Title: Condemnation Author: Elizabeth Helena Series: DS9 Code: G/B Rating: NC-17 for torture, dark themes, and a smattering of m/m sex. Warning: AA for angst alert. CGH for children get hurt. NGHE for no guarantee of a happy ending. NRFP for narrative raided by the fashion police. CBS for Canadian/British spelling. OLD for overly long disclaimer. Opinions expressed in this story are those of the characters, not necessary those of the fashion victim who wrote it. Dedication: To Kimberly, and all of the other brave souls who have survived the Enabran Tains in their lives. Beta: The incomparable Adrienne whose assistance in the persecution of the targets of my muse is always invaluable. Although it was somewhat disconcerting when her initial reaction to the story idea was, "Both of the main characters are alive at the end, and they have enjoyable sex together? Are you sure you wrote this story?" Disclaimer: Some sprawling, heartless, capitalist multi-national owns these characters and settings, probably Paramount. I just wanted to take a break from torturing my own characters to torturing some of their's. Is that so wrong? Archiving: Sure, after February 14th, 2003, the G/B Fuh-q-fest deadline. Please let me know so I can finally see my name in print (well, glowing pixels). Feedback: Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!! Fake orgasm aside, this is my first posted fanfic ever - so, um, please don't hurt me too much. I can be reached privately through: elizabeth loves her thesaurus at hotmail.com (paranoid version of my e-mail address). Or feel free to vilify /praise me on the lists if that's where you found this story. I can take it (ha!). Summary: Part of the 3rd round G/B Fuh-q-fest. Response to Michael of Borg's exquisite challenge: "Post-The Wire, pre-Our Man Bashir, when the guys are still having lunch regularly, Julian finds out about something Garak has done, something worse than he ever thought or could have imagined." Can you now see why this story has NGHE? Thank you Michael, you inspired me to write what I never thought would be possible, a G/B fanfic! Academy Award Speech: I would also like to thank (in alphabetical order): Ainzfern, Terrie Drummonds, Empty Fox, Java Green, Invicta, Melissa Jones, Anita Kite, Sophie Masse, Una McCormack, Mosca, The Plaid Adder, Kathryn Ramage, Andrew J. Robinson, Mark Russel Stanley, Viridian5, Liz Williams and Henrietta Wotton for countless hours of Garak-related pleasure, and for being much of the conscious and unconscious inspiration for this story and its successors. Like Shakespeare, I never had an original idea in my life. Unlike Shakespeare, Klingons will never sing opera in my name, although I cannot help but think that is a good thing. Quote to show off my literary aspirations: Eleanor: I adored you. Henry: Never. Eleanor: I still do. Henry: Of all the lies, that one is the most terrible. Eleanor: I know: that's why I saved it up for now. James Goldman, The Lion in Winter, 1968. Part I Garak stared through the two-way glass at the mother and child, silently assessing them. The woman's poise and apparel still retained the understated elegance of the high born that he could not help admire, despite his innate resentment towards the upper classes of Cardassian society. However, the sudden arrest of herself and her youngest was rapidly undermining her near legendary self-assurance, a resolute self-confidence which by all reports had survived eighteen years of social censure for marrying beneath her. The six year old girl, Garak decided, was doing a much better job of hiding her fear, quietly sitting beside her mother with an air of someone old before her time. Such prepossession in a child so young, he reflected, indicated that all had not been well in the Premak household for some time. Of course, Garak mused, it could simply be that the pale and visibly nervous mother knew what there was to dread, while her daughter did not. Nonetheless, he noted the tension in the girl's small shoulders and her rigid, unnatural motionlessness. She clearly knew something was terribly wrong, just not what. Her mother apparently belonged to that calibre of adult who believed children were better off not being told what was happening, that somehow ignorance would make the ordeal easier on them. His opinion of Madame Premak was adjusted downwards once again. Garak sighed. He was wasting time, and it was not like him to delay the inevitable, no matter how unpleasant. But then no one had ever called his bluff before. *** "How's the spice pudding? Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Such delightful righteous indignation, Garak mused. It was curious that someone who could so blindly forgive could become so visibly off-balanced by the most trivial matters - an opening gambit for a conversation, a mild evasiveness regarding the past, an imaginative approach to the truth. He tried to appease the ruffled young man with soothing words and a peace offering of sorts, Preloc's *Meditations on a Crimson Shadow*. A simple gift as well as a pretext for deflecting the conversation. Garak was not surprised when the attempt was not wholly successful, his subtly was often a lost art on the Doctor. "You know, I still have a lot of questions to ask you about your past." Bashir pressed clumsily. An ingratiating smile, "I've given you all the answers I'm capable of." But then, Garak reflected, the young man's disregard of all but the most blunt dismissals of unpleasant topics did appear to be a failing of his entire species. And humans accused Cardassians of lacking sensitivity. "You've given me answers alright, but they were all different. What I want to know is out of all the stories you told me which ones were true and which ones weren't." Garak listened with one ear while contemplating that Bashir had not even managed to recognize the one truth that in his agony he had delivered wholly undisguised: "You couldn't begin to fathom what I'm capable of." Doubtless, it was the good Doctor's trusting nature which had caused him to discount these words as the ravings of a sick man. Garak returned his attention to the young man's frustration, careful to mask how much he savoured it. "My dear Doctor, they're all true." "Even the lies?" "Especially the lies." A delicious little shake of the Doctor's head. He didn't understand, but then he was still young, Garak excused. Perhaps one day he might learn that the most convincing deceptions are those closest to the truth. Of course, such lies always involved a terrible risk of deceiving oneself. *** In fact, until Gul Premak had challenged him, Garak had never realized that it was a bluff, a carefully fabricated lie. After all, it was so rarely necessary to get to the point of an actual threat, let alone need to act on it. Ordinarily, a casual hint was sufficient to crack the most hardened soldier, the most desperate terrorist. Even the most obtuse understood what was meant when a mild compliment was voiced regarding their spouse's attractiveness, or a vague reference was made to the age of their youngest child. Even Procal Dukat had not required it to be spelt out to him. And while the male Dukats could be admired for their aristocratic long necks and elegant bodies, Garak mused, the less said about their insightfulness the better. The elder Dukat's initial trust in him was proof of that. Garak forced himself to deactivate the two way glass, his reflection replacing the view into the holding cell. It was definitely a sign of desperation when he started distracting himself with thoughts of the Dukats, although his investigation of Skrain had definitely had its compensations. Long necks were useful in such a plethora of delectable ways, he recalled. Still, Garak allowed himself one final delaying tactic, a quick once over in the mirror to ensure he did not look like he had just emerged from a gruelling session in an interrogation chamber. He briefly admired the cut of the new Obsidian Order uniform, its simple lines in unforgiving black relieved only by the reinforcements in silver at the shoulders. It was definitely preferable to the latest version of Cardassian military apparel, all leather and bombast, and no more intimidating, in his opinion, than the posturing of a school room bully. Briefly, his grey fingers brushed over the hilt of the bejewelled dagger at his waist, the traditional symbol of the elite Obsidian Order agents, those entrusted with the delicate task of handling traitors and enemies of the state. Most interrogators simply kept it in their desk, only displaying it when stripping subjects of their clothes and dignity, and discounted Garak's practice as one of his more pretentious affectations, an interpretation he encouraged. When Tain himself had ceremonially placed the dagger in his hands, Garak had sworn to himself that it would never be confiscated from him without his knowledge, and without his first being able to bury it in the chest of anyone who tried. After waiting so long to be trusted with this work, work that in so many ways he had been born to do, he still felt justifiably proud of his hard won status. Turning away from his reflection, his inspection and introspection at an end, Garak nodded to the guards, who opened the locked door for him. The woman rose to her feet before he had wholly entered the room, doubtless in an effort to preempt any order for her to rise, but he had no intention of offending her. "Madame Premak," the accompanying bow of his head acknowledging her high social status, "we need to discuss certain matters, matters I believe you would prefer we discuss in private." A deliberate glance in the direction of the young girl still unmoving in her seat, eyes lowered respectfully. Oh definitely, Garak mused, that amount of good manners in a child so young bespoke of an excess of discipline. "If I -." "Please Madame, do not force me to speak any plainer. If you will follow these gentlemen now, there will be no need to have," a significant pause, "anyone else accompany you." She swallowed, then raised her head, regaining her poise. It always fascinated Garak that people who believed they were about to sacrifice themselves for another all held themselves the same way. An unconscious straightening of the spine, the head becoming more erect as their chin lifted upward. It was as if, he reflected, they were becoming taller in reality as they grew in stature in their own eyes. "Zalan, you will remain here for now. Do whatever this *servant* of the state tells you to do." She then returned her eyes to Garak, a hardness in them that hinted at the termagant she was rumoured to be, much more than her unkind emphasis on the title servant. "She will need to rest soon, it was already late when we - were escorted here." "Of course, Madame," the assurance accompanied by another respectful bow of his head. "Trust me, I will personally see to it that your daughter is taken care of." An ominous promise, but Madame Premak did not see its menace. She had, as so many others did, made