Garak put away the trowel, pressed a wrist beneath his nose, and washed his hands. The sun-searchers could do with re-potting, but if he stayed long enough to complete the task, he would spend the entire afternoon with his face buried in a handkerchief. He cast a sidelong glance at the door, and finding it unoccupied, pressed one of the hand-cloths delicately beneath his nose.
The dreadful moisture now contained, he recycled the cloth, and tried to convince himself that the itching, too, had stopped.
But as he turned back to the beds, his breath caught yet again. “hh…? huhH—!”
The sensation slipped away just as it reached its peak, and he sighed quietly. With a frown, he took a step closer to containment field at the far end of the room, squinting at its gossamer shimmer as though a narrower field of vision might somehow reveal a flaw.
It wouldn’t, of course. Professor O’Brien’s amaranths were never particularly subtle, after all, and he was hardly wheezing. Mere irritation suggested another cause…as though one late-onset allergy was not already quite enough.
With a disgruntled hum, he scanned the rest of the room, but could not identify the culprit among the neat rows of raised beds, nor the scattering of pots, before his eyes once again fluttered shut. He held his breath, struggling to maintain a placid expression as his shoulders jumped once, twice…and steadied as the urge retreated yet again, not absent but distant. Hazy. Waiting.
As he made for the exit, Garak pictured the hateful little vial of antihistamines, still tucked away in the drawer beside his bed, beneath the old stack of designs for then-Ensign Vilix’pran’s pregnancy alterations. Enough remained for a dose now, and another at 25:00 hours. He would return then for a more thorough inspection. As it stood, if he tried to complete it now, he ran far too much risk of worsening the reaction, or worse, being interrupted.
To say nothing of how terribly late he would be for lunch.
As he left his quarters, some dozen paces down the hall, Garak’s habitual smile wavered.
He had just enough time to glower over the hypospray’s delayed effectiveness before his breath hitched, blessedly insistent, and he whirled aside to—“hH! -NXssh!” He slapped one hand to the wall as he wrenched forward and narrowly avoided knocking his head.
His body allowed him a few moments of piercing humiliation—a watery-eyed glance told him the corridor was empty, but sound carried on the station, by design—before a second, shuddering breath crumpled him in half again. “h-hehH’NXxt!-euh….”
All at once, the tortuous need fled, and Garak soured. If only he had been so overcome two minutes ago, within the privacy of his own quarters, where he might drape himself along his sofa and bask in long-sought relief….
In public, he could not. And so instead he smoothed the front of his shirt, turned, and continued down the corridor with an even smile.
Warmth washed over Garak as he stepped into the replimat. He paused beside the doorway, the barest hint of a frown crossing his face as he took in the largely-empty room. A dozen people sat at scattered tables around the room, a far cry from the usual milling crowd.
Garak’s spine tensed. He opened his mouth slightly, the better to scent the air, and the overpowering taste of antiseptic made him close it again. By sheer force of will, he did not grimace, though the taste lingered, thick and sharp and strangely cloying.
He ignored it as it crept from his tongue to the back of his throat and kept walking. There had been some sort of incident, no doubt. Like as not, Bashir had gotten himself wrapped up in it, but if he was lucky….
He found Bashir at their usual table, his PADD precisely level with his tray as always. Bashir raised a hand in greeting, a wide smile lighting up his eyes, and Garak could not help his own expression settling to something fonder, looser about the jaw.
But at that same moment, the cloying reached his sinuses. Offering a polite nod, he swept away towards the replicator. A pity to abandon their usual pleasantries, but his expression was bound to be ghastly as it crumpled.
Halfway there, he stifled with scarcely a break in his stride, silent. Standing before the replicator itself, his back to the rest of the room, he allowed himself to wrinkle his nose. The sensation backed away long enough to make his order and pick up his tray, then—“hn’xxt!”
He narrowed his eyes and sniffled once, quietly. When the flood of antiseptic failed to set him off again, he relaxed and turned back around. Residual sensitivity, then, nothing more.
Bashir raised his hand somewhat falteringly, then waved. “Hello!”
