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seikilosTitle: Held
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Action/Pre-slash
Rating & Warnings: PG (references to torture; panic attack; innuendo)
Betas: tinsnip and Yosie
Words: This part 3099, approximately 16 000 overall
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: "...[T]he dictator is merely the tip of the whole festering boil of social pus from which dictators emerge; shoot one, and there’ll be another one along in a minute." - Terry Pratchett. Approximately six weeks after The Circle's fall from power, a fragment of the organisation returns to lash out against the only Cardassian living on Deep Space Nine. What they didn't anticipate, however, was being interrupted mid-abduction. This chapter: Julian solves the mystery of Garak's strange behaviour and begins to realise just how little he can do to help.
Author's Notes: So! As was hinted at in the previous chapter and as will become extremely evident in this one, another thing I wanted to play with was what would happen if Julian learned of Garak's claustrophobia much earlier on, and what the effects would be on their relationship of dealing with it alone. Originally, I had intended to do a whole series of fic branching off from this one--but I've had so many other ideas that I haven't actually written them yet. I do intend to do write at least one or two more, but we'll see when I actually get to them.
A note about the next update: while I very much hope to have it posted on time next Friday, for personal reasons, that may not be possible. Rest assured, though, that it will turn up before the end of next weekend. ♥
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
"Hello? Hello! He—oh, what's the use?"
Julian gave a frustrated sigh and scanned the larger corridor beyond the force field one last time. It felt as though he'd been shouting for days and if he hadn't attracted their captors' attention by now, he wasn't going to. He'd even begun to annoy himself; Garak was a saint to put up with that noise for so long.
"I'm sorry, Garak," he began as he turned from the field. "I guess I've given you a headache for—Garak?"
The other man was sitting in precisely the same place he'd been when Julian had started his attempt to attract attention—but "sitting" was far too ordinary of a word to describe Garak's position. With his legs crunched to his chest, his forehead pressed to his knees, and his hands clamped over his ears, Garak was a crumpled ball, shockingly small. To see someone who effortlessly drew Julian's attention so reduced was a kick to the heart, and even had the distance between them been a hundred metres, Julian would have crossed it in an instant.
He crouched before his friend, nearly sprawling forward in his haste, and gripped his upper arm. "Garak?"
Perhaps Garak couldn't hear his voice, but he should have reacted immediately to the touch. He didn't. It took one, two counts before Garak lifted his head and lowered his hands from his ears, and in that time, Julian could see that—despite the comfortable temperature of the cave—sweat dampened the rough skin of Garak's forehead.
"Oh, have you finished already?" Garak asked, clearly trying for his customary light tone. Trying only: strain marred each syllable. "I was certain you'd be at it all night."
"What's wrong? Are you feeling ill?" He reached to pull apart Garak's hands to take his pulse, but Garak shifted away.
"Nothing's wrong, Doctor. I was simply tired of your shouting and was looking for what little peace this minuscule hole in the ground could offer."
Julian frowned. That was wrong as well. It had been unusual before, when Garak had only been short with him. Now that he actually seemed to be speaking with the intent to wound? It was downright strange, and that concerned him just as much as the decline in Garak's physical condition.
He reached again. This time, he was permitted to capture a wrist. Prying it from where it caged Garak's knees, he barely had to touch his clammy skin to feel his pulse jumping out at him. The speed at which it beat made his own heart leap.
"Garak, do you have any allergies?" Automatically, he began glancing about his surroundings—but there was no point. His resources were the clothes on their backs, one blanket, and a large quantity of rocks. There was nothing he could do with any of it if Garak was having a reaction to the sedative that had been used on them.
"No, and I already said that I am fine," Garak snapped. His gaze slid away to dart from one wall to the other and back.
Julian released his wrist; Garak immediately drew his hand back to his knee. "Yes, and I believe that's the worst lie you've ever told me—even worse than the one where you're not a spy."
Garak didn't respond. He didn't even smile.