up her mind as to what was happening, and was blind to any evidence that the reality of the situation might be otherwise. Garak nodded to the guards and as expected, with little more than a backward glance at her child, she left the room without any fuss. You could study the manuals a dozen times over, Garak mused, and yet there was nothing like seeing the general rules play out in the particular. If one wished to separate a child and parent with a minimum of unpleasantness, simply convince the parent that you are actually interested in them. *** Garak settled himself into the pilot's chair of the *Mekong*, and as he had suspected, Starfleet regulations still did not require their navigation systems to be purged after each use. In fact, had the Cardassian been interested, he could have retrieved the complete itinerary for each use of this runabout since its last upgrade. He wasn't, but it certainly made his current endeavour much easier, almost as straightforward as bypassing their childishly simple security lock outs. Garak was also not surprised that it took very little time to uncover the information he sought, for he had always found Federation technology to be so obligingly user friendly. However, while a part of him had expected the data stream that now scrolled before him, his physical body still registered a shock as he deciphered the coordinates. Arawath Colony. After several moments, Garak shook himself out of his stupor. He quickly erased all evidence of his search on the runabout's computer and surreptitiously let himself out of the *Mekong*. Only when he was back in his quarters did he allow himself to think again. The good Doctor, Garak pondered, was apparently a great deal braver than he had initially given him credit for. Or were Bashir's actions an indication of something more promising? No, Garak reprimanded himself, such thoughts were wishful thinking, another sure sign that he was losing his touch. First, he had risked getting caught by sitting in the runabout like a stunned child, and now he was tempted to force the facts to support a hypothesis simply because he wanted to believe in it. If his exile on this station lasted much longer, he might actually degenerate to the point of believing that Quark was an honest businessman. Garak chuckled at this last bit of self-depreciation, and ordered tea from his replicator. More investigation would definitely be required, before he could allow himself to reach any encouraging conclusions regarding Julian Bashir. He sipped from the mug and felt a long absent surge of excitement. Without the wire, he reflected, he would need to distract his mind somehow to stave off depression. Following the latest fashion trends simply wouldn't be sufficient anymore. And the prospect that the dear Doctor was hiding secrets of his own promised to be a most stimulating diversion. But his hand shook slightly as he placed the mug down. *What did that monster tell you, Doctor?* *** "Hello, Zalan." She looked up, nervously meeting his eyes. "Hello, sir." "Please, call me Garak." He said gently, thinking that she had been fortunate to inherit her father's bright blue eyes, but the rest of her mother's more delicate features. "Mother -," she glanced at the door before continuing, "mother says its rude for children to call adults by their name." "Then it will be our little secret, shall it?" He smiled at her, and hesitantly she smiled back. "Alright - Garak." She agreed reluctantly, but appeared to relax somewhat. There were many more ways he could build a connection between them, and it wouldn't be at all difficult considering the mother had already laid the groundwork by telling the child to obey him. But Garak told himself that enough time had already been wasted, and that regardless of his usual assessment of their proficiency, the guards must have completed all of the necessary preparations by now. It was easier than admitting that he didn't want to establish a genuine bond between the child and himself. "I have something I need to do, Zalan, but afterwards I can make arrangements for your comfort. If you will come with me now, I would be much obliged." Garak had often found the simple act of treating children like equals worked wonders on them, although he had never used the technique for such an insidious purpose before. Hate yourself tomorrow, Elim, he told himself as he led her out into the corridor, you have important work to do now. As they walked together down the hall, inwardly Garak was startled, but too well trained to reveal it, when he felt her small hand slip into his. A sudden, unwanted memory assailed him, of the one time Tain had ever held his hand. He had been a little younger than Zalan, but he not only vividly recalled his bruised and exhausted state after his first riding hound lesson, but the immeasurable sense of security he had felt when the older Cardassian's strong fingers had surrounded his own. This day, Garak thought unwillingly, he was going to teach Zalan Premak a lesson that he hadn't learned until a few years after that memorable afternoon. Never trust anyone. Not even your parents. He doubted she'd appreciate the lesson, anymore than he was looking forward to giving it. Despite his growing uneasiness, Garak resisted the urge to let go of her hand, reflecting instead on how glad he was that he had decided to fetch Zalan himself. The guards at this facility were only good for roughly dragging prisoners around, not gently escorting a young girl who had done nothing wrong other than being born into the wrong family. He distracted himself by remembering the time he had commented to Tain on the recruitment of such hardened dolts, who could not be trusted with any task requiring the least sensitivity. He recalled Tain's brusque reply as well, to figure it out for himself. With a bit more observation Garak had determined that stupid and unimaginative men were also the least empathetic, as they were wholly incapable of placing themselves inside the skins of those who suffered at their hands. Certainly, none of the guards posted here would ever be tempted to intervene on behalf of any of the subjects. At the time, still new to his work in this facility, Garak had been pleased with figuring this out without Tain's guidance. As he had become more experienced, however, he had discovered that his conclusion led to a far more chilling question. What exactly was supposed to protect the intelligent and imaginative interrogators from ever identifying with their victims? They finally reached their destination, one of the boorish guards waiting outside for him. "Is he prepared?" Garak asked, in a tone of voice that implied he had better be. "Yes, Gul." He nodded toward the entrance, and the guard immediately released the locking mechanism. As the doors slid open, their ominous height made the girl hesitate at the threshold. Garak squeezed her hand encouragingly, and then led her into the interrogation chamber. *** It was a simple plan, as the best ones always were. As they exited the Replimat together after a most enjoyable lunch, Garak made the opening move. "Would you care to join me for dinner this evening, Doctor Bashir?" This mild question literally stopped the young man in his tracks. "Dinner?" "Yes, Doctor, I am inviting you to dinner." Garak tilted his head slightly, to give the impression of innocent puzzlement. All the while thinking that not only would this be easier than trapping a lone kotra piece, it promised to be a great deal more fun. "There's nothing wrong with that, is there?" "No, of course not," Bashir answered rapidly, almost tripping over his tongue in his haste. "I'm just surprised." Oh, no doubt, Garak smiled to himself. "I simply want to thank you for all you did for me, during the recent unpleasantness." He awaited the predictable protest, and was not disappointed. "It's not necessary, I only did my job." "Really, Doctor," the Cardassian allowed a heavy scepticism to flavour his voice, and was pleased by the blush it elicited. "Your efforts went well beyond the call of duty, surely." As Bashir began another objection, he gently overrode it, "Indulge me, Doctor Bashir. It would please me very much if I could thank you in this way." "Alright, Garak," the young man conceded, his dark brown eyes warming in a most gratifying manner. "I accept your invitation." "Wonderful," Garak beamed at him, and then closed the trap. "21:00 hours then, my quarters." "Y- your quarters." Bashir stammered. "Yes, Doctor, I trust you haven't already forgotten where they are?" Oh, he had been right, this was tremendous fun. "No, of course n-." "You needn't worry, all of that tiresome medical equipment has been cleared out. Let me assure you, you will find my quarters to be quite comfortable now." "I - I'm sure -." "Excellent. Then I will expect you at 21:00 tonight ." Bowing his head, and retreating down the Promenade before the Doctor could add another useless protest. However, the Cardassian did indulge himself by allowing a single glance over his shoulder at the young human, still delightfully frozen in place, all of his escape routes gone. Garak caught himself humming on the way back to his shop. More stimulating than keeping up with the latest fashion designs indeed. *** "You have a guest, Cardassian," Garak announced in a conversational tone of voice as he escorted Zalan towards his desk, neither expecting nor receiving a response from the slumped figure in the chair before it. He was relieved to see the two guards had managed to clean Premak up and dress his bulky frame in the standard interrogation garb, its ugly coarse material the exact shade of dried blood. While Garak understood the underlying psychology of this colour scheme, his sense of aesthetics was always offended. At least, he reminded himself, he only worked on Cardassians now. There were many reasons why Garak despised interrogating Klingons, not the least of which was that dried fuchsia was almost as nauseating as their naked bodies. But then Garak rarely allowed detainees of any species what little dignity such loose-fitting outfits afforded, for he believed nudity was an important part of stripping the subject of all of their protective layers. But under these circumstances, the rules of common decency must be observed. Exposing a young daughter to her naked father would be most improper. Having reached his desk, Garak released his hold on the girl's hand. Grasping her shoulder, he turned Zalan towards the subject, feeling the young body stiffen under his hand. Smoothly moving behind her, he clasped her other shoulder to steady the girl. "Father-?" Garak didn't blame her for the uncertainty in her voice. Even tidied up, several days in this room did altar a subject, although not wholly beyond recognition. Her father, however, had no such difficulty identifying his youngest daughter, and shakily began to reach out to her. "Stay where you are, Cardassian." Garak warned softly, and Premak dropped his arms, but his expression indicated that he was unlikely