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seikilosTitle: In Kanare Veritas
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Pre-slash/Fluff
Rating & Warnings: PG (alcohol)
Beta: tinsnip
Words: 3072
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Julian learns that pride goeth before a fall and kanar provides an express trip groundwards. Garak learns that, just perhaps, in wine (or kanar) there is the truth.
Author's Notes: There were two things that inspired this. First, this lovely piece of fanart by Kyuketsuki-Vain (their art blog is here--thanks, Lemonsweetie!), and second, a note in the Cardassian sourcebook that stated that kanar is "highly intoxicating." The piece practically wrote itself after those.
Thank you to tinsnip for betaing and to Ereka for the correct Latin conjugation of "kanar." Bless both you wonderful people. <3
"Two kanars, Quark," Julian called out as he approached the bar.
Quark gave him a funny look, which he'd expected. After all, up until tonight, the only person on the entire station who drank the stuff was Garak, and he was an infrequent customer at best. In fact, the only reason Garak was here at all was because Julian had invited him: to make up for running out not even ten minutes into lunch earlier that day for a medical emergency. Post-duty drinks were a poor substitute for a proper meal, but at least they were better than nothing.
"Kanar, Doctor?" Quark asked, though he had already turned around to retrieve it. "Are you sure about that?"
"I'm sure," he answered. "It may not be my usual, but it's good to branch out every once in a while."
And if Garak had tried beer once (and once alone—his expressions had been entertaining that evening and his opinions very clear), it was only fair for Julian to do the same with his drink of choice.
"I'm not saying it isn't" —Quark loudly blew dust from the spiraling bottle he'd located— "but kanar's pretty strong stuff. Maybe you should start off small, say with half a glass."
Julian wasn't so sure he liked the implications of that. He felt himself frown. "I'm not a lightweight, Quark. You know that—you've seen me in here with the Chief all the time."
"Now, now, no one's saying anyone is a lightweight," Quark said in a placating tone that made Julian's blood pressure spike. "But kanar is kanar."
"And kanar is what I want," Julian snapped. "Two full glasses if you please, Quark."
"Suit yourself." Somehow, Quark managed to shrug and hand over the drinks simultaneously. "It's your liver."
Julian turned a little too quickly, making the kanar lurch in its glasses. It was his liver, dammit, and he'd poison it if he wanted to.
He looked up to make certain the way upstairs was clear and caught a glimpse of Garak waiting patiently for him at their table. Relaxation came naturally at the sight of his friend, but in addition, he made a conscious effort to calm down. He'd already spoiled one get-together with Garak today; he wasn't about to let Quark being himself take care of another.
The short distance to the top level was nearly enough to bring him back to an even keel, and he'd already begun to smile in anticipation of resuming his conversation with Garak when he was startled to note Jadzia and Major Kira emerging from the holosuite area. Jadzia was no surprise—she was nearly as enthusiastic about her holosuite adventures as he and the Chief were about theirs, but Major Kira? She hated them. What was going on?
"Hey, Julian!" Jadzia called out—evidently she'd noticed him about the same time he'd seen her.
She and the Major were wearing their uniforms; they must have gone in as soon as they'd come off duty. As he approached, he could see the sweat glinting on both women's brows and darkening their hair. Whatever they had been doing in there, it had required a great deal of exertion.
"Hello, Jadzia, Major," he greeted them, receiving a curt "Doctor" from Kira. "I didn't know the two of you went to the holosuites together."
"We don't," Kira said with a flat look at Jadzia.
Naturally, the response was a wide smile. "We're not regulars yet, but I'll get Kira there someday. It's just a matter of finding the right program. Drinks with Garak?" she added with a nod to the kanar.
For some reason, a funny expression appeared on the Major's face at that. He didn't bother to work out why, though, before he answered, "Yes, I spent most of our lunch in emergency surgery today. I thought this might go toward making it up to him."
Jadzia's smile only grew. "I'd say that's a good thought. Just watch out for that kanar—it's pretty strong stuff."
Julian took a moment to remind himself that Jadzia was only trying to look out for him. It very nearly was enough to take the stiffness from his voice as he said, "I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern."
"Anytime. But if you do end up drinking too much and start dancing on the tables, tell Garak to get a holoimage for me."
She winked, she and Kira bid him goodbye, and they continued on their way. It was just as well; he was fairly certain his next response wouldn't have been nearly as polite as his first.
