Chapter Text
“I should go away to medical conferences more often,” Julian said, a little breathlessly, “if this is how you behave when you've had a chance to miss me.”
“How I behave?” Garak rolled over in the bed and fixed Julian with a look of mock outrage. “You were the one who threw yourself at me.” He sighed dramatically. “I'm just a poor, besotted old fool, desperately trying to satisfy his vigorous young husband.”
Julian Bashir, 65 years old and thoroughly conscious of every bit of grey in his hair and beard, rolled his eyes. “I seem to recall that you were the one who had me up against the wall before I had a chance to take my shoes off, you lecherous old lizard.”
“Ah, yes, but you started it. You spent the ride back from the station telling me all about how The Longest Shadow was ... what was it that you said?”
“I can't recall.” Julian dragged himself from the bed and set to looking for his underwear.
“Oh,” said Garak. “I remember now. You said that it was 'as dull and predictable as The Never-Ending Sacrifice, but even more depressing.' After more than twenty-five years of marriage, you can't possibly expect me to believe that baiting me like that, with that smirk on your face, was anything but deliberate.”
Julian threw a pillow at him.
“I stand by my opinion,” he said. “That book was the most depressing thing I've ever read.”
“It's meant to be depressing,” said Garak. He pulled himself up and extricated himself from the blankets, scales glinting in the late afternoon sun. “The modern repetitive epics exist in a dialogue with the prewar classics. In fact–”
“A boring dialogue,” said Julian. “If you're going to read books that make you feel bad, why not at least pick one where something interesting happens?”
And just like that, Garak was behind him. He was quick for an old man, Julian thought wryly. “Careful,” Garak said, his breath stirring the hairs at the nape of Julian's neck. “If you start up another argument like before, we might end up missing our dinner reservation.”
“Dinner reservation?” Julian stepped away and turned to face his spouse. “You never mentioned a dinner reservation.”
“I thought I might welcome you home by reserving a table at Tavara's place.”
“Oh, lovely.” Where exactly had his trousers ended up? “I'll just get cleaned up and check my messages before we go.”
“You can do one or the other, my dear, but I doubt you'll have time to do both.” Garak gestured at the chronometer on the wall. “Our reservation is in twenty minutes, and it would be rude to be late.”
“Twenty minutes?” Julian yelped. “Why didn't you say something before?”
“Do forgive me,” said Garak, eyes widening innocently. “I'm afraid I was a bit ... distracted.”
***
Tavara's was one of several restaurants that had opened in the years following the Dominion bombardment and subsequent rebuilding of the capital. Tavara herself was half-Bajoran, the daughter of two half-bloods who had found each other in the horrific aftermath of the war. Creative, cheerful, and utterly unashamed of her mixed heritage, Tavara was an almost perfect representative of the new Cardassian youth. And the food – billed as Cardassian-Bajoran fusion – was excellent.
It was funny, Julian thought, as he took a swig of his after-dinner tea. For all of the vaguely condescending little barbs Garak had made over the years about foolish Federaji idealism, the man could never quite hide his delight at how open and optimistic the modern Cardassian youth culture was. Of course, Garak would claim it was different. When pressed, he would talk in circles, explaining without ever really explaining how and why it was different, but it was different, and the fact was obvious to anyone who was paying attention. It was adorable. And attractive in a way that had long ago led Julian to conclude that he really had gone native in the time he'd been living here.
“Really, my dear,” said Garak. “Must you guzzle your tea like that? People are watching.”
Julian turned to follow Garak's gaze to a table across the restaurant. The two young women seated there – one apparently half-Bajoran, the other with a fully Cardassian appearance – ducked their heads and looked away, clearly embarrassed at having been caught staring. Julian grinned and gave them a little wave. The half-Bajoran blushed bright red and started whispering something to her companion. With a smile, Julian turned his attention back to his tea. He'd been on Cardassia Prime for nearly three decades now, and the residents of the capital had more or less gotten accustomed to his smooth human face. It was his role as the exotic alien spouse of one of the planet's most charismatic political leaders that tended to draw attention.
(His friend Sam, a civil engineer who had married a not-at-all-famous Cardassian scientist, hadn't drawn stares in public in years.)
