Chapter Text
It’s an unpleasant surprise when Chief O’Brien stops Garak in the hallway on his way to lunch with Julian. O’Brien has never made a secret of his feelings about Garak, or the Cardassian race as a whole. Garak doesn’t think they’ve ever spoken to each other for more than a sentence of two, and only then with some technical purpose in mind. “Garak, see here,” he says in that absurd voice of his, stepping into Garak’s path.
“And what is it that I am supposed to see?”
“I’ve come to know Julian pretty well,” and oh dear, is O’Brien giving him some kind of ridiculous blustering threat? “I always thought it was strange, the two of you, and I never liked it—especially not after Gilora explained to me what it means, the way you behave toward him.” Garak thinks that he does a very good job not reacting, but it spurs O’Brien to be even more explicit. “You know, that arguing is the Cardassian way of—”
“Yes, I’m well aware.” Garak tries to keep his tone light, just a humble tailor, nothing more or less. But O’Brien is irritating him and so he says, “You know, Chief, lying is a skill like any other. One must practice constantly to maintain it.”
O’Brien grimaces. “You lie so much you wouldn’t know the truth if it was right in front of you.”
“And yet that’s what Julian has been doing for all these years.” Damn. He has to stop saying Julian aloud.
The man is shifting into a fighting stance, clenching his large fists. Garak almost hopes that O’Brien will hit him, even though he would undoubtedly be the one blamed for O’Brien’s violence. “Julian did it to protect himself and his parents. He would have resigned rather than let it come out. And now instead he has you calling him a liar and people in the halls calling him augment.” O’Brien spits it like a dirty word.
Garak is tired of this conversation. “I’m afraid I’m late for lunch with the doctor, Chief. I do appreciate your insights.” Who will be next to confront him, Major Kira? Sisko? Odo, warning that he’s watched every interaction that Garak has ever had with Julian?
The replimat is busy as usual, which means that he and Julian greet each other and then stand in what feels like an endless line. There’s the slightest bubble of space around Julian, as though the humans all around him don’t want to get too close. The augment nonsense again, Garak assumes. Julian looks unbothered, but Garak finds himself moving a little closer, just enough that he’s pointedly inside the bubble. “I’m afraid I don’t have your suit ready quite yet, Doctor.” It’s probably a flight of fancy to think that he can feel warmth emanating from Julian. When Julian looks away for a moment to wave to Dax, Garak sees that his hair has grown a little beyond its usual style, a slight curl to it at the base of his skull. Then Julian glances back and catches Garak looking.
“That’s all right,” he says, and for an absurd moment Garak thinks that he’s approving Garak’s observations. But no, of course, the suit. “I won’t have any use for it for quite some time, not until Captain Sisko’s Winter Solstice party. I just thought I would get in ahead of the rush.”
“My dear doctor, I’m flattered.” Garak has never felt the slightest wisp of awkwardness in his conversations with Julian before, but now it seems that Julian’s ill-advised confession has infected their interactions. “You know, it has been quite some time since you attempted to inflict some of your Earth literature on me,” he says. “I have another Cardassian novel, one that I think you might just find a little more to your taste. I would be willing to make an exchange if you will be open-minded for once.”
“I’m always open-minded!” There, that’s the satisfying note of outrage that he likes to hear in Julian’s voice. “All right, since you’ve asked for it, I’ll try to come up with something appropriately jingoistic.”
“I look forward to it,” Garak says. They’ve reached the front of the line. “I—”
“Doctor Bashir to sickbay. Doctor Bashir to sickbay,” Julian’s badge chirps, and Garak tries to stifle the wave of disappointment at the thought that there will be no lunch together today.
“I’m so sorry, I have to run.” Julian really does look sorry. “Tomorrow!” He begins to weave his way through the crowd.
Garak replicates an apple. “Julian!” he calls, and the doctor turns, stunned, just as Garak lobs him the apple. He catches it, of course, and hurries away. Another error on Garak’s part.