to heed his interrogator's commands for much longer. Releasing one of Zalan's shoulders, Garak reached for the remote resting on the desk. He was encouraged to see that the simple act of picking it up was sufficient to dissuade the subject from making any rash moves. "It might interest you to know that implants and devices such as these," holding the remote as if it was an intriguing art object to be displayed, "can only be used on adults." The elder Premak tensed, but said nothing. "Unfortunately, for younger subjects even the lowest settings frequently cause instantaneous death." Premak cursed at him, but pointing the remote at him was enough to silence him. "Watch your language, Cardassian," Garak reproved sharply. "That is no way to speak in front of a child." "As I was saying, this technology is far too dangerous for use on children. Regrettably, those few times it is necessary to deal with younger subjects, much cruder, much less efficient methods need to be utilized." He allowed his eyes to brush over the dagger at his waist. Premak's jaw muscles were clenching, and the neck ridges exposed by his outfit's wide collar were beginning to visibly flare up. "You preach to me about the superiority of the Cardassian state and then you do this -." "The foundation of the state is the family," Garak brutally cut him off, for the first time raising his voice at Premak in genuine anger. Never before had one of his interrogations degenerated to this point, never before had he been forced to use such uncivilized means to weaken a subject. But after three frustrating days, neither the subtle use of deception and intimidation for which he was renowned, nor resorting to the more overt regimens of drugs, humiliation, and pain had managed to uncover any new information. Let alone allowing them to advance to the obedience and retraining stages of a standard interrogation. At this moment, Garak hated Premak. Hated him for his stubborn refusal to admit his guilt and implicate his fellow traitors. Hated him for moving up the ranks by marrying above his station, and then betraying the very state that had allowed him to prosper. Hated him for robbing these sessions of all of Elim Garak's signature elegance and efficiency. Garak willed himself to regain his professional detachment, to recall the lessons so painfully reinforced by Tain long before the installation of his wire, long before his induction into the Obsidian Order, of the consequences of any loss of control. Within moments, the memories helped him suppress his rage, encasing it in impenetrable layers of ice. "It is your duty as a Cardassian," he finally addressed Premak again, his voice now devoid of all emotion, "as the head of your family, to serve the state by protecting your wife and children from your treason." He could feel Zalan trembling under his hand. A quick glance at her pale expression assured Garak that shock was protecting her from the majority of what was being said, but then she didn't need to understand what was happening to be afraid. Returning his gaze to the subject, he was even more encouraged by clear signs in the subject's tortured eyes that Premak was finally breaking. Garak licked his lips in anticipation, another small push was all that would be needed now, he assured himself. "She's a lovely child," Garak's hand moved from her shoulder to stroke her smooth black hair. "It would be so unfortunate if such beauty, such innocence was permanently marred." Premak lunged, but immediately fell to floor as Garak activated the remote's fifth setting, sending the subject into uncontrolled spasms. "Restrain him," Garak calmly ordered the guards, switching off the device so the men could drag the groaning Cardassian back to the chair and secure him there. The acrid stench of urine filled the room, a glance downwards identifying the source. Zalan Premak had wet herself. *** Part II As the door to his quarters slid open, Garak was gratified by the sight that greeted him, although not in the way the Doctor had doubtless intended. For the Cardassian was far more pleased by the human's decision to forgo his dreadful Starfleet uniform for the evening than the gift of a bottle of wine the young man held out for him. However, it seemed prudent to restrict his comments to the latter, as he ushered Bashir inside his quarters. "Why Doctor, how kind." Taking the proffered bottle, he pretended to examine the label, when in fact he was covertly inspecting the young man's choice of apparel, a white wrap-around tunic and dark blue pants. His outfit was a definite improvement over the monstrosity he wore every day, Garak decided, but then Starfleet uniforms, in the tailor's considered opinion, resembled nothing more than incredibly uncomfortable sleep wear. "It's a human custom to bring wine when you're invited to dinner." Bashir made haste to explain. "What an interesting custom," Garak enthused. "Tell me, is it to prevent one's host from poisoning you or to make it easier for the guest to poison his host?" Knowing such an outrageous statement was expected by the Doctor. All the while wondering if his guest's tunic would unwrap as easily as its outward appearance promised. "No, nothing like that," Bashir protested and began to energetically defend his cultural practices. Garak meanwhile feigned attentiveness, having already familiarized himself with human etiquette regarding alcohol consumption, and instead allowed his thoughts to linger on the Doctor's appearance. The human still desperately needed his advice on how to complement his colouring and form, he mused, for the sleeves of the tunic were much too narrow for someone so slender, and cream would most definitely suit his golden colouring much better than such a harsh white. The dark green velvet of his own outfit would be an improvement, although Garak had primarily chosen it for the way it highlighted the silver of his own skin, even under this station's dreadful lighting. Although at this moment he couldn't help contemplating how lovely it would look against Bashir's naked body, the soft material of his sleeve caressing it as he held him down. Don't get ahead of yourself, Elim, he chided silently, as he passed the bottle back to his guest to open it and fetched the glasses that had already been set out. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Bashir struggled with the wine's release mechanism, an endeavour which in no way interfered with his enthusiastic overview of human traditions relating to alcohol. Garak reminded himself sternly that imagining the good Doctor in the nude was far too distracting a subject to entertain at this stage of the game. Despite all of the signs of the young man's interest in him as something more than a source of casual conversation, there was a part of Garak that was at a loss to understand it. Certainly, Bashir's fascination was comprehensible when he had still been able to convincingly portray himself as an enigmatic and sophisticated man of the universe with more than just a hint of danger to his aura. But now, what could such a young, vital human see in a middle-aged Cardassian exile whose only source of intrigue left was what had condemned him to such a pathetic state? Of course, these doubts in no way dissuaded Garak from his plans to take full advantage of this attraction, after all, Bashir's physical appeal to him was no mystery. His tall, lean frame and long, slender neck were much closer to the Cardassian ideal of male beauty than Garak's sturdy bulk. Even his alien lack of ridges was captivating for it made the young man appear all the more vulnerable and assailable. The bottle having finally surrendered to Bashir, the Cardassian held out the two glasses while the Doctor poured. Accepting the glass Garak offered him, Bashir added, "Another human custom is to propose a toast before the first sip. Usually it's either a blessing or a wish someone makes, and then to signal agreement, everyone touches their glass to everyone else's." "Please feel free to proceed, Doctor, I am fascinated." Garak encouraged, observing with interest the positively mischievous glint in Bashir's eyes. "Alright, Garak," lifting the glass slightly, a movement the Cardassian smoothly echoed, "*in vino veritas*." "Ah, Doctor, did you forget my quarters are not equipped with a universal translator?" Garak suppressed a smile as he voiced this question. "I'm sorry, I must have," Bashir lied terribly, his amusement at his own cleverness all too evident. "No need to apologize," Garak clinked his glass to Bashir's, and then rendered the toast into Federation Standard. "In wine, truth." The human's mouth fell open, a rather endearing mixture of shock and disappointment in his eyes. "How - how did you know? No, don't tell me, I don't think I could cope with finding out how a plain, simple tailor knows Latin." Garak tasted the contents of his glass before responding, and was pleased by its subtle flavour. "Oh, just a few sayings I've picked up here and there," he demurred, thinking that the good Doctor was bound to be terribly disappointed if he thought alcohol had any truth availing properties for Cardassians. It had always been his experience that intoxication only encouraged his kind to greater elaborations, even wilder flights of fancy. That such beverages might have a different impact on humans had already occurred to Garak. Nonetheless, he had decided it was sensible to coat the bottom of Bashir's glass with an additional ingredient, as an enhancement to any revelatory properties alcohol might indeed possess. Perfectly harmless even for humans, although doubtless the Doctor would disagree, seeing the harm in the actual breach of trust. Such an inflexible, overly elaborate view of ethics, humans had. And if the augmented wine failed to live up to the human's maxim, Garak reminded himself, there were always other, even more pleasant ways of loosening the dear Doctor's tongue. Shaking himself out of his introspection, he smiled as he led his guest to the table already laid out for dinner. As he politely received Bashir's complements regarding the assorted offerings he had prepared, Garak easily assumed the role of the genial, perfect host. After all, Tain had drilled into him that the attributes of a good host were identical to those of an effective spy, the ability to anticipate, observe, and respond to the most subtle signals from the people around them. As the meal progressed, Garak carefully guided the idle, pleasant chatter, and watched with satisfaction as Bashir shed his earlier nervousness. When the human was approximately half way through his plate, well ahead of his own, much more tempered progress, he judged the time was right for his next move. "So, did Tain give you any message for me?" Bashir's fork fell loudly to his plate. Garak fought back a smile, keeping his features carefully schooled to show only mild solicitousness. "Doctor, are you alright?" "You found out." "It was a very foolish thing you risked," the admonition moderated by genuine concern, "you