Garak inclined his head, letting none of his amusement show. “I do apologize for my tardiness, Doctor. I was in the aboretum and quite lost track of time, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, how are the sunsearchers?”
“Coming along nicely.” Sitting down across from him, Garak reached for a cloth napkin and tucked it into his collar. As he did so, his sinuses began to tingle. “Within a week, they will be in bloom.”
“How lovely,” Julian said, though the slight furrow between his brows seemed to disagree. He fidgeted a little, then stilled himself, glancing around at the other tables—though whether his focus lay with those occupied or those empty, Garak could not tell.
Breathing carefully, he asked, “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all.” Julian picked up his tea again, but did not drink it.
“You seem…” Garak paused, willing himself to look thoughtful rather than itchy. “...rather preoccupied, if I may say.”
“Oh, just thinking about work. Nothing important, really.”
A lie, if Garak had ever heard one, but the urge to sneeze kept him from pressing the point. He held his breath in the hopes of suffocating it—
—to no avail. Mortifyingly, he had not even managed to cover the outburst. He caught a glimpse of Bashir’s mouth, set in clear disapproval, before his eyes fluttered shut again and he ducked into his elbow with a second, more thoroughly suppressed—
“Bless you,” Bashir said, the disapproval gone, though the edge of preoccupation remained.
“Do forgive me for interrupting. You were just saying…?”
“Oh, uh….” His brow furrowed. “The Telusian wool. Has it arrived yet? That was to be sometime this week, wasn’t it?
“Oh yes. It arrived yesterday.”
“No trouble with Odo, I hope?”
“No.” Garak smiled brightly, even as a sting in his nose threatened to make his eyes water. “No trouble at all.”
“Oh, good,” Bashir said, a bit stilted. A short pause, during which Garak feared he would embarrass himself in the midst of an already awkward silence, and then Bashir rallied so rapidly Garak could have kissed him. “I know there was some concern over the source.”
“Needless, ihht—forgive me—h’kktchss!” Garak remembered, belatedly, that there were other napkins, and he really ought be covering with them, if he wanted to spare himself further embarrassment. The color of his sleeve, and indeed this fabric, was not forgiving of damp, and if he continued at this rate, damp was inevitable. He took one, set it in his lap, and cursed himself for not taking a double dose.
“Bless you,” Bashir said again. He opened his mouth with a strange hesitation which did not suit him.
It set Garak’s teeth on edge. He interrupted smoothly, returning to his previous thought. “Needless, it seems, so I have arranged for a rehhgular….” Garak trailed off, unwilling to bear the humiliation of speaking through the rising sneeze. He held his breath until the urge passed. “...A regular order. I’m quite satisfied with the quality.”
He had scarcely finished speaking when the urge returned. This time, he raised the napkin from his lap and allowed it to sweep over him. “h’chss!”
It was barely more than a hiss of breath, and not terribly relieving, but at least it had been polite. That, in itself, was an enormous relief. Surreptitiously dabbing away the moisture, Garak sighed. Then, with a wry smile, he set the napkin back in his lap, neatly folded in half.
“Bless you.” Bashir’s brow furrowed, and again there was that odd pause.
“My sincerest apologies, Doctor,” he said, before Bashir could ask. “It seems that no good deed goes unpunished.”
“I’m—sorry? I don’t follow.”
“Before tending the sunsearchers, I stopped to water some plants for the professor. I’m afraid I am rather allergic to her Bajoran amaranths.” It would not do to admit that he did not know the actual source of today’s reaction—nor that the cleaning solution was exacerbating it, for Bashir would insist on cutting their lunch short to run tests. He had no desire to be dragged to the infirmary. “Lovely though they are.”
“But—” Bashir began, and stopped, frowning. “...Doesn’t she usually ask Miles to look after the amaranths, when she’s away?”
Garak wrinkled his nose, irritated in more than one sense, and said smoothly, “Yes, but he always underwaters them. I thought perhaps a preemptive antihistamine would solve my little problem and allow me to save the professor the trouble.” A beat, in which he tried to look amused. “The more fool me.” He lifted his napkin just in time to cover another—“k’chss!” He allowed himself another small sigh.
