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Even for a Cardassian, the Bajoran Gratitude Festival is good for business. Garak’s Clothiers had been so relentlessly busy with orders in the lead-up that he’s half-tempted to use the holiday itself as an excuse to actually close up entirely—but it ends up being worth staying open to receive a further steady stream of customers looking for gifts or souvenirs.
Until, that is, his patrons stop talking about how lovely the event is, and begin talking about all the strange behavior.
At first, it’s just gossip about ill-advised romantic stunts, and then the fights start breaking out. Garak, a man more than used to reading the writing on the wall, promptly closes up, personal curiosity be damned—this smacks of some sort of mind control, and he has no interest in getting caught up in something like that. He stays in his shop, working on commissions that had been deferred by festival rush orders, right up until Starfleet makes their announcement: a minor outbreak of a telepathic virus is now under control.
He gets the whole story from Quark, filtered through Rom—it seems the issue was resolved only after Commander Sisko’s staff party had dissolved into absolute chaos. Priests were punched, bartenders were manhandled, and medical officers were locked in passionate embraces with Bajoran liaisons. That last point is of especially morbid interest to Garak, and he’s quite eager to find out how his dear doctor feels about the whole thing—except Julian is taking several days of leave he apparently plans to spend holed up in his rooms. Frustrating, but Garak will simply have to be patient.
Or so he thinks, until Julian sends a subspace message asking Garak to stop by.
Of course he goes.
“Oh, thank God,” Julian says, when he answers the door. “I’ve been cooped up in here for a day and a half, and I’m already starting to go stir crazy.”
“Ah, so this is a social call,” Garak realizes, warmed by the idea. Julian has never invited him to his quarters—nor had Garak invited the doctor to his, of course, not after the last, disastrous time, but it’s hard not to read something into it.
Also hard not to read anything into is the fact that Julian is dressed down in a gray shirt with ‘Starfleet Medical’ printed on the front in large block print, and soft dark pants; his hair is unstyled, allowed to fall in its natural curls. The entire picture is more appealing than Garak ever could have expected.
“Yes, sorry—I should have been clearer,” Julian says, with a sliver of a rueful grin. “I hope you’ll stay, even so?”
“Of course, doctor,” Garak says, sinking down in the chair Julian offers him.
“Thank you,” Julian says, like he’s the one receiving a gift. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine, for the moment, at least in terms of refreshment. Perhaps you can satiate my curiosity, instead—as happy as I am to entertain you, why is it that you can’t leave your rooms?” And why was Garak, as opposed to Chief O’Brien or another of his friends, the one he called for relief from his boredom?
“It’s the Zanthi fever,” Julian says, flopping gracelessly down on his couch. “It’s going to take a couple of days to completely leave my system, and I’m slightly worried about having another attack. I should be okay now that the worst of it has passed, but I wanted to make absolutely sure, so—staying in, and away from anyone I might have a reaction to.”
Ah. So Garak had been specifically selected for a reason, and a rather depressing one: there’s not even the possibility of Julian becoming overwhelmed with misplaced affection. Honestly, it’s unexpected only in how much it hurts.
“Oh, come now, doctor,” Garak says, blithely. “I’ve heard stories of your… exploits… but I hardly think you’re the kind of man that’s ready to throw himself at just anyone.”
Julian’s shoulders hunch, but then his chin comes up. “The problem is that I’m ‘the kind of man’ that can find something attractive about pretty much anyone, even if simply subconsciously.”
“Except for me,” Garak surmises. He’s surprised by just how blasé the doctor is being—he knows Julian occasionally struggles with the nuance of social interaction, but surely even he would be a little more sensitive to telling someone they’re apparently the last person in the quadrant he’d be attracted to.
But Julian simply nods. “Exactly—well, you and Jadzia, probably.”
“Lieutenant Dax,” Garak says, startled. “My dear doctor, forgive me, but you’ve been quite open about how attractive you find her.”
“Well, yes,” Julian says, blinking. “That’s the point. Zanthi fever only exacerbates latent attraction, the kind you're not even really aware of. It’s why Bareil was after Dax instead of Kira, Quark went for Keiko instead of Dax…” He waves a hand. “And why I can be positive I’m not going to lose my head over you.”
“Because your interest in me is overt,” Garak summarizes, despite feeling as though he’s lost touch with reality.
Julian freezes. His voice gets smaller. “I’ve told you that. I’m sure I have.”
“Oh, I’m certain I would remember if you had,” Garak says.
“Oh, God,” Julian says, and stands up. “Which means I’ve just made an absolute fool of myself, again, and I can’t even blame an alien virus for it this time—”
He makes as if to leave his own quarters, which is so far outside of what Garak wants to happen that he’s out of his own seat before he’s even thought of it, catching Julian’s wrist.
“My dear doctor,” he says—embarrassingly breathy, but oh well. “I’m certain I would have remembered because I can think of nothing that would make me happier.” Outside of a full pardon and being allowed to return to Cardassia—but in the realm of events that are only nearly impossible, somehow securing the interest of a man so beautiful, intelligent, and compassionate is certainly the best thing he could ever hope for.
Julian is wide-eyed, looking—again—like somehow he’s the one that can’t believe his luck, as if finding himself the object of Garak’s affections is both surprising and appealing. And he stops looking as if he’s going to make a break for it, turning, instead, to face Garak. “You mean that,” he asks, voice soft. Uncertain, but hopeful.
“Oh, I am being horribly sincere,” Garak confesses. “But as useless as I find most human idioms, there’s one that I think fits this situation quite nicely.” He steps closer, settling his hands on Julian’s waist. “‘Actions speak louder than words.’”
He tugs Julian in—slowly, lightly, so his beloved doctor has all the time in the world to step away if he so desires, but instead he finds Julian beautifully willing. Ultimately, Garak can’t even say who was the first to lean in, but that hardly matters, not with Julian warm and soft and so, so eager in his arms. Garak does nothing so much as indulge, kisses Julian the way he had always wanted, the way he had dreamt of—but it’s far better than any fantasy, for he had never even dared to imagine how responsive Julian would be, his little noises and clutching hands and unambiguous, obvious delight at being kissed by, of all people, Elim Garak.
And then, unfortunately, it ends; Julian plants his hands on Garak’s shoulders to push himself gently away. “Wait—” he says, and Garak has a momentary stab of concern that his dear doctor just remembered all the reasons there are not to involve himself with an enemy agent two decades and counting his senior, but Julian doesn’t go far: he studies Garak’s face, brows furrowed and lovely mouth twisted in concern. “You didn’t come into contact with Ambassador Troi, did you?”
Garak can’t help but laugh. “I never had the pleasure; I closed up when I started hearing rumors of strange behavior.”
“Smart, on Deep Space Nine,” Julian notes, and Garak hums. He leans back in, and Julian allows it; he sighs and slides his arms over Garak’s shoulders as he noses along the doctor’s smooth jaw, indulging in a teasing nip.
“You can be certain my mind is my own, my dear Julian,” he murmurs, and is utterly pleased when he feels Julian clutch him a bit closer, as if his knees just went a little weak.
“Just making sure,” Julian breathes, and pulls him back into a kiss.