could have very easily been arrested or killed for violating Cardassian space." But Garak found he couldn't maintain even a half-hearted severity with this impetuous human, and immediately relented. "However, it was also quite brave." "That's what Tain said." Bashir admitted, not looking the least bit ashamed of himself. "However, I wasn't sure if he was being sincere." "Rest assured, you can," Garak smiled mildly. "Enabran Tain always was forthright in his praise, as I recall." "When you worked for him." Garak made an agreeing noise, "I was his personal tailor for several years." "His - tailor." Incredulous. "Of course, what else would I have been?" Garak shook his head, his eyes mildly chiding. "Surely, you haven't given any credence to the good Constable's fanciful speculations." "Surely not." Bashir smiled, a gleam in his eyes that caused a very agreeable sensation to ripple through the Cardassian's body. "So, no message?" Garak asked, and then cursed himself silently, for both the question and its delivery were far from dispassionate. He was supposed to be uncovering information, he castigated himself, not giving it away. There was something uniquely disarming about this human, Garak mused as Bashir hesitated, remembering how much of himself he had revealed while suffering after the wire's deactivation. Telling him so plainly, that 'Elim' had been closer than a brother, that they had been called the sons of Tain. Garak still wasn't certain if he was relieved or disappointed by the Doctor's obtuseness which protected his secrets. "There was one," Bashir finally volunteered, breaking the silence. He raised his eye ridges encouragingly. "He said that he misses you." Garak allowed the statement to sink in, knowing that much analysis would be needed to discern what Enabran meant by that. It would take hours just to determine if this was good news or very bad. Stifling his hope, he shunted Tain's words to the back of his mind for later dissection, for he strongly suspected that there was much more to uncover. Why else would the Doctor have delayed telling him, if all he had been entrusted with was such an apparently innocuous message. Garak narrowed his eyes, concentrating on Bashir with an intense gaze that had served him well over the years. Julian began to flush under this steady examination, confirming the Cardassian's suspicions. "Nothing more?" He prodded gently. "That was it." Bashir replied, just a shade too quickly. "Did he at least volunteer a reason for helping you, and indirectly me?" Garak posed, keeping his voice as mild as possible. "No, he - he was too busy - asking me questions. What I was doing there, the like." The Doctor was deliberately avoiding his gaze now, staring down at his plate with an almost desperate concentration. He began to eat again, but at a much reduced pace than usual. Oh come now, Doctor, Garak thought, even Rom could lie better than that. However, he decided that there would be little to be gained from pursuing this direct approach. "More wine, Doctor?" He offered, allowing Bashir to become falsely reassured that the subject had been abandoned. As he refilled Bashir's glass, ignoring his own, Garak reflected that much more than drugged wine would likely be needed to loosen this delectable creature's tongue. He contemplated this prospect with no small pleasure, for there were so many delightful sounds he could cause the Doctor to make along the way to the whole story. *** Placing the remote on the desk, Garak turned his attention back to Zalan who had begun to weep, almost silently, clearly too afraid to make much noise. "Shhh," he stroked her hair again, tightly clasping her shoulder with his other hand to ensure she didn't collapse. "It's going to be alright," he assured her softly, meeting the elder Premak's eyes with a piercing glare. "Isn't it?" But what he saw within them caused Garak to inwardly despair. "Cardassian, you can still protect your child from the consequences of your actions. Don't force me to undertake measures that we will both regret." But the words sounded hollow to his own ears, for even as he spoke them Garak knew they wouldn't have the desired effect. Premak's vivid blue eyes had told him everything. The fervent light within them, that had become all too familiar to his interrogator, had returned. "I'm sorry Zalan," the man choked out, "but for the good of future generations -." "This is the generation you should be concerned about," grasping the girl by the arm and shaking her, the layers of ice suppressing his rage beginning to crack. "Give us the names and -." "If we give in, it will never end -." Instinctively, almost involuntarily, Garak unsheathed the dagger at his waist. "You are not making empty promises to your fellow traitors, fool, this is your daughter -." "- their oppression will never end -." Infuriated, Garak pulled the terrified girl to the side of the desk, and slamming one of her arms against its unforgiving metal surface, he poised the knife above her hand in plain view of her father. "One name, Cardassian, just one name and I'll let her go." "I'm sorry - ." Garak hesitated, the young girl slumped against him, only the tiniest sounds of fear indicating that she was still conscious. A disciplined mind does not allow emotions to dictate action, he lectured himself, a disciplined mind draws its strength from reason. But what could his reason tell him now? Was Premak insane? The Order was supposed to weed those out, for questioning the mentally deranged was worse than useless. No, Garak thought, reviewing the last three days in his mind, it was much simpler and substantially worse than that. Premak was a fanatic, willing to sacrifice anything for what he believed. A dangerous fanatic who would very likely never confess no matter what was done to him or his family. He should release the girl, and end this pointless interrogation now. Obsidian Order propaganda to the contrary, failures happened in these chambers, Garak reminded himself shakily. Although never to him before. But could he report to Tain that he had stopped here because he saw that it was useless, or would his superior believe that it had been for a different, far less professional, motivation? Would he realize that Gul Garak, the ingenious spy, feared assassin, and skilled interrogator, had never once in his entire career harmed a child. Dared he expose such a sentimental weakness to Tain? Dared he have such a weakness for Tain to discover? Garak tightened his grip unnecessarily on Zalan's cold wrist, as he lowered the knife closer to the girl's fingers. It was a sharp blade, for how inappropriate it would be, he had often reflected, for a symbol of the Obsidian Order to have dull edge. "- I'm so sorry, Zalan." Premak was still moaning. Garak took a deep breath. "So am I." *** After the meal was consumed, along with a second glass of the wine, it had not taken much persuasion to convince the Doctor to move to the couch. "I'm sorry," Bashir said, as Garak handed the young man his requested glass of water and settled beside him, careful not to sit too close. Watching as the Doctor swallowed half the contents, before meeting the Cardassian's eyes apologetically. "I usually have a much better head for real wine." "Perhaps it has been too long since the last time you abandoned that dreadful synthehol." Garak suggested, reminding himself that he would need to take advantage of the human's mild inebriation soon, before the enhancing drug began to fade. "Maybe," Bashir murmured, "but I only had two glasses. I normally have to drink a lot more before I become tipsy." "What an evocative expression," Garak responded, although privately he thought that suggestible might be a more accurate term. Oh, he had drugs in his collection which would make the Doctor obedient to his every whim, but he had no intention of raping this young man. "Now, you promised you would tell me more about this adventure you had in that alternative universe everyone is gossiping about." "It was an adventure," flushing with pleasure now. "Although at the time it didn't feel that way - it was more confusing and scary than adventurous." Which sounded like an accurate description of a real adventure, Garak thought, enjoying the good Doctor's youthful innocence. "Still, it is a shame you didn't get to meet your duplicate as the Major did." "I'm not sure I'd want to, to be perfectly honest. The other Kira, the Intendant, if my alternate was anything like that, I'd -," Bashir appeared to momentarily lose his train of thought. "No, it was enough to meet the alternates I did. Kira, Odo, Miles, Sisko -." He paused. "And me," Garak supplied. "Yes, that was the biggest shock. We stumbled out of the runabout and there you were, in a Cardassian military uniform, barking orders at Klingons." "I must confess I do find that to be the most fascinating part of your little adventure. Not only was I - this Garak - a respected Gul, but the first officer of this station no less. Provided that your whole experience wasn't a hallucination, of course." Bashir appeared to be offended by this suggestion. "How could Major Kira and I have the same -." Another pause. "Garak, you're teasing me." "Of course, Doctor." "It's not fair of you to take advantage of me in this -," stopping himself, clearly embarrassed by the implication of his words. The Cardassian did not stoop to taking advantage of such an obvious opening. "Well, it's hardly fair that you met another Garak, and still haven't told me what you thought of him." Bashir appeared at a loss for words, such an unusual circumstance that Garak had a moment of misgiving that he might have drugged the Doctor too much. "He was different," the young man finally volunteered, his brow furrowing. Garak refused to acknowledge such a poor confession, and continued to watch the human expectantly. Under the weight of this gaze, Bashir tried again. "At first I thought I'd made a mistake, when I recognized him. It wasn't just the uniform, you were - I mean, he was so aggressive, so arrogant." "Go on," Garak encouraged. "When I tried to argue, he jumped down my throat, telling me that Terrans did not take that tone of voice with them. Kira - the other Kira - was in charge, but he wasn't the least bit subservient to her. He was so commanding, so certain of himself -." Bashir abruptly broke off, as if suddenly realizing how complementary his description had become. "Whereas I am only a humble tailor." Telling himself that the bitterness that had seeped into his voice was purely deliberate. "I didn't mean that - it's just that he was -." The poor man looked so adorably lost, that Garak's rancour fled and he had to ruthlessly suppress an urge to rescue him. "I'm sure when you were - I mean when - in your former profession -." "True," Garak overrode Bashir's stumbling exposition, "gardening does require a certain aggressive, commanding presence. The least moment of sentimental weakness can result in weeds overtaking an entire garden." The Doctor made the most charming frustrated