“I see,” Bashir said, though he sounded unconvinced. “Well, I am glad you took precautions, at least.” He glanced around the room with a frown. “...And, I suppose, that it’s not anything worse. I admit, I was a little concerned, with the virus passing through.”
Garak raised his brow ridges as the pieces fell into place, two puzzles solving themselves at once. Then he tipped his head to one side, masking a sudden, unpleasant suspicion with polite curiosity. “Oh?”
“Yes, the Tarkalean chill’s been making the rounds.” Bashir raised an eyebrow rather pointedly. “It does present rather like this, you know.”
“This?” Garak asked airily, as the damnable itch swelled again, and with it a terrible sense of foreboding. He held his breath, hoping desperately that both would pass.
“Yes. I’ve had it myself, and as both a doctor and a patient I can attest that it generally begins with—”
Garak raised the napkin with haste and sneezed silently, once, twice—and a third, hissing and to his horror a little wet. “hh’chhsss!”
“—paroxysms of sneezing in the absence of all other symptoms.”
Garak blinked and pressed the napkin subtly closer to his nose before lowering it again. “I see. Your concern is appreciated, then, my dear doctor, and your confusion entirely understandable. I would imagine with such similar pathology it is quite easy to misdiagnose an allergic reaction.”
“Yes, quite.” With an air of would-be innocence, Bashir added, “I can’t help but notice your eyes don’t seem very irritated.”
“A trade secret, of course.” The lie came swiftly to his tongue, but without detail.
“Do you really expect me to believe you’ve, what, built up an ocular resistance to airborne irritants?” A beat. “As a tailor?”
“Well, one never does know which clients are given to spraying perfume without consideration for shared airspace.” Garak offered a bland smile, thinking quickly. “But no, Doctor. I was referring to trade secrets from my former profession.”
“...As a gardener, of course.” Bashir’s mouth curved upward on one side, and Garak knew he had won.
“Of course.” Damn it all. He had to sneeze again.
“I don’t suppose you’ll enlighten me.”
“I did say it was a secret.” Garak’s smile wavered. With a quavering breath, he raised the napkin and bobbed forward into it with a very quiet “-kchh!”, then sighed. “...But truly, it’s nothing exciting. A few drops of solution in the eyes. When one is a gardener with something so regrettable as pollen allergies, one does keep it on hand.” Such a thing did exist, if Bashir ever cared to verify, but he had none at present, and had only ever used it when tending plants with certain...noxious qualities.
“Oh, naturally.” Bashir shifted in his seat. “I suppose that does make sense. But all the same, are you sure this—” He gestured at the napkin still clutched in Garak’s hands. “—is an allergic reaction alone?”
“You haven’t spent any time around anyone who seemed ill? Or anyone sneezing excessively?”
At once, he remembered Ensign Orsano. She had come in for a fitting a few days before, her measurements having changed with her transition, and it had taken twice as long as usual because she kept sneezing. With each one, her spines had jolted and thrown off Garak’s markings. She had been very apologetic and rather frustrated, complaining of someone having sprayed perfume in the cargo bay. He had been sympathetic, at the time, and thought no more of it, for she hadn't seemed ill. Now, however….
“Not at all,” Garak lied.
“Then I’m sure you’ll have no problem allowing me to check.” Bashir motioned as though to pull the scanner from his waist.
“That seems a little unnecessary, wouldn’t you say? Not to mention, if you’ll forgive me, a trifle pointlehhss.” He snapped forward into the napkin again. “hh’KNGtt! …Your scanner is not calibrated for Cardassian physiology.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Certainly not mine.” Garak affected an innocent expression, eyes as wide as he could make them. “While the former staff were wiping the medical database, I was cooped up in my shop. Far too busy to leave it, you understand.”
“And there is absolutely nothing you could have done in the time since to bolster our records,” Bashir said, with such openly frustrated sarcasm that desire pooled in Garak’s stomach.
