Chapter Text
1: The Key to Stealth
Julian sped up, crouching a little lower.
The key to stealth, Garak had lectured him on a number of occasions, was to be as natural and as unnoteworthy as the light fixtures. To walk as if you had no head of your own—as if you were but the arm and leg of the whole.
Not—he could practically hear Garak’s long-suffering sigh—to scuttle gracelessly along the Promenade like some wounded Alderian sandcrab.
In this case, though, Julian couldn’t help but feel his method of scuttling, bent almost in half so as to use the Bolians behind as a screen, might actually work. He was close now, and it was possible, maybe, that she hadn’t seen. If he could just—
“Oh, Doctor Bashir!”
The clatter of heels and the aggressive rustle of taffeta surged once more down the Promenade.
He didn’t know why it surprised him. It had really been that sort of day.
He’d been so close, too. The Infirmary was a mere 12 meters away, and, once there, Julian was fairly certain he’d be able to take up what he could assure the ambassador was an important medical matter. He could force that serious line into his brow, staring at some padd or other, and tell his nurses to keep him updated before disappearing into his office. Even Ambassador Troi would have to defer to the health and wellness of the station…
Wouldn’t she?
“Doctor Bashir, dear!”
He cringed. Dear. A word usually so charming. So warm.
Today it felt like the four-letter word it well and truly was.
“Doctor Bashir!”
God, he hated dignitary-sitting.
He allowed himself an entirely different four-letter-word under his breath before he straightened to face her. “Yes, Madam Ambassador? Is there something I can do for you?”
“Oh, you’re such a slip of a thing…I thought I’d lost you.” She puffed slightly from the pursuit. “And I’ve told you, it’s Lwaxana, dear. Real dignitaries don’t insist on fuss and titles.”
If the constant stream of requests and complaints and innuendos he’d received in the last twenty-six hours wasn’t fuss, he wasn’t entirely sure what qualified. “Of course. Lwaxana. Is there something I can help you with?”
She gave a little pause, watching him, and he felt his entire body clench.
Ambassador Troi had visited the station twice before, but thanks to Odo, Julian had been spared the majority of her attention on his last stint as Liaison Officer. It was a blessing he hadn’t fully appreciated at the time. Betazoids and dark secrets were a dangerous combination, and each time she looked at him with those beetle-black eyes, every part of him locked down, mind frantically not thinking.
“Don’t be so tense, dear. You’re hardly the first young man to have such thoughts.” She gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, setting off a rolling motion of taffeta and lamé that sounded vaguely like a crashing wave. “I was just going to ask the best place to get a decent ponala. These Cardassian replicators are positively useless! All I wanted was a drink to go with my prax-and-cabbage salad, but the darned thing kept giving me some yellow slime that resembles ponala about as much as I resemble a Ferengi.”
If she tried to lure him back to her quarters to “fix her replicator” he was going to demand Sisko find someone else. “The personal replication units have a more basic menu than those in the Replimat or Quark’s. I’m sure either of those offer a wide variety of—”
“Do you like ponala, Doctor Bashir?” The question sloped in a definite direction.
“Well…I…” He didn’t. It tasted like sour custard and had much the same consistency. But ponala was the Betazoid drink of choice and a point of planetary pride, so he scraped together what he could of diplomacy. “It has a very distinctive flavor.”
“Clearly, you just haven’t had the right mix.” She answered his honest opinion rather than the one he’d voiced. Had she read that? Or was he merely that transparent? If he slipped, would she—
Stop, Julian. Stop.
“Come and join me for a bite at the Replimat. I’ll spice a ponala so delicately you’ll never want another of those insipid Klingon coffees again.” Her arm had somehow become threaded through his, and she was already directing him that way…
He cast about but found only pitying faces and a definite lack of eye contact from all who passed.
The door in front of them was a sudden inspiration. “Um… actually, Ambassador, I have an appointment.”
She turned on him again. “Captain Sisko assured me that you and Ensign Boday had been cleared of your duties to focus exclusively on the summit.”
He wanted to ask why she wasn’t inviting Ensign Boday out for ponala but bit his tongue. Oh, to have a transparent skull… “Cleared of Starfleet duties. I’m afraid my lunch plans are with a friend. Perhaps Constable Odo could join you..?” Sorry, Odo. He would make it up to the Constable somehow.
“Oh, Odo’s locked away in some interrogation.” She made a dismissive gesture. “It seems there was some threat made…? At least that’s what the nervous little Ferengi from the bar told me.”