sound. "I'm changing the subject," he announced firmly. Oh are you, Garak thought, amused. "Certainly, Doctor." He leaned in a bit closer and was encouraged when Bashir did not retreat. "Why don't we discuss your emotional reaction to him instead." "What?" Nearly dropping his water glass. Garak rescued it, as sharp glass fragments strewn over the floor would not be conducive to the mood he was attempting to create. Placing it carefully on the side table, he elaborated, "How did he make you feel? You said he was different from me, and I was wondering if he caused you to respond differently as well." "He scared me." "And I never have?" Remembering his recent, shameful attack on the Doctor in this very room. "Wasn't the same," Bashir mumbled, eyes lowered. Garak didn't ruin this admission by pursuing it. Instead, he asked in his most innocuous tone of voice, "Did you find him attractive?" "What - Garak!" "Surely, it's a fair question. After all, despite seeing so little of this other Garak, it is clear that he made a very strong impression on you." "Yes - but -." Bashir's eyes darted about helplessly, as if seeking some kind of rescue. "So, it seems perfectly reasonable to ask if you were attracted to him. I'm sure he could not fail but to be attracted to you." Bashir momentarily pulled himself together at this suggestion. "That's impossible. He - I mean everyone in that Alliance - hates Terrans. Despises them as something beneath them." "Come now, Doctor. Cardassians in this universe hold many of the same beliefs, yet your beauty would not be lost on even the most xenophobic of my people." Bashir stared at him in shock, but also, slowly dawning comprehension. Yes, Doctor, Garak mentally encouraged, letting his eyes reveal more than he would with a fellow Cardassian. More than would ever be necessary with the latter. Tearing his eyes away, Bashir seemed to just notice that his water glass had disappeared. Staring at his empty hand, he began, "Garak, are you trying to -." He was willing to make concessions for the emotional density of humans, but Garak had no intention of permitting one of their tastelessly blunt declarations. "In fact," he interrupted swiftly, "I am certain this Gul Garak found you to be quite the delectable creature. Doubtless if you had been trapped there much longer, he would have made his interest known. The question currently up for debate, however, is whether you would have responded in kind." "Well, he was rather sexy," Bashir conceded with a little smile, finally catching onto the game. Now this, Garak decided, was just too good an opening to waste. He abruptly sat back from the human, the sudden distance between them emphasizing just how physically close they had been. "I realize I am no longer in my prime," he said, irritably, "but I've never been described as asexual before." "I didn't -." "No, there's no need to explain," cutting him off. "You've already made it abundantly clear that this Gul and I were very different, ergo -." "That's not what I meant -." "Although presumably my duplicate is the same age." He cocked his head and widened his eyes as if struck by a thought. "It never occurred to me before, Doctor, that your preference might be for men who were more aggressive, more forceful," Garak lied. Bashir simply gaped at him. "Perhaps," he speculated aloud, "I should bark some orders at you." "Ga - rak." A helpless, very appealing sound. "Or perhaps I should wear a military Gul's uniform, although it is tiresome keeping all of that leather clean and the colour really does nothing for me." He reestablished their former physical closeness. "Or perhaps, I should take you prisoner." Encouraged by Bashir's unconscious shudder at this suggestion, he risked a soft caress on the Doctor's forearm. "Although without a functioning ore processing unit on this station, where could I imprison you?" Garak allowed his eyes to rake over the blushing human quite blatantly. "Where - where - where?" "I don't need - I mean - he wasn't you." "No, he wasn't," Garak agreed, leaning in closer, more obviously invading the younger man's space. "Or are you trying to tell me something, Doctor?" Bashir looked like he was indeed about to make a confession, when he visibly changed his mind and kissed Garak instead. *** Garak stumbled into his apartment, opening the bottle of kanar before he had even removed his boots, before doing anything. Pouring with unsteady hands, gulping it down and then immediately pouring the next one. You'll make yourself sick, a voice in his head warned. An internalized version of Mila, delivering one of her many motherly admonitions. He finished the second glass as quickly as the first. The room was stifling, but as he pulled off his tunic, a wave of dizziness from the alcohol hitting his system much too quickly caused him to waver. Eat something, Elim, or you'll make yourself sick, the inner Mila scolded. Good, he thought. Glass still in hand, Garak stalked over to the closest window and wrenched it open, for fresh air was what he needed right now, not food. Returning to the kanar, he poured himself another drink, this one vanishing much slower, but only because he had to gasp for air between each swallow. Guls, he thought, why had he ever chosen such a cramped living space? What had he been thinking? Garak managed to finish his third drink, but growing lightheadedness caused him to spill more of his fourth outside the glass than in it. He lowered himself onto the floor, to his shame now audibly gasping, but unable to stop himself. The vertigo was worsening exponentially, and his body was screaming for more oxygen. Desperately, he tried breathing faster, inhaling deeper, but still he couldn't get enough air. The walls were too close, they weren't allowing him to breathe. Moaning, the glass slipped from his hand, as Garak helplessly pressed his head against the floor. "Please," he whispered between shuddering breaths, "please let me out - I'll do my chores - I promise - I'll do them - please." His vision narrowed into a thin tunnel of light, and then collapsed without warning into a frigid darkness. *** The temptation was strong, but Garak managed to resist the triumphant smile that threatened to form as their lips finally parted from a most satisfactory first kiss. "Was that for the purposes of comparison, Doctor?" He teased, determined to keep Bashir off-balance. "I'm not usually a competitive man," his right hand caressing one of the young man's smooth cheekbones as it made its way to the back of his head. "However, in the interests of fairness, I believe I should be allowed to demonstrate my full expertise." His fingers gripping the human's soft hair, Garak controlled the kiss this time, forcing Bashir's lips apart as his free hand leisurely snaked its way around the human's back. Only breaking off when the need for air was absolute, Garak immediately pulled apart the ties of the young man's tunic, not giving Bashir a chance to cooperate as he unwrapped it, although the Doctor was very obviously not resisting either. "Still not my best effort," Garak remarked as if disappointed with himself, as he admired the exposed skin. Such a beautiful golden shade, he mused as he pulled the young man's shirt completely off, compared to so many of those pallid looking humans. "I hope it will not be wholly unfair to my counterpart, if I am permitted another attempt." "Garak, I -," Bashir began, but didn't get a chance to continue, another kiss silencing him, forcing him back until he was half lying on the couch. Both of Garak's hands now slid between them, exploring the fascinating sensation of the human's ridgeless skin. As their lips parted, the Cardassian's fingers simultaneously located and pinched both of the exposed nipples. "Elim!" Garak looked down at the Doctor with genuine surprise and no little pleasure. "So you did decipher -," then paused, reading the expression in the dark eyes staring up at him. "No, you didn't." His voice had momentarily hardened, but conscious of the sudden tension in Bashir's body, he swiftly forced his manner to become teasing again. "No, you have been holding back information about your visit with Tain." Garak allowed his voice to become rich with irony as he added, "How very deceptive of you," watching as the human smiled and relaxed again beneath him. "I will have to think of an appropriate punishment for that, Doctor." Hovering over the young man predatorily, he grasped the doctor's wrists and forced them together. He then extended the joined wrists above the tousled dark brown hair. "Julian," the Doctor groaned. "Hmmm?" Garak leaned over and caught an exposed nipple in his mouth, still pressing the captive wrists against the couch's arm. "Elim, my name is Julian." "Of course it is, Doctor." He agreed, then returned to licking the sensitive area he had targeted. "I mean - you know what - I mean." "Perhaps." Garak conceded, releasing his hold on Julian's wrists. However, when the human's arms began to lower, the Cardassian abruptly ceased his ministrations to reprimand with mock sternness, "My dear Doctor, you will resume the position I placed you in immediately, if you know what is good for you." Hiding his pleasure at the swift obedience these words inspired, Garak began thumbing one nipple, while alternatively licking and grazing the other with his teeth. "Please, Elim, please -." "Care to be more specific, Doctor?" Pinching both nipples as he spoke. "Please use my name." "Certainly, Doctor Bashir." A most enchanting growl of frustration which segued into a guttural moan as one of Garak's hands slid down his torso and began to unfasten the human's trousers. "Jul - ian - call - me - Julian," he muttered between gasps. His skin was so sensitive, the Cardassian observed, allowing his nails to gently scrape the human's inner thighs as he divested the Doctor of his remaining clothing. Moreover, not only was the young man so deliciously reactive to every stimulation, he was still holding his arms obediently above his head. This evening, Garak reflected as he felt his own erection begin to extend from its protective pouch, was going to be much more pleasure than business. "Oh, all in good time," the Cardassian promised as he released the clasp of his own pants, allowing his slick, lubricated penis to escape and rub against the human's. "Patience - my dear Doctor - has its rewards." Garak flicked one of the lovely aroused nipples twice with his tongue, and then bit down as his hand slipped between Bashir's thighs. Oh yes, the most delightful sounds. *** Slowly, Garak regained consciousness, and realized that he was curled up on the floor, trembling uncontrollably. As his awareness gradually expanded, so too did his shame, for he was also half-dressed and lying in a puddle of kanar like some disreputable drunkard. Furthermore, he was incredibly uncomfortable, something hard and unforgiving digging into his rib cage. By touch, he found the empty scabbard that had somehow become twisted underneath him, and with an impatient jerk