. . . Suddenly, Julian was very worried indeed.
"It isn't our situation, is it?" He leaned forward onto the balls of his feet, trying to catch his eyes. "Don't worry. I promise I'm going to do everything I can to get us out of this. I won't let anything happen to you."
Garak's response was a crack of a laugh that filled the tiny cell unpleasantly. Julian froze, his hand trapped in the air between them.
"Doctor, you really shouldn't make promises you can't keep. Do you honestly think you'll be able to pry a defenceless Cardassian out of the hands of a rabble of Bajoran terrorists?"
Julian let his hand drop to his side, too caught by surprise to press forward. "They're Bajoran? How do you know?"
"When they were trying to subdue me, I knocked one of their hoods aside. Even when they know they're going into a fight, Bajorans never take off their earrings." The corners of Garak's lips tightened in what ordinarily would have been a smile—though a very different one than Julian was used to seeing. "Much to their detriment."
That last part didn't make any sense to him, but that wasn't important at the moment. "Are you sure they couldn't be another species pretending to be Bajoran? I couldn't tell a thing about them with those disguises."
"It's possible, but I doubt it." Garak took in a long breath; in the deep silence of the caves, hearing the shudder in the sound was unavoidable. "With Bajorans, the motive for my kidnapping is plain, as is my fate."
Garak didn't need to specify what his fate might be. The Cardassian Occupation had ended barely two years ago. Julian had been briefed on what had gone on during that time before arriving at DS9: it was expected he would be involved in the long-term treatment of the station's Bajoran residents and would be referring patients to psychiatric care. In the past year, what had once been stark words on a padd had become very real to him.
He'd also seen what The Circle had done to Quark. He'd been the one to run the dermal regenerator over the brand their operatives had given him. Quark had been on the station back when it was in Cardassian hands, it was true, but he was a Ferengi. He wasn't a member of the species responsible for so much Bajoran suffering. Garak was.
With so many grim images leaking past his barriers, this time, Julian didn't pull back. He reached out and gripped Garak's shoulders. “Look, we're going to get out of—"
"Doctor, not now," Garak nearly shouted in the voice of a man whose control had frayed to the last thread.
Julian stopped. "I was only—"
"Your hands, if you would be so kind." Garak's voice was quieter but no less hard.
He lifted them away at once. "I'm sorry—I was just trying to make you feel better."
That odd version of a smile returned for a moment. "Under the circumstances, I'll have to decline that particular variety of comfort." When it must have been obvious Julian still had no idea what he was talking about, Garak went on. "There's a very particular way one needs to go about touching a Cardassian's shoulders, unless you want to send completely the wrong message. That wasn't it."
For a moment, Julian stared at Garak, trying to decipher what he meant. (Garak was holding his gaze now; even if his other physical symptoms were still present, that was an improvement.) The very instant he remembered the results of his recent research, however, he flushed burning hot.
"Oh god, Garak, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's quite all right," Garak interrupted, and at least there was some mercy in the universe. "I know you intended something else by the gesture, but I would recommend avoiding touching me there in the future—unless you mean it."
Fresh heat rushed through him. "I, uh, will." Gingerly, he set his hands on Garak's upper arms. "Is that better?"
Garak twitched beneath his hands . . . then relaxed a fraction. Julian's breath caught. Only now, with that change, was his friend's tension clear; he seemed ready to shiver into shards. He may have distracted Garak for the moment, but only partly, only temporarily. The underlying problem remained—but what was it?
"Yes, I'd" —Garak breathed out, long and slow— "say we're communicating nicely now."
"Since we are, then, why don't you tell me what's wrong?" Julian pressed, and there went any relief he'd given Garak, right there.
"Nothing is wrong, except that you won't stop bothering me."
"You're sweating, irritable, short of breath, and your pulse has gone through the roof. Not that we have much of a roof to speak of, but the point still stands. If you're expecting your doctor to ignore those symptoms, you must have a pretty poor opinion of my standards of practice."
