I don’t mean it like that.” Ezri took the fork out of his hand, speared a bite with it, and fed him. Then she gently clasped his hand in hers. “Julian, you’re not happy. Honestly, you’ve been off since you returned.”

Swallowing his bite, he responded. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing anymore. When I came here, I was so young and arrogant. So excited to practice ‘frontier medicine’. I was so stupid. It wasn’t a frontier, it was a reconstruction. But I was in need of reconstruction, too.” Julian’s thoughts drifted to his early days on the station, filled with naïve ambition. “I was broken and I didn’t see it. And you all built me up and helped me grow and find purpose. And I had found a home, for the first time maybe ever. I was accepted and enough. But now…” He paused, feeling the renewed sense of uncertainty and loss.

She grabbed his cup and took a sip of his raktajino, listening.

“When the war ended, everyone seemed to have met their calling. They found a purpose greater than themselves. All of them, actually. I just… I don’t have anywhere to even go to. Once again, I belong nowhere.”

What could she say but squeeze his hand and smile at him? “But you told me it went well on Cardassia, didn’t it? That’s a great purpose if ever I’ve heard of one.”

“It was great, actually. For the first time in a very long while, I did feel I had purpose again, like I really had something meaningful to contribute.”

And Garak was there, that’s a definite bonus,” she said, always looking to add a silver lining. “Did you get a chance to see him?” Her head cocked at his visible wince. “Well, did he know you were there?”

His frustrated look said it all; of course Garak knew. Then Julian sighed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Ezri, I met someone while I was on Cardassia.”

Ezri’s eyebrows shot up, swallowing another sip. “Oh, really? That’s incredible!” The excitement was evident in her voice.

Julian’s smile grew warmer, though tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “He is incredible,” Julian admitted. “We hit it off right away. He’s compassionate, empathetic, and we have this… connection. We spent a lot of time together, and he made me feel like I was really making a difference. Like I mattered.”

“That’s wonderful, Julian. And for the record, you do matter. I’m happy for you. It sounds like you really like him.”

“I do.” Julian hesitated, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “On my last night there, we were just sitting around talking, like usual. But then, there was this moment… everything just sort of clicked into place. It felt like all the walls I’d built around myself suddenly disappeared. I could see it in his eyes—he felt it too. And we kissed.”

Ezri’s eyes widened with surprise and delight. “You kissed him? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah, it was, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. But then...” Julian’s gaze dropped to his plate and he fiddled with his fork, the doubt creeping back in.

“So what’s the problem?”

“Well, it's Garak. I didn’t tell you this, but you know when I came back to the station and Garak stayed on Cardassia,” he swallowed before continuing, “I thought maybe I would stay there with him. I offered to talk to Kira .” 

Julian looked down at his food. 

“And to see about a reassignment down there, just temporarily, to help the injured, the dying, set up hospitals, whatever. You know?”

“You did? You’re always the good guy, Julian.” 

Her eyes smiled at him. She never doubted why she’d ever loved him, even if it was now just as friends.

“I did.” He paused awkwardly. 

“And do you want to know what he said to me?” 

He let her think about it as he took a bite.

Her delicate eyebrows furrowed as she took another sip.

“He said, ‘I don’t want you.’”

Ezri leaned back in her chair and ran the fingers from her free hand through her hair. 

“Whoa.”

“Yeah, whoa.”

“I bet that really hurt. What happened? Why do you think he said that?”

“I have no idea!” 

He knew he wasn’t painting the full picture for Ezri, but he struggled to bring himself to say the words out loud. 

“Well, there’s something else…”

“More?” she asked with a little laugh of uncertainty. 

“I told him I love him.” 

He scrunched his face as he raised his eyes to look at her.

Her mouth dropped.

“And I didn’t just say I wanted to stay. I said I’d leave Starfleet to stay with him.”

“Leave Starfleet? You were really serious about him weren't you?”

“All the years we spent having lunch, trading literature, holosuite programs—I thought we understood each other, despite our differences. I considered him my closest friend, if not my best friend. But he always told me I wasn’t quite grasping Cardassian culture, that I had a ‘naïve Federation perspective,’ that I  still didn’t fully understand the subtleties of Cardassian relationships. 

“I thought he was just being his usual cryptic self, but maybe he was right. Maybe I was blind to the reality of what he was trying to say. I guess I misread how he felt about me.”

“Oh, it was more than that for him. You two were really a pair, regardless of any cultural differences. Just about the time you were getting closer with him, is just about the time you stopped following Jadzia around like a lost puppy. You two had that spark. 

“When one lives as many lifetimes as I have, you see patterns in relationships, wherever they may be and whomever they’re between.”

“He’s been sending me messages this whole time. Can you believe that?”

“Honestly I’d be more surprised if he wasn’t.”

“He says, ‘I don’t want you’, and then he’s telling me where to forward my return messages to him, as though I’d even reply. Either he’s completely mad or I am.” Julian paused, his thoughts swirling with confusion. “I mean, why couldn’t I just let go of Garak and pursue something with Kelas when I had the chance? Why am I so stuck?”

Ezri leaned in, her eyes intense. “Know what I think? I think you obviously still have feelings for him.” 

She waved off his eyes rolling in deflection, frustrated that she saw through him. 

“You do. Julian, clearly you do, so stop. You should know better than anyone that Garak doesn’t say things directly, all subtext and redirects. Even I know that. I think that when he said he didn’t want you, it might have been his way of protecting you—or himself. 

“I also think you should think about actually responding to him and try to talk things out. Who knows, I think you might learn something that changes everything.” 

She sat back smiling proudly, sure she’d convinced him.

“Want to know what I think? I think you think too much.”

Sighing, she continued. “There just might be a misunderstanding, impossible as you seem to find that to be.”

“With Garak? There’s no misunderstanding here. He was clear. Well, he did recently mention he was questioning the wisdom of his choices’.” 

He swirled the remaining raktajino in his cup before taking his first sip.

“Julian! I think you buried the lead here! He actually said he regrets letting you go?”

“That is most definitely not what he said.” 

Frustrated, he pushed his plate away. 

“Ezri, I don’t know, do you think he really does?”

“I do. And I think his recent message proves it,” she said, punctuating her point with a finger in his face. “He might be trying to reach out to you, but he doesn’t know how. You need to take a step, Julian. Show him that you still care, that you’re willing to fight for this.”

Julian sighed. “It’s not that simple.”

“No, it’s not. But nothing worth having ever is. You need to talk to him, really talk. Lay it all out. You might be surprised at what you find.”

“But he…”

“Nope. You know what? Before you even do that, you need to start being honest with yourself. It’s time to stop your pouting, strap in, and do something about yourself, Julian.” 

She looked him dead in the eyes as she took the last sip.                          

As much as he doubted it, maybe Ezri had been right. He wouldn’t have been so honest with her if he hadn’t wanted her perspective. She always seemed to know what to say, and he trusted her judgment. She was so sensitive and kind, and Jadzia would have said the same thing, after all. 

Julian sat in his quarters, a PADD in his hands, but the words on the screen blurred as his conversation with Ezri chewed at him. “Nothing worth having ever is simple.” He closed his eyes, trying to clear her words from his mind, but his thoughts only spun faster.

With a deep sigh, he attempted to return his focus to the text, but frustration kept his thoughts drifting away. He wished Miles was still around. They would have headed to the holosuites for a distraction. A pang of loneliness hit him, but then he remembered the holosuite characters—his other “friends.”

These characters, meticulously crafted over the years, laughed at his jokes, hung on his every word. Some even listened with feigned interest as he discussed medical procedures and techniques, a trait which they’d admittedly found odd for a supposed  MI-6 agent to endlessly ruminate on.

Originally, he’d almost convinced himself that these characters really cared for him. Sometimes he’d even loved them in return. In the holosuites, he never worried about being judged or misunderstood. 

These imaginary people had accepted his quirks and overlooked his social awkwardness when he was uncertain or out of place. Here, he could be anyone he wanted to be.

Julian sighed again as he closed his eyes, his head sinking back into his chair. Sure, there were times he wouldn’t mind something marginally personal in the holosuites, but he had become adept at maintaining a safe emotional distance. 

Having masked his identity from others for so many years, it was easier to relate to the facade of holosuite programs than to navigate the complexities of real relationships. He had, in many ways, been a character of his own making.

Most of the women in his programs were little more than their scripts—one-dimensional and predictable. But for Julian, they served a purpose. They were a way to blow off steam, and he accepted that most seemed to look right through him. They connected in the one area that mattered most for his purposes, anyway.

A few of the women in his Bond programs were exceptional, possessing an allure Julian rarely encountered anywhere. He still preferred real-life sex and the emotional closeness that came with it, but even then, they n ever compared to Teela, the Orion girl. 

Her image flashed in his mind, emerald skin and captivating gaze pulling at him from the recesses of his mind. In the holosuite, she awaited him, eternally ready to fulfill his desires. 

Oh, gods above, Teela was beautiful. She was something entirely different. His hands knew every curve of her body—the perfect fullness of her breasts fitting into his palms, the seductive roundness of her hips, and how comfortably he fit between her soft, open thighs.

With one look, she could melt him down to his core. She knew exactly what he liked and how he liked it: how he liked to be touched, the way he liked to be pinned at the wrists, and for a time, slapped squarely across his face, scolding him for the worthless augmented fraud that he was. 

It had been safe to let the program know that secret. Someone had to know. He’d liked having someone see who he really was. What he really was.

But once the secret of his enhancements had been revealed, his carefully constructed walls came down. People really did care about the real him and sought his company—and he theirs.

Unable to focus on the words, Julian abandoned his book altogether, pulled himself back together like a professional, and left his quarters for the holosuite. 

The door wooshed open to the familiar surroundings of his Bond-themed program enveloping him. 

And there she was. Teela. Radiant and ready. 

While she pulled him in for a kiss, he wasted no time stripping himself of his clothes before carrying her to the bed. She rolled Julian to his back and seated herself atop him. As he slid deeper inside her, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. 

The deep emerald of her skin seemed to glow under the soft lights. Julian felt the warmth of her thighs against his hips, her body a perfect fit against his. She moved with a slow, deliberate grace, every movement heightening Julian’s anticipation, her fingers caressing his chest and tangling up and into his hair. A curtain of black curls fell around him, encasing him within her perfected beauty, hovering over him for a kiss. 

When she began to move, Julian’s breath hitched. The slow, rhythmic motion of her hips sent waves of pleasure through him, building with each rise and fall. His hands found her waist, guiding her movements, feeling the flex and release of her muscles under his fingers. 

As she hovered over him for a kiss, her breath mingling with his, he felt the rush of being touched and worshiped. His hands tightened on her hips, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. 

Teela’s head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips, but Julian’s focus was on his own rising pleasure. The friction, her heat, she was and did anything and everything he wanted, just as he wanted it. 

He closed his eyes, losing himself in the physical sensations—the way her body moved against his, the feel of her skin, the sound of their breathing. Nothing could feel better.

“Julian. Oh Julian, kiss me, I need you. I love you,” her voice a breathless plea.

Love , he laughed.

Julian tried to stay in the moment, to be consumed by her, to lose himself in the illusion of intimacy. His eyes rolled shut, focusing on her slick wetness, hot and tight around him. But Teela’s words of love echoed in his mind, bringing back thoughts of Garak. 

I love you, Elim.

Teela’s rhythmic movements were crafted to throw him careening over the peak of euphoria, but his mind kept wandering—Elim’s smile, Elim’s voice, Elim’s touch. Even as the pleasure built, his thoughts remained with Elim— Elim, Elim, Elim —and he gasped as she pulled him in deeper and rode him harder. 

Muscles tensed, coiling tighter with each thrust as his body clenched and breath came in quick, shallow bursts. Heat and pressure built to an unbearable peak, and he gasped, the intensity stealing his breath.

His brow knit, mouth parted in something between a cry and a sigh—raw, unguarded. Not meant for her. Not shaped by her name.

With a final, forceful thrust, he came—each wave of release a dizzying blend of physical ecstasy and aching emotional void.

As they lay spent in each other’s arms, breathless and exhausted, Julian’s hazy, orgasmic glow quickly faded, leaving him overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness that settled in as the final pulses subsided.

“Computer. End program,” he whispered out, abruptly. The scene faded away, leaving him on the cold floor of the holosuite with an arm draped across his face.

There was one thing better.

But the lies, the misdirects, the constant grappling for truth. Could Ezri be right about their miscommunications? Maybe they had been talking past each other all these years without realizing it. 

Lying there, he realized with unwavering certainty that no one would compare to Garak. No holosuite program, no matter how perfectly crafted, could be a substitute for him. He needed Garak’s complexities, his challenges, and the way Garak had always made him feel truly seen. But ultimately, the possibility of his love.

Julian stood up, the cold floor of the holosuite a reminder of the empty illusions he had clung to. 

Dressed, he made his way back down the stairs at Quark’s, walking listless towards the door.

“Doctor,” Quark called out, motioning him over. “Don’t tell me that program didn’t work.”

“Nah, it worked,” Julian mumbled.

“Well you look terrible.” 

“Yes, thank you. I’ve gotten that a lot lately.”

Quark poured the doctor a blood wine. 

“Here. On the house.”

“How uncharacteristically generous of you,” Julian said, raising his glass to Quark before taking a sip.

“Ah, it’s nothing. I’m trying to get rid of it. No one likes it.” 

Quark wiped his counter as Julian gave a soured look of disgust.

“Thanks for the warning.” Clearing his throat, he pushed it away, wiping any bit remaining on his lips with his sleeve.

“Doctor, what’s eating you? You’ve been dragging through the promenade like a wounded targ for weeks.”

Julian flashed a half-hearted smile. 

“Just trying to recalibrate my romantic expectations with a cocktail of holosuite fantasies with a chaser of regret. You know how it goes.”

“Well it looks like you’re doing it wrong.” 

Quark looked side to side before reaching back into a low cabinet and removed a bottle. 

“Here, try this one. My private stash.” he said quietly, pouring just a little into a glass and sliding it to Julian. 

Apparently passing the sniff test, he downed it. Quark’s eyes lit up as Julian coughed at the strength. 

“That’ll help.”

“Well, it’ll be a first then.”

“You know,” he started, “we’re all looking for or hiding from something out here. Some of us just get better at hiding that fact. Maybe it’s time you stopped and faced what you’re running from.”

“Good night, Quark.”

“For what it’s worth, Doctor,” Quark called out, dropping the usual sarcasm, “I think you’re one of the few decent people around here. You deserve to find your place, and it’s not here.”

On his way to his quarters , he knew it was time to face that truth. Again. There was no one better for him than Garak. With only a little over a week until he returned to Cardassia, he could at least test the waters with a reply to Garak. 

He supposed at this point he’d have to say something. A simple reply wouldn’t kill him. But what could he possibly say that wouldn’t give away too much? Something plain. Just a simple message. 

He sat at his communicator, arching deeply back into his chair, stretching out the tension between his shoulders. He stared at the screen, but the only words that came to him were I don’t want you, and they rang in his ears and burned in his mind. 

But softly, so softly, he began pushing those to the side, focusing instead on the hope that Garak was, perhaps, missing him more than he thought. Still, words would not come. 

He’d slept deeply that night and awoke with a jolt at the sound of his alarm. Whatever dreams he may have had seemed to have alleviated the block. He typed a brief message.

Dear Garak,

Under orders from Starfleet, I will be returning to Cardassia City one Standard week from tomorrow.  

Regards,

Julian Bashir 

His finger hovered over the send button, heart pounding. What if he was picking this scab just to be left broken all over again? Hell, he’d already been down the most brutal version of that path and already tormented. What did he have to lose? He could hardly imagine things getting worse. 

With a deep breath wracked with anxiety, he pressed send. And off it went, speeding through subspace.

 ***

Julian arrived a week later as he had said he would. As he stepped out of the Rio Grande and into the crowded station, he found himself mildly surprised that Garak wasn’t there to meet him. Never mind.  

But true to what he had come to expect, Kelas was there.

Taking Ezri’s advice, Julian spent time sorting out his feelings and figuring out what he truly wanted. Since then, he found himself backpedaling into ambiguity about any potential with Kelas, a sentiment reflected in their communications over the past several months. 

Kelas kept Julian up to speed with the continuing work locally, detailing the progress and the many challenges they faced. When Kelas casually mentioned he had someone new in his life. A physician specializing in pediatric care. Julian felt the sting of jealousy, his heart sinking. He had secretly hoped Kelas would wait for him to sort himself out. The thought of someone else taking his place kissing Kelas under the night sky filled envy and regret. 

Deep down, he knew he should be happy for his friend. Eventually, the jealousy was replaced with a genuine sense of acceptance, glad that Kelas was moving forward, closer to the happiness he truly deserved.

Kelas greeted him with his easy smile and a warm embrace before exclaiming, “Let’s go. I want to show you the fruits of our labors! It’s been amazing, Julian. I can’t wait for you to see.” 

With a push for momentum, he linked their arms and practically dragged Julian away.

As they approached the first hospital Kelas had brought him to, Julian marveled at the visible transformation that had occurred over the six months he was away. The once modest facility now bore signs of significant improvement and modernization.

Once inside, he was struck by the bustling of activity. It wasn’t the haphazard, triage style clinics he’d seen when he’d left those many months ago. It wasn’t even simply a moderately respectable clinic, which he’d somewhat expected given the scarcity of resources. This appeared to be a nearly fully functional, yet small, modern hospital. 

“Kelas, this is… wow! It looks like we’ve received so much of what we’d even only hoped for.”

“Those higher ups are really something, I guess it pays to have important friends.” 

He winked at Julian, who continued smiling in return, but in truth, he didn’t know the friends Kelas was referring to.

“Just incredible.” Julian could hardly imagine more than this. Incredible, indeed.

“Wait until you see the others.”

Over the next few days, Kelas took him on a grand tour of the region, showcasing many fully fledged medical facilities. There were also traditional medicines being practiced of course due to lack of some modern medicines and continuing supply issues. But across the region, there were teams of highly trained surgeons, doctors, and clinicians. The improvement was staggering.

After an inspiring first week back on Cardassia, they headed towards Kelas's house, walking into the sweltering air of the coming evening, that, while only mildly less oppressive than earlier, couldn't dampen Julian's renewed sense of purpose.

It was always a lovely walk. The colors in the sky never grew old. A pinky orange haze being slowly swallowed by the purple of dusk slinking in, up and over from the horizon behind them. 

The evening glow on the system’s three nearest planets were the first to arrive each night, followed by the constellations unique to only this vantage point in the quadrant. The one that he always spotted first was the Five Jewels of Hebetia, apparently named for the Five Kingdoms of the Hebitian Age; Its pentagonal shape hanging across the sky like a crown. 

Its prominence reminded him of the Big Dipper from his own childhood, always present on his native planet’s northern hemisphere. Tonight he didn’t give the second one from the top right, Bajor’s sun, a second glance; its pull on him unknowingly lessened with each visit.

The pacing of their strides fell into an entrancing rhythm that he’d matched his breathing with. Bits of crushed rust-toned gravel crunched and scuffed under their feet as they made their way home. 

Julian noticed tufts of grass peeking through the cracks in the pavement and small, resilient flowers well on their way in reclaiming the edges of the path. The once barren and war-torn landscape was blossoming with life again. 

Saplings, barely more than twigs, lined the walkways, promising future shade and greenery. Here and there, he could see silver flashes of Cardassian Skylarks, flitting between the branches, their intricate melodies adding to the symphony of nature’s revival.

The reassuring sounds of a city being rebuilt trailed off the farther into the outskirts of town they walked, replaced with the chirping of the early evening insects. The air was filled with the faint scent of blooming flowers and fresh earth, a testament to the resilience of life in the aftermath of devastation.

“You remind me of him.” 

Kelas's slender arms tucked behind his back, his eyes to the stars, speaking mid-thought. The man was enjoying what seemed to him to be a pleasant summer evening. 

“The way he was many years ago.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ah, I suppose you can’t read my thoughts,” Kelas chuckled. “I mean Elim. Well, the way he used to be. You have a certain carefreeness about you just as he once did. I see you smiling at the goodness, even in the face of destruction. He was hopeful once, and I’ve just begun to see that spring up within him again.”

He remained focused on matching his breathing to his steps. “Oh? You’ve seen him recently?”

“I should say so,” Kelas laughed. “While you’ve been away, his office has continued to be very involved with our branch of the Health Resources and Redevelopment, of course.”

Of course? Julian wondered why Kelas assumed he would know that. 

“I haven’t spoken to him in, I don’t even know, what’s it been, almost a year? Not since I left him here on Cardassia. He’s sent me multiple messages through subspace, but I’ve only recently had cause to reply.” Julian’s voice became more somber as he added, “I hate admitting this to you, but I’ve actually gone out of my way to avoid him.”

“What? Why’s that?” 

“We didn’t part on particularly friendly terms. I don’t even know what ‘office’ of his you’re referring to. I mean I knew he was working with the Ministry of Information and State Security at one point, but beyond that, I...”

The sounds of their footfalls changed and Julian turned to see Kelas stopped in his tracks. 

“Julian,” he blinked through his confusion, “I have to say I’m shocked to hear you say that.”

“Things between us got rather… complicated.”

“No, that’s not why. Elim is Information and State Security. It’s his office. Little happens on Cardassia without his go-ahead. How did you not know that?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, a Ridgeback Hawk caught his eye, swooping down and plucking a small lirpa from beneath nearby grasses before flying away with the creature in its grasp. 

“I… his letters never mentioned…” 

Julian’s mind reeled back through the many letters he’d received from Garak over the past year. Had he really left that many unread or gone so lightly skimmed over that he’d missed this?

Kelas resumed walking. 

“Listen, we are both well aware of him tending towards the private, but from what I’d been left to assume, you and the Legate…”

  Legate? Julian was shocked.

“…were in communication as he has been personally approving anything and everything you’ve requested that’s been within his power to attain. Julian, he’s only ever spoken of you in the fondest of terms. My apologies for having misunderstood so entirely!”

“I mean, I was sending my lists to that office. I had no idea who was on the receiving end of my requests. Truthfully, I find myself even more confused having heard this. But no need for apologies, Kelas. The fault is most certainly mine.” 

Julian tried to rub away the red burn of embarrassment that would be evident on his neck. But he felt it on his face, too, though the heat of the evening masked how reddened he was. 

How had their friendship degraded this fa r that he hadn’t even faintly known, or cared, what Garak had been doing? For years, his friend, his very closest and most cherished friend for six of the past eight of those years, wanted nothing more than to return from exile to his home planet. And Julian, likewise, wanted it for him just as badly. 

Now, here Garak was, his dreams of exoneration and repatriation fulfilled, a Legate and Minister of Information and State Security, no less. Julian hadn’t even known. He was ashamed. 

“Perhaps don’t pardon me too quickly, Julian. You may feel otherwise when you find out what I planned for tonight.”

Julian’s thoughts were reeling as the two continued their walk home, now in relative silence. 

Kelas would surely know Julian apparently had a lot to think through, whatever it was. He’d come to know Julian as a thoughtful, level headed, and rational decision maker. He also knew the depths of obfuscation Garak could go to. 

If Julian chose not to be in contact with Garak, he probably had a good reason. With all that Kelas had been through and come back from, both with and because of Garak, Julian was granted any benefit of doubt. Whatever it was, it had hurt him deeply.

They walked up to Kelas's house. Julian silently gasped when he saw the figure waiting for them, sitting in the shade of the covered front porch.  

“I didn’t know, Julian. I thought it would be a surprise. I’m sorry.”

Chapter Text

Garak rose from his seat and smoothed his drab linen tunic and worn trousers. 

Seeing him again cored Julian, leaving him with a sickly longing for the man he’d once been ready to give up everything he’d ever known for. 

A man he’d thought, briefly, foolishly , might become his.

What Julian wouldn’t give to return to that quiet space that had once been theirs alone. Even for a moment.

A life shaped by conversation, by games of wit and revelation, by fleeting, meaningful touches. 

He missed it like breath.