“Why, of course not! I am hardly a doctor. And besides, the lack of medical data shared with the Federation hasnhh—pardon—hhH-!” Abruptly, the urge vanished. Garak exhaled quietly and contemplated stabbing himself with a fork. He folded the napkin to precise quarters instead, taking care to avoid the damp places. “It hasn’t caused any problems these past few years, now has it?”
“It nearly cost you your life!”
“Nearly being the operative word.”
“If I hadn’t gone seeking T—”
“But you did,” Garak said flatly, the heat dropping from his voice in an instant. “Might I ask that we discuss this another time?”
“I—yes.” Bashir closed his eyes and slumped forward, resting his head in one hand. “I’m sorry, Garak. It’s just been one hell of a week.”
“Hmph. Is this…chill so dire? I must admit, I’ve only ever heard of Tarkalean flu.”
“It’s less severe than that,” Bashir said, waving a hand. “Just longer-lasting, and about a dozen times more contagious.” He gestured at the empty table nearby. “As you might have guessed. The infirmary’s been positively buzzing, and my staff have been dropping like flies.”
Garak spared a dismayed thought for the state of his upcoming commissions, then batted it aside. There were more pressing concerns.
“If it’s not severe, then,” Garak began, and a sharp sting lanced through his sinuses, forcing his eyes shut. He fumbled with the napkin, struggling to unfold it as his breath wavered, first silently, then audibly, then—“hh—? hehhh’aezSSHh!”’
It had escaped him utterly. Even that horrible initial outburst, uncovered, had been at least half-stifled, and had not been preceded by such an unflattering display. At least two heads had turned toward him—one a Vulcan civilian, the other an Andorian engineer. The Vulcan was impassive, of course, and the Andorian too far away for Garak to make out their expression.
“Bless you,” Bashir said emphatically.
“You know, I’ve never understood the point of that custom,” he said waspishly. “Such a primitive superstition for an organization that prides itself on scientific advancement. But as I was saying—if it is not severe, I cannot imagine why they’re flocking to you in such numbers. Tell me, Doctor, is hypochondria common amongst the Federation?”
“No moreso than anywhere else.” Bashir frowned. “And there’s no call to say it like that. It’s no less deserving of treatment than a virus."
Garak raised his brow ridges, laying skepticism on thick.
But Bashir didn’t take the bait. “Anyway, it’s mostly the fever. Well, the chills, really. They’re famously unpleasant, hence the name.”
That wasn’t saying much, given Federaji were famously sensitive. If Garak went crying to the infirmary every time he had a chill, he’d never leave—a fact which the set of Bashir’s brow said he had not forgotten.
Despite himself, Garak was almost pleased. The warning had been very nearly subtle…irksome though it was. When he returned to his shop, he would need to research the virus, determine what sort of adjustments to make to his thermals. And then, perhaps, inquire with Quark…. He would not be able to book a holosuite for the entirety of the symptomatic period, of course, but it just might be possible to bargain for—
“Well, that and the sneezing, I suppose.”
“It frustrates people, apparently. Honestly, the best treatment for both is just a proper hot shower—real water, not a sonic, to warm you and loosen the congestion—or failing that, a hot drink.” A beat. “But people don’t like to hear that, so I’ve been administering hypos and prescribing sleep aids all week.”
Garak rolled his eyes at the less-than-subtle directive, but fondness tucked itself in the corners of his mouth regardless, and he said, with a trace of humor in his voice, “And I suppose you had saintly patience when you succumbed yourself?”
Garak’s breath hitched audibly. With haste, he lifted the napkin just in time for—“HEH’sschh!” Dabbing his nose discretely, he violently ignored and did not tally the three heads and one tentacle that turned in his direction. He inclined his head slightly, wrapping his irritation in silken manners. “…You were saying?”
Bashir fidgeted and looked a bit to the left of Garak’s ear. “Er. Well, no, obviously I didn’t.”
…Odd. That was precisely the answer he had expected—though Bashir was generally regarded as a calm and patient man, Garak knew well how stressed he grew with repeated interruptions, and how little he liked to be slowed down. But Garak knew a lie when he heard one…and what a curious thing to lie about. Was Bashir attempting to spare his feelings with false commiseration? How distasteful.