. . . There had been a flinch there—he'd felt it under his hands when he'd been talking about their cell. There was something there. He'd wondered before if Garak were afraid, and it would make sense: a Cardassian in the hands of very angry Bajoran extremists had a great deal to be afraid of. He wanted to deny the thought of what they might do to Garak—his mind flat-out ran from it—but it could well be that Garak was being both pessimistic and . . . and realistic. Julian had fought these people, or at least members of their group, not that long ago in their attempt to take over the station. He knew what they were like.
“You're not worried about our situation, are you?” Before receiving confirmation, he went on. “I've already said that I'm going to make sure we both get out of this in one piece and I mean it. It's not an empty promise.”
"My dear doctor, I appreciate your desire to play hero to my damsel, but you'll find that there truly is nothing you can do. You're only deluding yourself if you think otherwise." His gaze went blank for a moment and another shiver went through him. "To tell the truth—"
"A momentous occasion," Julian interrupted, trying to bring back Garak a little. It was almost as if he were cutting in and out, an unstable frequency, from his confident friend to a scared man and back again. It was beginning to deeply trouble him in turn.
Garak barely smiled. "I find this whole situation more embarrassing than frightening. Of all the people to kidnap me, it had to be the dregs of an ineffectual band of riffraff."
"Hardly a fitting end for a spy," he tried again.
"Hardly a fitting end for anyone," Garak corrected. He closed his eyes; his shoulders hunched. "And yet here I am, b-buried alive in this pathetic, airless excuse for a prison. It's laughable, really."
He gave a thready chuckle, but Julian had no attention for that sound. He almost didn't dare breathe. He had his answer.
"Garak, you're claustrophobic, aren't you?" he asked, his voice slow but, as he felt out each word, steadily more confident.
Garak opened his eyes and actually glared across the scant centimetres that separated their faces. "Don't be foolish. I may not like it in here, but there's no need to jump to conclusions."
"You are. You stammered just now—"
"Of all the ludicrous—"
"You, Garak," Julian overrode him. "Me, yes, that's not so strange, but you. . . ."
"I had something caught in my throat. That's all. So if you could stop being so fanciful. . . ."
He tried to pull back, but Julian wasn't letting him go anywhere. "Then what about your physical symptoms? If you're not having an allergy attack, then those are classic signs of panic. You've already told me that the terrorists are embarrassing, not frightening, so that leaves our surroundings."
Garak turned roughly away; this time, Julian allowed it. "You've been reading too many of those dreadful mystery novels of yours. I'm—"
He breathed in sharply, his words vanishing, and he scrabbled back around in the least controlled movement Julian had ever seen him make.
He'd turned from the light of the force field and the sight of the space beyond their cell, Julian realised. If he really was claustrophobic, facing less than a metre of darkness and solid rock would have been a horrible mistake.
"Of course," was all he said in response. It was all he needed to.
He should have worked this out sooner. Now that he was thinking of it, months ago when they'd started having lunch together, he'd suggested that they try Quark's as a change from the replimat. Garak had turned down the suggestion—he'd even said that he found the press of people "claustrophobic"—and so the only times they'd ever gone were those few days when the replimat was even busier. He'd accepted Garak's response at face value; after all, sometimes so many people crammed into Quark's that even he found it a bit much. He'd never thought Garak had been using the term in its medical sense.
And now here they were, trapped in the dark in a suffocatingly tiny cell. If Garak's claustrophobia were acute, then this would be worse than any torture the terrorists were planning for him. And there was frustratingly little Julian could do to alleviate his symptoms.
. . . Little, but not nothing.
Julian shifted into a more comfortable seated position (not that there were many available to him). Giving Garak plenty of time to move away if he wanted, he let his shoulder press against Garak's, but not too hard, so as not to increase the sensation of being closed in. And, with great care, he began easing Garak's fingers apart from where they were clamped around each other.
Garak let him, passively, not helping but not resisting. It was only when Julian slid his own hand into place and wove their fingers together that Garak raised his head.
