what a sad, sad man; it's giving 4chan stan

A Spoonful of Sugar

Starbase 375, 2372

The news that the Defiant would be delayed returning to Starbase 375 brought a number of logistical complications which required careful consideration. “Five days,” Blok said, when Garak questioned him for details, and while that was nothing in the greater scheme of things, it might as well have been five years from Garak’s perspective.

The problem was – as so often was the case – the drugs. Not the pills for the headaches – he had plenty of those, taken when needed. That had been frequently in the aftermath of the surgery, but the headaches had more or less gone since his return from that excursion to the Gamma Quadrant. Unanticipated – and certainly not unwelcome, they’d been excruciating – but Garak had taken the executive decision not to question their disappearance and simply accepted the new reality. Whatever the reason, the upshot was that he had a plentiful supply of pills which he largely didn’t need. The problem was the other pills.

It wasn’t as if he’d even wanted to take them. He’d certainly not wanted to admit the need for them. “It’s just medicine,” Bashir said, eventually. “You’re fine with the ones for the headaches. Why not give them a try? You might be surprised. Think of it,” he’d added, looking away, “as making you fit for duty.”

Amongst the many things had been annoying about this conversation was exactly how well the wretched things worked. Not immediately, there’d been some trial and error, but within the space of a few weeks it was as if the dust storm that had been scouring the inside of his head for who could remember how long had subsided. He had more energy and concentration; he was more cheerful; and his hands were steadier. He was – by any definition of the word – better. Was this what it was like, to be from the Federation? He pondered this, one evening, in the bar, watching from a distance the senior staff. Did they all walk round with this sense of clarity and focus and overall wellbeing? Garak had turned that thought over a few times before setting it deliberately to one side.

So he’d taken what was being offered, and accommodated more rapidly than he might have liked to the changed circumstances, and everything was fine as long as he was on DS9 and Bashir was a short walk away. Which Garak wasn’t, and Bashir wasn’t. Bashir was ten days away, which was three days too many.

Three days… How slight, Garak thought, these moments on which everything hinged. Could he power through? The first day would be fine – he’d missed a day before, not often, and not by choice, but enough to know that the worst would be a slight jangling of nerves and increased bad temper. In many ways, given his present situation, he’d hardly notice the difference. The issue was the second day, which – given his present situation – he suspected would be dreadful, and then the third, which he feared might be intolerable. There was a distinct possibility, he knew, that if he crossed that line again, this time he was not coming back. No, pushing through was not an option. Which meant he would have to secure his supply from elsewhere.

There was, of course, a perfectly good infirmary here on Starbase 375, with, no doubt, a perfectly well qualified doctor – one of Starfleet Medical’s finest, he’d bet – who would certainly be as brisk and professional and efficient and scrupulous as the rest of them. But even the most caring of these formidably caring individuals would surely draw the line at Garak walking through the door asking for an off-the-books prescription to be filled.

Because there was the small matter of Garak’s medical file. The deal struck with Bashir was that Garak would take what was on offer as long as there was no record. He could not – he absolutely could not – have this on record. Bashir, after a moment’s thought, had said, “Take them. I’ll handle that side of things.”

The inference Garak had drawn from that was that since Bashir was surely not foolish enough to falsify anything, then he was performing some sleight of hand that was perhaps better not subject to close scrutiny. Garak, who had trusted the man this far, decided to trust him further. He took the pills and did Bashir the courtesy of making no further enquiries. But this was another complication, perhaps the most serious. The news of his enhancements had brought the doctor close to dismissal. What might a further scandal do?

A few shaky moments followed this thought. Garak, who had for some reason neglected to pack any therapeutic sewing when he’d fled DS9 in fear for his life, resorted to pacing his quarters and counting his breaths along with his footsteps. His mind raced through a variety of options up to, including, and beyond burglary. At some point all this motion served the double purpose of sidestepping any embarrassing loss of self-control and supplying him with the solution. The solution relied on the incontrovertible fact that Julian Bashir was, firstly, a man of his word, and, secondly, not stupid. If Bashir had said he’d handle that side of things, then that side of things was handled. Most likely there was a record somewhere, and a cover story as to why that record had not been aligned with the official one: Oh, did I not transfer that file… How remiss of me… No, it’s all logged here, on this padd… Perfectly secure…  And so on and so on. Really, the story wrote itself and the doctor knew how to gabble until people went away.

Garak, not the kind of man to persuade himself that something was true because he wished it to be true, took a moment to test his thinking. Right now, everything depended on being able to trust in Bashir’s intelligence, scrupulousness, and capacity for deviousness. Reflecting upon what he knew about the man – and what he had learned about the man – Garak decided that, yes, he could trust to all those things. Garak could trust that these precautions would be in place. He could trust that Bashir would protect himself from the ramifications of his association with Garak. He could, in other words, trust Bashir.

Garak lay down on the bed and stared up at the grey ceiling. At home, this would have been the end of him. Cracked, broken, defective. All those years, taking what was offered under the conceit that it made him a better instrument, lying to himself about that along with everything else. And now all he had to do was ask… It was… well, one might even go so far as to say that it was mind-blowing.

If I am not guilty of this, he thought, then what, exactly, am I guilty of?

He didn’t push that line of thought any further. He put it aside, on the pile, along with everything else he was working very hard not to articulate. The next morning, when he sat down opposite Blok, he said, “Would it be possible to make an appointment with the base doctor?”

“Of course,” said Blok. “Everything okay?”

“I need a prescription filled, that’s all.”

“No problem,” said Blok, as if it really were no problem.

~~~