Now, Garak looked like a specter from another life. The tiredness in his eyes struck Julian at once. 

A year of grueling work had etched themselves into his face, while slow, relentless worry had worked its way through him, consuming what hope remained.

The weight of rebuilding Cardassia without rest, without enough, left him looking smaller now, thinner. Julian’s heart lurched. He wished, achingly, their path had been different. That he’d been allowed to kiss away the sorrow. 

To stay.

Until a flicker of blue in Garak’s hands caught Julian’s eye. Recognition bloomed, sharp and unwanted, like a bruise.

He forced himself to remain still, composure hanging by a thread.

Kelas, sensing the shift, stepped in with a steady hand to Garak’s elbow. Bright, easy, and completely unaware.

“Elim, I must have misjudged the time. I hope we haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all, Kelas. If anything, I’m early.” Garak stepped back slightly, his attention shifting. “Doctor Bashir. It’s such a pleasure to see you again. I’ve been looking forward to catching up this evening.” 

He smiled, then added, his voice a touch too smooth to be casual:

“You’ve proven rather difficult to reach.”

Catching up.  

Julian forced a smile, his heart pounding. “I’ve been busy.” His tone was even, but his eyes searched Garak’s for any flicker of reaction.

“I see.” Garak said, stepping closer with that same careful grace he always wore like armor.

Julian held his breath. Every instinct urged him to retreat, to say something cutting, to turn away, but he stayed rooted.

“It’s a shadow of what is owed to you, but I brought you a small thank you. A token, really.”

Julian’s gaze dropped just in time to see the velvet sachet extended in Garak’s hand. He knew that dark blue. He knew that scent.

And it felt like a slap.

Julian’s hand trembled as he accepted it. The scent had hit him immediately. Distinct, intimate. Garak had given him this gift before. 

This one, of all things. 

How dare he. After everything…  

He summoned the most polished version of his smile, each muscle aching with the effort.

“Thank you, Garak,” he said, the edge in his voice just sharp enough to cut. “Ever the embodiment of thoughtfulness. And what a surprise to find you joining us for dinner. After all this time.”

Whether Garak believed the performance, Julian wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure he cared.

His jaw tightened as a torrent of feeling threatened to spill over, but he held his expression calm, neutral, giving nothing away. He refused to let himself visibly acknowledge what the gift meant. 

Still, the restraint left a bitter taste.

“I wish it were more,” Garak said softly.

I wish it was more, too.

Julian’s fingers closed more firmly around the sachet. The velvet resisted him, soft and infuriating. 

“It seems my knowledge of your recent endeavors is… outdated.”

The edge in his voice was deliberate this time. Now he didn’t care if Garak heard it.

“As you said, you’ve had more important things to manage than to keep up with my work,” Garak replied smoothly.

“It’s been challenging, to say the least,” Julian said, glancing toward Kelas. “But we keep on going, right?”

Kelas, beginning to sense the shape of something unspoken, gave Julian a half-smile. 

“That’s right. And believe me, when you’re not here, your absence is noticed. Elim, this man has a heart of gold, though I doubt I need to tell you that.”

“Indeed you don’t,” Garak said, his tone softening. He looked at Julian with something nearly tender. 

“You flatter me. I’m just doing my job,” Julian said with a faint blush, though it came with a resurgence of anger. And that aching need to pull Garak close, to stop the space between them from growing any further.

“Anyway, gentlemen, after you.” Kelas gestured gracefully, ushering them towards the house. Julian raised an eyebrow and motioned for Garak to go ahead of  him. 

“Julian, would you mind getting the drinks?”

“Of course not.”

“Elim, please, make yourself at home,” Kelas said, his voice trailing off as he headed to the kitchen. “I’ll leave you two to catch up. It won’t be long, just heating the food.” 

As the door swung shut behind him, the air between Julian and Garak thickened, the unspoken words pressing in on all sides.

Julian set the sachet down beside the glasses. He grabbed two, reached for the third, then stilled, holding his breath. Waiting for something. Anything.

As he uncorked the bottle, Garak finally spoke.

“You and Doctor Parmak have truly exceeded expectations,” he said, settling into a chair. He adjusted his cuffs, straightened his neckline. His gaze didn’t waver.

“Well,” Julian started, pouring the glasses, “Kelas deserves most of the credit. He’s a gifted man.”

“Don’t underestimate the impact of your presence here. What you’ve accomplished, how you’ve pushed the Federation, it’s been extraordinary.” 

Julian offered a thin smile. “From what I hear, it’s you who’s been the push.”

“Kelas exaggerates,” Garak said, waving it away. “I can’t tell you what it’s meant to us, to Cardassians, to have your diligence and dedication these past months.”

Julian nearly scoffed. 

He remembered a time Garak hadn’t wanted him here at all. Instead, he handed him the glass and said flatly, “That’s just wonderful,” before taking the seat across from him.

“It’s heartening to see such commitment from members throughout the quadrant, in fact.” Garak said, sipping delicately.

“It is.” 

Julian kept his expression still. Garak was dodging the real conversation. Again.

“I hope you haven’t found your stay on Cardassia too uncomfortable.” 

Julian wanted to slap that pleasant veneer right off his face.

“It’s been fine. Kelas has made me feel very welcome. I’m grateful to have him.” 

Julian rubbed his palms over his knees, slow and aimlessly. He was at a complete loss for what to say now that Garak was finally across from him. 

He crossed his legs to still their restless bounce, and took a sip of wine to buy himself a moment. One sip became three.

Twilight poured through the windows, warm and slow. The lamp beside Garak cast his face in shadow, pulling his age into sharper focus.

Julian sat stiffly, caught between the past and the man in front of him now.

Garak turned slightly, watching the curtains stir in the breeze, the only movement in the room. Julian studied him under a firmly set brow, searching for some emotional tell.

Of course, he found none.

“So, Legate Elim Garak. Quite a ring to it, I’d say.”

“Well, Doctor, I’ve never been one for pomp. I’m just a simple servant of Cardassia, trying to help where I can, when I can.”

“Ah, yes. Elim Garak— always simple. The simple servant, the simple tailor.” 

Julian leaned forward, his voice sharpening. “I think we’d do best if we left the ‘simple’ pretense in the past.” 

“We can leave it wherever you like.”

He didn’t smile. Just folded his hands, precisely, like punctuation at the end of a conversation he had no intention of resuming.

“Strange,” Julian said. “Kelas tells me you’ve been pulling every string to make sure we get what we need. And yet, I’ve never seen you, all this time."

He took another sip, though it became several gulps.

“You’re a busy man. Far be it from me to interfere with your duties as a servant of Cardassia.”

“I don’t serve Cardassia.”

“No, I suppose you don’t.” Garak’s voice softened, as if attempting to smooth the tension. 

Julian sat with the accusatory silence a moment before speaking. 

“Starfleet has its flaws,” Julian said, “but when we show up, we don’t pretend we haven’t.”

He kept his tone neutral. “We don’t vanish into titles or shadows. When we commit to something, things actually move. That still matters to some of us.”

He let the contrast hang between them. 

Garak gave a faint smile, eyes flicking toward the window. “Efficiency is a luxury not all governments can afford. Especially when their pasts are always reaching into the present.”

He swirled the kanar once in his glass, then stilled it with a fingertip, as if pressing back thoughts he’d rather not voice.

“It sounds like staying with Starfleet was the right choice,” Garak said quietly. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He reset himself with a quiet breath, smoothing a hand through his hair.

Julian’s eyes caught on the gesture. He hadn’t noticed before, the fine strands of gray now threading through the black. Subtle, but unmistakable. Not age, exactly. Weight. Evidence of what the last year had taken from him.

Something in Julian’s chest pulled tight.

“But know this, the difference you’ve made has been real,” Garak added. “Don’t forget that.”

Julian didn’t mean to say it.

“It could have been sooner,” he murmured, his voice tightening. “I could’ve had a more consistent handle on things. Maybe saved more lives. If not for you, Legate .” 

The silence that followed burned.

“Well.” His voice was quiet. Careful. “I’m pleased you’re here now.”

Garak’s gaze didn’t waver. His fingers tapped once against the glass, then fell quiet.

The words were mild. Too mild. As if they could smooth over everything that came before. As if they were enough.

Julian’s fingers curled against the arm of the chair. “Of course,” he said, after a moment. “It’s been… fulfilling.”

He stood with deliberate calm. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change into something more comfortable.”

He reached for his glass. Then, just as quietly, he lifted the sachet from the cabinet, so light in his hand, and yet it carried everything he’d tried not to feel.  

Without another glance, he walked from the room. Glass in one hand, gift in the other, the silence at his back pressing harder than ever.

Garak stood, nodding at the sudden departure. 

Julian made his way back to the bedroom, steps unsteady, mind splintered. He tossed the sachet onto the bed and pressed his forehead to the cool wall beside the curtain door.

He hovered between impulse and retreat, breath shallow against the wall.

He exhaled hard. “You idiot. You’re not going to help anything acting like this,” he muttered under his breath.

If he’d been committed to aiding Cardassia from the start, he would’ve stayed. He hadn’t needed Garak’s approval, or his affection, to make that choice. Any regret he felt now rested on his own shoulders.

He knew the truth. It had never been just duty or ambition. He’d be lying to claim otherwise.

Was Kelas right? Had Garak really been pulling strings for the clinic? It didn’t make sense—medical logistics weren’t under the purview of State Security. Garak had other priorities, or he should have.

Julian scanned the bland selection in his closet. 

He considered something Starfleet-issue, Servant of Cardassia still hanging in his mind

Then he paused.

He could’ve chosen anything, but he hadn’t. This shirt had been Kelas’s, given to Julian ages ago. He’d passed over it more than once. 

Not tonight.

Once dressed, he stood in front of the mirror. The shirt hung a little loose, but close enough to draw the eye. 

Soft, worn in, unmistakably lived-in. He wondered, hoped, that Garak might smell Kelas on it.

Julian adjusted the collar with care, smoothing the fabric as if he hadn’t chosen it for the reaction it might provoke.

Good. Let Garak see it. Let him imagine whatever he liked. 

Julian didn’t smile, but a quiet satisfaction stirred beneath his ribs as he turned away.

Kelas entered with the scent of Yamok sauce trailing him. “Alright, gentlemen, dinner is ready!”

But Garak sat in silence, alone.

“Where’s Julian?” 

Garak couldn’t tell from Kelas’s tone how much he’d overheard, if anything.

 “Changing. He said he was uncomfortable.” 

“I’d imagine,” Kelas agreed, eyeing him up and down.

“Don’t give me that look,” Garak snapped. “He’s changing his clothes, that’s all.”

“Elim, what did you do to him?” 

Garak gave him a mind-your-own-business look. Kelas was unmoved and even less convinced now. Garak added, “I have no idea what’s going on with him.”

“No, I’m sure not.” Kelas gave him a hard look. “Well you'd better fix it, whatever it is.”

Garak looked aghast at the implication.“I didn’t do…”

Julian returned from the bedroom, dressed in Kelas’s clothes. 

“Smells wonderful,” Julian said, the smile for Kelas, pointed and deliberate as he walked past Garak.

Kelas raised an eyebrow, noticing the raised stakes in Julian’s outfit.

Garak’s eyes dropped to the collar. His gaze sharpened for a half-second, just enough to betray recognition.

Garak clicked off his translator and whispered in Kardasi, low and pointed, “Kelas, is he wearing your clothes?” 

“Says the Starfleet ones are too heavy here.” Kelas replied.

Even without understanding the language, Julian knew exactly what they were discussing. 

“Does he wear your clothes often?”

“Sometimes he does. Why, you’d prefer he be hot in his regular ones?”

“Of course not." He said defensively. "But why didn’t he ask me to make him something that actually fits him?”

“I don’t know, Elim, you tell me. Better yet, maybe you should ask him.”

Garak sighed, letting the question hang in the air as they moved to the dining area.

Four simple chairs ringed a small oval table near the open window. From just beyond, faint clicking sounds of some small creature filtered in.

Kelas and Garak took seats at opposite ends of the table. Julian, refilling his already empty glass, settled between them, facing the window. Not ideal, but the fading glow on the horizon gave him something else to look at. Something easier.

As Kelas dished out the food, Julian looked up with a smile. “I’m really happy for you, Kelas. Not just for everything you’ve managed here these past few months—but with Parek, too.”

“He’s great. I’d hoped he’d be here tonight, actually, but he got called away to the southern province last minute. Garak’s met him.”

“He suits you well,” Garak said. Then added, “ Doctor .”

Julian’s eyes cut sideways toward Garak.

Doctor.

Garak didn’t look at him, but the inflection had been unmistakable. Measured. Just precise enough to land.

It wasn’t wrong, Kelas was a doctor. But Garak knew what he was doing.

That was Julian’s name. His .

Julian took a slow sip of his drink, willing his expression to remain neutral.

It had felt good to needle him. To reclaim something. But under the satisfaction, something hollow stirred.

He didn’t want to win. He wanted Garak to see him. To feel it.

But fine. Two could play this game.

Pushing aside the issue for the moment, Julian remarked, “I was really looking forward to meeting him by now. Your messages are always so to the point, I’m curious to finally meet the man behind them.”

“Oh, where do I begin?” Kelas replied, fondness warming every syllable. “He’s not just strikingly handsome, though that’s undeniable. He’s incredibly sharp-witted. At first, I wasn’t looking for anything serious, but he kept challenging me. Pushing me to think deeper, to see things in new ways. He really swept me off my feet.”

Garak smiled. “That’s wonderful. He’s lucky to have you, Kelas.”

The comment landed hard. What was he missing here? The words sounded uncomfortably familiar. Too familiar. It was Garak and him, for star’s sake.

“He has this way about him,” Kelas went on. “A quiet sort of thoughtfulness. It’s like he sees things in me I didn’t know were there.”

Julian could feel the warmth in Kelas’s voice radiating across the table.

His heart clenched. Garak was just a few feet away, but the ache between them spanned galaxies. The distance felt unbearable—until it felt like nothing at all. Just emptiness.

“The more I came to know him,” Kelas added, “the more I fell in love with him.”

Julian blinked slowly, trying to anchor himself in the moment.

“That sounds,” oddly familiar. Julian searched for the right words. “Like a perfect match,” he said finally, though the words lodged like grit in his throat.

His pulse had started to climb. Either Garak was truly unaware, or he was pretending not to be.

Julian reached for his glass again and took another sip—too long, too deep. He needed to pace himself. The meal had barely begun, and he was already nearly through his second. 

“I’ve told him so much about our work, and about you,” Kelas said with a smile. “He’s really looking forward to meeting you. I think you’re going to love him.”

Julian returned the smile, holding it steady. “No one deserves happiness more than you,” he said gently. “And he certainly sounds like a remarkable man. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“Thank you, Julian.”

Kelas placed a hand over his, warm and steady.

“Kelas, this is delicious, what is it?” Julian asked.

“Sem’hal stew; my mother’s old recipe. The vegetables finally just began ripening a few days ago. Cultivating anything in that dusty trough of a garden out back has been a challenge to say the least.” 

“Kelas, why didn’t you tell me you were struggling with the garden?” Garak craned his neck to peek out trying to catch a glimpse through the dim light beyond the window.

“Oh, it’s been fine, just not a preferred task is all,” he smiled back.

“You’re fortunate to have the chance at all. I’ve missed working with my hands, getting them back into the soil. I’ve always found it… grounding.”

“Well, you’re welcome to tend this one anytime you’d like,” Kelas offered lightly.

“I’d enjoy that very much.” Garak’s voice softened. “Back on Terok Nor,” he began, turning to Julian and adding the name DS9 unnecessarily for Julian’s benefit, “I had a small plot in the arboretum. Remember, Doctor?”

“Of course.”

“I’d be tending to the plants and you’d try to sneak up on me.”

“Julian chuckled. “I was never any good at it, was I? You always knew I was there before I’d even made it halfway down the corridor. And somehow you still managed to startle me every single time.” 

He shook his head and smiled, the warmth of the kanar settling deeper in his limbs.

Garak’s eyes lingered on him a moment too long, as if unable to help it.

“It was always a delight to watch you try,” he said, voice rich with playful affection. He leaned in slightly. “We did have happy days on the station, didn’t we?”

And they had. 

Late-night holosuite adventures. Shared meals and drinks in his quarters, Garak’s sparse one. Afternoons that gave way to evenings spent in quiet, meandering conversation. Animated debates down to the most intricately minute Cardassian literature. And sometimes, intimate moments of unexpected vulnerability. The flicker of memory wrapped tight around Julian’s chest.

“We did,” he said.

Garak nodded, but the moment slipped.

“Well,” he added, tone cooling, “only as happy as a Cardassian can be while stuck in Bajoran space. It seems so long ago.”

Julian felt Garak’s caveat hit like a brick—blunt, distancing, unnecessary.

It stripped the warmth that had flickered, leaving only silence in its place.

Across the table, Kelas said nothing, but his eyes flicked between them, quietly recalibrating.

Julian watched the stillness of his hands—the same careful calm he remembered from meals past, when everything between them had felt like possibility.

“Like another lifetime,” Julian said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

Garak speared another vegetable with his fork and straightened his posture. “Kelas, how you do what you do with what you have is nothing short of remarkable.” 

“I wish it were more,” Kelas replied. “But better days are surely ahead of us.”

“Indeed they are,” Garak agreed.“This was simply wonderful, Kelas. I haven’t had anything this good in, well, it’s been some time.”

Julian barely heard him. The conversation moved around him like wind. He drifted inward, memories pulling him under.

“Oh, it's nothing,” Kelas said wish a modest smile. “Just making do with what we have.”

“One must maintain a standard, Kelas, even in the face of adversity. And you, my friend, succeed.”

Julian forced a laugh, trying to seem engaged. But underneath his forced smile, he was exhausted and just wanted the night to end. 

He was glad Kelas was there to lighten their tension, but there were a million other ways he’d have preferred to have been reunited with Garak, and many of them probably would have gone better than this night had so far. He figured this was just a first step anyway-either way. 

Garak was always skilled at holding others at a distance, but until this past year, Julian had never quite known what it felt like to be on the outside.

He rubbed at his brow, weariness settling deep in his bones.

More than anything, he wished they could return to some version of their former friendship. Or at least something close enough to keep him from breaking.

Eventually, Garak folded his napkin with precise care and set it beside his plate. “Kelas, this has been a truly delightful evening. Your hospitality is unmatched.”

Kelas flushed slightly. “Thank you, Elim. I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s been a pleasure having you both.”

Garak glanced at his chronometer and sighed softly. “It’s getting late, and tomorrow is another busy day. But I hope we can do this again sometime.”

“How about next week?” Kelas asked. 

“I’m looking forward to it already.”

Julian nearly sighed at the thought alone, He felt wrung out, like he’d been holding himself upright through sheer adrenaline alone. 

Why would either of them possibly want to do this again?

Kelas started toward the door, but Garak stopped him with a raised hand. “No need. I remember the way.”

“Goodnight, Kelas. Doctor Bashir.”

“You too, Elim,” Kelas said.

Julian hesitated, did sigh, then stood. “I’ll walk out with you. I could use the air.”

As they stepped into the front garden, the soft, melancholic strains of a stringed instrument drifted through the night air, wrapping around them like a familiar embrace. 

 Julian’s steps slowed instinctively, drawn by the haunting melody that seemed to echo the quiet longing in his heart. Beside him, Garak hummed along in a rare display of vulnerability, his voice blending seamlessly with the music.

“I’ve never heard you hum before,” Julian remarked, his curiosity sparked by this unknown facet of Garak’s persona.

“I rarely have reason to,” Garak replied, voice low and touched with something distant. Nostalgia, maybe. Memory.

Garak paused, gazing up at the starlit sky overhead, where the constellations glittered in the fabric of the universe. 

“When I was a child, I was told the stars were the eyes of old gods, watching from the other side of the sky, waiting to see if we’d rebuild what we destroyed.” 

“I used to dream of a life among the stars,” Julian continued, his eyes tracing the familiar shapes overhead.

“You’re one of the lucky few, Doctor. Dreams are a luxury many can rarely afford. You made yours real. Too many stop dreaming long before they’re given the chance.”

Silence settled again, the music drawing them into it. Julian began naming constellations under his breath, a quiet distraction, while Garak rubbed at the tension in his neck.

“You’re not wrong, Julian.” He looked towards the Five Jewels, maybe even towards Bajor and DS9 before turning to Julian. “But you’re not right either.”

Julian’s eyes caught on his lips as he spoke. He looked away quickly, biting the inside of his cheek.

“About?” He knew what Garak meant.

“Not wanting you here sooner.”

“Garak. Forget sooner.” His voice sharpened, unexpected heat rising to his face. “You didn’t want me here at all.”

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have brought it up and what I said earlier was uncalled for. I could have come anytime I wanted. I didn’t need your approval.”

“No. It wasn’t uncalled for.” Garak’s voice was quiet, his eyes on Julian almost wistful. “You were completely justified. Our differences are greater than I realized.”

Julian exhaled through his nose. The words were small, but the weight of them settled in his chest.

He squared his shoulders. “You didn’t just push me away. You made me feel like I meant nothing.”

Garak reached out, his hand brushing Julian’s arm. “I know.” His voice barely broke above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Julian’s hands curled into fists at his sides, nails pressing deep into his palms.

“But you’re right. We’re just too different.” He turned away, gaze fixed once more on the stars.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s fine. It’s behind us.” His voice was flat now. “I’m sorry I ever said anything in the first place.”

“I’m not, Julian.” And there was that look again, like nothing had changed. Like he could still reach for him.

“It’s late. You wanted to leave. I’ll see you next week I guess.”

“Alright then.” Garak’s voice had softened again. “Good night, Doctor.”

Julian hesitated, then spoke so quietly it was nearly lost to the wind.

“Thank you for the gift.”

He didn’t look back as he stepped inside.

Kelas was busy in the kitchen when Julian returned.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but are you okay, Julian?”

Julian hesitated, then gave a quiet, almost rueful smile.

“I’m just tired, that’s all. What can I help you with?”

“Nothing, it’s taken care of.

“Parek’s a lucky man.”

“Go to bed.” 

Kelas wiped his hands on the dish towel and patted Julian on the arm as he walked past on his way back to his bedroom. 

Julian pulled the curtain closed behind him. The night’s conversations still clung to him, tangled and unfinished. But if Kelas was right—if Garak really had been behind all those quiet efforts—then perhaps he hadn’t been as forgotten as he’d let himself believe.

Maybe Garak had been thinking of him all along.

He picked up the small gift from his bed, letting unfocused memories surface. 

Lost in thought, he raised the sachet to his nose. His eyes closed as he inhaled deeply—the scent of real Tarkalean tea leaves transporting him back in time.

It was the first time Julian had ever set foot in Garak’s quarters—H-3, room 901. 

They’d been out late in the holosuites, misadventure just behind them, still clinging faintly to his clothes in the form of damp sleeves and a scuff on one knee. . Julian, buoyed by some half-drunk impulse to extend the night, had suggested it. 

Garak had surprised him by saying yes.

The starkness of the quarters met him at the door.

He frowned. 

It felt less like stepping into a home and more like opening a sealed compartment. One that had deliberately been left undecorated and unclaimed. No fabrics, no color, no misplaced tokens of obsession or history. 

A home, but only technically. It bore all the signs of someone who had learned not to leave marks.

It was orderly to the point of absence. The maroon low-pile carpet bore a subtle record of repetition, with a faintly worn path from the entrance to a backroom, probably his bedroom. 

A two-seat gray sofa with modest pilling on the arms sat unoccupied, paired with a matching chair. On a side table, a thin lamp glowed over a lonely vase. Empty.

The sofa was stiff beneath Julian, now feeling uncertain whether he was intruding or expected. It felt like furniture that barely remembered people.

“Doctor,” Garak said smoothly, “may I offer you a drink?”

“I think I’ve had quite enough for one evening, thank you.” There was a slight blur in his voice. 

“Ah, but I believe I have just the thing.” Garak turned to the replicator. “Water. Fifty-seven degrees Celsius.”