"I don't need your pity, Doctor, so you can put an end to it right now." But, despite the harshness of his voice, this time he stayed precisely where he was.
"I know," Julian answered, and he did know. If he were in Garak's position and someone had offered him pity, he would have taken their head off. "But I thought you might like my friendship."
He could feel Garak go still against his shoulder; with the way his head was bowed, the state of his body was his best guide. Then, with a rare quietness, the answer came:
"That, I could accept."
The strain was back in his voice again—he must have decided it wasn't worth the effort to try to hide it now that Julian had worked him out. It was hard to listen to.
"What can I do to help you?" he asked abruptly. He had his training for when it came to this sort of problem, but at the moment, it was largely useless. Remove the patient from the situation causing the attack? He could see that going well, asking to be transferred to a larger, brighter cell. Even if The Circle did decide to finally pay attention to them, those damned terrorists would no doubt put Garak in a smaller one instead—alone.
"If you could keep talking, that . . . would be useful."
As gently and as slowly as he could, Julian nudged Garak with his shoulder. Once again, Garak allowed the contact but did not react to it.
"I have to say, that's the first time anyone's ever made that request of me. Of course I can. What would you like me to talk about?"
He felt Garak pull into himself as he took a long breath. "Anything is fine. As long as you don't mind that I won't be—I don't believe I'll be saying very much back."
Julian squeezed his hand. By now, his palm was just as sweat-slicked as Garak's, but he didn't mind in the slightest. Perfect strangers had done far, far worse to and on him, after all. This didn't even register as a minor inconvenience.
"If what I've been told is correct, that won't be a problem," he said lightly. "Let's see."
He took a moment to come up with something diverting that didn't require concentration, his gaze on nothing in particular. It was only when he was ready and his eyes lowered for a moment that he realized he had been rubbing Garak's hand with his thumb while he'd been thinking. He stopped. When he felt no change in Garak's body, he let out a soft breath through his nose. He wasn't sure what Garak might classify as pity, but he didn't want to take any chances.
Now awkwardly aware of his thumbs, Julian began, "Well, um. I, ah, had Chief O'Brien in this morning with another dislocated shoulder from kayaking in the holosuite—or would that be yesterday morning now? Anyway, ah, he keeps doing it and I keep telling him not to, but he doesn't seem to appreciate that very much.
"Have you ever gone kayaking, Garak?" Oh, damn, no questions. Nothing Garak would feel as if he had to respond to. "When we get back to DS9, perhaps we ought to try it. Though . . . at a lower difficulty setting. I don't relish the idea of a dislocated shoulder, and I can't imagine you do, either."
Abruptly, he noticed his thumb was moving on Garak's hand again. This time, instead of stopping himself, he tried to get a look at Garak's face. It was still impossible to read his expression in the dark (there was only so far Human vision could adjust), but, well. He didn't seemed to dislike it, and possibly the contact was helping. He'd keep it up for now.
"Come to think of it, there are several holosuite programs I think you'd like. We really should give them a try together sometime."
Garak took in a breath. While his voice was low, when he spoke, he sounded a little more like himself again. "As long as you don't mind people starting rumours about the two of us spending so much time in the holosuites together."
Julian felt himself go so hot, he was positive Garak would feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I-I wasn't talking about those programs! The holosuites are for far more than that, and people should really know better."
The idea of bringing Garak along for something like that was honestly ridiculous, and the sooner he got the conversation away from there, the better!
"Ah, um, I'm about halfway through the book you loaned me. . . ."
As he continued to speak, he split his attention between monitoring Garak's condition and the hallway outside. There was no sign of movement from their captors. As time passed, Garak's breathing grew harsher and shallower and the shudders that periodically passed through Garak's body and into his own became more frequent.
Garak was keeping himself together for now, though obviously at great cost. Julian had faith in him, and yet—everyone had their breaking point. He had no idea where Garak's lay, but he was worried he was going to find out.