Well, that explained why he was getting such a large share of the ambassador’s rather focused attention. Odo had gotten him first. And he’d been smart about it. Used his resources. The ambassador couldn’t read Rom to know if he was lying thus leaving the Constable free to lock himself in his office and “interrogate” a good book, no doubt. Julian would have to remember to make use of Quark next time he needed an alibi. Or perhaps…
Could Betazoids read Cardassians? He seemed to recall something about touch telepathy not being effective on most Cardassians, but…
He glanced at the door in front of them again, and, feeling the ambassador’s grip on his arm tighten, reached out and clicked it open in panic.
There were a few seconds of eye contact, blue on hazel, during which Julian hoped he was able to communicate his desperate plea without betraying it in his thoughts.
Something must have gotten through. “My dear doctor, what a pleasant surprise.” He smiled—that smile, noticing pointedly the spot where Julian’s arm squeezed against his companion’s. “And you’ve brought a guest, I see…?”
“A surprise?” he covered quickly. “Have you forgotten our lunch appointment, again, my dear Mister Garak?” He was overdoing it, overcompensating, like those awful people that spoke more loudly when the UT was switched off, hoping that volume would work when semantics broke down. Come on, Garak…
A tick-tick-tick as Garak appeared to catch up. “Of course, lunch… I’ve been so busy with commissions I didn’t notice the hour. I do hope you haven’t replaced me in the meantime?”
The tilt of the head and the slight note of regret were utterly convincing. The cavalry had arrived! Garak I could kiss you. “Oh, no, not at all! I’m ready whenever you are!”
Ambassador Troi made a small noise, and, when he turned to decipher whether this was a Doctor Bashir you’ve just earned yourself a formal reprimand for offending a Federation dignitary noise or not, he was surprised by the warmth of her expression. Her usual effusiveness was gone, replaced by fond amusement and a look of understanding. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t realize your plans were with a… friend.”
The shape of the word was undeniable. Its elongated vowel. Its hint of hum.
She thought…she thought he and Garak were…involved?
Well, you were thinking you could kiss him. Had she read that?
He opened his mouth to deny it, but some instinct gave him pause. Did he really want to correct her? It was either this or drinking ponala and dodging innuendo and faux pas for another hour. And her arm had already started to unwind from his…
“Oh, yes, well…he doesn’t like it when I make a show.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. He wasn’t brave enough to look at Garak. If he was going to make this work, he was going to have to take his thoughts along with him.
She didn’t respond, looking at him a bit more closely.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Bashir…
He reached over and locked his newly-freed arm with Garak’s, leaning their shoulders together with what he hoped was a besotted look. Unfortunately, when he clasped their hands, fingers through fingers, Garak jumped visibly as though he’d gotten a shock. Oh, bollocks. He should have remembered. It had been in one of those novels. Lacing fingers was some form of Cardassian snogging, the webbing between an erogenous zone. You’ve just shoved your tongue down his throat, of course he’s shocked…
But Garak smoothed over the reaction with ease. “I simply can’t get used to these overt human displays of affection. I do hope he hasn’t scandalized you, madam.” With his best customer service simper.
Smooth, so smooth. Oh, Elim Garak, bless you and your Obsidian-Order trained instincts. The squeeze he gave Garak’s hand was genuinely affectionate.
“I assure you, it takes a great deal to scandalize me, Mister…?”
The insistent tap of a thumb against his. Oh, oh, that’s my line! “I—I’m so sorry, where are my manners? Madam Ambassador, this is Garak, our resident tailor here on the Promenade. Garak, this is Ambassador Lwaxana Troi—“
“Daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed,” she finished matter-of-factly, offering forward a hand. Garak took it with a grace Julian envied in that moment. “And I must say, I can’t believe I’ve never taken the time to peruse your shop, Mister Garak. Clearly you have an excellent sense of style.” She gestured up and down the tunic Garak was wearing, a rather bold combination of three shades of gold and a sudden (and, in Julian’s opinion, totally unnecessary) stripe of patterned print. Though, he allowed, taking in the ambassador’s own glowing golden dress and complementary hair, their styles might be more than a bit compatible.
The ambassador seemed to agree, having left Julian by the wayside entirely. In fact, Julian got the distinct impression that if he and Garak hadn’t been half-embracing, the ambassador might have found her new ponala partner. “I don’t want to keep the two of you, but I will be needing something to wear to the closing gala on Bajor. Something bright for the end of winter, I think. Do you have something that might suit me?”