A teacup materialized. Garak placed it with quiet precision in front of him.

Julian watched, bemused. “Just water?”

“Just a moment,” Garak said. He crossed to a low chest and opened a drawer.

Garak returned to him, a box cradled loosely in one hand. His expression softened. “It’s small. Not much.”

It was small, made of wood, and carved with a long-tailed bird Julian didn’t recognize.

Inside, nestled carefully within, was a velvet sachet—deep blue. 

Julian stared, the scent lifting toward him. Sweet. Clean. Impossible.

“Tarkalean tea leaves,” he murmured. “Real ones.”

He lifted the sachet gently, inhaling. The aroma was brighter than he remembered. Sharper. Alive.

“Garak… How did you get these?”

Garak offered that maddening, gorgeous half-smile. “Doctor, you know I never reveal my sources.”

The scent filled the room, gentling its edges, as if real tea could draw out a kind of warmth the walls themselves had forgotten.

Julian reached for the waiting teacup. Its gold-rimmed porcelain was finer than he’d expected. 

No replicator shimmer to it. No careless utility.

He opened the sachet with quiet care and tipped a small pinch of the leaves into the waiting cup. They floated briefly before beginning their slow descent, curling and darkening in the heat. The scent deepened.

The warmth seeped into his fingers as he cradled the cup in both hands.

“I never thought I’d see the day you’d go soft on me.”

“I prefer ‘strategically gracious,’” Garak replied, lowering himself into the chair across from him.

Julian took a sip. 

“Well, it’s deeply endearing. This is… one for the books.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Garak said simply, as if the statement carried more than gratitude.

He sat down in his chair, soaking in Julian’s delighted reaction on the sofa across from him.

“I love it. It’s the perfect ending to an already perfect evening.” 

His smile was so open, so full of joy, it could have melted even the most practiced defenses.

Then Julian hesitated. “There’s just one thing missing.”

He hopped up and moved to the replicator without explanation, returning with a small cluster of blue flowers. 

He worked slowly, delicately placing them into the empty vase. 

“There,” he said softly. “ Now it’s perfect.”

Garak’s gaze lingered—not on the flowers, but on him.

He returned to the sofa, slower this time, aware of how closely Garak was watching.

Something about the way he looked at the flowers, and him, made his chest feel unsteady, like the room had just tilted in some small, but significant way.

“They’re Forget Me Nots,” Julian said softly, brushing a stem back into place and admiring the new touch of life they brought. “So you can’t forget me when I’m not around.”

Garak was quiet a long moment. Then:

“Julian.”

Just his name. But not a prelude to mischief.

“You have an extraordinary habit of making everything you touch more beautiful.”

Julian blinked. His breath caught, unsteady in his throat.

And in a voice just above a whisper, Garak added, “I never could, my dear doctor, forget you.”

He opened his eyes and looked back at the tea in his hands.

He couldn’t say what cut deeper, that Garak had given it to him again, or that some part of him still longed for it to mean what it once had.

Julian sighed deeply, his back straightening. Not wanting the smell of the freshly dried leaves in his nose anymore, he tucked the sachet under a blanket in the bottom bureau drawer and closed it up tightly. 

No more for tonight.

Still dressed, Julian collapsed into the bed. The faint scent of tea hung in the air, stubborn and sweet. He turned his face toward the pillow, eyes shut, hoping sleep might dull what he couldn’t name. But even then, he couldn’t stop missing the man Garak had been—or the man he’d once believed him to be.

Chapter Text

Kelas had hoped to catch Julian on their walk to the clinic, maybe talk about the night before the day swept them both under. But he hadn’t seen him that morning—not in the kitchen, not passing through the front door—and assumed he was still asleep, or lying low. Understandable. After last night, maybe he was even taking the day off.

But when he stepped into the clinic, he was met with the quiet, erratic tapping of a console.

Julian was already at his desk, surrounded by a scatter of papers and half-drunk cups. The screen’s pale glow lit the tired lines of his face. He looked like he’d been there for hours. His fingers paused, then resumed at the keys, deleting as much as he wrote—if not more. Whatever he was working on, it wasn’t going well.

“Hey,” Kelas said softly, leaning in the doorway.

Julian looked up, slow to register him. “Morning,” he said, voice even but distant. His gaze dropped back to the screen, fingers continuing on the keyboard.

“You’re in early,” Kelas said. “Let me guess—more grant requests?”

Julian gave a tired shrug. “Trying, at least. Not sure if I’m making sense anymore.”

Kelas stepped closer, eyeing the mess of printouts and half-drunk cups. “Did you even sleep?”

“Some.” Julian rubbed at his temple with the heel of his palm. “Didn’t help much.”

The ache behind his eyes hadn’t faded. Neither had the scent of Garak’s tea, which he’d tried not to think about since tucking the sachet away. He didn’t know what it meant—if it meant anything at all. But it had stirred something in him that hadn’t settled.

For a moment, Kelas just watched him—his drawn face, the slight tremble in his posture that didn’t seem like caffeine.

He watched as Julian highlighted a paragraph, stared at it, then deleted it with a sharp tap. His shoulders slumped a little.

“I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say anymore,” Julian muttered. “The whole thing’s a mess.”

“It’s a grant proposal,” Kelas said gently. “Not a peace treaty.”

Julian huffed a faint laugh, more breath than sound. “Feels like I’m negotiating with my own brain.”

“Come on. Let’s take a walk. You look like you need air.”

Julian glanced out the window. Morning light streamed in, crisp and clear. He hesitated. Then pushed his chair back with a quiet sigh.

“Yeah. Probably.”

“There’s a new café down the street,” Kelas offered. “Quiet, decent tea. Come on. First round’s on me.”

They left the clinic and stepped into their little section of the city, where signs of recovery had begun to bloom in earnest. Buildings once pitted and dark now bore fresh plaster and paint, their facades no longer haunted.

Fresh greenery now climbed the stone walls, softening the scars of old battles, reclaiming space that once bore only ruin. Around the still-partially restored fountain, life moved without ceremony—shopkeepers unlocking doors, neighbors pausing to chat, children weaving between passersby, someone balancing a tray of morning bread.

Street vendors lined the walkways again, their stalls draped with local crafts, small baskets of produce, and hand-stitched cloth. The silence of destruction that had once settled over the streets like ash had lifted, replaced by low conversation and the rustle of commerce. The quiet pulse of life was returning.

Even after all this time, the resilience Garak had written about, the stubborn, steady strength of Cardassia, was still growing, just as he said it would.

“It’s finally starting to feel like the home I used to know,” Kelas said with a quiet grin, leading Julian through the revived parkway.

Julian breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of bread, stone, and blooming air. “I missed the city more than I expected this time,” he said quietly. “There’s something about it. It feels like home.”

Strange, how easy it was to admit now. How natural it felt. As if somewhere along the way, Cardassia had stopped being a place he visited and quietly become a place he needed.

Julian couldn’t help but notice how much more alive Cardassia felt now, how much more real. Deep Space Nine had felt like this once, filled with friendship and purpose, but over time, even the promenade started to feel more like a workplace than a life.

Each time he returned to the station, the ever-present hum of machinery seemed louder, the corridors narrower, as if the walls had inched closer while he was away.

Here, he felt the sun on his skin. The quiet persistence of Cardassia’s people in every repaired wall, every replanted bed. The scent of fresh grass and blooming flowers was a vivid contrast to the station’s sterile, recycled air.

He thought back to those early days after the war, when he first arrived to help rebuild. Every step forward had felt monumental. Each restored clinic. Each life saved. That sense of purpose, clear and immediate, was a feeling he’d almost forgotten the shape of.

And still, he hadn’t expected to feel it in this place again. Not after everything.

Certainly not with Garak here. And after last night, apparently still very much in the picture.

Somewhere, deep in his chest, something unknotted. Just slightly.

“It’s lovely,” he said, almost to himself. “The station doesn’t feel the same anymore. It’s strange, but… I feel more at home here now.”

“You should have seen her in her full glory.” Kelas smiled, his voice warm with memory. “Cardassia City was a sight to behold.”

Julian tried to picture it. Not just the architecture, but the feeling. A world not defined by war or ruin or loss. He wondered if Garak ever truly believed it could be beautiful again, or if he was only willing it to be for the sake of everyone else.

The café, tucked between a new bakery steeped in the scent of warm bread and a florist bursting with early spring color, offered a quiet refuge from the street’s bustle.

They found a small table at the edge of the sidewalk, where morning light filtered softly beneath the awning. Two cups of red leaf tea and a pair of pastries arrived not long after.

Julian settled into the chair, letting the sun’s warmth and the city’s quiet rhythm begin to ease the knots of a sleepless night. He hadn’t really stopped thinking about Garak, and his maddening blend of sentimentality and detachment, but for the first time since yesterday, he wasn’t bracing against it.

Mindful of the hush around them, Kelas leaned in slightly and lowered his voice.

“About last night—I didn’t realize things were so strained between you and Elim.”

Julian’s expression shifted, just enough to register. Not quite a frown, but something cooler at the edges.

“It’s complicated,” he said, eyes drifting toward a young couple across the square, their laughter soft and unguarded.

He watched them for a moment, wishing he had that.

“I was past it, for the most part,” he murmured, a half-truth at best. “But seeing him again… it brought it all back. All of it.”

“How did I not know you weren’t even on speaking terms?”

Julian leaned back, the chair creaking under him. He exhaled slowly, the scent of dinal blossoms mingling faintly with the steam rising from his cup.

“Well,” he said, voice quiet. “He’s been on speaking terms with me for a while.”

Kelas didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him.

“But you haven’t.”

“I hadn’t been, no.” Julian rubbed the back of his neck, fingers dragging through the short hair at his nape. “Not until a few weeks ago. And… last night just made everything clearer. Not easier. But clearer.” 

He paused, then added, more quietly, “Still, I was glad to see him. He’s been on my mind. More than I’d like to admit.”

Kelas nodded slowly, then unfolded his napkin and smoothed it across his lap. “And that was really the first time you’d seen him in what—over a year?”

“Year and a half, almost.” Julian gave a short breath of a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And after all that time, I’m embarrassed. I made more of it than I should’ve. Let it get under my skin.”

Kelas watched him quietly. Julian’s fingers traced the rim of his teacup, restless.

“What was in the bag he gave you?” Kelas asked, his voice low and careful. “You were really shaken.” 

“Nothing, really.” Julian’s thumb ran along the side of the cup. “Just… tied to a lot of memories. Some good. Some I’d rather not reopen.” He hesitated. “I think maybe he was trying to bring things back to how they used to be. But seeing him again—after everything—it pulled things up I hoped I’d buried. I don’t know. I just wasn’t prepared for it.”

Julian lifted the cup and let the scent settle over him. As the warmth touched his lips, memory stirred.

It was unmistakably Garak’s favorite—sharp, earthy, with that faintly floral finish he never admitted to favoring.

He let the taste linger. 

It filled his mouth the way Garak once had filled his thoughts, unexpectedly and insistent. Always impossible to ignore.

That first meeting drifted up uninvited. How young he’d been, how eager to impress. Stumbling through pleasantries, fumbling an order at the replimat—tea, of all things—when Garak had clearly come seeking something else. Something more tangible than conversation, and far less innocent.

He remembered the kiss they’d shared, just once, the same taste of red leaf on Garak’s tongue. It clung to him now as it had then: quietly, utterly, without permission.

Gods, if he could do it over.

The clatter of dishes and the low din of conversations around him pulled him back. He set the cup down with a gentle clink and found Kelas watching him patiently, waiting for him to continue.

“Garak and I had a… connection,” Julian said, adding sweetener to his tea with slow, deliberate movements. The soft clink of his spoon against porcelain cut through the hush of morning, drawing him deeper into memory.

A faint smile curved his lips. “When we first met, it was obvious he had one thing in mind, but I wasn’t sure I was looking for that, with him.” 

He gave a quiet laugh—dry, not unkind. “But Garak is… Garak. He didn’t let up.”

His smile deepened slightly, more private now.

“And what I wasn’t sure I was looking for turned into hours of intense conversation. Gods, he was intense. And brilliant. We’d sit in the replimat dissecting everything and nothing, until the world beyond is almost felt optional.”

Kelas gave a knowing hum. “Intense. Yes. That sounds like Elim.”

“He’d drop the most absurdly cryptic remarks—half riddles, half provocation—and leave me chasing their meaning for days. His eyes would light up with each new puzzle, like he was daring me to keep up. It was maddening. And addictive. I always left those conversations wanting more.”

Julian stirred in another spoonful of sweetener, as if trying to smooth something sharp from the taste. “But it wasn’t just the conversations,” he said, setting the spoon aside and watching the liquid swirl. “I’d finally found someone who saw me—really saw me. He challenged me, valued my mind. Made me feel… not just brilliant, but wanted.”

Kelas broke off a piece of his pastry and offered it across the table. “That kind of intellectual bond—it’s not just rare. It’s transformative, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Julian said softly, his fork idly tracing the edge of his plate. “But most of those memories…” He paused, brow furrowing slightly. “They’ve stopped feeling like something I had. Now they just remind me of what I lost.”

Julian thought back to the first time he’d realized he was in love with Garak, coming back from the holosuites with Miles and being called out for his drunken musings about the brilliantly frustrating wonders of Garak. 

The confession had blindsided him. So had the exhilaration that came with it. In the weeks that followed, he’d found himself circling the same question, night after night: 

What if?

He remembered lying awake on DS9, the hum of the bulkheads too loud, Garak’s smile playing like static behind his eyes. 

What could they have been, if only the timing—or the quadrant—had been different?

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Kelas tilted his head slightly, voice gentle, the look in his eyes steady and without pressure.

A group of pedestrians passing by, their laughter light and careless. For a second, he just watched them, as if trying to remember what that kind of ease felt like.

“Not really.”

“You don’t have to,” Kelas replied, sipping his tea.

Julian sighed, his gaze drifting over the café—newspapers rustling, conversations murmuring. At a corner table, a father passed a pale biscuit to his young child, who beamed as if it were treasure.

“I can talk about it. It’s not like it’s a secret,” he said, voice low. “Ask anyone on DS9—they’ll tell you about the ‘woe is me, I lost my reading buddy’ routine I’ve perfected.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle, then cleared his throat.

“I could tell Garak anything,” he added, breaking off a piece of pastry, “except… the most important things.”

“Love is complicated,” Kelas said softly, his tone matching Julian’s.

Julian looked down, folding the edge of his napkin between his fingers.

“I really just wanted to forget it all. 

He paused.

“And then I started wondering where things might go with you and me.” 

Julian sighed again.

“I knew you had your own complicated past with him. And since you never brought him up, I didn’t want to open that door—didn’t want to burden you with my own mess about him.”

He gave a small, wry smile.

“And maybe part of me thought I could handle it better than I have.”

Kelas reached across the table and rested a steady hand over Julian’s.

“You’re never a burden.”

Julian let the words settle before speaking.

“I’ve spent enough time avoiding him.” He rubbed at his face, the roughness of stubble catching under his palm.

“It’s been a long time since we actually talked. Really talked.”

“You should.” Kelas said smiling, a gleam in his eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I know that in the past few weeks, he’s been talking about you. Incessantly. ‘Julian this, Doctor Bashir that.’”

Kelas shook his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Fascinating as you are, every conversation we’ve had lately seems to circle back to you. I’ve had to ask him a few times to pick another topic.”

Julian’s hand stalled mid-air, pastry forgotten.

His brows lifted, disbelief flickering across his face.

“He has?”

The words came quietly, but his mind was already racing, caught somewhere between the fragile lift of hope and the sharp edge of doubt. 

“Why now?”

Kelas shrugged, observing Julian’s flustered reaction. “ It’s clear that he’s been missing you. And that’s why I was so surprised to hear that you two hadn’t been speaking.” 

He let Julian have a moment to take it in. Around them, the quiet clatter of the cafe and soft conversations filled the pause.

Julian’s gaze dropped to his cup. Then slowly, a flicker of something—recognition, maybe hope—stirred behind his eyes.

“I did finally reply to one of his messages,” he said. “Maybe that… did something.”

“That must’ve been one hell of a letter,” Kelas said with a teasing smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Julian gave a faint huff of a laugh. “Hardly. If it had been any shorter, it wouldn’t have qualified as a memo.” He took another bite, chewing slowly.

When he swallowed, something in him gave—just a little. He set the pastry down, eyes lifting to meet Kelas’s with quiet insistence.

“So… what did he say?”

“Well, as you’d expect, he’s always praised your medical skills. Your quick thinking. I can attest to those myself,” Kelas said. “He admires your integrity. Your commitment to character. Again—can’t argue there.”

Julian’s shoulders dropped slightly, absentmindedly tracing the rim of his cup with a finger. 

“That’s kind of him,” he said softly. “But it’s not exactly the stuff of obsession.” A pause. Then, more flatly, “Hardly something to talk about incessantly.”

“Maybe not,” Kelas said, leaning back and folding his arms. A brief pause, reflective. “But he did share more personal things. He talked about your lunches—almost endlessly, actually. Said he always looked forward to your critiques of Cardassian literature and politics, even when he found them, in his words, ‘charmingly misguided.’”

Relief flickered across Julian’s face, his breath catching as the words settled—confirmation, at last, that those moments had mattered to Garak too.

Kelas gave him a knowing look. “Wait a minute. Why am I the one telling you this? Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Julian’s voice thickened with urgency. “Oh, come on,” he said, half-pleading, half-daring him to break.

Kelas hesitated, weighing his decision to say more despite the pained look on Julian’s face. “No,” he said gently. “Like you said, you need to have a conversation with him,” 

Julian groaned, dropping his head back for a beat before letting out a sigh. 

“Fine, but I don’t like this stubborn side of you,” he muttered, lips twitching despite himself. 

His eyes drifted to the street, watching the flow of morning bustle, trying to picture what it would even look like—to reach out again, for real this time.

Kelas’s expression sobered. “Julian… what is it you’re really hoping to find?”

Julian took a breath, letting it settle in his chest before answering. His frustration gave way to something steadier—resolve, maybe, or just the need for clarity.

He’d spent too long letting fear and pride keep him silent. That couldn’t be enough anymore.

“I need to know where we stand. Once and for all. No more misunderstandings, no more dancing around the truth. I mean, how hard can it be to get the Head Minister of Information and State Security to admit his feelings, really?” 

Kelas raised a brow. “Don’t forget Legate.”

“Ah—of course.” Julian rolled his eyes skyward. “A Legate and Head Minister of Information and State Security. Even better.”

“Easy as a spring morning’s breeze, I’ll bet. And how exactly are you going to accomplish that?”

“Honestly?” Julian laughed, daunted but grinning. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Well, if anyone can get him to spill his secrets, it’s you.”

A real smile took hold at last, quiet and genuine. “I needed this more than I realized.”

“That damn smile of yours,” Kelas said with a dramatic sigh, feigning a swoon. He leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Don’t tell Parek, but it still gets me every time. If all else fails, flash it at Elim—and he’s yours.”

Julian laughed, rolling his eyes as the tension in his shoulders finally began to melt. “You’re impossible. Let’s get out of here.”

He pushed his plate back and stood, brushing pastry flakes from his trousers as he gathered his half-finished tea.

Kelas rose too, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. Nodding toward the square, he asked, “Walk a bit before duty calls?”

Julian gave a small, grateful nod, breathing it in without hesitation.

He belonged to this rhythm now. Not as a visitor, but as someone who knew these streets by heart. A thread, not just in the healing—but in the fabric itself.

He glanced sideways at Kelas and smiled, softer now. “Thanks again. For everything.”

Kelas returned it, just as easily. “Anytime.”

They walked on, the sunlight catching in quiet gold at their heels.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the café. And Julian still hadn’t quite found his footing.

With his brow furrowed in concentration, Julian stood hunched over an old, broken portable replicator. The temperamental device had been a thorn in his side since he’d salvaged it from a pile of debris the week before. Today, he resolved, it would not get the better of him. Adjusting the small lamp on the work table, he directed its light onto the intricate wiring and delicate components laid out before him.

Despite his efforts to focus on work, Julian’s thoughts kept drifting back to Garak. No one occupied his heart more than Garak, and the unresolved tension between them was wearing him down. The anticipation of seeing him again in a few days only added to his restlessness.

Determined to distract himself, Julian immersed himself in his grant writing and patient care. Eventually, he found himself working on the current subject of his ire. He hadn’t managed to fix things with Garak yet, but at least he could try to fix the replicator.

His frustration mounted. His fingers, usually so deft and steady in the operating room, now fumbled clumsily with the delicate components. “Damn piece of junk,” he muttered, glaring at the replicator as if it could hear him. 

One of his nurses gave him a sideways glance, while another doctor peeked into the room with a worried expression. “Doctor Bashir, maybe you should take a break,” she suggested gently.

Julian shook his head, his eyes fixed on the replicator. “I’ll take a break when this thing is working,” he snapped, more to himself than to her. “We need it operational so we can be less dependent on external supplies.”

The nurse looked at him with concern. “Doctor Bashir, sometimes things aren’t an easy fix, no matter how hard we try. And despite our time and patience, some things are just broken.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” His voice was firm, his resolve mirroring the determination he felt about Garak. He wouldn’t let either stay broken. With a final tug on a stubborn wire, a sensor on the device lit up.

“Julian!” Kelas’s voice echoed off the sterile, white walls, jolting Julian from his intense focus.

Julian jumped, his tool slipping from his grasp and undoing the one connection he had managed to secure. He cursed under his breath as his frustration boiled over, slamming the tool down on the table. “What is it now?”

Kelas sighed, glancing at the mess of the replicator sprawled before Julian. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re still trying to fix that thing.”

Exchanging glances, the doctor and nurse quietly slipped out, leaving Julian alone with Kelas. Julian sighed and looked up. “What is it, Kelas?”

“Well, I have something you might be more interested in. A package came for you in the delivery.”

“Please tell me it’s a replicator,” Julian said, half-joking, half-hoping for a miracle.

“Not quite,” Kelas said with a gleam in his eyes. “I think it’s from him.” 

Julian’s hands trembled slightly. “Oh yeah?” he managed to ask, keeping his eyes on his work a bit too intensely to be convincingly casual.

“Yeah,” Kelas stated simply as he noticed Julian’s flushing face and nervous energy.

Kelas walked across the room to where Julian was pretending to continue his work and handed him a rectangular box. “This is for you.”

The replicator was instantly forgotten. Julian’s eyes widened, a rush of anticipation making his heart race and his stomach tighten. As he took the box, its weight was both comforting and unnerving in his hands. “Well, what’s in it?”

“How should I know?” Kelas replied with a playful grin. “You’ll have to open it if you want to find out.”

Suppressing his growing excitement, Julian carefully removed the outer packaging. Inside was another box, meticulously wrapped and tied with a perfect bow, heightening his anticipation.

His fingers traced the edges of the package, feeling the smoothness of the wrapping paper. He fumbled slightly with the small card neatly tucked into the fold.

His mind raced with possibilities, each more hopeful than the last. Was it a peace offering? A token of their deep bond and shared past? Or perhaps better yet, a gesture of hope for something new? It was also possible it was none of the above and something entirely practical, like more supplies.

He glanced at Kelas, who was smiling as he watched him, clearly amused by Julian’s barely contained enthusiasm.

Julian carefully extracted the card from its envelope.

Doctor,

It appears I was correct in assuming you could use some proper fitting clothing. I believe you will find these garments more flattering to your figure.

Yours,

Elim

The simplicity and intimacy of the words ‘Yours, Elim’ stirred something visceral within Julian. 

Elim…

Kelas’s impatient voice broke the silence, pulling Julian back from his thoughts. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Julian, still lost in thought, replied distractedly, “I will, but I want to make a bit more progress here first.”He set the package on a nearby shelf, avoiding Kelas’s expectant gaze. He needed a few more moments of normalcy before confronting whatever lay inside.

Julian continued working, though his efforts were half-hearted. He poked and prodded the device absentmindedly, a small but genuine smile tugging at his lips. His eyes kept drifting towards the box, torn between dread and desire.