detached it and tossed the sheath aside. For a brief moment he wondered why it was empty, but a fleeting image of the blood-stained blade convinced Garak that he did not want to recall where he had left it. His mind clearing, the humiliation of having suffered another attack intensified Garak's disgust with his current condition. Ever since Tzenketh, the claustrophia of his youth had returned with a vengeance. So much, he thought with bitter self-loathing, for his pretensions of having a disciplined mind. Ashamed of his weakness, the Cardassian forced himself to sit up, but nearly blacked out again, barely retaining consciousness by holding his head between his knees. After several minutes of berating himself, with great deliberation Garak rose to his feet. Swaying unevenly, he managed to walk to the refresher. Leaning over the sink, he activated the water flow and left it on regardless of the waste, after all there was no water rationing for him, no rationing of any kind for the great Gul Garak. He splashed his face several times, then looked into the mirror - hair an unruly mess, grey skin almost white, pupils tiny pinpoints of blackness in a washed out blue. Oh yes, the great Gul of the Obsidian Order, the right hand of Enabran Tain, the heir apparent, feared by the military, feared by the Central Command itself. He groaned, his head beginning to throb, and leaned his forehead against the mirror. Yes, he was the great Gul Garak, ingenious spy, feared assassin, skilled interrogator. Garak lifted his head, forcing himself to confront his reflection again. Torturer of children. He began to vomit. *** They were relaxing in each other's arms on the Cardassian's bed, luxuriating in the post-coital bliss, when Garak made his final move of the game. "Julian." "Mmmm . . . ." "Please tell me." "Elim," a quiet protest. "I need to know, Julian," using the oft begged for name again, while simultaneously allowing a hint of fear into his voice. "For my own safety, I need to know." Bashir turned his eyes to his, and the Cardassian knew that his gambit had worked. Under his steady gaze, the young man closed his eyes, and then began to whisper softly, "He helped me because - he said you didn't deserve a quick death." "What else?" Garak prompted gently. After a moment of silence, he added as if unable to stop himself, "Please." Julian took a deep breath, and then confessed in a rush, "He said he wanted you to live a long life - a long, miserable life - on the station surrounded by people who hated you. Knowing -," his lovely voice hitched, "knowing that-." "I will never see Cardassia again." Garak finished for him, not allowing himself to wonder at this strange urge to protect the young man from the source of his own pain. "Thank you, Julian." He kissed his forehead, where a Cardassian's crest would be. "I'm so sorry, Elim." "There's no need." "I didn't want to hurt you." "You didn't," Garak soothed, "They weren't your words." "Never wanted to hurt you," Julian mumbled, beginning to drift off. "You never have." Surprised by the truth of this observation. "Love you." This soft declaration caught Garak off guard, but before he could respond, Bashir was sound asleep. His own emotions in upheaval, he pulled the covers over them both, and carefully settled beside Julian, so as not to disturb him. Sleep evaded him though, the instinct to protect the slumbering young man was too strong, an instinctual leftover from a time when mates needed to be protected from Cardassia's vicious predators. Garak frowned at this thought, for he had not set out this night to claim a mate. His aim had been to uncover some much needed information and in the process enjoy this human's company most thoroughly. He thoughtfully traced the bite mark on Julian's neck, it was nowhere near deep enough but its placement was telling. He wondered when he had become so good at lying that his motivations had become opaque to himself. And he says he loves you, Garak mused as he gently stroked Bashir's hair. He was tempted to immediately discount the statement as one of those post-coital declarations young men sometimes made, breaking the hearts of those who did not realize the sentiments often did not outlast the endorphin rush. Moreover, it wouldn't be the first time that this station's CMO had confused sympathy and desire for a patient with love. But these rationalizations failed to convince him. Garak didn't believe in the truth, or at least a single incontrovertible version of it, but he was well aware there were such things as facts. And in this case, he now forced to admit, they were rather compelling. Bashir had stood by him throughout his harrowing withdrawal, even when he had done everything he could to drive him away. Even when he had attacked the unarmed human, feeling another twinge of shame at the memory. And then, he thought, at enormous risk to himself the Doctor had gone to confront Tain to -. Tain. Cold horror seized Garak. Tain wanted him to be hated, to live a long miserable life alone on this station surrounded by people who hated him. He gathered the young man into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest. "Oh, my dear Julian," he whispered, "one must never, ever disobey Enabran Tain." *** Part III "I need some time away." "You have been working very hard." Tain agreed in words, but his tone was neutral, conveying neither approval nor censure for Garak's request. "I just need to get out of the capital for a while." Tain stirred in his chair, adjusting himself. He was gaining weight, Garak thought, the observation coming out of nowhere. "I finished reviewing your final report regarding Gul Premak." Garak tried to stay quiet, for an interrogator uses silence to force the other to speak, to reveal their weaknesses. But finally his chin lowered, for against Tain, he was never the interrogator, never the one in the position of power. "It was a particularly - exhausting interrogation." "Yes, I'd imagine so." A brief pause, before he added, "Shame about the girl." Garak schooled his features, all of his energy now devoted to maintaining his calm mask. "Yes." Not trusting himself to say anymore. "I understand she is recuperating well. At least, physically." Garak closed his eyes. "Although, I suppose even if Zalan Premak does recover fully, with a disgraced father and a disfigurement like that she doesn't have much of a future anyway." "Have I -," Garak broke off abruptly. He steadied himself, and forced his eyes to open and meet Tain's. "Have I disappointed you?" Ashamed of the obvious need that permeated this question, even though his voice no longer trembled. His hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his dagger before recollecting he was not wearing it. "Why, what would make you think that?" Tain responded, using his very best avuncular voice. "No, no, I was just thinking aloud. Thinking about all of the unfortunate things that must occasionally be done in the service of Cardassia." Garak bowed his head. "We have all had to do things we regret, at some point or another, Elim. Just remember what I've always told you, never let sentiment get in the way of your work." He rearranged some padds over his crowded desk in a deliberately artless manner. "Entek will give you your next assignment, he is expecting you in his office within the hour. That will be all." "About -." Daring to challenge the dismissal. Had Tain forgotten his request? "Yes?" Archly, his eyes devoid of all of their earlier warmth. No, he hadn't forgotten. "Nothing, sir. Thank you, sir." *** When Julian opened his eyes a few hours later, Garak pretended to have just woken up as well. Between light kisses, it was agreed that Bashir would return to his quarters, but over the human's soft protests, the Cardassian insisted on getting up to escort him out. Wrapping himself in a warm robe, Garak watched as Julian searched for his clothes, resisting the urge to rip off every article the young man put on, and drag him back into the bedroom. However, he did allow himself the indulgence of seizing him for one last breathtaking kiss before unlocking his door. Julian chuckled, telling him that he was behaving as if this was goodbye. Garak forced himself to smile in response, lest the human realize he was doing precisely that. After Julian was gone, and his personal security system was activated, Garak retreated to the couch and helped himself to a large glass of kanar. For the good Doctor's own protection, he reflected, it would have to be goodbye. But he choked on his next swallow of the bitter drink, for that lie was too transparently self-serving even for him. It was his own skin he was worried about, for if Enabran ever found out - Garak didn't allow himself to complete the thought. No, his status on this station was precarious enough without deliberately provoking Tain's malice. He would end it tomorrow, his grip on the glass tightening painfully. The Doctor would likely be disappointed, but he would bounce back and move on all too quickly. He downed the remaining kanar, hoping that it would numb him sufficiently to sleep, and slipped back into his bed. The scent of their coupling lingered on the sheets, and one of the pillows was impregnated with the human's distinctive fragrance. Garak leaned his face into it, breathing the aroma in deeply. Not since Julian had deactivated the wire had Garak missed its effects more. *** "Now, according to my military colleagues, you then made several derogatory statements that suggested you might be responsible for last night's bombing of the Fourth Order barracks." He had been so close, Garak thought regretfully, resting his elbows against the hard, metal desk. He had almost made it out the door, on his way to a well-deserved hot meal, when that lumbering fool Toran had caught him. "I asked the spoonhead how many of his Cardie friends we'd killed," the Bajoran spat. Spoonhead, Garak almost rolled his eyes, how original. Although the pejorative certainly explained the young man's bloody face and torn clothing. "Now, there are several ways we can continue this discussion," glancing at the padd that had been shoved into his unwilling hand, "Brin Tamal. Personally, I would prefer to hold a civilized conversation, a preference I'm sure your companions share. But if you persist in using such distasteful slurs, I will have to resort to far less pleasant alternatives." He narrowed his eyes at the foul-mouthed boy, and leaned forward in his seat. "I do hope we have an understanding." "Yes, we understand." The girl responded this time, her tone of voice much more conciliatory than her brother's. Doubtless this was why both her body and clothes had survived the arrest intact, the Cardassian mused, although both were filthy and the latter were certainly worse for wear. "I'm so glad," Garak lied, for he would only be pleased when this travesty of an interrogation was over. He idly wondered whether it would be such a terrible loss to Cardassia if Glinn Toran suffered a tragic accident in the near future. Privately, he