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Action/Pre-slash
Rating & Warnings: PG (references to torture; panic attack; innuendo)
Betas: tinsnip and Yosie
Words: This part 3099, approximately 16 000 overall
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: "...[T]he dictator is merely the tip of the whole festering boil of social pus from which dictators emerge; shoot one, and there’ll be another one along in a minute." - Terry Pratchett. Approximately six weeks after The Circle's fall from power, a fragment of the organisation returns to lash out against the only Cardassian living on Deep Space Nine. What they didn't anticipate, however, was being interrupted mid-abduction. This chapter: Julian solves the mystery of Garak's strange behaviour and begins to realise just how little he can do to help.
Author's Notes: So! As was hinted at in the previous chapter and as will become extremely evident in this one, another thing I wanted to play with was what would happen if Julian learned of Garak's claustrophobia much earlier on, and what the effects would be on their relationship of dealing with it alone. Originally, I had intended to do a whole series of fic branching off from this one--but I've had so many other ideas that I haven't actually written them yet. I do intend to do write at least one or two more, but we'll see when I actually get to them.
A note about the next update: while I very much hope to have it posted on time next Friday, for personal reasons, that may not be possible. Rest assured, though, that it will turn up before the end of next weekend. ♥
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
"Hello? Hello! He—oh, what's the use?"
Julian gave a frustrated sigh and scanned the larger corridor beyond the force field one last time. It felt as though he'd been shouting for days and if he hadn't attracted their captors' attention by now, he wasn't going to. He'd even begun to annoy himself; Garak was a saint to put up with that noise for so long.
"I'm sorry, Garak," he began as he turned from the field. "I guess I've given you a headache for—Garak?"
The other man was sitting in precisely the same place he'd been when Julian had started his attempt to attract attention—but "sitting" was far too ordinary of a word to describe Garak's position. With his legs crunched to his chest, his forehead pressed to his knees, and his hands clamped over his ears, Garak was a crumpled ball, shockingly small. To see someone who effortlessly drew Julian's attention so reduced was a kick to the heart, and even had the distance between them been a hundred metres, Julian would have crossed it in an instant.
He crouched before his friend, nearly sprawling forward in his haste, and gripped his upper arm. "Garak?"
Perhaps Garak couldn't hear his voice, but he should have reacted immediately to the touch. He didn't. It took one, two counts before Garak lifted his head and lowered his hands from his ears, and in that time, Julian could see that—despite the comfortable temperature of the cave—sweat dampened the rough skin of Garak's forehead.
"Oh, have you finished already?" Garak asked, clearly trying for his customary light tone. Trying only: strain marred each syllable. "I was certain you'd be at it all night."
"What's wrong? Are you feeling ill?" He reached to pull apart Garak's hands to take his pulse, but Garak shifted away.
"Nothing's wrong, Doctor. I was simply tired of your shouting and was looking for what little peace this minuscule hole in the ground could offer."
Julian frowned. That was wrong as well. It had been unusual before, when Garak had only been short with him. Now that he actually seemed to be speaking with the intent to wound? It was downright strange, and that concerned him just as much as the decline in Garak's physical condition.
He reached again. This time, he was permitted to capture a wrist. Prying it from where it caged Garak's knees, he barely had to touch his clammy skin to feel his pulse jumping out at him. The speed at which it beat made his own heart leap.
"Garak, do you have any allergies?" Automatically, he began glancing about his surroundings—but there was no point. His resources were the clothes on their backs, one blanket, and a large quantity of rocks. There was nothing he could do with any of it if Garak was having a reaction to the sedative that had been used on them.
"No, and I already said that I am fine," Garak snapped. His gaze slid away to dart from one wall to the other and back.
Julian released his wrist; Garak immediately drew his hand back to his knee. "Yes, and I believe that's the worst lie you've ever told me—even worse than the one where you're not a spy."
Garak didn't respond. He didn't even smile.
. . . Suddenly, Julian was very worried indeed.