The gesture with the tea leaves last week had grown on him, but the hurt from the past year still lingered. Yet it was clear that Garak really was thinking of him.

“All right. That’s enough for one day.” Kelas set his work aside, looked up, and scowled at Julian and the replicator. “How much longer are you going to keep at that, Julian? I know you’re just doing busy work as you pretend not to be completely fixated on your present.”

Julian’s mouth opened to protest, but he quickly shut it, conceding the point. “I’m done,” he said.” Let me just clean this stuff up and I’ll come with you.” Julian put the tool down and  finished his tea. “But do me a favor,” he said, picking up the broken replicator and thrusting it upon Kelas. “Hide this thing in the closet for me. I can’t look at it any more. Then we’ll go.”

The walk home always felt longer in the scorching heat of the late afternoon. The streets were beginning to show the dappled  shade of young trees striving to grow and provide more cover. Still too thin and far too small to offer any relief, Julian carried an umbrella for additional protection from the intensity of the sun, but it was nothing against the heat radiating off the pavement and up through the soles of his shoes.

As they neared their neighborhood, Kelas noticed Julian absently adjusted the bow on Garak’s gift tucked in his arm and smiled. “Won’t you even take a peek?” 

Julian glanced at him with a smile, then looked away. “Look at those flowers,” Julian said, pointing to some little blue ones with a yellow center. “We have some almost just like that back on Earth. Isn’t that something? Two worlds light-years apart, yet producing such remarkably similar lifeforms.”

“Oh, don’t try to change the subject on me!” Kelas laughed.

Julian chuckled to himself, thinking about the Forget Me Nots in Garak’s vase. “Of all the infinite diversity in the universe, in all the infinite combinations for little flowers—why those? And look at us—not so different, really. Two eyes, ten fingers. Why two? Why ten? Isn’t life amazing? So stubborn. Something so small, still covered with rubble, yet if that spark remains, they bloom on.”

Kelas sighed, his curiosity undeterred. “You really aren’t curious, are you?”

A smile cracked Julian’s face. “Of course I’m curious.”

“At least tell me what the card said.”

“Nothing much,” Julian replied nonchalantly.

“Give me that.” Kelas grabbed at the card, quickly reading it. “Nothing much? So you’re lying to me now?” he teased. “Looks like he rubbed off on you. I told you that you reminded me of him.”

“Hardly,” Julian scoffed, pulling the card back and tucking it gently back under the bow.

“This sure sounds like more than nothing to me. Talking about your figure? Come on, Julian. ‘Yours, Elim’? That’s not how he signs his correspondence to me.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m simply more charming than you,” Julian teased.

“So it’s clothes?” Kelas asked.

“It’s something he always used to do for me.” His mind drew back to a closet full of clothing hand-made for him by Garak. He suddenly found himself pained by their absence.

“You knew what you were doing when you wore my clothes last week.” Kelas said, nudging Julian playfully. “Was he always wrapped around your finger like this?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Julian stated, but his voice lacked conviction. 

“You really know how to make a big deal out of things that aren’t really a ‘big deal’.”

Kelas was right. It was a big deal. How many times had Garak shown overt caring for Julian in his actions. Not just the clothes, but the carefully selected works of literature he shared with Julian, the endless hours spent lost in conversation ranging from the profound to the delightfully mundane. 

Kelas broke the silence, his concern getting the better of him. “Julian, level with me. What am I missing here?”

Julian hesitated, weighing the cost of confessing the situation to the one last person who was in the dark. He looked away, fiddling with the bow on Garak’s gift, stalling for time. “When the war was over,” he began slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’d reached a point where I had nothing left to lose.” He paused, taking a deep breath as if to fortify himself against the memories. “I told him everything.” Julian’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, his eyes meeting Kelas’s for a fleeting moment before darting away. “I said I loved him.”

“And given that you’re walking home with me and not him, I’m guessing it didn’t go the way you’d hoped?” 

“Not exactly, no.” Julian looked down at the gift in his arms. 

Kelas let out a low whistle, his expression thoughtful. “Wow.” 

“We could never quite figure it out,” he admitted. “So to answer your question, no, I wouldn’t say I have him wrapped around my finger.”

Kelas nodded slowly. “That certainly explains your hesitation with him. But he clearly seems to know what a mistake he made.”

“Every time I managed to close that door, he’d send me a damn letter.” His mind looped back to the same old, tired story—the hurt, the anger. 

“What’d he say in them?”

“I don’t know.” His fingers tightened around the gift in his arms. “Kelas, it was a lot, alright? He turned me down and I needed to move on. That’s all. The last thing I needed was him peppering me with a barrage of letters.”  

“You didn’t read them.”

“I read a few. I mostly wanted to put the whole thing behind me. But I couldn’t let it go.” Julian admitted, his voice tinged with frustration and regret. 

The letters, which he could only guess at their contents but for the few he skimmed, were seemingly relentless. Like daggers through subspace, cutting deeper with every arrival. A letter, then another, and another…  Garak never gave up. Julian’s expression softened as realization dawned on him. “And it seems like neither could he…”

“And yet here you are, another week gone by, and you’re still walking home with me. Julian, I’ll be honest with you. From what you’ve told me, it really seems he’s been trying to make amends for whatever it was he did. How much longer are you going to stay stuck in the past? You say you want to try to work it out with him, but when are you actually going to do something about it?”

Julian paused, Kelas’s words hitting him unexpectedly hard. As they reached the house, Julian’s hand settled on the door handle. He looked around, the familiar surroundings suddenly feeling less comforting and more like a cocoon he needed to break free from.

“He didn’t let go either,” Julian murmured again as he settled into a new reality.

“Go open your gift. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Right,” Julian said mechanically, lost in his thoughts. “Okay.”

Garak indeed had not let Julian go any easier than Julian had let go of him. It all seemed so clear to him now. The endless stream of subspace messages, the guidance and help from his influential hand, all but pleading for Julian’s forgiveness for wounding him so deeply. It was glaringly obvious. 

With a sigh, he settled onto his bed, his eyes fixed on the unopened box resting in his lap—as if it hadn’t had his full attention since the moment he’d received it. 

The box wasn’t the only thing calling out to be opened—the letters remained. In the quiet solitude, their significance seemed to deepen. He sat motionless for a moment, considering them. They could say anything. What had been quietly tucked away and forgotten now called out to him once again, their pull overwhelming.

Setting the box to the side, he reached for the PADD in his satchel and  tentatively removed it. As he waited for his messages to load, filtering for Garak’s alone, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, doing nothing to calm his nerves or mind. 

He stared glassy-eyed at the screen. There were dozens. He chose one somewhere in the middle.

My dear Julian,

I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than my own. The days here have been long and arduous, and the nights even longer. Despite our best efforts, it often feels like we are trying to mend a shattered vase with only the most fragile of threads. The weight of it all bears heavily on my shoulders, and there are moments when I find myself yearning for simpler, better days.

It is in those moments of quiet despair that my thoughts invariably turn to you. My dreams contain echoes of our conversations. (I can still feel your warmth beside me when I awake) You were, and remain, a beacon of light in my otherwise shadowed existence.

Julian felt a lump in his throat, emotions stirring. Where was this suddenly coming from? Garak’s vulnerability was undeniable, but Julian’s heart wavered between skepticism and longing.

You have a remarkable ability to see through me, Doctor, to reach the core of who I am. The memory of your smile, the way your eyes lit up in excitement; You haunt me in the best possible way— a rarity I have come to cherish the farther I descend into the madness surrounding me.

His breathing stopped. The honesty in Garak’s words was almost too much to bear.

Your presence in my thoughts alone brings an illusion of comfort and joy back into my life, even a single thought of you sustains me. Life sings to me with an entirely new song. You’ve shown me the beauty in the smallest moments, the kind of beauty I never dared to search out. I am a changed man, Doctor. For this, I have you to blame, though my heart whispers I should be grateful.

Yours, now and always,

Elim

Julian laid back into his bed, desperately seeking its grounding support. How could this be the same man who had once compared Julian’s love for him to a childish fairytale? His heart pounded, and his mind spun with a whirlwind of emotions. The PADD in his hand felt heavier than it should, laden with memories and unspoken words.

He reread the letter, his eyes lingering on phrases that spoke of longing and transformation. Garak’s words echoed in his mind: “You haunt me in the best possible way,” “You were, and remain, a beacon of light,” “Life sings to me with an entirely new song.” Each sentence brought back a flood of memories.

His thoughts drifted to the other letters still unread. What other secrets did they hold? The depth of emotion in this letter was unlike anything he’d ever known Garak to express. It was not in the tone of the messages he had managed to read, and certainly not evident in their awkward reunion last week. What had caused him to change so profoundly during those long months, and then revert back again?

Julian’s heart ached with a mix of hope and fear. Could they really find a way back to each other? Or were these just words written in a moment of vulnerability, never meant to be acted upon? He felt the weight of the past year, the hurt and confusion, but also a flicker of hope sparked by Garak’s heartfelt words.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the storm within him. For a moment, he thought the scent of Garak hung in the air, mingling with the memories and emotions swirling in his mind.

Swooning from the letter, his gaze returned to the box and its bow. With trepidation and excitement, he reached out for it, ready to face whatever truths Garak had wrapped in that package.

Chapter Text

Back in his room, Julian sat at the edge of his bed, Garak’s blanket beneath him, the wrapped gift in his hands. He knew Garak’s penchant for tailored gifts, having received many over the years. But this felt different. Julian took a deep breath, letting the late afternoon light and bird calls calm his racing thoughts.

I can still feel your warmth beside me when I awake.

His heartbeat steadied as cautious optimism settled in. Glancing at the card once more, he exhaled softly: Yours, Elim.

The thought of Garak calling himself Julian’s filled him with hope. Then again, what if it was just ordinary clothes, nothing special? “It’s just a box,” he told himself. “Just open it already.”

He pulled one end of the blue ribbon, slowly undoing the bow. Slipping a finger under the fold of paper, Julian unwrapped the box with deliberate care. He set the wrapping aside, his hands steady. Carefully, he lifted the lid.

His eyes softened as he sighed in relief. Inside, he found not just clothes; these were love letters—years of Garak’s affections sewn into every stitch and seam.

He ran his fingers along the delicate stitching and hand-rolled trim. Garak had always been meticulous about his garments’ finer qualities, and this was no exception. Tone-on-tone embroidered detailing adorned the neck, sleeves, and hemline. The material was soft and light, more airy than any Cardassian attire he’d seen, crafted just for him.

Julian unzipped his uniform, letting the pieces fall to the floor. He brought the fabric to his face, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the faint, lingering scent of Garak surround him. The tunic top skimmed his figure flawlessly as he slipped into it, dipping in and out at all the right points, just like Garak’s clothing always did on him. The trousers also fit perfectly, of course, completing the set.

He glanced at himself in the mirror, wrapped in Garak’s loving intentions. Warmth spread through Julian as he realized just how intimately Garak must have been envisioning his body. 

Your presence in my thoughts alone brings an illusion of comfort and joy back into my life. 

He could almost feel Garak’s skilled hands on him again as the fabric ghosted over his skin, cool and smooth. The way the tunic hugged him, accentuating his shoulders and waist. It wasn’t just skill; there was love in every stitch.

Even a single thought of you sustains me. 

In another time and place, gifts like this had become so common to Julian that he’d stopped batting an eyelash much sooner than he should have. Over the years on DS9, Garak had made most of his clothing. Though he had long memorized Julian’s measurements, Garak told him he preferred the old-fashioned method of custom fitting as he worked. Few, if any, of his other patrons spared him this time, but Julian enjoyed the extra time together it afforded them. 

At first, it was the conversations he valued most. But over time, Julian found himself looking forward to the unexpected sensations of Garak’s touch, which were exhilarating and strangely soothing. 

With a smile, he laughed softly as he recalled the first time Garak had created a custom piece for him in situ—a bespoke springball suit, tailored directly onto his body.

He remembered how ridiculous he must have looked, standing awkwardly on the small riser in the center of Garak’s shop. All those pieces cut and pinned around his half-naked body as he pretended not to be on the verge of jumping out of his skin from embarrassment. Julian felt every inch of his body scrutinized under Garak’s careful eye as he circled him, tape measure in hand.

Julian instinctively covered himself with his arms, his eyes darting around the shop. “Hurry up. I look insane up here on this tiny little pedestal. I feel like a cupcake on display or something!”

“And a tempting one at that, I’m sure. I’ll try my hardest to refrain from eating you,” Garak smirked, his fingers brushing against Julian’s skin, gently resetting Julian’s arms to his sides, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

Julian’s muscles tensed. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Doctor Bashir, I am a professional,” Garak responded, his voice low and smooth, doing little to calm Julian’s racing heart.

“Professional… I think you just like watching me squirm.” Julian laughed lightly, trying to ease the tension, shifting awkwardly as half his bare chest remained visible to anyone who might enter the shop. The brush of Garak’s fingers sent a wave of heat through his body. Once again, Julian tried to cover himself, and once again Garak moved his arms back to his sides.

“Doctor, please! Stand still. I’d hate to poke you.” Garak removed a pin from his wrist cushion and continued fitting Julian’s leg, stiffening slightly at the graze of his inner thigh. “One must ensure such a specialized garment hugs all the right places without being too constrictive, wouldn’t you agree?”

Completely flustered, Julian attempted to focus. “Yes, well, flexibility is key, of course.”

Garak stepped back to eye his progress, then met Julian’s gaze with a faint smirk. “Indeed, flexibility. And yet, it’s the snugness that often leaves the most striking impression, don’t you find? It’s a delicate balance one must strike.” Garak’s eyes gleamed with sly amusement as his arms encircled Julian’s waist, pulling the fabric—and Julian—closer. His fingers settled on Julian’s sides, cool against his skin. Julian’s breath hitched, the closeness making his palms sweat.

Clearing his throat, Julian, feeling the magnetic pull of Garak on his skin and heat rising to his cheeks replied, “Are you always this… attentive?”

Garak continued to adjust the fabric closer than strictly necessary. “Why, it’s my specialty, Doctor. I wouldn’t want you to be left feeling unsatisfied with my services.” ​​His voice dropped to a near whisper, the proximity sending a shiver down Julian’s spine. 

 “Uh, I’m quite certain you’ve left nothing unattended to.” Feeling his blush deepen and spread down his neck, Julian took a slight step back, ostensibly to view himself in the mirror, but really to put a more comfortable distance between them. He could still feel the ghost of Garak’s touch on his skin, making it hard to concentrate.

Garak smiled with a throaty laugh, his eyes darkening slightly. “Doctor, your satisfaction is my top priority.”

The memory made him sigh, shaking his head at how easily he’d once taken it all for granted. Those moments had been wasted on him, not realizing the depth of his emotions. How could he have viewed handcrafted pieces of art like these as a given? Now, he saw them for the true treasures they were, carefully made for his body by the man he loved.

All these years later, Julian still had the springball outfit. He still had everything Garak had ever made him. Other than his custom uniforms which he simply didn’t want to see damaged here, most of what he had was too heavy and warm for Cardassia not to mention completely impractical, so they all remained safely back at the station. 

Still lost in Garak’s words, a wistful longing for a second chance consumed Julian. He thought about the sentiments he’d left wasted, all the things Garak had tried to tell him, and how stubbornly he had missed them. He was certain that within these letters lay the words he’d been desperate to hear—Garak loved him.

He slowly scrolled through months of unopened letters, aligning the stardates with where he was, what he was doing, and with whom, hoping to gain a better frame of reference. His brow furrowed. What had changed in Garak's circumstances to prompt such intensity?

A nagging thought tickled the back of Julian’s mind. The intensity of Garak’s past letter was nowhere in his recent tone or demeanor—aside from the exquisitely handcrafted clothing—and it weighed heavily on Julian. The Garak of that revelatory message no longer seemed to exist. Why?

Fear and regret settled in. Had he waited too long? As he chose another letter to read, Julian hesitated. He didn’t want to face the whiplash of Garak’s backpedaling love. Not right now. He just wanted this moment. After a year and a half of unrequited love and pining, it seemed the least he was owed. The other letters could wait.

His mind still reeling, he gathered himself with a deep breath, shaking off the last remnants of adrenaline. As he headed out of his room to show Kelas the contents of the mystery box, he paused, returning instead to his bureau and pulling open the bottom drawer. 

He lifted a pile of blankets and gingerly removed the blue velvet sachet. The familiar fragrance of his tea filled the air, instantly transporting him back to moments spent together in Garak’s quarters and the replimat. He had never realized how much he associated the smell with their time together. Now, with the new set of clothing, it really was the perfect afternoon for a cup of real Tarkalean tea. He picked up the small card that had accompanied the clothes and tucked it into his pocket.

In the living area, Kelas sat reading in his chair, his back to Julian. “I opened the box.” Julian smiled, standing in the doorway, proudly showing off his new outfit. 

“Finally,” Kelas exclaimed. “I was beginning to think it sucked you in.” Setting his PADD aside, he walked over to Julian. He reached out to feel the fabric between his fingers, examining the detailing. “Julian, these are exceptional. Elim made these ? ”

“He’s exceptional,” Julian replied, his voice filled with pride and affection.

“Just a week ago, he was griping about you borrowing my tunics, and now he’s hand-making entire outfits? Elim’s clearly been thinking about you!” Kelas laughed.

“Maybe,” Julian replied hopefully, but he knew Kelas was right. 

“And that?” Kelas asked, looking at the sachet. “Is that the one from last week?”

Julian nodded, a soft smile forming. "Tea leaves, my favorite ones. Real ones. It was one of the first things he’d ever given me years ago."

Kelas patted Julian’s shoulder with a knowing smile, stepping back to let Julian brew the pot. “Julian, I think you’re right. He did not let you go.”

As the tea brewed, Julian carried the pot and a cup out to the garden. He settled into a chair, savoring the calm and tranquility of the space. Drinking his tea, everything just felt right again. He’d found purpose on Cardassia, renewed meaning in his life, friendship with Kelas, and the way things looked, perhaps a future with Garak.

He took the card from his pocket,  reading the card again. He silently vowed, I am yours, Elim, his thumb tracing the indented texture of Garak’s simple yet elegant script signature, with its smooth, flowing curves. "There’s hope for us yet," he whispered.

Chapter Text

Julian had thrown himself into anything to keep from counting down the minutes until the end of the week, when he’d see Garak again. It wasn’t working.

His apprehensions lingered, half-examined and restless since seeing Garak and his talk with Kelas, when they found themselves unexpectedly busy.

Julian knew the move was coming sooner or later. With his and Kelas’s transition to more bureaucratic roles within the Ministry of Health Resources and Redevelopment, their primary offices had been moved from their constrained clinic to a newly repurposed building. 

Now serving as the regional headquarters for the MHRR, the new location wasn’t far, as the quieter, less affected area in the city’s outskirts had slowly transitioned into one of many new city centers. Cardassia City proper was still in for years of clean-up before any rebuilding could even be thought about, let alone really begin.

The first time they stepped into the offices for their branch of the MHRR, Julian found the contrast complete and jarring. The sleek Cardassian design of the refurbished building felt new, though it wasn’t.

The characteristic arching lines and geometric patterns of Cardassian architecture gave the space an imposing but orderly feel. Metallic accents and intricate textures adorned the walls, sharply contrasting the clinic’s rough-hewn setup.

Settling behind his new desk, Julian took a moment to appreciate the calm and order of his surroundings. The room was sparse and efficiently arranged, reflecting the Cardassian penchant for functionality. 

As his computer terminal hummed softly while booting up, Julian let his gaze wander to the large window offering a panoramic view of the city. One side overlooked the simple vibrancy of his busy neighborhood, the colorful patterns of bustling markets and daily life reminiscent of the promenade on the station. The other side revealed the dusty remnants of a broken world, its storied culture and dreams lying dead and buried beneath the rubble. 

As he began sifting through reports, his mind briefly felt at ease. It was a relief that, after all his and Kelas’s endless work of building up a functioning department, they were finally making great strides, likely with Garak’s influence heavily driving the progress.

It was still strange to imagine the power Garak held here. Once the exiled tailor of Deep Space Nine, now an integral part of his home world’s renaissance. 

Julian smiled at the twist of fate that had brought Garak to this point.

However, just a week into his new role, Julian found himself bored out of his mind. The coordination and direction of administrative tasks, though important, felt monotonous and far removed from the hands-on medical work he loved. He often caught himself staring out the window, his thoughts drifting back to the days in the clinic.

He grunted as he dragged his desk to face the hopeful side of the city through this window and tried to refocus on the tasks at hand. The vibrancy outside only seemed to mock his confinement. His desk, once a sign of progress, now felt like a cage.

His fingers tapped on the desk. The console’s screen stared back at him with the same lack of enthusiasm he felt. He glanced at the chronometer for the millionth time that day, willing the hours to pass faster. The minutes crawled by, each one a reminder of his new reality. As he was about to tear his hair out, he heard Kelas’s voice break through the silence.

“You’re awfully quiet in there.” Kelas called out from his office.

“It’s quiet work,” Julian said. He rose from his chair and headed toward Kelas’s office, grateful for the excuse to move around. 

When he arrived, he found Kelas fastidiously working away. Julian sank into the seat in front of Kelas’s desk. “I never thought I’d miss the chaos of our old clinic,” he said in a voice as dull as he felt.

“It had its charms, didn’t it?” Kelas lifted an eyeridge, but otherwise continued working, unmoved by Julian’s boredom. Though, I must say, I don’t miss the leaky roof or the constant power outages.”

Julian smiled, his gaze drifting to the window. “No, definitely not. But there was something about being in the thick of it, directly helping patients. Now, it’s just about paperwork and logistics.”

Kelas looked up from his work and towards Julian, his expression thoughtful. “You’re still making a difference. It’s just in a different way. The work we’ll be afforded here will further ensure that hospitals and clinics can function even better.”

Julian sighed. “It’s just… seeing the immediate impact of my work on my patients is, well, there’s nothing else like it.”

“I miss it too,” Kelas admitted. “But this is a tremendous opportunity.”

“I know.” 

“Focus on the bigger picture. What you’ll do here is just as important, probably more so.”

“Listen, I’ve got to go check on something back at the clinic. Want to come along?”

“Maybe another time. But thanks,” Kelas said. He gave Julian a soft smile. “Hang in there, Julian.”

Despite the order, the sleek quiet of it all, Julian felt strangely adrift. Detached. He felt like he’d been exiled from his own pulse.

He flinched at the word.

Exile.

Garak knew it too well. He’d lived it for years. Left adrift, alienated, half-severed from self, from home, from history.

How had he endured it?

Julian knew he could better serve the greater population by continuing to direct and reallocate supplies as they came in more steadily, but he couldn’t continue on like this.

When the day finally arrived for Garak to be coming back over for dinner, and his nerves couldn’t handle spending another moment cooped up in the office that afternoon, he told the staff he needed to stop by the clinic under the pretense of checking on supplies.

It was the fifth time that week he’d ‘checked in on supplies.’ He lingered there again, hiding in plain sight, until his former nurse gently shooed him out.

The moment he stepped outside, the old stone wall beside the entrance called to him. He lowered himself to sit with eyes closed and a deep breath. The air still smelled of flowers and dust. 

His hands curled around the smooth, familiar shape of a medical tricorder. The casing was cool against his skin, its edges worn to softness by years of use. His thumb traced the buttons absently, a habit ingrained from countless hours spent diagnosing patients.

He flicked it open and shut, the small screen lighting up, casting a soft glow over his fingers, the rhythmic motion mechanical, almost meditative, though his thoughts were anything but still.

The late afternoon sun filtered down in slanting gold, throwing long shadows across the quiet courtyard. Its warmth touched his face, but it did little to chase away the chill that had settled deep inside him. The tricorder gave a soft hum as he powered it on again, not because he needed it, but because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus on his breathing, but the knot in his stomach only seemed to tighten with each passing second.

Garak was coming back tonight.

That simple fact spun like a signal flare in Julian’s mind, too bright to look at directly. He breathed in through his nose and held it, trying to steady himself with the scent of sun-warmed stone and st’kal blossoms. It didn’t work. His mind reeled backward instead.