“Though I found the cold far more bothersome.”
“Hmm,” Garak said, and said nothing more for a long moment, because the vibration had set off yet another cascade in his sinuses. “I suppose you would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that yhh—ERSHHhyu!“ Garak ignored the fresh round of stares—two tentacles that time—and the quiet scraping of someone’s chair being pushed back. Positively seething with annoyance, he smiled. “Do excuse me. You are rather more even-tempered than most.”
“I do say so.” Footsteps, now, heading for the exit. Briefly, he considered blowing up the station before they could begin to gossip. “Leaving that aside, I did finish your Locked Tomb, Doctor. The protagonist John—”
“Protagonist? He’s hardly the central character. If anything—”
“In the literary sense, my dear doctor. Your Locked Tomb has several. Is it so unthinkable that I count him among their number?”
“Yes! He’s the antagonist—he only drives the story as an opposing force. He’s not a hero.”
“That’s hardly the point I was making.” Garak widened his eyes, touching his hand to his chest, all innocence. Then, after a carefully measured pause, he said, “Although…now that you mention it—”
And off their conversation went. At first he allowed Bashir to steer it as he pleased, only interjecting every so often, largely holding his breath and discretely using the napkin to stave off the itch. Little by little, it faded, not quite disappearing, but growing faint enough to ignore, faint enough that he felt able to speak more freely.
When it returned again—for he had no illusions that this reprieve would be permanent—he would execute Plan B: send himself a comm message, claim an urgent commission, and excuse himself gracefully. But for the time being….
“It’s a critique of imperialism.”
“On the contrary, doctor. His devotion to the state—”
Garak’s brow ridges rose. The familiar hazy sensation rose with them. With pseudo-surprise, and no hint of the tremor in his breath, he said, “Is there a difference?”
Bashir frowned. “Whether there is or not, it was revenge that drove him, not devotion.”
Slipping his hand into his pocket, he said, “It was both.”
“And it destroyed everything he fought for regardless!”
“It did.” Garak let that hang in the air for a moment, and in that silent beat felt the itch begin to swell. He found the device and slipped his thumb over the button, without pressing. “But one might argue that his devotion allowed it to live anew.”
“At what cost? Some might have had their lives restored, but their memories—”
“It is a citizen's duty to sacrifice for the state, should it be required of them.”
Garak removed his thumb from the button, tightening his fingers around the device instead. It would be a pity to miss such delightful outrage.
“But surely not to die for it—not every last person on the planet. Honestly, even you can’t think—”
Garak wanted terribly to interject, but his nose had other ideas. He held his breath.
At the same moment, Bashir stopped speaking to squint at him. Not quite a frown. Assessing. As though he knew, though Garak was quite certain his grin was fixed and wide-eyed as ever, without a trace of the rising irritation. Of all the times for his damnable doctor's instinct—
“But…you don’t, do you? I expected you to compare him to traditional Cardassian heroes, I was certain you would to try to sell me on this time will be the time we get it right as…not an example, but a foil of the repetitive epic—”
Incredibly astute. Although Bashir still did not fully understand the nuances, his grasp of the form itself had improved significantly. Garak wanted to kiss him almost as badly as he wanted to sneeze.
“—and you came in with one might argue, and you almost had me.” Bashir grinned. “But I’m not here to debate with a hypothetical, Garak. What would you say?”
Garak’s smile widened as he removed his hand from his pocket. In an instant, he devised plan C—distasteful, reckless, liable to end the game early, but needs must—and threw himself into the performance.
“I would say,” he began, “that h-hh…ehhh….” He lifted the napkin to his face. “That he ihhhss…hh-! …Hn.” Garak sighed heavily, lowering it again, as though the itch had at all deserted him. “Do forgive me. I would say that John is a cauhh…a cautionnnehh’AEDZSSshyu!”
In the split second afterward, he regretted everything—not merely the plan, but his own birth and everything that had followed. Spit clung to the corners of his mouth. Worse still, warmth lay on his upper lip, and he was already going to—again—“hh’aeZSSsch!”