He didn't mind, though. Aside from the occasional disapproving traditionalist, the stares were mostly friendly. Admiring, even. On a planet that had, for so long, had a reputation of being particularly unwelcoming to outsiders ... it was nice to be liked.
***
After dinner, they decided to walk home. With the sun set and the wind dying down, the oppressive heat was gone, as was the dust that still blew in from the outskirts every summer, even after so many years. The streets of the capital came alive on nights like this, and it was something that Julian had missed while he was away. Vendors sold chilled juices and shaved ice, music bled from the windows of every shopfront and restaurant they passed, street performers recited poetry on the corners, and all around them were old men, young students, courting couples, and children out well past their bedtimes. It had seemed unimaginable, in the aftermath of the Dominion War, that things could ever be like this again, and Julian never tired of watching Garak's face as they strolled through the city.
They got home late. Julian yawned widely as they walked up the path to the cobbled-together suite of rooms, built around the remains of an old tool shed, that they still called home.
“My dear,” said Garak, who had been in the middle of recounting the latest intrigues among the members of the Library Council, his current project in retirement. “Am I boring you?”
“Sorry, Elim,” said Julian. “It's been a long day.”
“Of course,” said Garak, opening the door. “and here I am, keeping you out all night.”
“I had a great time tonight,” Julian said. “Everything was won...wonder...ful.” He barely managed to get the word out around another yawn. The fatigue really had come out of nowhere. Something about being home.
Garak tsked at him. “Straight to bed with you,” he said.
“Mm,” Julian mumbled. “In a minute. Haf'ta check my messages first.” He turned toward the den, where their shared comm setup was located.
“Your messages have waited for two weeks,” said Garak. “They can wait a few hours longer.” Julian protested half-heartedly as his husband grabbed him by the elbow and steered him toward the bedroom. “You've got the day off tomorrow,” said Garak. “You'll have plenty of time to check your personal messages and deal with them then.”
“M'fine,” said Julian, as a pair of cool, scaled hands slid up under his tunic, tugging it up and off over his head.
“Bed,” said Garak.
“Dirty old man,” said Julian, grinning crookedly.
“With emphasis on the old,” said Garak. “You aren't the only one who could use some sleep.”
Despite his nearly perfect, genetically-enhanced memory, once he was settled in bed, Julian could not for the life of him have said how he got there. That was okay, though. He snuggled up against the cool, sturdy body beside him, and drifted off to sleep.
***
It was still dark when he woke. Judging by the time on the chronometer, he'd only been out for about five hours. Even at his age, there were advantages to being genetically enhanced, not the least of which was that he didn't actually need all that much sleep to feel rested and ready for the day. Not that he had anything particular planned. He'd gotten in the habit, years ago, of reserving a day or two off at the end of trips like the one he had just taken, just in case.
He slipped out of bed, doing his best not to wake the Cardassian sleeping beside him. It was, as always, futile. Garak was an incredibly light sleeper.
“What time is it?” he grumbled.
“Early,” said Julian. “Go back to sleep.”
Garak didn't argue.
Julian padded barefoot into the kitchen and made himself a cup of red leaf tea. Might as well check those messages.
The first few were nothing particularly interesting. Everyone who knew him had known that he'd be offworld for two weeks, not checking his personal messages. Anything important of a personal nature could be sent to Garak, while any professional messages would have been sent to the hospital anyway. So there were a couple of promotional calls from local restaurants, a message from a neighbour reminding them of the annual end of summer cookout next month, and another from one of the nurses at the hospital, thanking him for the wedding gift he and Garak had sent.
The fifth message in the queue had an ID code that he didn't recognize. The face that appeared when he opened it up was far too close to the imager – it literally filled the screen. A young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties if Julian had to guess. Her eyes were wide, her hair coming loose from the coiled braids at the sides of her head.
“Doctor Bashir,” she said. Her voice was rough and strained. “You don't know me, but ... I need your help.” Her right eye started to twitch. “I need ... you have to ... hngh.” Her mouth worked silently for a moment. “I'm in over my head,” she said. “I can't ... words. Have to. Mmng.” The scales around her eyes and at her neck were flushed. “Guls,” she said. “They're all dead.”