Did everyone think he was an incompetent? It was bad enough getting "Are you sure you can handle that?" when he attempted tasks outside his field that required at least some measure of skill. But now his ability to do nothing more difficult than consume alcohol was being questioned, and frankly, it was more than a little irritating!
He bumped into a few patrons on the way to his and Garak's table without bothering to apologise. When he banged their glasses down, making some of the kanar glop over the edge, Garak gave him a look from beneath his brow ridges.
"Is something the matter, Doctor?" he asked mildly.
Julian took in and let out a breath at his question. He needed to calm down—it wouldn't be fair to take out his frustration on Garak. "It's nothing. I'm fine." He slid Garak's glass to him, leaving a sticky red trail on the table. "Here you are: one kanar. Sorry about the mess."
"It's quite all right," Garak murmured. All the same, Julian couldn't help noticing the delicate way he picked up the glass with his fingertips and he regretted the temper-born mess he'd made all over again.
To distract himself, he picked up his own glass (and promptly found his skin glued to it). He lifted the kanar to his lips, hesitated when its odour hit his nose—a kind of . . . not completely musty scent—then went for it.
His grimace must have caught Garak's attention, as the other man looked up from his own drink. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you drinking kanar tonight, Doctor. It isn't what I would call your usual."
"Yes, well, I" —he swallowed again, trying to uncoat his tongue— "thought I'd see why you were so fond of it."
At the moment, he had even less of an idea than when he'd ordered it. As far as he was concerned, it was like drinking maple syrup. Finishing the glass was going to be a chore, but if Garak had managed a whole pint of beer last week, the least he could do was force down one small glass. He'd switch to something else after that.
"As it seems you've discovered, kanar is something of an acquired taste," Garak said with his usual understatement.
If he'd left the matter at that, no doubt the course of the evening would have been very different. But instead, he had to go on to add: "I'd be careful if I were you. Kanar has a high alcohol content and can be somewhat—surprising if you aren't used to it."
And, right there, that was it.
Julian gave Garak his stormiest of scowls. "I'm not some naive teenaged boy trying his first drink, Garak! I know exactly what I'm doing and I'll be just fine, thank you very much!"
He grabbed his glass from the table and threw back something of a larger mouthful then he'd intended. He didn't choke, however, and with a surprising amount of triumph, he clunked the glass back onto the table.
Garak didn't seem all that impressed with the proof of exactly how fine he was—instead, all he was doing was holding up his hands—but that was all right with Julian. "Of course. I meant no offence. By all means, carry on. . . ."
"I will."
That was exactly what he intended to do. In fact, maybe he wouldn't switch drinks once he finished this one. If he was going to acquire the taste and prove to everyone that Julian Bashir could, as a matter of fact, hold his drink, then there was no sense in doing things by half.
"Now. Where were we?"
*
"Bring me my Bow of burning gold! Bring me my Arrows of Desire!"
"Softly, my dear," Garak hushed his very, very drunk companion as they made their slow and careful way along the promenade. "Otherwise our friend the Constable will be locking you up for being drunk and disorderly."
It had been about the time Dr. Bashir had started singing about England that Garak had decided it was time to leave. He had been suggesting as much for some time as he'd watched Dr. Bashir become more and more glassy-eyed and less and less vertical. When their evening had acquired a musical element, Garak had decided a firm hand (and an arm around Dr. Bashir's shoulders for balance) was necessary.
Dr. Bashir had only been mumbling the song as they vacated their table. During the somewhat difficult matter of the stairs to the main level, it had stopped altogether, leaving Garak both relieved and a little concerned by the level of concentration his friend had needed to devote to not breaking his neck. Now that they were on the easier leg of their journey to Dr. Bashir's quarters, the singing was back . . . at triple the volume.
"No he won't," Dr. Bashir contradicted with no apparent awareness of how noisy he was being. "I'm drunk, not disorderly. Can't arrest a man for being drunk. Not enough cells."
"This is true—but Odo can arrest you for waking half the station with your singing. I believe that would be called 'disturbing the peace.'"
After all, if Garak was finding him loud, then no doubt Dr. Bashir was making the Humans and Bajorans of the station with their sensitive hearing very unhappy.
"Oh." His next word was spoken in what was a whisper in tone but somehow not volume. "Sorry."