"It isn't our situation, is it?" He leaned forward onto the balls of his feet, trying to catch his eyes. "Don't worry. I promise I'm going to do everything I can to get us out of this. I won't let anything happen to you."
Garak's response was a crack of a laugh that filled the tiny cell unpleasantly. Julian froze, his hand trapped in the air between them.
"Doctor, you really shouldn't make promises you can't keep. Do you honestly think you'll be able to pry a defenceless Cardassian out of the hands of a rabble of Bajoran terrorists?"
Julian let his hand drop to his side, too caught by surprise to press forward. "They're Bajoran? How do you know?"
"When they were trying to subdue me, I knocked one of their hoods aside. Even when they know they're going into a fight, Bajorans never take off their earrings." The corners of Garak's lips tightened in what ordinarily would have been a smile—though a very different one than Julian was used to seeing. "Much to their detriment."
That last part didn't make any sense to him, but that wasn't important at the moment. "Are you sure they couldn't be another species pretending to be Bajoran? I couldn't tell a thing about them with those disguises."
"It's possible, but I doubt it." Garak took in a long breath; in the deep silence of the caves, hearing the shudder in the sound was unavoidable. "With Bajorans, the motive for my kidnapping is plain, as is my fate."
Garak didn't need to specify what his fate might be. The Cardassian Occupation had ended barely two years ago. Julian had been briefed on what had gone on during that time before arriving at DS9: it was expected he would be involved in the long-term treatment of the station's Bajoran residents and would be referring patients to psychiatric care. In the past year, what had once been stark words on a padd had become very real to him.
He'd also seen what The Circle had done to Quark. He'd been the one to run the dermal regenerator over the brand their operatives had given him. Quark had been on the station back when it was in Cardassian hands, it was true, but he was a Ferengi. He wasn't a member of the species responsible for so much Bajoran suffering. Garak was.
With so many grim images leaking past his barriers, this time, Julian didn't pull back. He reached out and gripped Garak's shoulders. “Look, we're going to get out of—"
"Doctor, not now," Garak nearly shouted in the voice of a man whose control had frayed to the last thread.
Julian stopped. "I was only—"
"Your hands, if you would be so kind." Garak's voice was quieter but no less hard.
He lifted them away at once. "I'm sorry—I was just trying to make you feel better."
That odd version of a smile returned for a moment. "Under the circumstances, I'll have to decline that particular variety of comfort." When it must have been obvious Julian still had no idea what he was talking about, Garak went on. "There's a very particular way one needs to go about touching a Cardassian's shoulders, unless you want to send completely the wrong message. That wasn't it."
For a moment, Julian stared at Garak, trying to decipher what he meant. (Garak was holding his gaze now; even if his other physical symptoms were still present, that was an improvement.) The very instant he remembered the results of his recent research, however, he flushed burning hot.
"Oh god, Garak, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's quite all right," Garak interrupted, and at least there was some mercy in the universe. "I know you intended something else by the gesture, but I would recommend avoiding touching me there in the future—unless you mean it."
Fresh heat rushed through him. "I, uh, will." Gingerly, he set his hands on Garak's upper arms. "Is that better?"
Garak twitched beneath his hands . . . then relaxed a fraction. Julian's breath caught. Only now, with that change, was his friend's tension clear; he seemed ready to shiver into shards. He may have distracted Garak for the moment, but only partly, only temporarily. The underlying problem remained—but what was it?
"Yes, I'd" —Garak breathed out, long and slow— "say we're communicating nicely now."
"Since we are, then, why don't you tell me what's wrong?" Julian pressed, and there went any relief he'd given Garak, right there.
"Nothing is wrong, except that you won't stop bothering me."
"You're sweating, irritable, short of breath, and your pulse has gone through the roof. Not that we have much of a roof to speak of, but the point still stands. If you're expecting your doctor to ignore those symptoms, you must have a pretty poor opinion of my standards of practice."