* * * * *
Garak has to go to Quark that night, after hours, and explain to Quark exactly what it is that he wants. “So, what’s it going to be? Do you people even have erotic novels? Or are you looking for a holoprogram? I can be very discreet, you know. I know the kinds of things the Cardassians liked during the occupation—”
He doesn’t want to know. “It’s just a novel, Mr. Quark. I simply don’t have a copy myself.” He certainly wouldn’t have kept it anywhere that someone else could find it. Garak’s collection of Cardassian literature has, even for the last several years, remained impeccably appropriate to that of a loyal Cardassian. This novel is—dangerous.
“For enough latinum, I can get you anything,” Quark says. At Garak’s expression, he reconsiders and says, “I can get you almost anything.” They both remember his failure with the implant. “Four bars of latinum, paid up front.” Garak remains silent. His silence makes people uneasy, particularly now that he’s cultivated a loquacious persona. The price is outrageous in the abstract, though perhaps not for a banned Cardassian novel, the possession of which is punished severely. “All right, three bars of latinum, two up front and one on delivery.”
“I find it difficult to pay anything ‘up front’ when, in the past, you have struggled to meet your obligations.”
Quark strokes one of his lobes nervously. “Two on delivery.”
Garak is silent for a long time again. Finally, he says, “I accept your price. I expect delivery shortly.”
“According to the Fifty-Fourth Rule of Acquisition, rate divided by time equals profit,” Quark intones. Garak mentally notes this. The Rules of Acquisition are a useful guide when interacting with Ferengi. He can’t help remembering, though, the Eighty-Seventh Rule: “Learn the customer's weaknesses, so that you can better take advantage of him.” He must be careful not to purchase Quark’s assistance too often, or the Ferengi will begin to form a picture of his—weaknesses. Of course, the purchase of a novel is not a weakness; in exile, possession of Cardassian contraband becomes an asset.
He has the novel by 0600. He considers rereading it himself, but that would delay his gift to Julian, and he truly wants to know what the doctor thinks of Severance and Solitude. He goes, of all places, to sickbay, where he knows that Julian will be at this hour, and Julian hurries over. “Garak! What’s wrong?”
Garak realizes that he has miscalculated. Julian knows that he detests sickbay and would never enter of his own accord. “I am quite well, my dear doctor. Merely eager to remove this novel from my possession.”
“Oh?” Julian pauses with an eyedropper in one hand. “Why?”
Garak sets the novel on the table next to him. “This novel is—banned in Cardassia.” Julian’s eyes light up. “Although it is perfectly acceptable for you to possess it, it poses slightly more risk to me.”
Julian picks up the novel with the kind of reverent delicacy that he usually seems to reserve for medical treatment. Abruptly, Garak recalls the near-delirious memory of Julian asleep in the chair in his room, the fact that he too could sleep while Julian was there. “What is it?”
“Severance and Solitude. I believe you may find it—more to your taste than The Never Ending Sacrifice.” It occurs to Garak, belatedly, that he is showing far more to Julian with this novel than perhaps he ever intended. But to take it back now would reveal even more, and he can’t risk that.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Julian says. He digs around in one of his pockets and presents Garak with his own little tube of literature. “You may dislike this one, I’m afraid, but since you thought that the last Shakespeare I gave you was a farce, I decided to give you one of Shakespeare’s true comedies.”
“I look forward to telling you how insipid I found it.” Garak does, more than he looks forward to…almost all other things. Tailoring is satisfying, mildly diverting, but his lunches with Julian are undoubtedly the best part of his life now. And oh, there, what a weakness indeed. That Julian could—take that away, if he chose. If he grew tired of Garak, or if his misguided romantic interest made lunch emotionally painful. If he found a different lunch companion who reciprocated that interest. If something happened to him—here on Terok Nor, where things routinely go wrong, or out beyond the station, where Garak would never be—
Julian is looking at him a little strangely and Garak realizes that he’s failed to answer some question of the doctor’s. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to have lunch with you today,” Julian repeats. “I’m running an experiment that has to be carefully attended and I won’t be able to leave the laboratory.”