Garak really shouldn't have found this endearing. He was half-dragging a surprisingly heavy Human (honestly, his body was made like a Vulcan's) along the promenade at an hour when he was normally long ago in bed, being deafened by an incomprehensible song and suffocated by the smell of stale kanar. And yet, somehow, it all charmed him. Clearly, he was even farther gone then he'd thought.
"It's quite all right, my dear," he assured him. "We're all aware you're not trying to make a nuisance of yourself."
Dr. Bashir went fortunately silent for a few moments. They made it all the way into the turbolift before he spoke again.
"Garak, why're—sorry." He resumed that ridiculous whisper. "Why're you calling me 'm'dear'?"
He didn't hesitate. "Because with the amount of kanar you've consumed, the chances of you remembering this evening and anything I've said to you are exceedingly low."
"Oh."
The turbolift doors opened, Dr. Bashir raised his head from its awkward and distracting lean against Garak's, and they set off once again.
"I don't mind it," he said abruptly, and Garak very nearly stopped where he was. Only knowing how unfortunate any sudden changes in movement would be for a man of Dr. Bashir's impaired balance kept his stride even and uninterrupted.
"Don't you, now?" he asked, his voice just as calm as if he were inquiring whether a customer would like their order gift-wrapped.
In vino veritas—"in wine there is the truth." It was an ancient Earth saying he'd read in one of Dr. Bashir's books. At the moment, he very much wanted to know how reliable it was in this particular case.
"No, see . . . it's you."
He glanced at Dr. Bashir, who was squinting with great concentration, then back at the route ahead. Rather than prompting him, he waited with a fast-beating heart.
"It's not Jadzia or—or the Captain. That'd be annoying," he explained muzzily. The next time Garak looked at him, he was just in time to catch an exaggerated expression of distaste twist up the other man's face. "It's not the Chief. That'd be weird. It's you, so . . . it's okay."
He waited a few more steps in case he was to be further rewarded for his patience.
"I like it."
. . . Hope was a funny thing. Just when you thought you'd run out of it long ago, back it sprang, leaping out from one short sentence and turning him into a jubilant boy at the very height of infatuation.
But none of that, now—he had a job to finish here. Elation could wait until he was alone in his quarters.
Still, though, he couldn't resist one small remark: "Then maybe I should call you 'my dear' all the time."
"Mm . . . all right." Dr. Bashir drooped into him even more than before; Garak grunted at the extra weight. "That'd be nice."
Dr. Bashir lapsed into humming after that, which he was fine with. Trying to maneuver a long-limbed man through narrow corridors was an attention-consuming task even when one hadn't just been given potentially life-altering information.
He only returned to speech when they reached his quarters and Garak asked him if he remembered his access code.
"Hm? Yes, just, just. . . ." Two attempts later, the door slid open. Dr. Bashir staggered inside and turned. "Want to come in?"
He smiled and shook his head. "I don't think that would be wise."
Before he left, though, he took a moment, just one, to let himself look. Dr. Bashir had certainly had more attractive evenings, when his uniform wasn't creased and his features weren't slackened by far too much kanar. But, all the same, this was a picture worth pressing into his memory.
. . . He truly was a hopeless case, wasn't he?
One last fond look, then he said, "Good night, my dear. Sleep well."
"Thanks. You too . . . um." He looked briefly bewildered. "My . . . Garak?"
He couldn't help a quiet chuckle. "'Your' Garak suits me quite nicely. I'll see you tomorrow for lunch."
"Bye," Dr. Bashir answered. As Garak departed, he heard him muttering while he worked out how to close and lock his door for the night.
It seemed he wouldn't be going to bed right away, as he had previously thought. He had been given a great deal to think about this evening—and to savour, like the dreadful romantic he just couldn't seem to stop being.
"His" Garak indeed.
*
Dr. Bashir looked only somewhat sharper at lunch the next day. While he was obviously no longer drunk and he had presumably taken care of his certain hangover earlier that morning, his movements were much limper than usual. He also had those odd dark circles beneath his eyes that had once confused Garak to no end. (As a young man, he'd been startled at the frequency Humans seemed to be punched in both eyes. Learning another name for that indication of exhaustion was "bruises" had done nothing to clarify.)
Naturally, he made certain his smile was particularly wide and his voice was chipper when he greeted him. "Good afternoon, Doctor. I trust you've recovered from your introduction to kanar?"
Dr. Bashir all but plummeted into the seat opposite him and let out a sound of despair. "Tell me I wasn't actually dancing on the tables last night. Jadzia said to ask you for the holoimages, but she has to be joking." A pause, and he leaned forward out of his slump. "She is joking, isn't she?"