“‘With taper-light to garnish the beauteous eye of heaven is wasteful and ridiculous excess,’” he quoted airily with a ludicrous little half-bow.
Julian wanted quite badly to laugh, but for once he controlled himself. Good to know he’s found a use for that “facile Shakespeare” after all…
The ambassador did laugh, bright and absolutely pleased. “Well, while that certainly may be, I’ve never been one to turn my nose up at a bit of ‘ridiculous excess.’ Perhaps I can come by this afternoon? Around 16:00?”
“I’ll have a number of garments for your consideration, madam. And if you know of any others in need, I hope you’ll recommend my humble establishment.” As he spoke, Garak shifted until his arm was draped casually around Julian’s waist. They pressed even closer, shoulder to knee, and, light but firm, fingertips grazed the top of his hip.
It took everything Julian had not to let his eyes goggle.
How did Garak do it? Make it all appear so effortless, so natural? It was as if Garak truly had been expecting a lunchtime date with his gauche human lover. He had become the lie, and Julian had to admire it.
Trying to keep up, Julian leaned in affectionately, wearing the most genuine face and thoughts he could. Which wasn’t as hard as it might have been, he had to admit, feeling Garak’s sturdy hands cupped against his waist, thumb pressing just so against the small of his back.
“Yes, well, I won’t keep you boys any longer. I can tell you’re…eager to get on with it.” She gave Julian a rather obvious look, glancing down at the spot Julian had just been thinking of so acutely.
He was blushing—blushing like a sodding teenager. It would help sell the lie, he knew, but he couldn’t help feel it might make Garak think—
Might think what? That you’re oddly enjoying the feeling of his arm bracing your back?
Stop it, Julian. Stop.
If Garak was thinking anything at all, however, it didn’t make it past that smile. “I look forward to seeing you this afternoon, madam.”
How did he do it? He was absolutely unreadable. Was he uncomfortable? Where was his blush? When his eyes glanced against Julian’s, they looked for all the world like a man giving a moment’s fond reassurance to his lover. Garak had set the truth aside—his own mind gone—and was now but the arm and the leg of the lie.
The key to stealth indeed. Un-bloody-canny.
“Oh, and Doctor Bashir?” Ambassador Troi had turned back just as the door hissed open.
Had she sensed something? Ridiculous brain, can’t you keep quiet for just a—
“You will be attending the closing gala on Bajor yourself, won’t you?”
Gala? No one had mentioned a gala. Then again, Commander Sisko had a way of keeping the goriest details of these assignments to himself until there was no backing out… “Er, I—”
“Of course you are. I do hope you’ll bring your plus one, here.” She gave Garak a little nod. “Events like that always benefit from more men of style and poise.”
Oh. Oh, this was going in a direction he hadn’t anticipated. The shuttle was spinning out…come on, Julian…bring it back…quit gawking and give her some excuse…stop thinking! Stop thinking!
“We’d be delighted, madam,” Garak said with another one of those little half-bows. “I have a formal mijast I’ve been dying to debut.”
“Wonderful!!” she exclaimed with almost theatrical relish. “It’s a date!” The doors closing seemed to punctuate the thought very fully.
It’s a date.
Once in his first year of med school, on a trip to a teaching hospital on Jupiter Station, Julian had made the mistake of asking Cara Castillo out to dinner. He’d asked five minutes into their flight, and, after she’d very awkwardly turned him down, they’d had to sit together in the tight space of the shuttle for the next hour and a half. They’d both replicated so many teas and raktajinos to keep occupied that they’d exited the shuttle in a state of extreme jitter.
Looking up at Garak now, he felt the same discomfort. The same jitter.
When this day had begun, he and Garak had been…friends, he supposed. Friends who had lunch most weeks, though, Julian admitted, it had been a few since they’d done even that. Miles had wanted to go to the holosuites last week ,and there’d been that paper he was co-authoring, and, on top of it all, he still hadn’t finished the abysmal play Garak had recommended.
And now, they were here: two men bound to either admit that they’d lied to a Federation dignitary or pretend to be lovers for all to see.
Julian didn’t know how to tackle that subject. He didn’t even know where to begin.
And he was finding it hard to think with that firm arm still wrapped around him.
Luckily, as usual, Garak had no trouble. “So, Doctor. I suppose we should…have some lunch?”