He opened his eyes to survey the damage. A few small droplets on the table in front of him, mercifully blocked from Bashir’s line of sight by his tray. No other obvious mess.
But Bashir had flinched. Not backward, curiously—inward, his shoulders contracted, head ducked slightly. Holding his breath, if Garak was not mistaken. As expected, he recovered quickly, leaning forward with a forgiving smile.
Garak tidied himself swiftly. “I am terribly sorry, Doctor. That was most impolite.”
“Nonsense. You can't help it.” The response was warm, easy, predictable. And entirely incorrect in that nothing followed it. Not the barest chastisement.
“Even so. As a matter of public health….”
“Yes, well, I’m not endorsing—”
Garak’s stomach fluttered in anticipation.
“—but it was an accident. You’re always, er—you’ve been very…diligent with, you know.” A beat, in which he looked nearly as disconcerted as Garak felt. Then Bashir raised both eyebrows, tilted his head a little in what Garak recognized as a perfect mirror of his own affectation. “And besides. As you said, it’s only an allergic response. You’re hardly contagious.”
“If you were, my response would be a little different, of course.”
Garak nodded. “Of course. I would expect nothing less.”
Bashir’s eyes flicked up and down his person, studying, not quite-frowning. Garak met his gaze with a faintly knowing smile, radiating I’m-humoring-you innocence. If it ended here, already, he would throttle himself.
But Bashir only blinked. “Anyway.” He furrowed his brow, skeptical more than confused. “You were saying John is a, ah—what, a cautionary tale?”
“Yes,” Garak said. “The dangers of placing one’s personal, petty vendettas—” He wrinkled his nose, and regretted it. “—above the needs of the suhh…pardon—aaezSSHHyu!” He covered neatly this time, ignoring the quiet murmur from three tables away. “...the needs of the state. Of squandering the opportunities given to you and leading your people to ruin.”
“You sound surprised. Surely you didn't expect me to agree with his philosophy?” It wouldn’t truly surprise him. It would hardly be the first time he cast Cardassians in the what he believed to be the villain’s role.
“...Not as such.” Bashir bit his bottom lip. “To sympathize, perhaps.”
“Sympathize?” Garak sniffed, hoping it sounded haughty and not so liquid as felt. “With him?”
Bashir shrugged, looking uncomfortable, but not nearly as chagrined as he had when trying to put space between them.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” Bashir’s eyes skittered away momentarily. “People have argued about him for centuries. I’ve…found merit in some of those arguments myself.”
Bashir gave him a rueful smile. “I just wondered.”
Garak tilted his head to one side, and wished he hadn’t. The change in position tingled. He ignored it. “He seems fairly one-note, if you’ll forgive my saying. What have they found to argue about?”
“Oh, all sorts. He’s a victim of circumstance, an everyman fallen down the wrong path, or he's representative of cycles of abuse, or he’s reflective of the horrors of genetic engineering, or he’s an expression of imperialism, or he was evil, or he was traumatized, or he was inevitable, or….”
Garak hummed skeptically. The vibration made his eyes water. He let his expression falter before he raised the napkin, let Bashir see the need rise, and rise, and rise, then buried his face in it just in time. “huh’AEZSSHhhuh!” He indulged in a quick rub, through the napkin, hoping to quell the lingering itch, but only set off another “h’ezssshuh!”
“Mm,” Garak said, unimpressed, then held his breath. “h’nxxsch!” At last, the need dwindled. “And which of these do you find merit in?”
Bashir spoke less of John’s actions and more of his context. The contemporary anxieties of the author’s day. Economic systems. Environmental collapse. Religion.
Garak found himself holding his breath more and more, as they went back and forth, and not only for the sake of the damnable itch.
Unspeakable things crowded behind his teeth—treasonous histories, sun-dappled memories. Tolan’s name sharp in the back of his throat.
He swallowed them all. Offered only the expected criticism, the points he had so carefully prepared—but one corner of his mind dwelled on Tolan, on masks.
He might have rallied at the join of Bashir’s eyebrows, the volume of his voice, were it not for the constant interruptions. Each time Garak resurfaced, Bashir’s wonderful outrage stuttered, dulled by the wordless concern in his eyes.