Keeping his smile unchanged was a significant challenge, but it was one he rose to. "What if I said she isn't?"
He knew Dr. Bashir wasn't going to believe him, but that one second of horrified doubt was all he needed.
The Doctor fell against the back of his chair again. "She is." He groaned. "The next time three separate people warn me about something, remind me of last night, will you? I'll never disregard that much advice ever again. I must have made a complete arse of myself."
He couldn't help his laughter at such blatant despair and it was all he could do to keep the sound soft and restrained. But once he was in control of himself again, he took pity. "Only a bit of one. Most of the promenade is aware you have a passable singing voice now." Over another groan, he added, "If it's any consolation, my first experience with kanar didn't go all that much better."
Dr. Bashir raised his head a little. "Didn't it?"
"I'm afraid not."
He was being flexible with the truth, of course: as far as he was capable of recalling, he had been much younger than Dr. Bashir at the time and had done nothing more entertaining than lurching back to his lodgings and quietly falling stone-cold asleep fully clothed beside his bed. But Dr. Bashir didn't need to know that.
"It's a common enough reaction," he went on. "Kanar catches nearly everyone by surprise."
The information wasn't enough to turn Dr. Bashir back to his usual bright and animated self, but he did at least look somewhat less glum as he responded, "Well, I'm glad to hear I'm in good company. I don't suppose you'd be willing to share that particular story, would you?"
It was so difficult to deny him anything, especially when he drew forward with such anticipation, but Garak only smiled and said, "Mm. I don't suppose I would." A glance to the much-diminished lines at the replicators and he added, "Why don't we order our lunch before the next wave arrives?"
"All right—though if it's all the same to you, I don't think I'll be doing much eating today."
"Of course."
There were two simple words that filled his mouth at that moment, words that would be "nice," that Dr. Bashir would like to hear only from him. He swallowed them down, the same way he didn't allow his palm to rest against the small of Dr. Bashir's back but kept it secure by his side. He had hope now, but that was no reason to discard caution. He would choose his moment well, but he would choose it.
Then, perhaps, if he was lucky, it would turn out he wasn't quite as much as a fool as he'd once thought.
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Pre-slash/Fluff
Rating & Warnings: PG (alcohol)
Beta: tinsnip
Words: 3072
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Julian learns that pride goeth before a fall and kanar provides an express trip groundwards. Garak learns that, just perhaps, in wine (or kanar) there is the truth.
Author's Notes: There were two things that inspired this. First, this lovely piece of fanart by Kyuketsuki-Vain (their art blog is here--thanks, Lemonsweetie!), and second, a note in the Cardassian sourcebook that stated that kanar is "highly intoxicating." The piece practically wrote itself after those.
Thank you to tinsnip for betaing and to Ereka for the correct Latin conjugation of "kanar." Bless both you wonderful people. <3
"Two kanars, Quark," Julian called out as he approached the bar.
Quark gave him a funny look, which he'd expected. After all, up until tonight, the only person on the entire station who drank the stuff was Garak, and he was an infrequent customer at best. In fact, the only reason Garak was here at all was because Julian had invited him: to make up for running out not even ten minutes into lunch earlier that day for a medical emergency. Post-duty drinks were a poor substitute for a proper meal, but at least they were better than nothing.
"Kanar, Doctor?" Quark asked, though he had already turned around to retrieve it. "Are you sure about that?"
"I'm sure," he answered. "It may not be my usual, but it's good to branch out every once in a while."
And if Garak had tried beer once (and once alone—his expressions had been entertaining that evening and his opinions very clear), it was only fair for Julian to do the same with his drink of choice.
"I'm not saying it isn't" —Quark loudly blew dust from the spiraling bottle he'd located— "but kanar's pretty strong stuff. Maybe you should start off small, say with half a glass."
Julian wasn't so sure he liked the implications of that. He felt himself frown. "I'm not a lightweight, Quark. You know that—you've seen me in here with the Chief all the time."
"Now, now, no one's saying anyone is a lightweight," Quark said in a placating tone that made Julian's blood pressure spike. "But kanar is kanar."
"And kanar is what I want," Julian snapped. "Two full glasses if you please, Quark."
"Suit yourself." Somehow, Quark managed to shrug and hand over the drinks simultaneously. "It's your liver."