He thought of the letters.

Garak’s writing had always been like the man himself. They were elegant, clever, and deeply composed. My dreams contain echoes of our conversations, Garak had written. I can still feel your warmth beside me when I awake.

But now, with the moment upon him, Julian couldn’t shake the gnawing doubt that had already taken root.

He glanced down at the tricorder, its display reflecting the pale blue of his uniform. This device was a part of him, like an extension of his hand. Yet even as he held it, it reminded him of the expectations placed upon him. The expectations he still sometimes feared he could never truly meet.

It had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface, whispering louder than any reassurance. No matter how many accolades or honors he received, no matter how many lives saved—none of it quite silenced the voice he’d lived with for as long as he could remember.

Jules.

The old name cut through him. The name of the boy who had always questioned his worth, who had feared he was never good enough before that too-clever boy came along, desperate to belong, but even more terrified of being found out. He had made it far, hadn’t he? Starfleet officer. Dominion War hero. And yet, beneath it all: Jules. Small. Afraid. Hungry for love and never sure he deserved it.

And tonight, with so much at stake, that doubt returned sharper than ever.

What if it had been too long?

What if Garak saw him again and didn’t feel the same way? 

It was possible Julian had changed too much, worn thin by years of service and sorrow and all the ways they hadn’t been together. Their time apart may have carved an irreparable distance between them.

Julian’s chest tightened at the thought. He had lived through the pain of their separation once and he wasn’t sure he could bear it again.

His grip on the tricorder tightened.

The device gave a soft beep as he powered it on yet again, its mechanical chirp cutting through the quiet courtyard. He closed his eyes, trying to find some semblance of calm. The hum of nearby wind turbines mixed with the rustle of Cardassian flora swaying in the breeze. He inhaled deeply, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the antiseptic tang of the clinic, and held his breath for a moment before slowly exhaling. 

The voice in his head crept in again.

You’ve never been enough.

He tried to push it away with memories of Garak’s voice, rich and dry and fond: “Don’t flatter yourself, Doctor. I’ve met men as interesting as you.” Or that moment, long ago, when Garak had touched his wrist in a way that had meant more than entire conversations.

But still, that gnawing doubt circled Julian like a predator. He could only hope that tonight wouldn’t unravel the fragile threads of hope he had clung to for so long. 

Maybe they would laugh again. Maybe Garak would reach for his wrist, like he used to. Maybe the ache would stop.

Taking another calming breath, he closed the tricorder with a soft click. He tucked it away into his pocket as he stood, his uniform brushing against the stone as he moved. 

Then, laughter caught his attention.

Two young Cardassians strolled down the path that cut through the plaza, their hands intertwined. They were oblivious to Julian’s presence, lost in their own world as they exchanged soft words and shared a quiet, intimate moment. 

The woman leaned into her partner’s touch as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. They shared a glance, and it was all there. Affection, ease, a private understanding forged wordlessly, her smile radiant in the fading light.

Julian watched them for a moment. The ache that bloomed in his chest wasn’t quite jealousy—it was longing. Longing for something simple. For something real. He wanted what they had. Wanted someone to look at him like that, with certainty. Like he wasn’t a puzzle to solve, but someone already known.

He looked away, suddenly feeling like an intruder in their happiness.

He started walking, each step familiar, worn into muscle memory from endless repetition. The crumbling streets bore their scars, but life had returned. Cardassia had returned.  Bright flowers pushed through the cracks in quiet defiance, painting the landscape with the lovely resilience of delicate blooms. The edges of the rubble were softened now by vines and stubborn greenery, each whispering a promise of renewal and hope. 

And then—there it was.

Around the final corner, he came upon what he’d passed a million times to and from work. A small patch of blue flowers blooming through the broken stone. They weren’t actually forget-me-nots. He didn’t know what these were called, but they were close enough. Soft and fragile, Julian always found himself enchanted by their delicate blue blossoms, a reminder of the fleeting beauty of life amidst the ravages of the war. 

Today, their significance struck him with a renewed passion, emotions nearly sweeping him off his feet. 

He stared down at the delicate blue petals, blooming where they had no right to.

A breeze passed through, ruffling their thin stems.

A reminder.

A promise kept long after it should have faded. Of something delicate surviving where it shouldn’t have.

He crouched.

He opened the side pouch of his satchel, retrieving his canteen and pulling the cap off to pour a shallow well of water into it. Carefully, he reached out and plucked a small bouquet’s worth.

His fingers trembled slightly as he stood, holding the fragile blossoms.

He could almost hear it.

“Now you can’t forget about me when I’m not around.”

And just as clearly, the answer that had followed.

“I could never forget you, my dear Doctor.”

He closed his eyes.

Tonight, if he was lucky, that voice would no longer live only in memory.

A single thought of you sustains me…

Chapter Text

Julian walked home slowly with the small bouquet resting in the crook of his satchel. The city’s sharp lines were softening in the golden dusk, but it was the quiet shift inside him that felt most profound. His chest still ached, but it wasn’t the same ache he’d carried all year. This one stirred just beneath his ribs, and was like hope tipping toward certainty. 

He’d felt it in the letters Garak wrote him. Seen it in the careful, steady stitching of his perfectly tailored clothing. Heard it in the soft return of Garak’s voice in his life. He carried it now in the weight of Garak’s name folded in his pocket.

Tonight wasn’t just a maybe. It felt like a start.

Kelas was set and ready for Parek staying the week and was in the kitchen when Julian got home, a dish warming in the oven.

“Everything’s ready,” Kelas said.

“Except me.”

“You’re fine. Everything will be fine. I’m sure Elim can’t wait to see you either. And I can’t wait for you and Parek to finally meet.”

“Your optimism is appreciated if not completely reciprocated,” Julian said, filling a kettle and a glass container with water. One for the Tarkalean tea, the other for the flowers.

Carefully, he slipped the stems of the not-forget-me-nots into the glass, and made his way to his room to get out of his work clothes and back into the new ones from Garak. 

There wasn’t much time before Garak and Parek were due to arrive, so while Kelas finished preparing a few simple snacks inside, Julian took the tea, flowers, and a few ancillaries out to the garden table. He worked quickly, straightening chairs, brushing away stray leaves, lit a candle in the table and the few in the hanging lanterns, before adjusting and readjusting the place settings.

Julian took a sip of his tea. The warmth registered, but only faintly. His movements were steady, but his pulse raced and his thoughts circled around the thousand ways this night could still fall apart.

If he could just act calm, project the right amount of ease, maybe it wouldn’t be obvious how close he was to unraveling.

He wiped the table again, though it was already spotless. He moved the wine glasses from left to right, then back again, searching for some imagined ideal that might make him seem calm, unbothered. It was stupid. Garak wouldn’t care. Or maybe he would. He used to notice everything.

He fluffed the flowers one last time. A distant knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. He froze, ears straining toward the house. For a moment, he stood there, paralyzed by a flood of emotions.

“Elim, so good to see you again,” came Kelas’s voice. Julian held his breath, waiting for Garak’s reply. But just then, the high-pitched whir of a bush beetle rose in the garden, drowning out everything but the pounding of his own heart.

Frantically, he straightened a chair that didn’t need straightening. Smoothed his hair. Smoothed his clothes. His body felt foreign, like something he had to consciously manage. Stand? Sit? Sip his tea? 

No, the cup was empty. Damn it. 

Through draperies billowing in the breeze, Julian caught glimpses of the scene unfolding in the house. The familiar silhouette of Garak moving, gesturing. Just the sound of his voice, distant but unmistakable, pierced something in Julian’s chest.

He ran lines in his head. All the things he wanted, no, needed to say. He thought about pulling Garak into his arms, pressing into him, ending this absurd distance.

The voices grew louder as they made their way toward the garden. 

Julian’s heart pounded, his mind racing through countless scenarios. Finally, with a deep breath, he forced himself still.

Julian turned just in time to see Garak step out into the garden, backlit by warm light, as if he were emerging from memory itself. 

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Julian had seen him like this a thousand times. Perfect composure, impeccable dress. But something about him now felt changed. More powerful. More undeniable. The tailored cut of his clothing was uncharacteristically “plain and simple” as it were, yet emphasized the strength in his posture, the quiet confidence in the way he carried himself.

Julian’s breath caught. Warmth flooded through him before he could shove it down.

With each step Garak took toward him, the weight of the past year began to lift, replaced by something keener, sharper: anticipation.

Garak’s gaze met his, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

“Doctor,” Garak said, voice rich and measured. “It’s good to see you.”

That subtle smile. That deliberate grace. Julian had fallen in love with him a hundred times over. This was only the newest.

He barely remembered to respond. “It’s really good to see you, too,” he said, almost breathless.

Garak held up a bottle of light colored wine for Julian. “Springwine, the one you like.” He smiled. “One of the perks of working intelligence,” he whispered. “Always a connection to get you what you need.”

Julian’s smile softened, wide and unguarded. “First the tea leaves, now this?” He shook his head, eyes warm. “You’re impossible, you know that

Garak’s eyes held that same knowing glint, that same slow-burning intensity that had always unraveled Julian in ways he’d never liked to admit. A smile tugged at Garak’s lips as he took in Julian’s reaction.

“Shall we?” Kelas asked, food and kanar in hand, gesturing toward the table.

The garden, bathed in the soft glow of the evening light, was a tranquil backdrop, but nothing inside Julian felt still. Conversation began with pleasantries, the weather, the garden, and Julian poured the wines. But each word felt like a balancing act. They’d once talked about everything under the stars, but now even hello had weight.

“I need to check on something inside,” Kelas said, rising with abrupt brightness. “I’ll be back shortly.”

He didn’t need to. Julian knew that. Especially when Kelas shot him a pointed, encouraging smile before disappearing into the house, leaving them alone.

Julian turned his gaze to his springwine, then took a sip, his grip on his wine glass tightening. Garak, ever composed, watched the sky.

Julian cleared his throat. “Garak, I can’t thank you enough for the clothing,” he began, searching for solid ground. “They are masterworks.”

“We can’t have the most esteemed Doctor Bashir running around in another man’s clothes,” Garak said smoothly, his voice carrying the barest hint of a smirk.

Julian let out an easy breath of a laugh. “Truly, they’re a treasure.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

Julian hesitated. When he finally spoke, their words overlapped, their voices tangling awkwardly.

“I love…”

“I only wish they fit as well as they used to.”

“…that you made them for me.” He glanced down at them. “You’re perfect. Er, they’re perfect as ever.”

Julian snapped his mouth shut. Idiot. That wasn’t what he meant. Or maybe it was. He didn’t know anymore. With an exhale, he smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle. 

But the clothes were perfect. Did Garak find him to be the problem?

So much for ease.

“Kelas still hasn’t made a dent in the weeds I see. Still the same wild tangle back here,” Garak said lightly, eyes flicking over the garden as if weeds were a safer topic than feelings.

Then, with quiet precision, he reached over and brushed a leaf from Julian’s sleeve. The touch was slow. Unnecessarily so.

Julian didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The contact echoed through him, warm and destabilizing. He blinked. “Um, no. I suppose he hasn’t.”

He followed Garak’s gaze, though he couldn’t have said which plants were supposed to be there and which were weeds, aside from the obvious fruits and vegetables.

“I’d love to have a garden again someday,” Garak mused, “but duty calls, and I am in constant motion. Hardly suitable for planting.”

Julian’s fingers fidgeted with the stem of his wine glass. He nodded, then searched for something steadier to hold the conversation. In the end, he latched onto the obvious.

“Head Minister of State Security and Information.” He let the words settle, as if speaking them aloud might help him process them. “Garak, I’m over the moon for you. Really. At the risk of seeming ill-informed, what is it you do?”

Garak’s lips curved slightly. “Essentially, I oversee all our intelligence operations.”

Julian exhaled sharply through his nose, nodding instead of openly gawking. “Wow.” It shouldn’t have been attractive, but it was. Maddeningly so.

“And managing threats, ensuring that the information flow is conducive to stability. It’s all quite routine, really.”

Julian leaned forward before he realized it, caught between professional interest and pure instinct. He stopped himself just short of reaching across the table. Garak’s voice still had that smooth veneer, but beneath it, something else. An ease with which he wielded authority. The steel had surfaced.

Garak seemed to note his reaction and pressed on, his tone rich with amusement. “Negotiating with foreign diplomats, neutralizing potential threats, ensuring our security protocols are up to date, and occasionally managing the dissemination of sensitive information. Nothing too grandiose,” Garak added lightly. “Just a little responsibility to keep things from falling apart.”

Garak still knew exactly how to wind him up. Julian hated how easily he slipped back into watching Garak like he was some impossible puzzle, letting the thrill of it drown out everything he meant to say. His mind caught on the way Garak sounded saying those things, so confident and composed. Dangerous in a way that had always been unfairly compelling.

He tried to focus on the implications of Garak’s work. Instead, his thoughts betrayed him.

He pictured Garak in high-stakes negotiations, outmaneuvering diplomats with razor-sharp wit, slipping through shadows, neutralizing threats with that same unnerving calm. Miles had once teased him about his spy kink, and this version of Garak, so commanding and controlled, was testing every bit of his restraint.

His mouth was dry. He shifted in his seat, legs uncrossing and recrossing beneath the table.

“Fascinating,” he managed, though his voice caught slightly at the end. He grabbed for his wine with a hand he hoped wasn’t shaking.

Garak raised an eyebrow, just slightly. Noticed? Noticed, and then looked away, letting the moment slide past without comment. Which somehow made it worse.

Julian reached for some kind of olive looking thing at the same time Garak did, and their fingers brushed. Brief. Electric.

Julian moved his hand back a half-second too late. “Sorry.”

“Not at all,” Garak said softly, eyes steady. He hadn’t pulled back right away either.

The sound of movement inside the house saved him. Julian’s ears perked up.

“Sounds like the mysterious Parek is here,” he said, seizing onto the distraction like a drowning man desperate for a transporter lock.

“Wonderful.” Julian noted Garak said it more flatly than he would have expected.

As Kelas and Parek stepped out of the house, Julian and Garak rose and walked over to greet Parek. “Parek, this is the esteemed Doctor Bashir, and of course, you remember Garak.” Kelas gave a warm grin. “Julian, meet Parek.”

Julian moved to offer a polite bow as Parek instead extended his hand in the human custom, a small but thoughtful gesture for Julian’s benefit. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, Doctor Bashir. To say your resume is singularly impressive would be an understatement.”

“And you!” Julian replied, smiling. “Just Julian, please,” he corrected with a small, embarrassed laugh. “Though, I feel like we’re already old friends. I’ve heard just about everything there is to know, thanks to Kelas.”

Garak gave Parek a slight nod. “Good to see you again.”

Parek’s gaze briefly flicked to Garak, the hint of skepticism unmistakable. “Likewise,” he replied, then turned back to Julian.

As they moved toward the garden, Parek walked beside Julian, keeping his distance from Garak. The unspoken tension between the two was palpable, with Parek wary of the past he and Kelas shared.

“Seven years together on Terok Nor!” Parek said with a note of curiosity that almost passed for amusement. “I bet there’s some stories there.”

Julian let out a low laugh, trying not to glance too obviously at Garak. “Plenty,” he said, easing back into his seat as if the weight of all those memories had just nudged him in the shoulder. “Believe me, Garak was… is… quite something.”

Garak gave a small, noncommittal smile. “Now, now, Doctor.”

Kelas interjected, catching Julian’s eye. “Tell him about the camping simulation gone wrong”

Julian groaned and laughed at once, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, Prophets. That one.”

Garak tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “Ah yes. Your great suggestion turned misadventure. An innocent afternoon of Risan wilderness programming.”

“The weather control matrix failed,” Julian explained to Parek, “which, in theory, should’ve just made it drizzle. Instead, we got caught in a holosimulated monsoon. Neither of us brought backup clothing, so we ended up soaking wet, freezing, and wrapped in a single thermal blanket for warmth.”

“In Quark’s,” Garak added with a beat of pure mischief. “He insisted on finding a drink before returning to his quarters. We were both drenched, hair plastered to our faces, and Quark refused to stop making comments.”

Parek raised an eyebrow. “Romantic.”

Julian snorted. “Mortifying.”

“And then there was the time Julian shot me.”

Parek’s eyes widened and turned to Julian. “You shot him?”

Julian nodded, smiling. “It’s… a long story.”

“Right here,” Garak said, tapping the faint scar. “Right in the neck ridge.” He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, though his eyes held a hint of something deeper. “Its still unclear if the doctor’s aim was impeccable or lousy.” 

“Oh stop yourself.” Julian clicked his tongue. “You wouldn’t even have that scar if you’d let me use the dermal regenerator.”

“What, and let you forget? “I don’t think so!” He laughed more deeply this time.

“Believe me, it was not cathartic enough for all the headaches you’ve given me,” Julian laughed, flicking a leaf at him that had fallen on the table.

Garak tutted softly, the old rhythm between them back as it ever was.

Parek laughed. “I can relate to headache inducing partners,” he said with an easy smile, “Kelas once sent me ten messages in a single day because he’d had a dream I looked thin and was worried I’d forgotten how to eat.”

Kelas didn’t deny it. “You weren’t answering,” he said simply.

“And I never will again,” Parek replied fondly, “if it means you’ll keep sending those messages.”

He leaned toward Julian and Garak. “For the record, I was on my way to see him.” His smile turned wry. “That’s when I knew I’d either lose my mind or marry him.”

“Garak has certainly caused me to lose my mind countless times. But I’ve missed our lunches,” he looked to Garak, “our arguments.” Julian settled into a quiet pause. A thin smile softened his face. “And you.”

Their eyes meet. A silence hummed between them. Heavy, but not yet honest. Julian’s heart thudded, and he looked away first. There was still too much unsaid between them, and too much risk in saying more.

Parek glanced between Garak and Julian, curiosity evident in his eyes. “Forgive me if I’m misreading something,” Parek said lightly, his gaze flicking between them with growing interest. “You’re not… together?”

Kelas shot him a sharp look, knowing exactly what Parek knew about the messiness of their relationship. 

He glanced at Garak, searching for a cue he wasn’t sure he wanted to follow.

“Nope. Just friends,” he said lightly, too lightly, and the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“We were very close on Deep Space Nine,” Garak added. “It was… a complicated time.”

Julian folded his hands around his glass. “We spent a lot of time together. Lunches, discussing literature and politics…” He glanced at Garak, and this time his voice held a note of accusation. “But no. We were never more than friends. That was… clear.”

Julian lowered his gaze and squared his kanar glass in front of him. When he looked up, Garak had looked away. Neither wanted to be the one who named it.

Garak’s gaze held a glint. Not fond, not quite reproach, but something between. “Indeed. Julian and I shared many… illuminating experiences. He, the eager young doctor, and I, the humble tailor with an experienced past.” 

He paused, his tone sharpening just enough for Julian to feel it. “Though in time, the good doctor grew very busy. And I suppose I simply became one of many distractions he outgrew.”

Julian’s head snapped up. “That’s not true,” Julian said, a little too fast. “At least I tried. I always made time. You’re the one who…”

He stopped. Inhaled sharply. Then let it out in a slow breath, tempering his voice, falling back on familiarity.

“Parek, I generally showed much more restraint during our lunches and literary debates, though a few of his recommendations were shot-worthy.”

“My dear Doctor, I beg your pardon? My suggestions were impeccable.”

Parek rolled his eyes toward Kelas, clearly noting the Cardassian romantic argument unfolding.

“Four words, Garak: Sun Rising on Tomorrow.”

Kelas groaned. “He had you read that one? Elim, really?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Garak asked, feigning offense. “A classic tale of conviction and duty. It practically defines the Cardassian literary canon.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” Kelas muttered, reaching for the kanar. 

“I thought it was rather stodgy,” Parek offered. Polite. Too polite. The bite landed all the same.

Garak looked at Parek. “Most do. Especially now.”

Julian had always chalked up Garak’s inexplicable love for the book to cultural differences. Maybe it was. But beneath all that, it was something darker. A kind of fatalism Julian had never quite been able to reason away.

“I mean… in theory, I can appreciate the message. The idea of sacrificing personal happiness for the greater good.” He hesitated. “For Cardassia.”

“And look where all that loyalty got us.” Kelas leaned back, wine glass twirling slowly in his fingers.

“That’s the problem with the old guard,” Parek said smoothly, his gaze pointedly unfocused. “So mired in duty, they couldn’t imagine any other path. Anything for the State.”

Julian noticed the way Parek’s eyes shifted to Garak and lingered. Not overt. But sharp. Measured. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. The implication was clear. He knew what Garak had done in the name of the State, and to Kelas. A subtle, surgical judgment: 

Men like you built the cage we’re trying to escape from.

And something in Julian rose against it. Against the idea that Garak hadn’t changed. That he was still that man.

He opened his mouth. To defend him, maybe. To remind them of everything Garak had already paid.

But Garak moved first.

He lifted his glass. His hand was steady. His voice steadier still.

“And that, Parek, is why I choose to give what’s left of my decency to Cardassia.”

He let the words hang. No dramatics. Just truth, slow and unflinching. “Because she’s earned it.”

A pause. 

“I haven’t. Not yet.”

A longer pause, his voice dropping ever so slightly. 

“Maybe not ever.”

Julian’s throat tightened. That wasn’t for Parek.

It wasn’t even for him.

It was just the truth laid bare by a man who spent his life in shadow, finally stepping clear.

No performance. No misdirection. Just that rare, bone-deep honesty Garak rarely allowed himself, offered now like a confession no one had asked for.

Parek didn’t smile. Not exactly. But the steel in his voice dulled. “And that,” he said softly, “is why she’ll survive.”

The evening wore on and the edges of tension softened. Easy jabs and sharp remarks gave way to more generous conversation and old memories.

Kelas praised the MHRR reforms, while Julian spoke of the clinic and patients he missed. He lamented the stubborn infrastructure and waxed about the moments that still made it all worth it. 

Garak, in turn, offered glimpses of his work on Cardassia. Not the state secrets, of course, but the complexities, the compromises, the weight of holding a fractured world together. Parek seemed receptive to it and conceded that Garak’s perspective really did seem a perfect fit for his role in a new Cardassia.

Julian’s eyes softened as he listened to Garak speak, tracing the familiar cadence of his voice, noting the small shifts in his expressions. 

It was like watching the first break in a storm after too long beneath gray skies. It was never more clear just how much he still needed this, needed him.

Surely Garak felt the shift too. The way their gazes held a beat longer now, unhurried, unguarded. When they both reached for the kanar at once, their fingers brushed again. Neither moved to break the contact.

Julian let his hand fall back only after Garak’s. He picked up the bottle, fingers still tingling faintly, and poured a small measure into Garak’s glass. Their eyes meeting over the rim.

He turned to the others, lifting the bottle in polite offer. Kelas and Parek each declined with a wave.

Not ready to finish the bottle, Julian poured just a little into his own glass, the kanar catching the candlelight like old gold, thick and slow.

The night had stretched longer than any of them expected. Empty plates and near-finished glasses dotted the table, and a gentle breeze had started to cool the edges of the warm garden air.

Parek stood first, brushing off his tunic. “It’s later than I realized,” he said, though his eyes weren’t on his chronometer, but on the way Julian and Garak’s hands had brushed a moment earlier, the quiet gravity between them hard to miss. His gaze flicked briefly between them, something unspoken settling behind his eyes. “It was a long day of travel. I think I’m going to turn in.”

Julian rose politely. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Parek replied. He hesitated, then looked to Garak, no longer guarded, just measured. “Goodnight, Elim,” he added, and for the first time all evening, his tone carried a note of earned respect. 

Kelas stood next, slower to move, watching the two of them a beat longer. He tilted his head, and something flickered behind his smile. “Hang on, I’ll join you,” he said, tone lighter than his glance. “You two better not forget to finish the wines. They’re not meant to age in the bottle on a night like this.”

Julian nodded. “Noted.”

“Goodnight, Kelas. Parek,” Garak returned, with a shallow incline of his head.