For one appalling second, Garak almost suggests that he could bring Julian lunch. “That’s quite all right,” he says instead. “Why don’t we postpone until tomorrow.”
“All right.” Julian’s teeth flash when he smiles and there’s something twisting inside Garak, some—feeling?—he doesn’t quite comprehend.
* * * * *
He has tailoring work to do, but he finds himself standing at the back of his shop instead, reading the play that Julian has given him. The plot is ridiculous and hinges on a series of misunderstandings and Earth customs with which Garak is unfamiliar. But the arguments between the two leads, Beatrice and Benedick, are—in Cardassian literature, they would be considered the interaction immediately preceding a liaison, the beginning of one of the pornographic novels that Quark has offered to obtain for him. The clever language—and the universal translator struggles, but Garak has learned enough English to grasp it—and the occasional vitriol, the request to kill another as a demonstration of love—the end is obvious from the beginning, just as it was in the previous play, but it is somehow more satisfying. He finishes it by the end of the day and Garak is horrified to realize that he’s quite enjoyed it.
It's actually quite frustrating to have to wait until lunch the next day to hear what Julian thought of the Cardassian novel. At least he reads very quickly, so that Garak won’t have to wait long. Sure enough, Julian meets him outside of his shop to walk to lunch and yawns, which means he stayed up to finish it. “Perhaps we might go to Quark’s, upstairs, instead?” Garak offers. “Given that my book is banned.” It's unnecessary. The replimat is noisy. No one but him knows the danger of the book anyway. Certainly no one cares.
But Julian gives him a strange soft look and says, “Very well, I’m a bit tired of the replimat food anyway,” and they go to Quark’s.
When they’re settled, and Rom has taken their respective orders and the cries of “dabo!” are floating up from the first floor, Julian says, “All right, give me your best complaints, tell me how outrageous it was.”
“My dear doctor, it was preposterous from start to finish! A series of manufactured coincidences and contrivances—” Julian is very nearly beaming at him. “The writing was, I must confess, a bit more clever than most Earth literature. But for it to be considered such a classic that it has endured for nearly a millennium—”
“It’s one of my favorites,” Julian admits, and how freely he shares little things like that. “The title is a pun, you know—at the time it was written, the word ‘nothing’ was a vernacular term for female genitalia. And the word ‘noting’ meant gossip and rumor, and it was pronounced almost the same way as ‘nothing.’”
“You humans do enjoy your plays on words,” Garak says.
“Garak, you do nothing but play with words.” He’s never thought of it that way, but he supposes the doctor is right. Lies are simply a different form of wordplay. “And of course the story is a series of manufactured contrivances—you read it, you know that it becomes a battle between Don Pedro and Don John through the manipulation of their—social inferiors. I would think you would appreciate that.”
“That does explain why there was a certain—underlying appeal to my Cardassian sensibilities. But my point stands, that it should endure for a millennium only demonstrates the frivolity of the human spirit, and of yours in particular—”
Julian laughs, and Rom must have brought their food at some point because Julian has a fork halfway to his mouth and Garak is a little mesmerized. “Happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending,” he says.
There are words that want to escape from Garak’s mouth, ridiculous words that don’t belong there, and so instead he says with some difficulty, “And what did you think of Severance and Solitude?” There is a small tender spot deep inside him that aches to know.
Julian lays his fork down and tilts his head a little. “It was very different than any other Cardassian literature I’ve ever read. I didn’t see an author.”
There is too much that Garak wants to tell him about the book. “It was written by a—member of a dissident splinter group that conducted attacks on the Cardassian government before fleeing Cardassia. They were pursued and captured and promptly executed, of course.”
“Of course,” Julian echoes.