Julian turned a little too quickly, making the kanar lurch in its glasses. It was his liver, dammit, and he'd poison it if he wanted to.
He looked up to make certain the way upstairs was clear and caught a glimpse of Garak waiting patiently for him at their table. Relaxation came naturally at the sight of his friend, but in addition, he made a conscious effort to calm down. He'd already spoiled one get-together with Garak today; he wasn't about to let Quark being himself take care of another.
The short distance to the top level was nearly enough to bring him back to an even keel, and he'd already begun to smile in anticipation of resuming his conversation with Garak when he was startled to note Jadzia and Major Kira emerging from the holosuite area. Jadzia was no surprise—she was nearly as enthusiastic about her holosuite adventures as he and the Chief were about theirs, but Major Kira? She hated them. What was going on?
"Hey, Julian!" Jadzia called out—evidently she'd noticed him about the same time he'd seen her.
She and the Major were wearing their uniforms; they must have gone in as soon as they'd come off duty. As he approached, he could see the sweat glinting on both women's brows and darkening their hair. Whatever they had been doing in there, it had required a great deal of exertion.
"Hello, Jadzia, Major," he greeted them, receiving a curt "Doctor" from Kira. "I didn't know the two of you went to the holosuites together."
"We don't," Kira said with a flat look at Jadzia.
Naturally, the response was a wide smile. "We're not regulars yet, but I'll get Kira there someday. It's just a matter of finding the right program. Drinks with Garak?" she added with a nod to the kanar.
For some reason, a funny expression appeared on the Major's face at that. He didn't bother to work out why, though, before he answered, "Yes, I spent most of our lunch in emergency surgery today. I thought this might go toward making it up to him."
Jadzia's smile only grew. "I'd say that's a good thought. Just watch out for that kanar—it's pretty strong stuff."
Julian took a moment to remind himself that Jadzia was only trying to look out for him. It very nearly was enough to take the stiffness from his voice as he said, "I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern."
"Anytime. But if you do end up drinking too much and start dancing on the tables, tell Garak to get a holoimage for me."
She winked, she and Kira bid him goodbye, and they continued on their way. It was just as well; he was fairly certain his next response wouldn't have been nearly as polite as his first.
Did everyone think he was an incompetent? It was bad enough getting "Are you sure you can handle that?" when he attempted tasks outside his field that required at least some measure of skill. But now his ability to do nothing more difficult than consume alcohol was being questioned, and frankly, it was more than a little irritating!
He bumped into a few patrons on the way to his and Garak's table without bothering to apologise. When he banged their glasses down, making some of the kanar glop over the edge, Garak gave him a look from beneath his brow ridges.
"Is something the matter, Doctor?" he asked mildly.
Julian took in and let out a breath at his question. He needed to calm down—it wouldn't be fair to take out his frustration on Garak. "It's nothing. I'm fine." He slid Garak's glass to him, leaving a sticky red trail on the table. "Here you are: one kanar. Sorry about the mess."
"It's quite all right," Garak murmured. All the same, Julian couldn't help noticing the delicate way he picked up the glass with his fingertips and he regretted the temper-born mess he'd made all over again.
To distract himself, he picked up his own glass (and promptly found his skin glued to it). He lifted the kanar to his lips, hesitated when its odour hit his nose—a kind of . . . not completely musty scent—then went for it.
His grimace must have caught Garak's attention, as the other man looked up from his own drink. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you drinking kanar tonight, Doctor. It isn't what I would call your usual."
"Yes, well, I" —he swallowed again, trying to uncoat his tongue— "thought I'd see why you were so fond of it."
At the moment, he had even less of an idea than when he'd ordered it. As far as he was concerned, it was like drinking maple syrup. Finishing the glass was going to be a chore, but if Garak had managed a whole pint of beer last week, the least he could do was force down one small glass. He'd switch to something else after that.
"As it seems you've discovered, kanar is something of an acquired taste," Garak said with his usual understatement.
If he'd left the matter at that, no doubt the course of the evening would have been very different. But instead, he had to go on to add: "I'd be careful if I were you. Kanar has a high alcohol content and can be somewhat—surprising if you aren't used to it."
And, right there, that was it.
Julian gave Garak his stormiest of scowls. "I'm not some naive teenaged boy trying his first drink, Garak! I know exactly what I'm doing and I'll be just fine, thank you very much!"
He grabbed his glass from the table and threw back something of a larger mouthful then he'd intended. He didn't choke, however, and with a surprising amount of triumph, he clunked the glass back onto the table.