Arm in arm, the couple walked toward the house. Julian just barely caught Kelas mutter, “What’s wrong with you?”

A muffled laugh followed. Then Parek’s voice, too faint to catch the words.

Kelas again, teasing and sly: “And you say I’m the reckless one.”

The door clicked shut behind them. The garden returned to stillness.

Somewhere in the distance, the low chirr of nocturnal insects had started up. The candles on the table flickered lazily, casting warm, uneven halos across the worn stone.

Garak’s gaze dropped to the little vase at the center of the table. “Sholara’tel,” he said softly, the Kardassi word for the not forget-me-nots. He reached for the vase and cradled it gently, studying the delicate blue blooms like a relic from another life. Memory shimmered faintly at the corners of his smile.

He plucked a single stem from the arrangement, pausing a moment before tucking it behind his ear.

Julian watched, breathless, undone by the unbearable tenderness of it. He remembered. And with that memory, all the wasted years pressed in. All the hesitations. The silences. The long, lonely orbit.

Garak poured the last of the springwine into Julian’s glass, holding it lightly by the stem.

He extended it toward him, not so much offering, as inviting him forward.

Julian exhaled. The silence between them wavered, full of things unsaid. He tried to smile, tried to hold the quiet with grace, but something inside him pulled taut.

“Walk with me,” he said, a small tilt of his head indicating the path that wound through the edge of the garden.

Julian stood, his fingers brushing Garak’s as he took the glass. They walked in step, slow and deliberate, past the dimly lit arbor and toward the patchwork rows of overgrown plants.

“The weeds have taken over,” Garak observed dryly, surveying the half-hearted trelliswork and sprawling vines.

Julian huffed a soft laugh. “Kelas has had more enthusiasm than follow-through back here.”

“Hm.” Garak plucked a dried stem from a potted plant and examined it as they passed. “A metaphor, perhaps.”

“For what?”

“For all of us,” Garak said, glancing sideways at him.

Julian didn’t answer. He sipped from the glass, the kanar lingering warm at the back of his throat. They reached the far corner of the garden, where night-blooming flowers had begun to open under the stars.

They stopped there, shoulder to shoulder.

He looked at Garak and saw the moon’s light glinting in his eyes and almost kept the words in.

Almost.

“I tried to stop,” he said, not even realizing he was speaking until the words had left him.

Garak turned toward him, his expression unreadable but completely present.

Julian’s voice caught. “I thought I could forget you,” Julian said quietly. “Told myself I had. Believed it, even.”

He gave a dry laugh. “But your damn messages kept coming. And you stayed with me like a scar that wouldn’t heal.”

There was a pause just long enough for Julian to think he’d said too much.

Garak tilted his head, eyes softening in a way that made everything worse. Or better. Or both.

“Believe me, Julian. If there’s one feeling I know by heart, it’s that one.” No smile. No mask. Just that.

Julian stood beside him. Their shoulders touched, barely, but the silence between them felt stretched to breaking. Without looking, he reached down and found Garak’s hand, the distance between them suddenly impossible to endure.

His thumb moved slowly across Garak’s knuckles, tentative but sure. Garak shifted to take Julian’s hand in his, curling their fingers lightly together.

No words came. And none were needed

Garak studied him for a moment with an unguarded gaze. Then, without a word, he reached out and gently took Julian’s glass from his other hand, setting it carefully along the low stone wall, as if to clear the moment of anything that didn’t belong between them.

Julian’s heart pounded as Garak stepped closer, the space between them narrowing until they were no longer two men who’d spent years circling around an unspeakable truth, but simply two people standing at its center.

Lanternlight shifted, casting dappled shadows across Garak’s face. Julian caught the faintest tremor in his breath.

“It’s late,” Garak said gently, restrained.

“You don’t have to go,” he said, not quite as a plea, but something quieter.

Garak’s expression softened. “I do,” he said, and then, more gently, “But we’ll see each other soon.”

Julian nodded, his smile faint yet full.

They stood like that still and close, neither man wanting to let go.

Eventually, Garak leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Julian’s lips. Then stepped back, his hand sliding from Julian’s with a reluctant grace.

The warmth of his palm remained. 

For a moment longer, they held each other’s gaze. 

Then Garak turned, and vanished down the path between the garden beds.

And this time, the ache of absence didn’t follow him.

Julian lingered alone in the garden, the quiet gathering around him like a second skin. The porch lanterns cast long, flickering shadows across the stone, and somewhere within the walls of the house, he heard soft laughter.

It carried from Kelas’s room. A whisper, a hush, and then a shared warmth between lovers reunited. Not loud or meant for him. But it reached him anyway.

Julian stood for a long moment, eyes fixed on the dim lights of the house, then headed inside, toward his room.

On his bed was the Vitarian wool blanket he’d slept beneath that last night in Garak’s quarters on the station. The one he’d forgotten and left behind when he’d finally returned to Cardassia. He traced the edge of it with his thumb, then lifted it gently into his arms.

Outside, the garden air was still warm, touched with night breezes. He spread the blanket across the low patch of grasses just beyond the arbor, where the soil still held a bit of the day’s heat.

Then he lay down beneath the canopy of  stars overhead now in full bloom. 

And for the first time in a long while, the heaviness in his chest began to shift and soften.

Becoming something else.

Something still unfolding.

Chapter Text

It had been five days since Garak kissed him in the garden. Five days, and Julian could still feel the soft, certain shape of the one thing he hadn’t dared believe in for years.

Nothing had been said since. No follow-up message. No sudden shift. But something had changed.

The night Garak left, Julian finally opened the old messages he’d left unread and shut away after everything fell apart.

He hadn’t meant to revisit any of it. He’d been willing, almost eager to begin clean.

But looking out his window into the garden, where that tender, inevitable, too fleeting kiss had happened, the memories pulled at him. 

He realized he didn’t just want to start over. He wanted the truth. Not for truth's sake, but for himself.

So in the evenings, he took his tea and his MHRR reports out into the warm Cardassian autumn air, which held a faint crispness beneath its early-season heat. Garak’s blanket was spread across the grass beside the arbor. Julian leaned back against it, the fabric warm and familiar beneath his fingers, sinking into the woven folds like something remembered.

In the hush of twilight fading into starlight, he’d open one of the messages. He read slowly and cautiously, as if the words might vanish if he looked too quickly. In the soft glow of his communicator, he saw regret woven through every line. It wasn’t just Garak’s regret. Julian’s was there too, threaded between the lines, staring back at him.

One by one, he let the messages unfold, starting from the beginning, piecing together what the last year and a half had really been. Some nights he read until sleep took him. Other times, he simply lay back and watched the stars turn above him, the blanket soft and loose around his shoulders, letting the old ache settle into something quieter and less alone.

On night five, he opened a message that wasn’t long. Just a handful of lines.

Doctor Bashir,

The days are long, the nights even longer. Perhaps you overlooked the message regarding where to forward your correspondence. Perhaps not. 

Fondly,

Elim Garak

Julian stared at it.

He remembered the message about forwarding addresses. At the time, it had made him furious—at the gall of it, the distance, the pretense of civility after everything. After telling him to leave. After saying he didn’t want him. And then carrying on like none of it had happened. As if they were simply two colleagues exchanging polite dispatches.

He hadn’t replied. And he hadn’t read any messages that followed. He couldn’t. He’d felt discarded, hollowed out, and somehow mocked. 

But now…

It wasn’t the message itself. It was what lived between the lines and the way Garak had wrapped formal words around something raw. How he’d extended a hand without quite reaching, unsure whether he still had the right.

A flicker of hurt, dressed in poise. A shield, not a blade.

It was all so obvious now. He wished he’d seen it then. That he’d read more carefully. That he hadn’t let his pride answer for him.

He wondered what he might have said, if he’d answered at all.

He moved on to the next message.

Dear Doctor,

The work is unrelenting. The bodies, unending. The lucky ones who were spared now work to recover those who had been left waiting to be saved— A salvation that only came through death. We name them by what they carried: a scrap of uniform, a toy, a shard of old jewelry. They pulled the bare remains of a tiny one out yesterday. I don’t flinch anymore. 

Julian’s breath caught. He doesn’t flinch anymore. While Julian had spent months snug and secure on Deep Space Nine, hiding himself away in routines and relative safety, Garak had been pulled deeper into a relentless nightmare. He’d become numb to horrors Julian could barely imagine—pulling bodies from rubble, witnessing loss in a constant, deadening flow. And he felt guilty. Guilty for the warm bed he’d slept in, the predictable days he’d lived through while Garak was surviving the unbearable.

I wake before sunrise, but I rarely sleep. The grit gets into everything—my clothes, my food, my scales. And still I keep telling myself it’s an honor to be here. That I’m helping. That it means something.

But sometimes, in the quiet just before first light, I wonder if I’ve disappeared entirely. If all that’s left is someone doing penance in my name.

You used to remind me of who I was. I resented it, of course. And I needed it more than I ever said.

—e

Julian sat with the message a long time, the words settling slowly. “I don’t flinch anymore” struck him harder than any admission of grief. It wasn’t an apology, or even a confession. But it was something he hadn’t allowed himself to see at the time: the shape of Garak’s unraveling. The quiet bleed of someone holding too much for too long.

It was the simple truth of what Garak had been carrying.

And what Julian had chosen not to say in return.

By the time he reached for his tea, now gone cold, the stars had shifted position. 

His fingers hovered over the communicator. He stared at the date stamped at the top of the dim screen. Over a year old now. But he could almost pretend the letters had just arrived.

He opened a blank reply window, his fingers hovering above the keys.

This wasn’t about guilt, and it wasn’t about reopening old wounds. It wasn’t to rewrite the past—just to stop pretending it hadn’t happened.

Maybe it wouldn’t change anything. But that wasn’t the point. 

He wrote anyway. For Garak. And for himself.

For the man he had been, and the one still learning to understand.

Garak—

I read a few of your old messages tonight. Some of the ones I couldn’t face before.

I should have read them a year ago. I should have read all of them. 

Even in the ones I did read back then, I could hear you. Your familiar cadence. That careful refusal to yield to sentiment. And it made me furious. But I hid it, of course, as I tend to do.

You’re not the only one skilled in the art of avoidance.

In one of the letters I opened tonight, you wrote about disappearing. About being worn thin by duty and history. And I can’t help but wonder now how many times I missed what you were really saying, because I was too busy listening for what I wanted to hear instead.

I wanted to save you, if I’m honest. But maybe you didn’t want that. Or didn’t believe you could be. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I failed to understand what you needed. I offered everything—dramatically, impulsively. That’s who I was. And you turned me away because, in your own way, you cared more than I realized.

I’m not writing this to reopen old wounds. Only to say that I see it now. The choices. The silences. The care, buried as it was.

—Julian

He stared at the words for a long time. Then, slowly, he let his hand fall away from the keypad. The message remained open, unsent, unspoken—just text on a screen, waiting.

Maybe he’d never send it. Maybe it was enough to have written it.

He set the device aside and leaned back against the blanket, his eyes drifting up toward the sky.

It stretched overhead, wide and indifferent. But tonight, it didn’t feel so far away.

***

Sleep came in fits, broken by dreams he couldn’t quite remember. Morning arrived, and the day moved in fragments. He kept to his routine, sorting reports and checking on supply requests, but his thoughts drifted again and again to the message he hadn’t sent. It sat open still, unsent, on his device. He told himself it didn’t matter. That the act of writing it had been enough.

But something in him kept listening for an answer anyway.

By late afternoon, Julian was home, the day’s weariness clinging to his every step. He sighed as he walked through the quiet house. After making a cup of tea, he headed toward the back garden where he hoped to find some solace, and maybe catch up on some missing sleep. As he rounded the corner, he was startled to see Garak there, his back turned toward the vegetable bed, meticulously tending to the plants.

Julian paused. The surprise gave way to curiosity. He’d never thought the place looked that bad, but now, seeing it transformed, he had to admit Garak had worked wonders.

Then his eyes landed on the back porch. 

Slung over the chair was the blanket from last night.

He froze. The sight of the blanket hit him like a flare, sudden and exposing. Garak’s back was still turned, crouched carefully over the garden bed, unaware. There was time.

He took one step. Then another.

He could just reach for it, grab it quickly, and toss it back inside or behind a bush before Garak noticed. No conversation. No questions. Pretend it had never been there.

Pretend he hadn’t brought it out here at all, hadn’t spent the night wrapped in it beneath the stars, hadn’t clutched it like something precious and half-forgotten.

His pulse kicked up. It was foolish. It was just a blanket.

Except it wasn’t.

It wasn’t just something he had, it was something Garak could date. A relic, tied to a very specific moment in time. The night Julian had returned to the station. The night everything between them had unraveled.

If Garak saw it, he’d know. He’d know Julian had gone back, alone, and searched his empty quarters. That he’d stood there, gutted, and taken this one small thing that remained of the man who had flatly rejected him.

And then he’d kept it.

He didn’t even know why it mattered so much now. Garak had kissed him. That had to mean something.

But this was different. The blanket wasn’t a kiss. It was evidence. A trail back to a version of himself he hadn’t meant to expose.

Just a little closer…

Then he saw the satchel on the table beside the chair. His stomach dropped. Garak must have seen it. 

But it was so long ago. Maybe he’d forgotten about it, or didn’t recognize it as being his to begin with. Why would he remember something so silly?

Almost there…

“Doctor! Sneaking up on me, are you?”

Julian nearly jumped out of his skin. “Garak! I didn’t see you there,” he lied quickly, jerking his hand back from the blanket.

“Ah, just like old times.” Garak laughed. “You sneak up on me, yet I get to startle you!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Fixing Kelas’s garden, of course.”

“Oh, of course. Well, it looks great, Garak,” Julian said, trying to sound casual. “Well done.”

“I was in the area and on my way home from work, and thought, why not allow myself a little indulgence.”

The word “home” caught in Julian’s mind. Garak had never used it before in reference to any one place other than Cardassia in general. Not like that.

“How lucky you found the time!” He kept his eyes averted, hoping not to draw any further attention to that damn blanket. 

Once Garak turned back to the garden, Julian would swoop in and toss it behind a bush where it could stay out of sight and scrutiny.

Garak stood up and glanced back at his work to admire the improvement. 

Here was his chance. Julian reached for it again, just as Garak turned. His eyes locked onto Julian’s, pinning him where he stood in time and space. Julian shifted his posture, masking a squirm of discomfort.

“I see you’ve been using it,” Garak said, his tone neutral but his eyes held softness.

“Hm? No, I… the tea?” He asked hopefully. “Yes, it's been an afternoon highlight.” But his eyes gave him away as they darted to the blanket. Julian’s heart flipped with embarrassment. 

“The blanket,” Garak said, softly yet pointed. “I’m glad you found it.”

Julian blanched. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came. Then, “Garak, I…”

“I left it for you, Doctor.”

The look in Garak’s eyes drifted somewhere distant. “That night you came to my quarters… You were so beat down by the losses. I couldn’t do anything except let you sleep.” 

He stepped just a little closer to Julian. “I’ve thought about that night more than I care to admit.”

He paused, then added, quieter, “I’d hoped you’d use it. And perhaps… think of me.”

Julian swallowed, warmth creeping up the back of his neck, though he didn’t waver.

“I did.”

Garak’s expression softened. “You once asked me to call you Julian. I don’t suppose that offer still stands?” he asked gently, almost hesitantly.

Julian wished the question didn’t need to be asked. “It does,” he whispered, his heart racing.

“Then, Julian,” Garak continued, his tone low and rich, caressing Julian’s name as if it were something precious. The way he spoke it made Julian’s heart flip in his chest. “Maybe you’d call me by my given name.”

“Elim.” Julian’s reply was soft, almost reverent. 

He’d called him Elim before, and he’d been called Julian many times in fact. But the act of using Garak’s first name now felt deeply intimate somehow, like a step toward rebuilding what had been broken. 

A rush of hope rose in him, but alongside it, the fear of vulnerability remained. It almost felt like the first time they had met. Perhaps they were meeting again for the second time.

Julian watched Garak as he knelt back down, pressing his fingers gently into the soil around a young sprout.

“You said this was on your way home,” Julian said, voice light. “So where is home these days?”

Garak looked up at him, one brow arching with a familiar flicker of amusement. “Would you like to see it?”

Julian hesitated. Less because he wasn’t sure, and more because it suddenly felt like a threshold. But he nodded. “Very much so.”

Garak stood, dusted off his hands, and smiled softly, meeting Julian’s eyes before tipping his head toward the garden gate.

“Come on, then,” he said, his voice low. Not rushed or dramatic. Just sure. “It’s not far.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, quieter still:

“For what it’s worth… I thought of you too.”

Chapter Text

They left just before twilight, the sun slanting low across the land. 

Julian followed Garak without a word.

He didn’t know what he expected, only that he did. 

As they stepped through the garden gate, Julian felt a flutter of uncertainty stir beneath his ribs. This wasn’t memory or metaphor. This was real. 

And he was going with him.

Garak reached into his coat and pressed something small and unseen. There was no chirp, no visible signal. 

Less than a minute later, Julian heard a low, near-silent hum rising from the street beyond. The vehicle that glided into view was like nothing he’d expected. 

It was sleek. Angular in a way that suggested both speed and secrecy. Its matte hull absorbed the fading sun and its arrival was like a shadow drifting into place.

Julian blinked. “That’s yours?”

“State-issued,” Garak said dryly. “A benefit of working in places where discretion isn’t just preferred, it’s required.”

He stepped closer, his reflection distorted in the dark surface. He couldn’t help but imagine cloaking technology woven into its hull, jamming systems ready to cut it from any known grid.

It suited him perfectly; designed to never be truly known.

Without waiting, Garak approached and the rear panel slid open with a soft hiss. “Coming?”

Julian climbed in after him, settling into the cool, impossibly smooth interior. For a while, he said nothing. He just watched Garak through the dim reflection on the opposite window.

As the city rolled past, Julian couldn’t help but wonder if Garak’s house was like this. Something pristine, powerful, untouched by war.

He glanced sideways. Garak sat with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, perfectly composed, his hands lightly resting on his thigh.

“So… why now?” 

Garak shifted his gaze, meeting Julian’s. “Hmm?”

“Inviting me to your house. After all this time.” He tried for lightness, but didn’t quite land there.

Garak studied him, then replied quietly.

“Because you’re still here.”

There was another pause. Garak’s voice dropped to a near whisper.

“And I find myself unwilling to waste what’s left of that fact.”

A tightness gathered in his chest. He didn’t answer. Just watched him a little longer.

This was Julian’s longest stretch on Cardassia—five Standard months—but it already felt too short. He felt like a visitor waiting for a summons. Starfleet’s orders hung over him, a constant reminder that his presence here was conditional.

Sometimes he wondered if they’d forgotten he was here at all.

And lately, quietly, to himself, he was hoping they had.

The city drifted by in silence for another minute.

“I used to try to imagine what your house looked like.”

Even in the early days, he’d tried to decode Garak by what he didn’t say, assuming it meant something grand or sinister, surrounded by sharp lines of old Cardassia, though not much of that world remained after the war.

Garak didn’t move but for the faint lift of his brow.

“Oh?”

“At first I thought it must be underground. Secret. Secure. Surveillance feeds. Locked doors.”

Garak’s mouth curved, just slightly. “Charming.”

“Then later I thought maybe it was on a cliff. Cold and elegant. All sharp edges.”

“Did either version have curtains?” His voice was wry, not mocking.

Julian smiled faintly. “No. Curtains seemed too hopeful.”

Garak didn’t reply. But after a moment, his voice softened.

“Then I suppose you’ll be disappointed.”

Their eyes met.

“I don’t think so,” Julian said.

The twisted girders, windows like dead eyes, and blocks of rubble and ash of the city’s inner core fell away. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the landscape shifted.

The transport carried them over rising streets and narrow turns. As they entered the Paldar Sector, the destruction softened.

Life endured.

Large estates emerged from beyond the ridge, lining broad, winding roads, their once-carefully tended grounds sprawling behind broken gates.

Only a few homes had been restored, standing like monuments amid the faded grandeur.

Many portions of the sector were a complete loss, but some simply bore faint scorching or sagging façades, crumbled walls in others.

Reconstruction was taking hold: portions of collapsed stone walls had been rebuilt, bright new roof tiles laid beside old ones, fresh plaster spread over spiderwebbing fractures.

Window boxes bloomed and laundry lines hung between balconies, quietly reclaiming an ordinary life.

And beneath it all, something enduring—defiance that hadn’t quite been destroyed, tenacity that hadn’t entirely unraveled.

He could almost imagine how it had once been: parties on the terraces, soft music drifting through open windows, laughter threading the warm air.

Now, the quiet resilience of the neighborhood whispered stories of what might be again.

He leaned into the motion of the vehicle, his thoughts reshaping.

Maybe he lived in one of those clean-lined houses above the city, high enough to see distant rivers. Somewhere he could sit beneath the afternoon sun and read, like nothing had ever happened.

It was the kind of beauty Garak might never admit to desiring. 

He watched the houses flicker past, and for a moment, let himself pretend.

“You’re not going to make me guess which one is yours, are you?”

Garak’s mouth twitched. “Would you prefer a riddle?”

Julian let out a breath, something close to a laugh. “Not today.”

After a moment, Julian glanced over. “Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“I think I am.”

Garak didn’t look away from the window. “Good.”

The transport slowed, easing to a stop on a rise above the district. The hum faded. The door slid open onto cracked pavement and the faint scent of dust and stone.

Julian stepped out first, blinking against the sharp slant of late afternoon light. Garak followed.

There it was.

The house before him was striking and its view was indeed breathtaking.

It stood well back from the road, resting on a generous parcel of land that sloped gently toward the ridge’s edge. But it didn’t have the calm beauty Julian had wanted for him.

Elegant in its symmetry, with wide windows and a low, sweeping roofline that cast deep, deliberate shadows across pale stone. It stood in near-perfect repair, scarcely touched by the damage that marked the surrounding sector.

Trimmed edges. Pristine walls. A brash kind of authority.

It was cold. And it was undeniably powerful.

It looked like the kind of place that kept everything under control.

He tried not to let it sting—that this place, so ordered and polished, might be where Garak felt most himself.

Julian took it in, unsettled by how much he didn’t want this to feel like Garak. This house didn’t invite company. It imposed. It didn’t yield. It endured—out of spite.

It wasn’t what he’d hoped. But then again, maybe it was what he’d expected.

Then his gaze shifted to the scene around it. The grounds stretched wide and quiet, hemmed in by a tangle of weathered stone and low, artfully curved fencing that had once marked the border of a proper garden. 

Time and neglect had softened the edges, but remnants of care remained; precisely pruned trees left to grow wild, terraced beds reclaiming their shape, clusters of hardy blooms that had defied the war.

Julian could see a skilled gardener had been here once, someone who loved this land and knew how to coax beauty from arid soil. The land still remembered their touch.

The grounds had the feel of quiet privacy. Not hidden, exactly. But deliberately held apart. 

Suddenly, he thought of the first time he’d stepped into Garak’s quarters on DS9. Spartan, oddly arranged, smelling faintly of pressed wool and something unplaceable. Strange and intimate, like the man himself.

And here he was again—not just stepping into a space, but into something he hadn’t dared hope for:

Elim.

Julian almost spoke, assuming it was his, but Garak was already walking past.

“Not that one,” he said, with a glance back and the faintest trace of amusement. He tipped his head toward the structure tucked behind it.

Julian blinked, confused, caught between what he thought he knew and where Garak was leading him.

He turned to follow Garak’s line of sight, and saw it.

Small, worn, more like an afterthought—and stopped.

Garak came to a halt at his side, his voice quiet.

“That one,” he said, not looking at the house, but at Julian.

And in his gaze, there was no pride. No challenge. Just something quieter still.

“The mask never fit here.”

Chapter Text

Julian followed where Garak had nodded, the rest of the world falling away with each step. The path was uneven beneath his feet, with tufts of dry grass crowding the edges, but Garak walked with the quiet certainty of someone returning—not to a place, but to something lived-in. Something he’d carried for a long time.

They stopped in front of a low, modest structure.