doubted it, for even family connections couldn't adequately explain how that hulking idiot had attained his current rank. Still, the military had never been as demanding as the Obsidian Order when it came to earning promotions. There were times when it seemed to Garak like the entire Cardassian army was made up of nothing but Glinns and Guls. Returning his mind to his current task, Garak reassured himself that a routine divide and subjugate approach would quickly end this distasteful melodrama. "Now unfortunately Tamal, your colourful statements to the soldiers not only incriminated yourself, but your companions as well. For even if I was to overlook this report that you were found together, as well as the obvious family resemblance between all of you," he motioned to include all five of the prisoners arrayed before his desk, "last night's act of terrorism was clearly the act of more than one individual." Garak was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, thoughts of how cold it had become since the sun had gone down continually intruded. Had his office's heating unit failed yet again? "So, you see my difficulty. It would be shame to turn all of you over to be executed for crimes against the Cardassian Empire, but Tamal's ill-advised confrontation with several members of the Fourth Order does mean that some form of punishment is inevitable." Still, Garak supposed that he should be grateful it was winter in this province. He could only imagine how much worse these Bajorans would smell during the summer months. "If Tamal and I - if we confess, will you let the children go?" The girl asked, and Garak had to smother a bitter laugh. Great Guls, they were all children. Consulting the padd again, he identified this newly confessed terrorist as Alyse Brin, or Brin Alyse he mentally correctly, still unaccustomed to this backward Bajorian custom. No age listed, but she couldn't be more than twelve and her brother Tamal was at the most two years older, although with these aliens it was sometimes difficult to tell. The other three, the so-called children, consisted of a howling toddler of indeterminate gender held by a straggly boy only a few years younger than Alyse, and a girl who was probably no more than six. The huge eyes of this underfed Bajoran girl had never once swayed from him, and the palpable terror emanating from her was beginning to grate on Garak's nerves almost as much as the non-stop crying of the youngest child. "Yes," the Cardassian finally answered when he could trust his voice, "I will release the children unharmed." A quick glance at the heating unit confirmed that it was functioning, but he couldn't feel any warmth radiating from it. Tamal looked like he was about to comment on the word of a Cardie, but after a brief whispered disagreement between the two eldest Brins, the boy was successfully dissuaded. "The bombing last week," Alyse volunteered quietly, "near the main square." "Go on." The air was so cold now it felt like he would choke on it. "Yeah, we've been bombing you sp -." Garak suspected that it was not so much his raised eye ridges as his sister desperately clutching his arm that caused the youth to reconsider his vocabulary. "We've been bombing you Cardassians for months." "Indeed," he responded dryly. Several weeks ago, when Garak had first arrived on Bajor to help clean up after these Fourth Order imbeciles, he would have interpreted Toran's order to question this "resistence cell" as a joke. Now he knew it was, but not one meant to amuse. The whole occupation had degraded into a humourless farce where a Glinn like Toran, with much more size than sense, could in all seriousness accuse these filthy, rock-throwing children of being members of the Bajoran underground. "Then I imagine you would also like to claim responsibility for the destruction of the Fourth Order's processing centre last month." "Yeah, we did that one too." Tamal answering again, for Alyse was now attempting to comfort her younger brother whose sobs had joined those of the toddler. "Really?" Late one night, after too much kanar, Garak had formulated the theory that every Cardassian on this depressing planet was being punished. He knew what he had done to deserve this bleak assignment, but what exactly Cardassia had done to deserve Bajor was another question altogether. "Yeah." The eldest boy was straightening up now, chin lifted defiantly. Alyse very likely would have assumed the martyr's stance as well, but she was still uselessly trying to console her weeping siblings. The younger girl's eyes remained fixed on Garak, it was as if she didn't even blink. "So send me and Alyse to the Prophets now," Tamal all but commanded, "and let the children go." "I would," Garak rose to his feet and slowly rounded the desk, "but I imagine your Prophets wouldn't appreciate it if I sent two such pathetic liars to clutter up their Heavenly Temple, or whatever it's called." Standing before them, the Cardassian towered above the Bajorans, making it feel like the room was shrinking, the walls closing in on him. "For you see, the perpetrators of last week's bombing have already been identified." Tamal tried to object, but the Cardassian abruptly cut him off. "Don't bother to explain. No doubt they belonged to your other resistence cell, while you were busy on Terok Nor assassinating Gul Dukat." Certainly these children couldn't be any less incompetent than the numerous Bajoran adults who had made the attempt. The resistance had failed so many times, Garak was almost tempted to help them with that particular commission. "As for the rest of your confession, this is the Fourth Order's processing centre. Not only is it still standing, regrettably, this particular building has never been the target of a terrorist attack for the entire duration of our stay on your lovely planet." "Please," Alyse begged, hugging both her younger brother and the toddler to her body, tears beginning to escape her eyes. "Oh, for Gul's sake, don't you start too." Garak snapped at her, the ragged, constant sobs of the others making his head throb. The six year old, whose terrorized eyes had never wavered from him, was visibly trembling now, and the Cardassian had to resist the urge to grab her by the shoulders and really shake her. "And stop looking at me like that!" He barked at the girl. In retrospect, Garak would later realize, that was the exact moment when his tenuous control over the situation completely shattered. *** Garak opened his shop an hour late, and immediately regretted opening it at all. The overly courteous persona he normally used on his customers was so forced that even Morn had picked up on its insincerity. But whenever the shop was empty of clientele, empty of distractions, it was far worse. Over and over again, Garak tried to think of a clever means of dissuading Julian, but the erudite spinner of tales was left with nothing. Eventually, he was forced to admit that he was sabotaging his efforts, that he really didn't want to succeed in discouraging the young man's affections. But what he wanted didn't matter, Garak berated himself fiercely, nearly ripping the tunic he was supposed to be mending. When had what he wanted ever mattered? Wonderful, the Cardassian reflected, over the course of the morning he had deteriorated from being depressed to becoming maudlin. What would be next? Turning to religion? Garak almost didn't hear the door of the shop open, but his instincts were too exhaustively disciplined to fail him entirely. Still, he was surprised by who it was. "Julian?" "Glad to see you remember," Bashir teased, and leaned in to peck him on the lips. "Shouldn't you be in the infirmary?" Garak asked and almost winced at the coldness in his own voice. "They do allow me to have lunch now and then, as you may recall." Julian responded lightly enough, but Garak detected a sudden wariness in his eyes. "I do. But I don't recollect us making a lunch appointment for today." A few more forbidding remarks like this, Garak told himself, and it would be over. But the growing hurt in the Doctor's eyes was making what should have been a straightforward task unbearable. "I'm sorry, Julian," he quickly added, cursing himself as a sentimental fool as he did so. "I'm not usually this awkward. I just meant that we should be careful." The young man's eyes lit up, and Garak felt his heart constrict. At what point during the previous night, he wondered, had the seducer become the seduced? And how had he become so totally vulnerable to the least flicker of emotion in those expressive eyes? "I rather doubt that the Federation would approve of one of their junior officers consorting with the likes of me." He explained further, certain that he had now fully condemned himself to pursuing this relationship. "Hmm, you mean with Tain's former personal tailor?" Julian smiled. "Well, disreputable things have been known to happen in tailor shops." Julian wriggled his way into Garak's arms, leaving the Cardassian bemused at how easily this human had managed to slip past his defences. "Mmmm, what kind of disreputable things?" Garak took a deep breath. "Computer, secure door and activate the closed sign." He was pathetic. After lunch, he would have to remind himself to stop by the temple on the Promenade and light a candle for the Prophets. *** Everything happened so fast, that it was only much later that Garak was able to identify a distinct series of events. The stench in his office suddenly intensifying, as a puddle of urine formed between the legs of the young Bajoran girl. Her elder brother throwing a punch that a first year murk at Bamarren could have blocked with his eyes closed. His own countermove which sent Brin Tamal careening into the wall. Then seizing his would-be assailant and dragging him out of the room, the door barely lifting out of their way in time. Garak hauled the dazed Bajoran down the dimly lit corridor, ignoring the panicked screams of the other children behind them. Swiftly punching in the release code of the main exit, he shoved Tamal through it as the heavy door slid open. Then watching with something akin to satisfaction as the youth helplessly skidded across the dirt, too stunned to break his landing. Garak turned and found himself confronting Alyse, who had somehow managed to corral her terrified siblings into the corridor and follow him. She was staring at him wide-eyed, he could only imagine what the girl saw. Grabbing her by the shoulder, Garak began to pull her towards the door, but abruptly halted her forward motion, Tain's voice echoing in his head. "Never let sentiment get in the way of your work." It was dark in the hall as they faced one another, Bajoran and Cardassian. As dark as Tzenketh after the walls had collapsed. As dark as a locked closet. The only sound was their ragged breathing, as if there wasn't enough air. The renewed whimpering of the youngest child snapped Garak out of his paralysis. Thrusting his free hand into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of latinum strips