Garak didn't seem all that impressed with the proof of exactly how fine he was—instead, all he was doing was holding up his hands—but that was all right with Julian. "Of course. I meant no offence. By all means, carry on. . . ."
"I will."
That was exactly what he intended to do. In fact, maybe he wouldn't switch drinks once he finished this one. If he was going to acquire the taste and prove to everyone that Julian Bashir could, as a matter of fact, hold his drink, then there was no sense in doing things by half.
"Now. Where were we?"
"Bring me my Bow of burning gold! Bring me my Arrows of Desire!"
"Softly, my dear," Garak hushed his very, very drunk companion as they made their slow and careful way along the promenade. "Otherwise our friend the Constable will be locking you up for being drunk and disorderly."
It had been about the time Dr. Bashir had started singing about England that Garak had decided it was time to leave. He had been suggesting as much for some time as he'd watched Dr. Bashir become more and more glassy-eyed and less and less vertical. When their evening had acquired a musical element, Garak had decided a firm hand (and an arm around Dr. Bashir's shoulders for balance) was necessary.
Dr. Bashir had only been mumbling the song as they vacated their table. During the somewhat difficult matter of the stairs to the main level, it had stopped altogether, leaving Garak both relieved and a little concerned by the level of concentration his friend had needed to devote to not breaking his neck. Now that they were on the easier leg of their journey to Dr. Bashir's quarters, the singing was back . . . at triple the volume.
"No he won't," Dr. Bashir contradicted with no apparent awareness of how noisy he was being. "I'm drunk, not disorderly. Can't arrest a man for being drunk. Not enough cells."
"This is true—but Odo can arrest you for waking half the station with your singing. I believe that would be called 'disturbing the peace.'"
After all, if Garak was finding him loud, then no doubt Dr. Bashir was making the Humans and Bajorans of the station with their sensitive hearing very unhappy.
"Oh." His next word was spoken in what was a whisper in tone but somehow not volume. "Sorry."
Garak really shouldn't have found this endearing. He was half-dragging a surprisingly heavy Human (honestly, his body was made like a Vulcan's) along the promenade at an hour when he was normally long ago in bed, being deafened by an incomprehensible song and suffocated by the smell of stale kanar. And yet, somehow, it all charmed him. Clearly, he was even farther gone then he'd thought.
"It's quite all right, my dear," he assured him. "We're all aware you're not trying to make a nuisance of yourself."
Dr. Bashir went fortunately silent for a few moments. They made it all the way into the turbolift before he spoke again.
"Garak, why're—sorry." He resumed that ridiculous whisper. "Why're you calling me 'm'dear'?"
He didn't hesitate. "Because with the amount of kanar you've consumed, the chances of you remembering this evening and anything I've said to you are exceedingly low."
"Oh."
The turbolift doors opened, Dr. Bashir raised his head from its awkward and distracting lean against Garak's, and they set off once again.
"I don't mind it," he said abruptly, and Garak very nearly stopped where he was. Only knowing how unfortunate any sudden changes in movement would be for a man of Dr. Bashir's impaired balance kept his stride even and uninterrupted.
"Don't you, now?" he asked, his voice just as calm as if he were inquiring whether a customer would like their order gift-wrapped.
In vino veritas—"in wine there is the truth." It was an ancient Earth saying he'd read in one of Dr. Bashir's books. At the moment, he very much wanted to know how reliable it was in this particular case.
"No, see . . . it's you."
He glanced at Dr. Bashir, who was squinting with great concentration, then back at the route ahead. Rather than prompting him, he waited with a fast-beating heart.
"It's not Jadzia or—or the Captain. That'd be annoying," he explained muzzily. The next time Garak looked at him, he was just in time to catch an exaggerated expression of distaste twist up the other man's face. "It's not the Chief. That'd be weird. It's you, so . . . it's okay."
He waited a few more steps in case he was to be further rewarded for his patience.
"I like it."
. . . Hope was a funny thing. Just when you thought you'd run out of it long ago, back it sprang, leaping out from one short sentence and turning him into a jubilant boy at the very height of infatuation.
But none of that, now—he had a job to finish here. Elation could wait until he was alone in his quarters.
Still, though, he couldn't resist one small remark: "Then maybe I should call you 'my dear' all the time."
"Mm . . . all right." Dr. Bashir drooped into him even more than before; Garak grunted at the extra weight. "That'd be nice."