It looked Cardassian in design but softened by time, wear, and war. Its stucco façade was still scorched in places, and cracks exposed old stone beneath. The shape of the building had settled unevenly. Repairs had been made, but none disguised.

There was no gate, no polished entry. Just a crooked set of limestone steps, a half-working light panel, and grounds that once held promise. Scrappy plants pushed through dry soil, and an old fountain, perhaps a sculpture—Julian couldn’t tell, leaned crooked and half-sunk in dust and memory.

This wasn’t the untouched ridgeland estate he’d imagined. But it was real. And it was his.

Garak glanced back at him, reading the silence.

“I haven’t quite gotten around to fixing it properly,” he said, tone light, but not flippant. “There’s always something more urgent.”

Julian took in the patched corners, and the quiet defiance of its standing. None of it elegant, all of it enduring. In its way, it told him more than anything else could have.

He nodded once. “It’s… grounded,” he said carefully, with a glance back toward the other house.

Garak’s eyes flicked over him with the hint of a smile.

“The front house was Tain’s. But this—this is where I grew up. Where Tolan and Mila Garak raised me. And now, it’s mine.”

Julian had always assumed Garak’s childhood had unfolded in the shadow of Tain’s estate. But he said it without hesitation: this was the home that mattered. The one that had shaped him most.

Julian looked again at the cracks and patches, then back to the man beside him. This was the version of Garak he hadn’t dared believe existed—not so long ago. Unhidden. Unguarded. The one who chose memory over mask. And choosing, it seemed, to show him.

“Elim—” Julian’s heart clenched. “It’s wonderful,” he said softly. “You were wrong. I’ve never been less disappointed in my life.”

They stood a moment longer before Garak stepped toward the door. “Come in, Doctor,” he said. 

“Julian.”

“Julian.” Garak’s eyes said what he didn’t. Then, “Ignore the dust.”

Garak held the door for him, and Julian stepped inside. The air was cool and dim, touched by stillness. And it felt, inexplicably, like walking into a story half-remembered, one he’d never been told in full, but had pieced together from gestures, silences, and things Garak had never quite said.

He looked around, trying to imagine the boy who had once lived here, and how much of him remained.

The interior was sparse, functional. Not stark, exactly, but marked by circumstance. Pale gray walls bore the faint texture of age, and the lighting was soft and indirect, pooling in corners rather than filling the space. A long, low bench lined one wall, its cushions slightly flattened from use. 

Julian stepped in further. Shelves were built directly into the walls. Not ornamental, but practical, holding bound volumes of old Cardassian literature and carefully ordered datarods. A few art pieces hung in asymmetrical groupings: mostly botanical sketches and abstract forms, all monochrome.

Nothing flashy. Nothing performative. Everything was placed with precision.

It was quiet. Almost hallowed.

“And to think you imagined I’d lost all hope,” Garak said, nodding toward the curtains, his lips curling.

Julian turned. They were plain and slate-gray, perfectly aligned. Almost aggressively unremarkable.

“I stand corrected.” Julian laughed. “Though, you do realize you’ve just undermined years of carefully cultivated mystique.”

Garak reached for the fabric and pulled it aside, letting sunlight stream in and catch on the dust in the air.

“I make exceptions. For light. And occasionally for sentiment.”

“Of course.”

The curtains hung over a narrow window set into the far wall. The glass was slightly warped with age, its frame a bit uneven where repairs hadn’t quite aligned. Julian walked closer, squinting past the room’s reflection.

Outside, in the long shadow of the house, lay what looked like a small courtyard, its borders marked by old rectangular plots, half-lost to dust and weeds. Sun-bleached bricks outlined where careful rows had once been planted. Whatever had grown there was long gone, overtaken by time and neglect.

Julian tilted his head. “Were those… the beds you and Tolan kept?”

Behind him, Garak was silent for a breath.

“Yes. He planted everything. Vegetables. Medicinals. Ornamentals, when he was feeling indulgent.”

Julian looked out again. “It must have been beautiful.”

Garak’s voice was low behind him. 

“He took great pride in it. Even near the end, when he couldn’t tend it himself.”

A pause. Then: “Come. I’ll show you.”

He led the way through the rear door, and Julian followed, stepping out onto the terrace and into the late light. The air was warm and still, heavy with the scent of soil. What remained of the space Tolan had planted stretched before them.

Garak moved slowly along the path, as if memory alone preserved its shape.

“He used to grow v’tosh berries along that wall,” he said, motioning to a crumbling trellis. “Said they sweetened the mornings.”

Julian took in the faded lines of intention that once formed a life. It was overgrown, but not abandoned. Not forgotten.

“I plan on restoring it,” Garak added, almost absently. “But I never quite get around to it.”

Julian crouched beside one of the planter beds, letting his fingers trail through the dry ground. It clung to his skin, coarse, but familiar. He turned up a pale fragment. An old root, maybe. Brittle. Once lush.

He turned it over in his fingers like a sample under light, not to diagnose, just to see.

“I can almost see it,” he said quietly. “What it must have looked like when he was still here.”

Garak didn’t respond right away. “Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m here out of loyalty or shame.”

His gaze lingered on the beds. “Some things deserve a second chance.”

Julian looked down again. The land wasn’t dead. Just neglected. Beneath the old overgrowth, the shapes were still there. Stone borders, trellises, deep soil cracked but not lifeless.

He stood up, picturing what it might look like restored. It didn’t have to be anything elaborate. Just something simple. Manageable. Maybe a few vegetables. One of the herbs Garak had mentioned. Even v’tosh berries, to sweeten the mornings again. Something he could get started, even if he had no idea what he was doing. Even if he still couldn’t always tell weeds from what was meant to grow.

But he could learn.

For Garak. And maybe for himself.

For a while, they stood in stillness, surrounded by the quiet persistence of things once cared for, now waiting to be touched again. In the thinning light, the outlines of everything softened: the trellises, the stonework, even Garak himself, all touched by its gentleness, blurred just slightly by its warmth.

Julian looked down at the pale root in his hand.

“You know,” he said quietly, not looking up, “for a long time I told myself you didn’t care. That was the part that hurt the most.”

He turned it over once more, then let it fall gently into the soil again.

“But if you didn’t care… then maybe I hadn’t really lost anything.”

He glanced up, voice low.

“You never said that, though. Not really.”

A pause.

“You just pushed me away. So calmly, so completely, I almost believed it.”

Garak’s gaze shifted—watchful, unreadable.

Julian looked down again.

“And maybe I needed to. Because if you did care, and I lost you anyway… then it meant I’d failed.”

He swallowed.

“So I stopped hoping. Told myself I’d let go, that there was nothing left to wait for.”

Another pause, softer now.

“But I kept waiting anyway.”

A faint, rueful smile.

“Even when I didn’t want to.”

There was no accusation. Just the slow, worn truth of grief long carried.

“And the waiting… it gave me you.”

Garak didn’t answer right away. But Julian caught a flicker—older, deeper, and entirely unguarded in his eyes.

Julian didn’t speak. He felt the shift. The distance between them dissolved under the quiet pull of inevitability. The tension in Garak’s posture wasn’t restraint, but gravity. A wordless drawing together, as if they had crossed the real threshold long ago.

And what happened next had no rush to it. No grand gestures. Just the quiet certainty of something returning to where it had always belonged.

For a heartbeat, neither moved, the weight of years vibrating in the small space between them.

Julian shifted, absently loosening the clasp. His collar slipped, baring the line of his throat. 

Garak hesitated, his composure fraying, before reaching out, letting his fingers trace a slow line from the base of Julian’s ear to the curve of his collarbone, like a path he’d only traveled in dreams. 

He lingered there before gliding the backs of his fingers across Julian’s cheek, as if testing the warmth, unable to believe it was real. His touch asked rather than assumed. Only when Julian tilted into it, silently answering, did Garak let his thumb brush the corner of his mouth, feather-light.

Julian’s breath released as if something inside him had finally unlatched. He could feel Garak’s, soft and uneven against his lips, like a secret aching to be confessed.

When Garak leaned in, Julian met him without hesitation. His eyes fluttered shut as their foreheads brushed, the faint whisper of Garak’s lower lip grazing his own, a wisp of contact that tightened something deep in his chest, the anticipation stretching almost painfully between them.

Then Garak’s mouth settled against his, slow and deliberate, the warmth of him startling in its tenderness, carrying an answer Julian had once believed he’d never hear.

The kiss in Kelas’s garden had been almost nothing. Their lips pressed tentatively, almost guiltily, as if Garak had been preparing to take it back. 

This was different. This kiss didn’t retreat or apologize. It lingered, soft and searching, as if it meant to stay.

Julian felt Garak’s breath spill warm into his mouth with each shift, a rhythm that drew him closer. The taste of him, faint spice and the lingering tang of the afternoon’s tea, grounded Julian in a way no fantasy ever had. His own breath came faster, uneven, as the kiss deepened not with urgency but with something older, heavier, a slow claiming of the years they’d lost.

Julian’s hand rose, threading into the soft hair at the nape of Garak’s neck, pulling him closer. He felt the tremor beneath Garak’s composure, a heartbeat thrumming against his palm—the fragile steadiness of someone holding too much at once—and kissed him deeper, letting the moment take hold as though it was the only thing left in the world. 

It held no pride, no pretense, only longing threaded through every breath and every careful touch, as if their bodies had been waiting all this time for permission. The ache of long denial finally loosened its hold. 

Every touch carried memory, forgiveness, the quiet terror that this moment might still vanish if they moved too quickly. 

Garak kissed like someone who had loved in silence. 

And Julian, like someone who had waited long enough.

They lingered in that closeness until breath thinned, and even then, foreheads rested together in the silence that followed. Warmth still pooled between them, the world narrowing to the hush of dusk and the thrum of wanting made real.

For a long moment, they said nothing. Only truth remained, something neither of them could turn from.

Julian closed his eyes, his voice a whisper against him. “That took you long enough.”

His lips curved slightly against Julian’s. “Yes. I suppose we’ve rather ruined years of subtle tension.”

Julian’s laugh was soft. “Subtle isn’t exactly what I’d call it.” His thumb brushed Garak’s wrist, steady. “But I think I can live with that.”

Garak let out an exhale. It caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, the kind that held too many years behind it. His eyes softened, the sharp edges easing, and something vulnerable flickered, unhidden, for once.

Julian’s hand rested against his chest, feeling the steady, real rhythm of Garak’s heart. 

A heart still guarded, still complicated. But no longer out of reach.

Chapter Text

The kiss left Julian breathless in a way that had nothing to do with air. It was as though time itself had paused to make room for it. He felt it everywhere; the rush of his pulse, the ache of his chest, as if every glance, every silence, every unfinished sentiment and almost over the years had been coiling toward this one, irreducible point.

Garak held Julian in his arms, breath brushing his lips with each exhale, foreheads still pressed together, and all Julian could think was finally . 

His hand stayed at the back of Garak’s neck, thumb brushing the ridge of his spine. It wasn’t for reassurance, but to prove to himself that this was real. He almost laughed at his own disbelief, but the idea of returning to quiet pretenses after this, as if nothing had happened, felt unbearable.

“Don’t let this be another almost,” Julian whispered, not as a plea but as a simple truth.

“I don’t intend to,” Garak murmured, his voice softer than Julian had ever heard it. After a pause, he smiled faintly. “But tonight, it’s late,” he added, though his voice carried no real urgency.

Julian hummed but didn’t step back. His fingers tightened slightly at the back of Garak’s neck, feeling the soft brush of scales beneath his fingers as he drew him closer and kissed him.

“You make a compelling argument,” Garak said, his words half breath, half kiss, as his hand settled against Julian’s chest, just over his heart.

“Well,” Julian whispered, lips grazing Garak’s, “I’m not finished arguing. I’ve got a few more points to make.” He kissed him again.

Garak’s mouth curved against his. “Quite compelling, indeed,” he said softly, “but we both have mornings that insist on existing.” His voice was low, almost reluctant, as if the words were only an excuse to step back from something neither of them truly wanted to end.

Julian exhaled, leaning into the touch, committing the shape of it to memory before he finally let the space return between them.

“Let me take you home,” Garak said at last, and it wasn’t a question.

Julian simply nodded.

Garak’s gaze held on Julian as he led him back toward the house, each step unhurried. At the transport’s door, neither moved to open it.

When they finally left Garak’s house, the night had already settled over the ridgelands, the last threads of sunlight long faded. They said little on the ride; words felt unnecessary, almost intrusive.

Julian leaned back into the seat, dazed and weightless. The faint hum of the transport vibrated under his palms, and the passing lights blurred together as if the world itself had slowed. He could still feel the trace of Garak’s thumb at his mouth, where the touch hadn’t quite left him.

He studied Garak’s profile in the dim reflection on the window. The sharp line of his jaw, the way the light’s muted glow softened his features, catching on the bare hint of a smile on his lips.

He wanted to say something that matched the moment, but everything that came to mind felt either too small or too clumsy. The house, the garden, this quiet glimpse of Garak’s life, none of it deserved words that would flatten it into something ordinary.

“Thank you,” he said finally, and even as he spoke, he realized how inadequate it sounded.

Garak glanced at him. “For what, exactly?” His tone was light, but there was quiet in his eyes.

Julian swallowed, his fingers brushing absently over the crease of his trousers. “For showing me… all of it. You didn’t have to.”

Garak’s eyes rested on him for a beat too long. “I’ve wanted to,” he said simply.

As Julian watched the light skip along the ridges of Garak’s eyes, a fragment of memory rose, something he’d once read in an old Earth text tucked away in the archives. He hadn’t realized he’d carried it with him until now, as though it had been waiting for this, a truth borrowed from someone wiser.

“‘In nature, nothing hides forever’,” he began. “‘What grows in shadow is no less alive. It waits, unseen, until found by light. A bloom tells what the roots have held in silence’.”

Garak’s expression shifted, as if the words had caught him off guard. A deliberate, almost thoughtful lift of an eyeridge. “A rather poetic assessment, Doctor.”

Julian met his gaze, steady. “Not my words, but they hold.”

When the transport finally slowed in front of Kelas’s house, Julian almost didn’t move. Garak turned to him, unguarded, with something yet unsaid in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Julian,” he said softly.

“Goodnight, Elim,” he said, his voice low, as if the name itself was part of the memory he wanted to keep.

Julian stepped out and stood for a moment, letting the breeze move around him. The night air, faintly scented with dust and distant spice, was cool on his face though the warmth of Garak’s mouth stayed like a memory he could taste.

He glanced back once, though there was nothing to see. Only the quiet street, the pale spill of light from a nearby house, and the echo of what had just happened. 

He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. The house was still, his own breathing suddenly too loud. The silence felt too thin, too unreal to belong to the same world where the whole evening had happened.

In his room, Julian set his bag on the floor beside the dresser and his datapad onto the bed. He undressed slowly, absentmindedly, his shirt slipping from his shoulders before stepping out of his pants, folding them both neatly out of habit. His thoughts were still far from the room.

He sat on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees. He’d kissed Garak a hundred times in his mind, in moments when longing slipped past his control. Quiet fantasies of being seen, touched, chosen. But none of those shadowed daydreams came close to this. Nothing had captured the warmth of it; the careful way Garak leaned in as though the world itself might break. This kiss was clarity, sweeping away every almost and not quite, and leaving only the certainty that it was real.

Julian leaned back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling. A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him. It hadn’t been the night he’d once pictured, full of desperation and unraveling. Instead, it had been quieter, steadier, no less consuming for its restraint. The wanting still clung to him like heat.

The hush of night curled at the edges of the room as he turned out his light. He shifted, pulling the datapad into his lap. His fingers moved without thinking, navigating past unread reports and medical journals until the file of subspace messages he never meant to read opened again. 

Tonight, his eyes found a familiar one, a message he’d read once in those hollow days when he was still trying to let Garak go, when he mistook distance for survival.

Doctor Bashir,

The Ba’aten Peninsula. 

Early Spring.

They’ve bloomed again.

I found them by accident, or perhaps they found me—those stubborn little tastril trees along the cliff’s edge, impossible and thriving. I wouldn’t have thought they’d endure the salt air. 

Yet here they are, just as before: pale ivory petals scattered like memory, like something misplaced and half-remembered.

I stood among them this morning, the air still cool from the night, and thought of you.

There is something startling in their timing. They flower before the leaves return, a flare of life against bare branches. Audacious. Vulnerable. A little foolish, perhaps.

We have a saying I won’t bore you with, untranslatable anyway, but beautiful. Something about the blossom that arrives before its season, Premature. Ill-advised. I rather like it.

The locals seem surprised by my interest. I told them I was waiting for something to return to me. They assumed I meant the ferry. I let them think so.

I’m reminded that timing is rarely our strong suit.

If you happen to be reading this, then perhaps the wind carried it somewhere it was meant to go after all.

E.G.

The first time he’d read it, Julian had stared at the screen, lips pressed tight. They’ve bloomed again. What was that supposed to mean? Tastril trees?

He’d scoffed, shoved the datapad aside, then pulled it back a few minutes later to reread the second paragraph. Pale petals. Misplaced. Half-remembered.

And then the third— I stood among them this morning, the air still cool from the night, and thought of you.

That was the worst part. It was beautiful. The writing was elegant, crafted so carefully, casually brilliant, as though Garak hadn’t broken anything. As if his absence had never been a wound.

He’d read it again, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed, a knot forming in his chest.

I let them think so.

He hated that line. Hated how much it sounded like Garak. Hated that he’d almost smiled.

The words had caught at something in him, sharp and unguarded, as if Garak had reached out across the silence and touched him without warning.

He’d never deleted the message, or any of the others. But he’d told himself he wouldn’t read it again.

Yet now, over a year later, here he was on Cardassia—kissed deeply enough to still feel it—lying in bed, choosing to read it again.

His eyes lingered on the line: I thought of you. 

It landed differently now, no longer sharp or bewildering, but steady, true. He could almost see Garak standing there at the cliff’s edge, the salt air settling in his clothes.

He imagined himself beside Garak, under those stubborn tastril trees, their pale petals drifting down around them like the breath they’d just shared.

The vision blurred, folding into the memory of the house Garak had shown him, its quiet corners, its garden choked with dust and memory, still lingering like an afterimage. It was impossible not to think of the boy who had once run between those beds, or of the man who had chosen to open that door for him. 

Julian had never seen Garak so bare of pretense as tonight.

A breeze shifted the edge of the blanket near his legs, pulling him back. This message didn’t feel like evasion or performance. It felt like reaching.

Blossoms, premature, out of place. A thought of him, waiting. And that last line, so carefully placed: 

If you happen to be reading this, then perhaps the wind carried it somewhere it was meant to go after all.

Julian let the screen dim, but didn’t set it aside, his fingertips drifting over the smooth edge of the datapad as though the words might lift from the surface. He lay back, one hand resting lightly across his chest, the words echoing, finally heard as they were meant to be. And maybe now, a year late and right on time, it had landed exactly where it needed to.

He slipped Garak’s blanket over his bare skin. With the datapad still warm in his hand, Julian closed his eyes and let the words merge with the feel of Garak’s mouth, something both distant and utterly present. 

It wasn’t just a beginning; it was the quiet ache of something that had been waiting all along, patient as roots in shadow.

Chapter Text

A few afternoons later, Julian sat on the floor along the wall of Kelas’s office, legs stretched in front of him, hunched over a datapad. The sunlight in his own office had been too bright—too golden, too insistent to focus. Here, at least, he could work. Or try to. In truth, he hadn’t been fully focused in days.

Ever since Julian had been to Garak’s house, a strange lightness settled over him, as if something long-held inside him had finally released. He still rose early, still filled his days with reports and consults, and still read through Garak’s messages each night, but there was an ease beneath it all, subtle and unfamiliar. 

Julian caught himself drifting, lingering a second too long in thought, rereading the same line of a report without absorbing it. He’d return to himself slowly, with a small exhale or the trace of a smile he didn’t realize he was wearing.

Hope continued slipping in quietly. That morning, it had arrived in the form of a message from Garak.

Julian—

There’s a courtyard just beyond the garden district—the one with the stone railing overlooking the western quarter.

If you find yourself free tomorrow evening at 1800, I would be very pleased to meet you there. The light is particularly fine at that hour.

—Elim

Julian had stared at the message longer than he meant to, hearing Garak’s voice in every word. Polite. Measured. And just tentative enough that the question felt less like a casual suggestion and more like hope, carefully worded.

He replied simply: I’ll be there.

Across the room, Kelas crouched beside a storage cabinet, rummaging through a new arrival of supplies. His voice rose and fell in the background—half muttered complaints, half running commentary.

“ I’m just happy the gate’s been fixed,” he said, yanking out a bag with a note of triumph, before letting out a tight sigh. “Still no dermal regenerators. But hey, here’s some soil test kits we’ll never use. Fantastic.”

“Those are mine.”

“Then I suppose these are yours too.” Kelas tossed a few packages of seeds toward Julian without looking over. “I don’t think anyone’s touched that rusted hinge in a decade.” 

“What hinge?” Julian murmured, eyes flicking over a recent grant denial without taking it in, still hunched over his datapad, still lost in thoughts of Garak.

Kelas straightened. “On my garden gate, Julian. Try to keep up.”

Julian blinked, frowning faintly. “You weren’t even talking to me.”

“I’ve been talking at you for ten minutes.” Kelas leveled a look at him. “You just haven’t been listening. Where’s your head?”

He paused, then narrowed his eyes. “Wait. What do you need soil test kits for?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Kelas pursed his lips, but decided not to press. “Anyway, Elim did a lot,” he said, standing with a grunt and brushing off his hands. “Pulled the weeds in the northern bed. I swear, it’s like a glinn’s mood made flesh.”

Julian smiled faintly. “I’m glad.”

“You should be more than glad,” Kelas said, strolling over, towering over Julian still sitting on the floor.  “Seems he’s in a pretty good mood. Maybe he’s finally going to sleep with you.”

Julian smirked and aimed a halfhearted  kick at his ankle. “Oh come off it.”

“Well, you two better figure something out already.”

Julian busied himself with the datapad again. “I was out there for a bit talking with him while he was working.” He leaned back against the wall, the edge of a memory pulling at him. “It was good.”

“Maybe that’s why when I talked to him yesterday, he sounded like someone who’d had an epiphany. Or a long, cathartic cry. Or both. What in the world did you say to him?”

Julian gave him a warning look. “Kelas.”

“No, come on, you’re going to make me guess again, aren’t you?”

Julian kept his head down and eyes on his work.

“You’re just going to sit there in your dignified silence while I suffer through the possibility that you’re still kicking rocks.”

Julian raised an eyebrow without looking up. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Because watching the two of you orbit each other for this long has been exhausting. For me. Imagine what it’s like for you.”

Julian sighed, but couldn’t help the slight tilt of a smile. “Fine.”

Kelas blinked. “Fine, what?”

Julian glanced up. “We kissed.”

Kelas’s face froze in mock shock, then split into a grin. “Kissed? And..?”

“And it was nice.”

“That’s all? After, what, eight plus years and enough longing to power the entire continental grid, you had a good talk , and a kiss that was nice.”

“I should’ve lied,” Julian muttered. “But it was really nice.” 

He didn’t like how small the word sounded. But what could possibly hold what that moment had been? The slow certainty of it, the way Garak’s breath had caught, the touch of his hand steadying them both like gravity shifting, the way it had stripped the world down to just them. 

And gods, the way Garak had kissed him—deliberate, patient like a want years in the making.

Julian could still feel Garak’s lips on his when he’d lose himself in quiet moments, like warmth lingering at the edge of his mouth.

But no other word came, and he wasn’t about to offer Kelas anything more.

Kelas stood staring in disbelief, waiting.

“Forget it.” Julian rolled his eyes but smiled, dropping them back to his datapad. 

“No, no, don’t rob me of this,” Kelas said, dragging a nearby chair over with theatrical purpose and planting it squarely in front of Julian, turning it backwards so he could lean on the backrest like a schoolboy about to stir trouble. “I’ve earned at least one emotional payoff after months of tragic pining from the two of you. Where did it happen? Was it dramatic? Tell me you got caught kissing in that rainstorm…”

“It wasn’t raining in the Paldar Sector,” Julian said wryly. 