“But the myth is that the novel was passed from person to person, from a prisoner to a guard to a sympathetic Gul, and was duplicated and shared before it could be stopped. When I was…younger, I was quite interested in the myth of its origin.” Until Tain had warned him not to show so much interest in something like that—not to show so much interest in anything, which would reveal weakness.
“You know, there was so much focus on the idea of home, of the longing for a place to belong, that it almost made me homesick,” Julian says, very carefully. “I know that the family is very important to Cardassians—I never thought I would read something where Cardassian families were split by political ideologies.”
“No. Traditional Cardassian literature would not tend to emphasize such—internal divisions, even to condemn them.” Garak knows the opening scene by heart: the father and mother and son, arguing passionately about the role of the state, until the father finally strikes down the son and the mother flees.
Julian looks as though he’s choosing each word delicately, as though they’ll land stinging upon Garak’s skin. “Many human academics have written about the ways in which we interpret or experience certain works of literature differently at different stages in our lives.”
“My dear doctor! Are you telling me that you preferred Hero to Beatrice in your youth?”
Julian allows him the dodge. “Hero seemed so sweet. I didn’t understand why Beatrice and Benedick were so cruel to each other.”
Unthinkingly, Garak says, “I’m sure Chief O’Brien has explained to you the role that argument plays in Cardassian courtship.”
He doesn’t mean it to be cruel but it must sound that way, because Julian lashes out at him and says, “And who were you, Garak? Who are you now?”
And this is the trap that he has laid for himself. There is no answer that does not reveal something more about himself than he wants to share. Is he, or has he ever been, the father? The loyal organ of the state, so devoted to his Cardassian principles that he ultimately violates them by killing his son? The son, disobedient and rigid even in his open-mindedness, struck down in the first few minutes? Or the mother, who should have taken a side in the first moment of the argument, and pays for her failure to do so with the loss of everything important in her life? How much did Odo ever tell Julian, about how quickly Garak returned to the fold when Tain offered him his place again?
“The spy in the next room, of course,” Garak says, and throws his most innocent expression behind it. There is no spy in the next room.
“That answers one question, I suppose. The mother never stayed anywhere long enough to make it a new home. Perhaps that represented her fear of bringing the dangers of the state to bear on anyone with whom she took refuge, the way that the state had killed her son.”
Garak stiffens. “My dear doctor. There is no spy in the next room.”
“Isn’t there?”
Of course there was no safe answer to his question about who Garak was when he read the story, not even the answer of a false character. Any lie reveals something about the truth, no matter how deeply it is buried. “Perhaps you could write a paper and present it at the next Cardassian literature conference,” Garak says acidly. He’s angry at Julian now, for taking the one vulnerable thing that Garak has given him, this book, and using it as a wedge to pry open more of Garak’s secrets. He isn’t supposed to be able to do that. But Julian was with Enabran Tain in the detention camp for all of that time, he must have learned everything that Tain wanted to crow about, including Garak’s pathetic devotion to him. Garak imagines what else he could say to Julian—but isn’t this the great irony, that Garak’s power over Julian comes from whatever passing romantic interest Julian has deluded himself into, and that Julian’s power over Garak comes from the fact that Garak cannot—will not—lose him to anything.
“By the way,” Julian says lightly, “I hope I didn’t distract you from finishing my suit by giving you that play to read.”
No, the problem with the suit is that every time Garak begins to work on it, he remembers touching Julian. It would be wrong to say that Garak needs to measure him again—foolish, dangerous even—just to feel that heat again. His body is lean, soft, not meant for war, and Garak likes looking at him. But that’s understandable, he looks at many different forms to assess what type of clothing might flatter them the most. “Of course not,” Garak lies. But isn’t that true—aren’t they both true? Julian has distracted him from finishing the suit in many ways.
Garak allows himself to wonder, only for a moment, if perhaps O’Brien is right—if he has lied so many times to so many different people that he doesn’t always remember what the truth is.