The concern grew more and more frequent, and the outrage less and less. When Bashir’s impassioned defense of Nona dwindled, after yet another sneeze, Garak valiantly refrained from grinding his teeth. They ached all the same.
The conversation had been so promising….
Garak opened his mouth to prompt him, to force the debate, but his breath caught. Seizing the opportunity, he raised the napkin only halfway before sneezing at it, rather than into it. “h’AEZSSschuh! h-h’EZSSsh!” An involuntary sniffle—unexpectedly thick—filled him with dread. He hastened to cover properly, clamping both hands over his face just in time for another. “hh’GZSSCHhh! h’GXSSHuh—GXTt!”
He mopped himself up as best he could, after, and submitted himself to the humiliation of at last taking up a new napkin, for the original was unsalvagable.
“…Bless,” Bashir said, and nothing more.
He did not comment on the crackling quality his sneezes had acquired, though it was plainly audible. Did not comment on the squelching, as Garak tended himself after. Did not order the computer to quarantine the local filtration system. Did not so much as sigh in exasperation.
Only returned to his previous point, as though he had never left off. As though he found nothing remotely suspicious, nothing remotely objectionable about Garak’s actions, despite his best efforts.
The neutrality was positively hateful.
Several minutes before they typically parted ways, Garak realized that his second napkin was nearing the end of its life. He refused to bear the indignity of a third on top of everything else.
The pressure in his temples. The weight in his sinuses. The deep ache in his jaw. The fainter one whispering in the back of his throat, now, when he sneezed.
Bashir’s insufferable, silent concern.
Resigned to the futility of the endeavor, Garak said, “I’m terribly sorry to cut our discussion short, Doctor, but I’m afraid I ought be returning to my shop.”
And not a moment too soon, for he could feel the slight tug of congestion as he spoke. It would not be long before Bashir could hear it, too.
“Oh!” Bashir said, utterly failing to hide his dismay. “Of course, yes, you must. I should probably….”
“Quite,” Garak said, and made to stand.
“Are you sure—” Bashir blurted, then stopped.
Garak stopped, too. He was nearly too tired for annoyance.
“Sorry. Just—are you sure I can’t convince you to visit the infirmary?”
“You’re not ill, yes, you’ve said,” Bashir waved a hand impatiently. “But I can give you something for the allergy. A stronger antihistamine.”
And scan him while he was at it, no doubt. Such a pitifully transparent ploy should not have been endearing. But it thawed something in Garak, all the same.
“No, thank you.” He inclined his head politely. “I keep a dose at the shop.”
“If it’s the same one you took earlier, surely something new—”
“It’s specially configured for my physiology.”
That stopped him short, of course. But he rallied quickly. “If you let me take a sample, I should be able to synthesize—”
“How kind of you!” Garak stood. “But the curr—uh’ZSSSCHhyu!” He ducked into his sleeve hastily. “The current formulation will do nicely.”
And there was the congestion. Lovely.
“Though you are, of course…correct,” he said carefully. “The last dose ihhsss…hh’GZSCHhuh!” He clutched the napkin to his face, feeling himself far from done. “h-heh’GZSSHhuh! …Is about—EHHZSSCHhuh!”
He scowled behind his hands. It was not worth the bother of trying to finish the sentence again when he still felt like he might—“HRESSHHhyu! ...h’GXXTt!” The interminable buzzing lessened, and he took his chance. “It is past its use.”
“…I suppose I'd best let you go, then,” Bashir said, his shoulders slumping.
“I suppose,” Garak echoed. Impulsively, he walked over and clasped Bashir’s shoulder. “We shall discuss the series further, I hope?”
Bashir tilted his head up to face him, and Garak could not help the softening of his smile. Nor the buzzing that swelled again.
Don’t, Garak thought desperately. It was one thing to act the fool deliberately, to play Bashir like a fiddle and ride the high of his ire for the rest of the day. But not like this.