Dr. Bashir lapsed into humming after that, which he was fine with. Trying to maneuver a long-limbed man through narrow corridors was an attention-consuming task even when one hadn't just been given potentially life-altering information.
He only returned to speech when they reached his quarters and Garak asked him if he remembered his access code.
"Hm? Yes, just, just. . . ." Two attempts later, the door slid open. Dr. Bashir staggered inside and turned. "Want to come in?"
He smiled and shook his head. "I don't think that would be wise."
Before he left, though, he took a moment, just one, to let himself look. Dr. Bashir had certainly had more attractive evenings, when his uniform wasn't creased and his features weren't slackened by far too much kanar. But, all the same, this was a picture worth pressing into his memory.
. . . He truly was a hopeless case, wasn't he?
One last fond look, then he said, "Good night, my dear. Sleep well."
"Thanks. You too . . . um." He looked briefly bewildered. "My . . . Garak?"
He couldn't help a quiet chuckle. "'Your' Garak suits me quite nicely. I'll see you tomorrow for lunch."
"Bye," Dr. Bashir answered. As Garak departed, he heard him muttering while he worked out how to close and lock his door for the night.
It seemed he wouldn't be going to bed right away, as he had previously thought. He had been given a great deal to think about this evening—and to savour, like the dreadful romantic he just couldn't seem to stop being.
"His" Garak indeed.
Dr. Bashir looked only somewhat sharper at lunch the next day. While he was obviously no longer drunk and he had presumably taken care of his certain hangover earlier that morning, his movements were much limper than usual. He also had those odd dark circles beneath his eyes that had once confused Garak to no end. (As a young man, he'd been startled at the frequency Humans seemed to be punched in both eyes. Learning another name for that indication of exhaustion was "bruises" had done nothing to clarify.)
Naturally, he made certain his smile was particularly wide and his voice was chipper when he greeted him. "Good afternoon, Doctor. I trust you've recovered from your introduction to kanar?"
Dr. Bashir all but plummeted into the seat opposite him and let out a sound of despair. "Tell me I wasn't actually dancing on the tables last night. Jadzia said to ask you for the holoimages, but she has to be joking." A pause, and he leaned forward out of his slump. "She is joking, isn't she?"
Keeping his smile unchanged was a significant challenge, but it was one he rose to. "What if I said she isn't?"
He knew Dr. Bashir wasn't going to believe him, but that one second of horrified doubt was all he needed.
The Doctor fell against the back of his chair again. "She is." He groaned. "The next time three separate people warn me about something, remind me of last night, will you? I'll never disregard that much advice ever again. I must have made a complete arse of myself."
He couldn't help his laughter at such blatant despair and it was all he could do to keep the sound soft and restrained. But once he was in control of himself again, he took pity. "Only a bit of one. Most of the promenade is aware you have a passable singing voice now." Over another groan, he added, "If it's any consolation, my first experience with kanar didn't go all that much better."
Dr. Bashir raised his head a little. "Didn't it?"
"I'm afraid not."
He was being flexible with the truth, of course: as far as he was capable of recalling, he had been much younger than Dr. Bashir at the time and had done nothing more entertaining than lurching back to his lodgings and quietly falling stone-cold asleep fully clothed beside his bed. But Dr. Bashir didn't need to know that.
"It's a common enough reaction," he went on. "Kanar catches nearly everyone by surprise."
The information wasn't enough to turn Dr. Bashir back to his usual bright and animated self, but he did at least look somewhat less glum as he responded, "Well, I'm glad to hear I'm in good company. I don't suppose you'd be willing to share that particular story, would you?"
It was so difficult to deny him anything, especially when he drew forward with such anticipation, but Garak only smiled and said, "Mm. I don't suppose I would." A glance to the much-diminished lines at the replicators and he added, "Why don't we order our lunch before the next wave arrives?"
"All right—though if it's all the same to you, I don't think I'll be doing much eating today."
"Of course."
There were two simple words that filled his mouth at that moment, words that would be "nice," that Dr. Bashir would like to hear only from him. He swallowed them down, the same way he didn't allow his palm to rest against the small of Dr. Bashir's back but kept it secure by his side. He had hope now, but that was no reason to discard caution. He would choose his moment well, but he would choose it.
Then, perhaps, if he was lucky, it would turn out he wasn't quite as much as a fool as he'd once thought.