. . . There had been a flinch there—he'd felt it under his hands when he'd been talking about their cell. There was something there. He'd wondered before if Garak were afraid, and it would make sense: a Cardassian in the hands of very angry Bajoran extremists had a great deal to be afraid of. He wanted to deny the thought of what they might do to Garak—his mind flat-out ran from it—but it could well be that Garak was being both pessimistic and . . . and realistic. Julian had fought these people, or at least members of their group, not that long ago in their attempt to take over the station. He knew what they were like.
“You're not worried about our situation, are you?” Before receiving confirmation, he went on. “I've already said that I'm going to make sure we both get out of this in one piece and I mean it. It's not an empty promise.”
"My dear doctor, I appreciate your desire to play hero to my damsel, but you'll find that there truly is nothing you can do. You're only deluding yourself if you think otherwise." His gaze went blank for a moment and another shiver went through him. "To tell the truth—"
"A momentous occasion," Julian interrupted, trying to bring back Garak a little. It was almost as if he were cutting in and out, an unstable frequency, from his confident friend to a scared man and back again. It was beginning to deeply trouble him in turn.
Garak barely smiled. "I find this whole situation more embarrassing than frightening. Of all the people to kidnap me, it had to be the dregs of an ineffectual band of riffraff."
"Hardly a fitting end for a spy," he tried again.
"Hardly a fitting end for anyone," Garak corrected. He closed his eyes; his shoulders hunched. "And yet here I am, b-buried alive in this pathetic, airless excuse for a prison. It's laughable, really."
He gave a thready chuckle, but Julian had no attention for that sound. He almost didn't dare breathe. He had his answer.
"Garak, you're claustrophobic, aren't you?" he asked, his voice slow but, as he felt out each word, steadily more confident.
Garak opened his eyes and actually glared across the scant centimetres that separated their faces. "Don't be foolish. I may not like it in here, but there's no need to jump to conclusions."
"You are. You stammered just now—"
"Of all the ludicrous—"
"You, Garak," Julian overrode him. "Me, yes, that's not so strange, but you. . . ."
"I had something caught in my throat. That's all. So if you could stop being so fanciful. . . ."
He tried to pull back, but Julian wasn't letting him go anywhere. "Then what about your physical symptoms? If you're not having an allergy attack, then those are classic signs of panic. You've already told me that the terrorists are embarrassing, not frightening, so that leaves our surroundings."
Garak turned roughly away; this time, Julian allowed it. "You've been reading too many of those dreadful mystery novels of yours. I'm—"
He breathed in sharply, his words vanishing, and he scrabbled back around in the least controlled movement Julian had ever seen him make.
He'd turned from the light of the force field and the sight of the space beyond their cell, Julian realised. If he really was claustrophobic, facing less than a metre of darkness and solid rock would have been a horrible mistake.
"Of course," was all he said in response. It was all he needed to.
He should have worked this out sooner. Now that he was thinking of it, months ago when they'd started having lunch together, he'd suggested that they try Quark's as a change from the replimat. Garak had turned down the suggestion—he'd even said that he found the press of people "claustrophobic"—and so the only times they'd ever gone were those few days when the replimat was even busier. He'd accepted Garak's response at face value; after all, sometimes so many people crammed into Quark's that even he found it a bit much. He'd never thought Garak had been using the term in its medical sense.
And now here they were, trapped in the dark in a suffocatingly tiny cell. If Garak's claustrophobia were acute, then this would be worse than any torture the terrorists were planning for him. And there was frustratingly little Julian could do to alleviate his symptoms.
. . . Little, but not nothing.
Julian shifted into a more comfortable seated position (not that there were many available to him). Giving Garak plenty of time to move away if he wanted, he let his shoulder press against Garak's, but not too hard, so as not to increase the sensation of being closed in. And, with great care, he began easing Garak's fingers apart from where they were clamped around each other.
Garak let him, passively, not helping but not resisting. It was only when Julian slid his own hand into place and wove their fingers together that Garak raised his head.