Garak turned hastily, stifling. The force of it bent him in half. He straightened just as hastily, turning back, but wobbled, tripping over Bashir’s feet—he’d turned as well. Instinctively, he steadied himself on Bashir’s shoulders again, and had just enough time to see his wide-eyed concern before— “h’gxsch! hh-huh’GXSCHh! h’GXXTt! g’XSHHhyuh!”
He tried to extricate himself—he was not done, but better to lose his balance than this, with wet about his mouth, damp clinging to his upper lip—to no avail. Bashir’s hand found his wrist, held him still, kept him steady, and he could not break his grip before the next ragged, wet gasp.“h-hehh…EHDZZSCHhuh!…gh. ...h-hhUH!AEZSSSHhyu!”
These produced a terrible warmth, a damp that oozed rather than clung, but he could do nothing about it. He was, horribly, going to sneeze again. “hh…h-hehh!hrEZSSCHhuh!”
…No, he thought, as his breath wavered, his expression surely crumpled well beyond dignity, leaking everywhere. He was going to sneeze horribly. “h-hnn…hheh!h’NGXXSCCHhyuu!”
Trying to hold it back had only made it worse. He resigned himself to the next. “hhH! …AEGXXSCCHhyuu!”
He froze in the aftermath, disgracefully out of breath. After a beat, two, three, Bashir released his wrist.
Garak forced himself to let go, and in that moment realized two awful things. Firstly, that his fingers now ached from how tightly he had been clinging. And secondly, that Bashir had only been holding one wrist.
One hand had been free, at least at the end. Possibly the entire time. He might have spared himself some of the humiliation, if he’d had the wherewithal to notice.
At least, he tried to console himself, as he stepped back and tended his face briskly. At least the free hand had not been the one holding the napkin. Bashir had eliminated the most dignified option.
It was little comfort, especially in the ringing silence.
Garak cleared his throat. “Terribly sorry, Doctor, I—”
“No, no, it was my fault, I tripped you, and then….” He trailed off. Started again. “Bless you. That looked—”
Garak met his gaze at last and found he looked…far less disgusted than anticipated. Sheepish, if anything. Odd.
“Er, that is—I was going to say intense. That’s…quite an allergy.”
“Quite,” Garak echoed. Exhausting would be a better word. There was something in the way Bashir held himself, something…but he was too tired, too embarrassed, to untangle it. He wanted nothing more than to find the nearest unoccupied room, lock himself within it, and sleep for the next three years.
He tried to find comfort in the fact that the last of the lunchgoers now gone, so only Bashir had seen. But he would have preferred any other occupant—all the previous occupants—over this.
“…If that is still the claim you’d like to make?” Bashir asked pointedly. The warmth in his gaze far outweighed the rebuke in his voice.
“Y—” Garak whirled aside, stifling a sneeze. And another. And failed to contain a third. “HG’XSCHHhyu!” Each made his head throb.
He suppressed a groan. Raised a shaking hand to his temples before he could think better of it.
“Just…a tad sheepish, Doctor. I ought have brought that extra dose with me. Avoided the…spectacle. Spared your…” Garak gestured at Julian’s uniform, speckled with evidence of his own stupidity.
“I’m not lying to you. I really don’t mind.” His eyes flickered over Garak’s face, and he bit his lip. Almost…embarrassed.
As though he had any reason to be. Garak had been the one to—
He was, abruptly, far too exhausted for this.
“Even so,” he said. “I’m afraid I really should be going, lest we risk a repeat incident.”
“I wouldn’t—” Bashir sighed, shook his head. “No, of course. I won’t keep you.”
Garak inclined his head politely and turned to leave. If he could finish the lining on that ensign’s coat before the worst hit, then maybe….
He froze. He did not turn around. “Yehh—” He pressed a wrist to his nose firmly. “Yes?”
“Just…take care of yourself, will you?”
“And…if you change your mind, about that antihistamine. My commline’s always open.”
He waited a moment longer, but Bashir offered nothing more.
Garak slipped from the room without another word. When the door closed behind him, he shivered. Stifled a sneeze. Pressed onward.
At the second turning, he hesitated. Then turned left, toward his quarters.