and wordlessly shoved them at Alyse. She began to say something, but wisely shut her mouth, and allowed Garak to propel her and the rest of the Brin clan none too gently out the door. He slammed the locking mechanism so hard his hand ached, and then quickly surveyed the corridor, prepared to do murder if there were any witnesses. But he was alone. Typical, Garak thought. They foisted their so-called prisoners on him and then went to dinner right on schedule. If those children had been real terrorists they could have easily overpowered and killed him. Most likely that's what Toran wanted to happen, he mused. Of course, that poor excuse for a Glinn wasn't the only Cardassian who hoped an unfortunate oversight would get Garak killed during his tenure here. He probably wasn't the only one actively trying to arrange such a mishap either. Garak suddenly noticed he was shaking. He retreated towards his office, but the stench drove him back again. Feeling vindictive, he stalked down the hall and made quick work of the paltry security codes of Toran's office and helped himself to the Glinn's kanar and comfortable chair. After the first glass of the mediocre vintage, Garak activated the desk's monitor, and checked the readings from the outside security scanners. The Brins, he was relieved to note, had at least had the good sense to disappear quickly. However, it was too much to hope, Garak reflected darkly, that the eldest would keep his head down the next time the Fourth Order patrolled whatever ruins they now lived in. Tamal had the look of a dead man, he had seen such fools in his interrogation chambers too many times not to be able to recognize them. Alyse, on the other hand, had the wary look of a survivor, someone who despite the odds would manage to be the last one standing. Pouring another kanar, he briefly speculated how long it would take before the young woman really began to hate herself. Turning off the monitor, Garak caught sight of his face reflected on its surface. He looked tired, his internal Mila told him, in need of a long, hot bath and an unreplicated meal. Elim wished that he could believe that assessment. He refreshed his glass, and took another long drink of Toran's kanar. That he found the wretched liquid almost palatable now was a warning sign he chose to ignore. Garak was so very tired of heeding warnings. Tired, he thought, now that was a wholly inadequate word. Exhausted perhaps, or worn out, or better yet, he decided, hollow. Yes, that was a more accurate descriptor for his current state. It was almost laughable, Garak thought, that the better he got at surviving, the less alive he felt. And just how many more days like this one did he truly believe he could endure, he asked himself. Just how much longer could he stand trying to be Enabran Tain, only to continually fail? Yes, that was the real problem, Garak concluded, ignoring his empty glass and grabbing the bottle instead. He was not Tain. He would never be Tain. A realization such a very long time in coming, such a very long time denied. After all, if he faced it, he might actually stop trying to become him, and what little was left of Elim Garak would never survive that. For far worse than his current posting here would be the aftermath of Enabran finally realizing just what all of Garak's weaknesses and hesitations over the years truly indicated. Tain might be officially retired, but his reach was still long, and his gaze remained zealously fixed on his protege's performance. This assignment on Bajor was proof of that, a less than subtle punishment for the latest way he had recently disappointed the man who had overshadowed so much of his life. In fact, Garak realized as he swallowed more of the wretched kanar, it really was only a matter of time before the number of occasions that he let Tain down finally attained critical mass. Alternatively, one crucial, unpredictable mistake would irrevocably transform, in Enabran's eyes, Garak's many failings into betrayal. And no matter what the current head of the Obsidian Order might personally feel, Pythas Lok was much too pragmatic a man to ever consider disobeying his former master. It was inevitable. The only question was when. The only choice left was to wait, or to make it happen. Garak closed his eyes, and decided. Trembling slightly, he abandoned the bottle of kanar and reactivated Toran's computer. Disguising his entry codes and altering the date encryptions, Garak composed a report from a Gul in the mechanized infantry who had died during the previous night's bombing. He would make the perfect accuser, for unlike Skrain Dukat's pathetic attempt to have him executed, this officer had no obvious personal motivations for doing so. He would be the perfect catalyst with which to destroy the reputation of Elim Garak. He paused for a moment before sending it. Did he really hate himself this much? Yes, Garak thought, yes he did. *** They met secretly. Garak assured himself that it was secretly. That Tain would never find out. The Federation had renamed the station Deep Space Nine, Garak mused, but Terok Nor had retained its power to make Cardassians delusional. It had convinced Gul Dukat that his many Bajorian comfort women really loved him. It was now convincing him that he was safe to enjoy Julian Bashir's love. An addictive personality, Garak diagnosed himself. Addicted to Tain's approval. When that was gone, addicted to the wire. Now, addicted to Julian. Addicted to his impossibly smooth, golden skin. Addicted to the wonderful sounds he made whenever his sensitive nipples were licked and nipped. Addicted to the expression on the young man's face, an intoxicating combination of pleasure and pain, when he entered him. He was weak. Pathetic. Happy. *** Had he ever been this cold before? Exiled to Terok Nor. No matter what the engineers had said about reproducing Cardassia's environmental conditions here, it was a lie. Garak had arrived only a few days before, and he felt like he was freezing to death. Unfortunately, if negotiations with the Bajorans and the Federation continued as they were, soon this station would become much colder for him. How was it that he was still alive? Nothing could have surprised Garak more. He had spent countless hours trying to determine if his being alive was an expression of Tain's love or hate, or a mystifying fusion of both. No, he had finally concluded, Enabran for all of his deviousness was a remarkably straightforward man when it came to matters of his heart. This was an expression of his hate. He was a tailor now. The irony appealed to Garak. He used to tear people apart. Now he mended their clothes, making them appear whole again. Still, tailoring gave him something to do. It kept him busy, so he wouldn't have to think too much. Or feel too much. Garak inadvertently knocked over one of the displays, crushing his foot. His yelp of pain quickly segued into a moan of pleasure. Reassembling the damaged clothes rack, another much more promising project to distract himself with occurred to him. *** A few days after the near self-destruction of the station, Julian unexpectedly entered his shop well before lunchtime. Garak turned his head toward the door, already smiling for he recognized the young man's scent, but his smile froze when he saw his lover's face. Silently, he waited for the Doctor to speak, his hands instinctually forming defensive claws, digging into the Bolian satin dress he had been hanging. "Zalan Premak." The dress ripped, and its display wobbled precariously. "I received a message this morning. At first, I didn't know who it was from." Garak closed his eyes, the dress crumpling in his fists. So, this was Tain's punishment for trying to escape the miserable life that he had decreed for him. Curiously, there was a brief sensation of relief. Relief that Tain had not decided to revenge himself by hurting Julian. But when he opened his eyes, all he saw was Julian, hurt. "There were pictures. And a report written by - it had your name on it." A nice touch, Garak thought. Apparently retirement hadn't dulled Tain's attention to detail, despite rumours to the contrary. Suddenly noticing the crumpled remains of the dress in his hands, he was at a loss as to what to do with it. "Tell me it's a lie." "It's a lie." Garak echoed obediently, his denial flat and unconvincing. "I don't believe you." An abrupt bark of laughter, "It's about time. You've been far too trusting, Doctor." "You mutilated a child - *a child* - in front of her father to make him confess." "A remarkable synopsis of the original report." Harshly, not sure which one of them he was trying to punish more. "Can you at least -," Julian was visibly shaking. "Was she the only one?" Garak raised his eyeridges, "The only what?" "The only child - you tortured." He sounded desperate. "Oh, there were dozens more, Doctor." Garak flung the remains of the dress to the floor, and stalked across the room forcing Julian back towards the door. "Hundreds. Thousands. Cardassian children, Bajoran children, Human children, even Ferengi children, although disfiguring them was quite the challenge I can assure you. Shall I go on?" "No. Thank you." Julian's voice was brittle now. Unrecognizable. "I warned you." He allowed the voice, the voice of Gul Garak, to batter the young man. "I warned you about who you were trying to save. Warned you that you didn't know me. That you couldn't begin to fathom what I'm capable of." Julian flinched, a final unconscious shudder of denial, and then slowly he turned away from Garak, towards the door. "But you continued to claim that it didn't matter to you what I had done in the past." Hating himself for saying it. Hating the weakness inside of himself that compelled him to say it. Silence for the space of many breaths. "As my patient," the Doctor finally answered, but did not turn around. "As my patient it doesn't matter what you've done." Another pause that tortured Garak, before the human added in the same quiet monotone. "I never said that about my lover." And then Julian was gone, the door sighing shut behind him. Had he ever been this cold before? *** Pain seared through Garak's head, immolating his precarious self-control with its unbearable heat. The wire was breaking down, breaking him down, and he doubted that he would be able to resist the resolute young man before him for much longer. Denial, rudeness, and even outright insults had all failed to deter this human's frustrating determination to help him. Bashir, who was so deceptively fragile in appearance, was displaying a quiet, implacable strength, in the face of which Garak could feel himself weakening. "I'm a Doctor. You're my patient. That's all I need to know." Bashir's equanimity mocking Garak's feverish disintegration. "Wrong again." Momentarily resorting to the truth in a desperate effort to dissuade him. "You need to know who you're trying to save." Because if he knew, the Cardassian thought, he wouldn't want to save him. Garak knew who he was. And he had condemned himself. - end -