"I don't need your pity, Doctor, so you can put an end to it right now." But, despite the harshness of his voice, this time he stayed precisely where he was.
"I know," Julian answered, and he did know. If he were in Garak's position and someone had offered him pity, he would have taken their head off. "But I thought you might like my friendship."
He could feel Garak go still against his shoulder; with the way his head was bowed, the state of his body was his best guide. Then, with a rare quietness, the answer came:
"That, I could accept."
The strain was back in his voice again—he must have decided it wasn't worth the effort to try to hide it now that Julian had worked him out. It was hard to listen to.
"What can I do to help you?" he asked abruptly. He had his training for when it came to this sort of problem, but at the moment, it was largely useless. Remove the patient from the situation causing the attack? He could see that going well, asking to be transferred to a larger, brighter cell. Even if The Circle did decide to finally pay attention to them, those damned terrorists would no doubt put Garak in a smaller one instead—alone.
"If you could keep talking, that . . . would be useful."
As gently and as slowly as he could, Julian nudged Garak with his shoulder. Once again, Garak allowed the contact but did not react to it.
"I have to say, that's the first time anyone's ever made that request of me. Of course I can. What would you like me to talk about?"
He felt Garak pull into himself as he took a long breath. "Anything is fine. As long as you don't mind that I won't be—I don't believe I'll be saying very much back."
Julian squeezed his hand. By now, his palm was just as sweat-slicked as Garak's, but he didn't mind in the slightest. Perfect strangers had done far, far worse to and on him, after all. This didn't even register as a minor inconvenience.
"If what I've been told is correct, that won't be a problem," he said lightly. "Let's see."
He took a moment to come up with something diverting that didn't require concentration, his gaze on nothing in particular. It was only when he was ready and his eyes lowered for a moment that he realized he had been rubbing Garak's hand with his thumb while he'd been thinking. He stopped. When he felt no change in Garak's body, he let out a soft breath through his nose. He wasn't sure what Garak might classify as pity, but he didn't want to take any chances.
Now awkwardly aware of his thumbs, Julian began, "Well, um. I, ah, had Chief O'Brien in this morning with another dislocated shoulder from kayaking in the holosuite—or would that be yesterday morning now? Anyway, ah, he keeps doing it and I keep telling him not to, but he doesn't seem to appreciate that very much.
"Have you ever gone kayaking, Garak?" Oh, damn, no questions. Nothing Garak would feel as if he had to respond to. "When we get back to DS9, perhaps we ought to try it. Though . . . at a lower difficulty setting. I don't relish the idea of a dislocated shoulder, and I can't imagine you do, either."
Abruptly, he noticed his thumb was moving on Garak's hand again. This time, instead of stopping himself, he tried to get a look at Garak's face. It was still impossible to read his expression in the dark (there was only so far Human vision could adjust), but, well. He didn't seemed to dislike it, and possibly the contact was helping. He'd keep it up for now.
"Come to think of it, there are several holosuite programs I think you'd like. We really should give them a try together sometime."
Garak took in a breath. While his voice was low, when he spoke, he sounded a little more like himself again. "As long as you don't mind people starting rumours about the two of us spending so much time in the holosuites together."
Julian felt himself go so hot, he was positive Garak would feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I-I wasn't talking about those programs! The holosuites are for far more than that, and people should really know better."
The idea of bringing Garak along for something like that was honestly ridiculous, and the sooner he got the conversation away from there, the better!
"Ah, um, I'm about halfway through the book you loaned me. . . ."
As he continued to speak, he split his attention between monitoring Garak's condition and the hallway outside. There was no sign of movement from their captors. As time passed, Garak's breathing grew harsher and shallower and the shudders that periodically passed through Garak's body and into his own became more frequent.
Garak was keeping himself together for now, though obviously at great cost. Julian had faith in him, and yet—everyone had their breaking point. He had no idea where Garak's lay, but he was worried he was going to find out.