Kelas blinked. “Paldar Sec…Wait. His house?”

Julian nodded and set the datapad aside.

“He invited you to his house. You saw it.” It wasn’t a question. “He’s been to my place a dozen times. I’ve never seen his.”

“He said he was on his way home and asked if I wanted to see it. The man has a driver he can summon with the press of a button. Did you know that?”

“I don’t care about a driver. He finally asked you to his house.” Kelas stared at him for a beat. “Just the two of you?”

“Well, yes.”

Kelas quieted, watching him, measuring how much that meant.

“And?”

“It wasn’t anything like I expected,” Julian said quietly. “Nothing dramatic, or polished. Just simple. The house he grew up in. His father’s, Tolan’s, garden still in the back, overgrown but full of memories.” He hesitated. “Kind of perfect, actually.”

Kelas tilted his head. “Perfect for who? You or him?”

Julian didn’t answer at first. When he continued, his voice was lower. “He showed me everything. Told me what his father used to plant. Said he might restore it someday.”

Kelas’s eyes cut to the seed packets, then back to Julian. “Wait.” He leaned forward. “So that’s what those are for.”

Julian let the silence hang a beat too long to deny it. Then tried, and failed, not to smile. “You’re as insufferable as always.”

“Persistent,” he corrected, folding his arms.  “And then he kissed you.”

Julian nodded.

“It was…” he stopped, searching for something other than nice. “Slow. Like something neither of us had to explain. It felt inevitable.”

“Then what?” Kelas prompted, clearly fishing for more sordid details. “Were you there long ?”

Julian squinted up at him, scowling.

“You really expect me to believe you just kissed?”

“That was it.”

“Didn’t you want to…”

“Of course I wanted to. Gods, I wanted to. Every part of me did, and I mean every part. I was seconds from begging. But it wasn’t that kind of night.”

The restraint made it worse, in a way. Better, in others. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Garak had looked at him after, like he was still hungry, but holding back. Like he knew exactly what they were choosing not to do. Yet.

Kelas leaned back with a small, satisfied sigh. “Either way. That explains the look on your face lately.” 

Julian didn’t answer, but the smile lingered. After a moment, he looked up, gaze drifting toward the window where the city lay quiet beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, Garak was going about his day—likely focused, unhurried, perhaps even humming to himself. The thought stirred something warm and steady in Julian’s chest.

Lately, Garak’s voice had started to echo in his head without invitation. His faint turns of phrase, the cadence of his laughter. It wasn’t distracting. Just… there. As if part of him had already made space for it.

Then, after a pause, Kelas’s voice softened. “I’m really happy for you, Julian.”

Julian glanced back at him, something unguarded flickering in his expression. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“So what now? He brought you home, the place is perfect, you finally kissed,” Kelas tilted his head. “When are you moving in?”

Julian blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You’re already thinking about it.”

And he was. Not seriously, exactly. But the thought was there, quiet and patient, like so many others. It came the moment Garak opened his front door and said welcome home without ever saying the words—just with the way his shoulders eased, the way he’d looked at Julian like the waiting was finally over.

Julian looked down, lips curving faintly as he turned the seed packet between his fingers. “It’s… kind of a terrifying thought.”

Kelas softened. “So is love. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

Julian didn’t answer. But he didn’t dismiss it either. Sometimes he caught himself wondering what it would be like to wake beside him, to reach for that voice in the dark and feel Garak turn into the touch. He wasn’t making plans, just letting the possibility live, for once, without shutting it away.

“You deserve this, you know. After everything.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I don’t know what he’s thinking. I’m not even sure what I’m thinking.” He paused. “Thank you. For being so… patient with me. Through all of it.”

Kelas looked at him, caught slightly off guard.

Julian went on, quieter now. “I know I haven’t been easy.”

“Julian.” Kelas held his gaze. “You’re allowed to want things. Especially this.”

He nodded, cheeks faintly coloring. “He makes me feel like I’m allowed.”

Then Kelas grinned. “So. You bringing your suitcase next time or what?”

Julian laughed, ducking his head. “Stop.”

Kelas stood, then held out an arm. “Come on. If you sit there any longer, you’ll take root.”

Julian stood, dusted off his trousers, and crossed to the window, resting his hand against the frame. The afternoon light had gone soft and pink, streaming across the city below. He didn’t smile exactly, but the calm in his chest deepened as he let himself look. 

He was seeing him again tomorrow night. Just the thought of it made his pulse quicken a little, like the start of something he didn’t want to jinx by saying aloud. And somehow, that still didn’t feel quite real.

But it was.

Chapter Text

Julian had spent the last hours before seeing Garak again with impatient energy, willing time forward—until now, when he wished it would stop altogether. Now, he sat staring blankly out the window, his chin resting on tented fingers. 

Without ceremony, Starfleet finally remembered him.

To: Dr. Julian Bashir

From: Starfleet Medical Operations Assignment Coordination

Subject: Scheduled Departure—Rotation Conclusion

Dr. Bashir,

This is a formal notice that your current medical rotation on Cardassia Prime is scheduled to conclude at the end of this standard week.

Your return transport to Deep Space Nine has been arranged for Stardate 53302.0. Please ensure all relevant files, equipment, and departmental responsibilities are transitioned to your designated successor(s) prior to departure.

Thank you for your continued service and dedication to the Medical Reconstruction Initiative.

Respectfully,

Assignment Coordination Office

Starfleet Medical Operations

San Francisco, Earth

He read the message again, as if the words might soften with repetition. They didn’t.

His chest tightened, like he’d exhaled too far and couldn’t quite catch his breath again. He leaned back in his chair. 

So that was that.

He’d been back and forth before. He knew this would happen eventually. But expecting it hadn’t dulled the sting. 

Something felt right about life on Cardassia. Not officially or aloud. It lived in the way Julian no longer packed between rotations, in how naturally life here fit, and above all in the way Garak spoke his name now. And that made all the difference.

A month wasn’t long. But long enough for things to shift before they had the chance to hold.

The kiss hadn’t been a conclusion. It hadn’t felt like a culmination of anything. And now he was to leave.

Garak hadn’t said anything more about the kiss, but Julian had seen the way his hand lingered at the door when he’d settled Julian back into the transport to go home. Had felt how careful Garak’s voice had been lately, how deliberately gentle. As if neither of them wanted to startle what had just begun breathing between them.

“Maybe I can stall it another week. Two, if I…” 

It was only a month. He’d return and Garak would welcome him back. Wouldn’t he?

He stared at the screen a moment longer, then closed the message without replying. 

He thought of telling Kelas, of saying the thing out loud, just to have it over with. But the thought of speaking it aloud felt unbearable, as if doing so would make it real.

Instead, he stood and crossed to the window.

He watched for a while, unmoving. Then he stepped back from the glass and quietly gathered his things.

That afternoon, Julian left the office early. He needed air. Needed movement. Something to ease the dread that the life he’d finally let himself imagine with Garak, with Cardassia, was about to come undone.

He wandered.

The markets in the lower Ring were still bustling when he arrived, their narrow lanes crowded with voices, color, and the scent of crushed herbs underfoot. Sunlight filtered through patched awnings in shifting patterns as vendors called out prices and offered samples in practiced tones. 

Children darted between crates of fruit and spice baskets, their laughter carrying above the din. A bright ribbon trailed from one girl’s hand and fluttered by his shoulder. 

He reached for it without thought, as though he could catch what always slipped past. Then stopped, hand half-raised. It spun upward on the breeze, out of reach.

He let his hand fall. Something in his chest ached, but he kept walking.

An older woman brushed past him, arms full of greens. He stepped clear for her, finding her smiling back as though he was always meant to be there.

And it surprised him, how natural it all felt. How little he wanted to be anywhere else.

There was a corner café near what had once been the government seat of the district, its walls blackened and hollow. Barely more than a kiosk and a few tables and chairs, but it served a decent red leaf and overlooked the crumbling steps where families sometimes gathered in the evenings. 

Julian took his cup to the edge and sat there for a while, watching the sky shift in tone. His hands wrapped around the warmth of the cup. He hadn’t noticed the knot in his shoulders until now, slowly unwinding with the steam from his tea.

He wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. Just letting the quiet settle. Letting himself feel the space between things.

A few tables over, someone plucked a slow tune on a three-stringed instrument, soft and uncertain. The notes didn’t go anywhere. They just hovered.

He could still feel Garak’s fingers brushing his jaw, pausing as if even that much were too much; the tremor in his composure, the way his breath faltered when Julian tilted toward him. 

The kiss hadn’t been certain. It had opened slowly, fragile, tested more than taken. Every shift carried hesitation, permission asked in silence, as though either might still pull away. And yet it stayed. It held. For all its caution, it had been real.

The truth of it lingered as sharply as the steam rising from his tea. Julian curled his hands tighter around the cup, drawing its warmth into himself, trying to steady the ache of wanting to believe in something just beginning.

The music faltered, then picked up again. He breathed with it, slow and uneven. Around him, the café murmured on. Quiet talk, the shuffle of chairs, laughter spilling faintly in from the square, yet it all seemed to recede beneath the echo of Garak’s touch.

Julian had never been good at trusting beginnings. He wanted to believe in them now. He needed to.

But now, this. A message. A departure. A return to the place he’d once called home, now feeling more like a museum of a life he wasn’t sure still fit.

He finished his tea and didn’t stay long after that.

There was a new shop tucked beside the corner tea stand—a narrow storefront that hadn’t been there a month ago, its door propped open with a chipped planter and a handwritten sign that simply read: Books.

He went in.

It smelled faintly of paper, binding glue, and something sharp and clean. The shelves were uneven and mostly secondhand, titles in both Kardasi and Federation Standard, some spined outward, others stacked in neat vertical piles. He drifted through them, fingers grazing the covers.

No copies of Sun Rising on Tomorrow. Not even The Never-Ending Sacrifice. 

They belonged to the Cardassia of history texts and memorials, he supposed.

But on a shelf near the back, between a military history of the Mekar Cliffs and a memoir by a nurse who’d served in the refugee camps, he found a slim volume on highland horticulture. The cover was unassuming. Just a simple sketch of native blossoms, but the inside held careful diagrams, soil charts, weather notes. 

Julian flipped through it slowly. There was a chapter on seasonal root vegetables that made him think of Garak’s plan for the northern bed. Another on vines that thrived in partial shade.

He bought it without hesitation.

Outside, the wind had picked up. He tucked the book under one arm and made his way back through the city, the scent of grilled spices and fresh bread drifting from nearby cafés, music rising faintly from an upper window. Children’s laughter echoed through the alleys. 

A vendor near the fountain waved as he passed. Someone called, “Doctor Bashir,” with a wave of recognition. He returned the gesture without thinking.

The warmth of belonging settled over him slowly. The comfort of routine, the feeling that he wasn’t just passing through anymore. That maybe, somehow, he was part of this place now. 

And leaving, even just for a month, felt wrong in a way he hadn’t expected. More like a misalignment, as if he’d stepped out of rhythm with time.

Just as all the years of distance had finally narrowed to a breath between them, Starfleet had reached in with gloved hands to pluck it from the soil. Gently. Politely. With perfect timing.

Naturally they had. Naturally they would. And still, he took it personally.

He let the thought drift upward like the music, like the curling steam of his tea.

The wind carried a faint coolness as he turned toward home, the first breath of Cardassian autumn slipping through the streets. He shifted the strap of his shoulder bag higher, tucking it close as though that small act could steady him. The book inside was light, but Starfleet’s message pressed heavy against his ribs. 

Once, he would’ve given anything to be summoned home. Now, he wasn’t sure this wasn’t it. He wished Starfleet had simply forgotten him.

For a moment he thought of not saying anything tonight. Let the evening with Garak remain untouched by Starfleet’s recall. But even as the thought formed, he knew it wouldn’t hold. Garak would see it, hear it in his voice. Sooner or later, he would have to speak the words aloud. 

The knowledge walked beside him, quiet and unshakable, as he made his way home through the sinking sun, dreading the words he would have to find tonight.

Chapter Text

Julian waited by the low stone wall at the edge of a Paldar courtyard, just beyond the garden district. The lamps along the path flickered with their usual uneven rhythm, casting a soft light across the plaza.

He spotted Garak before Garak saw him. The sight steadied him, loosening the knot the Starfleet message had pulled tight.

The cut of his clothing was familiar, but simpler. A dark green jacket that looked, Julian suspected, like it had been made to be worn nowhere else but here.

Garak smiled when he approached, a subtle, steady thing. “You’re early.”

Julian smiled back. “You’re late.”

“I wanted to see if you were impatient.”

“Were you hoping I’d be pacing in distress?”

“I was hoping,” Garak said, “that you’d still be here.”

The low Cardassian sun had nearly completed its descent, and with it came the light Garak had described—long and bronze, poured over the stones. It touched tiled roofs and fluted columns, caught in the ripples of the new memorial fountain, setting them briefly aflame. A warm stillness settled over the plaza, the kind that invited reverence.

“You were right about the light,” Julian said, almost as a thought.

Garak turned his head, his eyes reflecting a glint of it. “It is lovely as ever.”

Julian hesitated, then gave a small nod. His voice dropped further, nearly lost to the hush. “Not as lovely as you.”

The words were out before he could second-guess them. Stupid. Too much. And yet… Garak didn’t look away. He stilled. Not visibly, but enough for Julian to feel it. 

“Doctor,” he said at last, voice quieter than before, “you really must stop saying things like that.”

“Why?” Julian asked, not quite teasing.

Garak’s smile was slow to form. “Because I might believe you.”

A breath passed between them, and then another. A thinned gold glow caught in Garak’s eyes and stayed there. Julian lifted a hand to the soft burnish of 1800 on his jaw. He wondered if Garak would feel the nervousness in his touch, but couldn’t help himself.

With the lightest brush of fingertips, Garak placed his hand on Julian’s where it rested at his cheek.They lingered a moment too long before falling into step beside each other. 

The path wound down through a lower stretch of the city, where old buildings leaned together. Some were traced in ivies, still partially in ruins, others rebuilt into modest shops, galleries, tea houses, all of it touched by war, yet not erased by it.

From a shaded balcony overhead, a breeze stirred the long tendrils of a trailing velsari vine, releasing a scent like crushed citrus and early evening blooms.

He could feel Garak’s warmth beside him, just brushing his sleeve. Twilight crept in close, blurring the edges of the street.

Julian tilted his head. “So where are we going?”

“You’ll see. I thought tonight called for… simplicity.”

They walked on as the city unfolded around them. Lanterns shimmered in jewel tones along ledges and arches, casting halos of amber, garnet, and emerald across the walls. Somewhere distant, music drifted low and nostalgic through the streets.

Julian exhaled slowly. “You’re familiar with the old quarter.”

“Tolan maintained the gardens in this district.” He glanced around the square, seeing an afterimage of the Edosian orchids and long days spent together under the sun.

Garak leaned fractionally closer, the space between them narrowing until each step was shared.

He led them down a narrow street at the far end of the square, and stopped in front of a small, warmly lit restaurant tucked between two buildings. 

The crooked doorway glowed with candlelight. A hand-painted sign in the old Kardasi script for welcome hung above it, faded and lovely, as if salvaged from a better time.

But the smells that drifted out—herbed stew, grilled fish, and sweet breads made Julian’s stomach ache in the best way.

Inside, mismatched tables gleamed with a gentle polish. The walls held signs of simple curation, with flower etchings, and a few amateur charcoal landscapes.

A string of woven lights curved overhead like a constellation, dim but warm, pooling silver in the hollows of Garak’s throat when he looked up.

Garak ordered and the shared plates came quickly. Strips of flatbread, fish topped with a bitter and tangy sauce, with a side of assorted pickled roots. Julian tore a piece of bread, brushing it through the sauce before passing the plate back across the table. Garak accepted it with a nod, arranging it neatly to the side as though even here, in this little restaurant, order mattered. 

As Julian watched him, the familiar precision of his hands, the slight tilt of concentration, reminded him of so many other meals, long ago. Moments folded behind carefully chosen words, gestures that always meant more than they seemed.

He’d loved him then despite it, and he loved him now because of it. 

Here, though, there was no pretense. Just the deliberate offering of something simple. And for once, he let himself accept it for what it was.

He’d been watching Garak without really meaning to. When he propped his chin in his hand, his sleeve nudged the rim of his glass, nearly tipping it. He caught it at the last second, heat rising in his cheeks.

Garak’s eyes moved to the glass, then back to Julian with a knowing smile.

“Careful, my dear,” he teased affectionately. “If I distract you this easily over dinner, I can only imagine what we’ll be like at home.”

What we’ll be like at home. Like it was decided. Julian’s heart skipped, meeting Garak’s gaze with quiet boldness. He let the thought unfold, not as some distant future, but as something already taking hold. He imagined the rhythm of their days weaving together in small, certain ways. 

Garak’s modest house, with its narrow rooms and uneven stone floors, would shift to hold two lives instead of one. A second cup on the kitchen shelf. A medical datapad left beside Garak’s latest tailoring on the table by the window. His lab coat draped over the back of a chair; Garak’s fabrics stacked with their usual neatness on the benchtop.

Outside, the garden would still be sparse—vines just beginning to climb the trellises, seedlings tucked into beds they'd turned together. In the evenings, he imagined setting aside his work, pulling on his gloves, and joining Garak among the rows as the sun dipped. Garak kneeling to fix a bed while Julian watered the new shoots, their conversation meandering without urgency through the cool air.

Later, they would sit together on the garden bench, their bodies angled easily toward one another. Julian would lean his head against Garak’s shoulder, the fabric warm with the day’s lingering heat. Garak would tilt his head just enough for their temples to rest together in quiet acknowledgment of belonging.

The garden would draw a soft circle around them, as though it had been waiting for this all along.

The clarity of it startled him—the depth of it, too. He almost smiled at himself, embarrassed by the ease with which he could build a future out of a single phrase.

“Who says I’d mind the distraction?”

Something softened in Garak’s expression. “No,” he said, voice dipping a little, “I don’t suppose you would.”

The silence between them felt… chosen. Even so, the word “recall” sat at the back of Julian’s throat, waiting.

“I couldn’t believe this place still stood. It’s become a favorite of mine once again,” Garak said finally, gaze sweeping the room, lingering briefly on the painted sign in the doorway. 

“I wouldn’t have guessed you knew places like this.”

“I don’t. Not many. But this one, Father used to take me here on occasion after a hard day’s work.” 

Julian blinked. He hadn’t heard him say that in years. Father. Not since Garak had told him the truth, that Tolan had been his uncle all along. From then on, it was always Tolan. Deliberate. Never Father.

Julian said nothing. Memory was rarely neat; sometimes love insists on its own titles, no matter how late the correction comes.

After a pause, Garak spoke again. “It’s brighter now than it was back then.” He lifted his glass, turning it to catch the light along the rim before sipping.

Julian plucked a sliver of pickled root from the edge of the plate. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“There are many places I still hope to show you,” he said softly. “But I wish far more had survived to be shown.”

The weight of Cardassia’s losses still hung heavily, and they let the words settle between them. 

For a moment, the transport waiting at week’s end felt distant, almost unreal. Here, across the table, there was only Garak. 

Julian let himself sink into the quiet warmth of Garak’s presence, unwilling to break it. But the words were already gathering at the back of his throat, refusing to wait any longer.

After a soft pause, Julian leaned in, elbows on the table.

“Elim.” His finger picked at the crust of bread on his plate. He hadn’t meant to say it yet. Not here, not with the night still holding them, but there was no room for pretense. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Garak’s eyes lifted to his, calm but sharp. “Of course.”

“Elim,” Julian hesitated again, then said simply, “Starfleet wants me back.” 

Garak stilled just slightly. His smile didn’t vanish, but it shifted, quieting into something unreadable. 

“Just for a rotation,” Julian added. “I’m leaving at the end of the week.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t ask for it. And I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

Garak set down his cup with care, rotating it so a small chip faced him, as if he preferred the imperfection on his side. “You’re telling me,” he said, gently. “That’s enough.”

Julian nodded and took a breath. “It’s only four weeks.” 

Garak’s gaze lingered on the flickering light between them. “Ah. A mere eternity in polite increments.” He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh and folded his napkin once. “Then we won’t squander the hours, shall we?” 

He nudged the last plate toward Julian. Julian smiled, but it caught a little in his throat. Neither reached for it.

The conversation drifted—books, the garden, a squabble between two MHRR office clerks that had somehow ended in the medbay. Garak laughed at that, low and real, his voice curling warm in Julian’s chest.

Somewhere between stories, their hands brushed. Maybe an accident, maybe not. But neither moved.

Julian glanced down. “They made such a mess,” he said, softly, as if continuing the story, but his fingers lingered, slow and steady, tracing the ridge of Garak’s knuckle like it was something to be memorized.

“I’m sure it was a very dramatic injury,” Garak murmured, voice a little lower now.

“It was a paper cut.”

Garak huffed a small laugh. His gaze shifted to Julian’s mouth before returning to his eyes. He didn’t speak, but his hand turned into the touch. Julian shifted his hand to trace the length of Garak’s fingers in a slow, quiet caress. It felt, for once, like he’d caught him before he could slip away.

When they finally stood, Garak held the door. As Julian stepped through, Garak’s hand slid to the small of his back. It stayed there, warm and steady, guiding him into the night. 

The air had cooled, and the city had deepened into its indigo hush. Around them, the street felt suspended in stillness, lamp-lit and low-voiced, as if Cardassia herself were listening.

The wind threaded between them, light and cool. Without a word, Julian slipped his hand into Garak’s.

Garak’s fingers curled around his easily, as if they’d always belonged there. “How daringly sentimental of you,” he murmured. “Shall I quote Shakespeare? Something maudlin about parting being sweet sorrow?”

Julian gave him a sidelong glance. “Mock him all you like, he still says it better than either of us could.”

“Doctor, please. I’d never stoop to such obvious tragedy, tempting though it is.” A breath of laughter escaped him, small, but real. 

They walked a little farther, steps quiet on the worn stone path.

Then more softly, Garak added, “Do you suppose he had it wrong?”

Julian glanced over, curious. “You’ll have to narrow that down.”

“That line, ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’” He gave a quiet snort. “The man clearly never endured Starfleet’s transport scheduling.”

Julian laughed under his breath. “He probably didn’t picture Cardassia either.”

“Only the Cardassian poets do,” Garak said lightly. “If sorrow is the price of knowing you, I’ll count it among my better bargains.”

Julian didn’t speak. He only squeezed Garak’s hand once, as if to anchor something in place.

The street curved gently back toward the garden district. Garak’s thumb grazed the edge of Julian’s knuckle. 

“It’s not forever,” Julian said, more to himself than to Garak.

At that, Garak turned toward him—slightly, just enough. “Then I’ll pretend it’s only a day,” he said, “and miss you as if it’s a year.”

The simplicity of it caught Julian off guard. Garak wasn’t asking for reassurances or promises. Just a way to measure the distance between them. Julian felt it settle somewhere deep, where longing had lived for too many years.

Garak paused, then added dryly, “The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief.”

“You know, for someone who pretends to loathe him, you quote him awfully well.” Julian gave him a look of half affection, half ache, and laughed. “And leave it to you to make parting sound like espionage.”

Garak’s smile twitched. “Old habits.”

Julian leaned into the space between them, that invisible thread always stretching, never quite breaking. 

They walked like that for a long while. Garak’s thumb traced the edge of his knuckle without thought. For now, the transport orders could wait. The only time he kept was the rhythm of Garak’s steps beside his own. 

Julian thought back to Garak’s teasing earlier—what we’ll be like at home. The words had slipped out so easily, as if their future in that space had already been decided in the quiet between them. And in that moment, he knew they didn’t have to imagine it. They were already there.

The lamps burned steadily above. Their shadows stretched long before them, walking together as if marking a path only they could see. Around them, the city lived as if it had nothing left to prove.

Only to hold.