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Julian Bashir sipped his drink and studied the man across the table from him. Skrain Dukat did not look well. Granted, he did not seem to be raving, as he was when he left DS9 with heavy security escort and under restraints, but there was still a feverish gleam in his now even more deep-set eyes. He had lost enough weight to turn gaunt. The black Gul uniform that usually impressed and intimidated, now made him look as if he was playing dress-up. Julian had to remind himself that it was even better if Dukat *was* insane. As long as he was sane enough to act half-way rationally. ~And what if he is too crazy for my plan to work? Too late now, Julian.~
"You seem to be doing well for yourself, Doctor Bashir. Despite the Federation's unfortunate choice to relieve you of your duties. One would think the Federation would be more... accepting of differences among its people."
Julian did not wince at hearing a title that he no longer had an official sanction to claim.
"And you are doing... better." Lying well is an acquired skill.
Dukat dropped his attention to the plate as he slurped the stew, something he would never have done if he considered Julian a threat in any way. Julian ran several possible ways of continuing this conversation through his head, grateful for Garak's lessons in Cardassian-style discussion.
"In fact," he continued delicately, “I have heard that you are spending your newly freed time in pursuit of some new hobbies."
It has gotten Dukat's attention.
"New hobbies". Dukat had finished the stew and put the spoon down on the table, before turning his full concentration to Julian. "Yes. It is amazing how much free time one has when one is an exile from his people, especially an exile without any family. I find that it leaves me a lot of time to think. About people who are responsible for this situation, for example."
"I see." Julian's information was correct then. Unfortunately. "It’s funny. I heard that a certain tailor we both know have been responsible for some of your misfortunes. And now? He seems to be missing. Isn't it a strange coincidence?"
Dukat chuckled. "Is *that* the reason you went to all the trouble to see me? You know, I always wondered what kind of hold the little ~morphec~ had on you? Was it that little genetic mishap of yours?"
"I want him back."
"You want him back?!" Dukat suddenly looked a lot like a raving lunatic of several months ago. "Years I had to look into his smirking face! I had to be polite to that ~riffet~ while he ogled my daughter! He is MINE!!!"
It was really good, reflected Julian, that this canteen was not a place where screaming was something to remark on. In fact, as long as no blood was spilled and no furniture broken no one would even pay attention to their little tiff.
He leaned forward into this rage, suddenly more sure of his actions that he had ever been in his life, almost cheek to cheek with an angry Cardassian. "Dukat, that stew that you enjoyed so much? It has been poisoned." And then he set back in his chair, relaxed and almost smiling, and watched the understanding of his words percolate though the man on the other side on the table.
"I designed the compound myself. It is not easy to counteract."
"But not impossible." Dukat set down as well, still angry, but with cool calculating fury instead of towering rage. ~Thank you~, Bashir thought, not sure who or what he was addressing. It was going to work.
"Not impossible. After all, it is rather irresponsible to design a poison without an antidote. You can have it." He let the pause lengthen, not sure where this sense of drama was coming from, but clear that this was the right path to take. "When I get Garak back. In reasonably good condition."
"And what exactly is stopping me from taking you with me and *persuading* you to part with the antidote?"
"I'd say timing. You *really* don't have enough time to beat it out of me."
"And what if Garak is not in any condition to be going places?"
"Then it is too bad to be you, isn't it?" Bashir put a small beacon on the table as he got up to leave, the first act of play over. "Activate it, when you are ready to make the exchange. I suggest you don't wait too long."
As he walked away, he could have sworn he heard Dukat's molars grinding together.
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As Garak swam slowly to consciousness, he realized he didn't hurt. By the time he organized his thoughts enough to figure out why that was significant, his sense of smell informed him that he was no longer in the cell where Dukat stowed him between their “talks”. But it was the last scent, sharply and unmistakably human that made his eyes fly open without any input from his brain.
The room was too bright and saturated with scents of sterile fields and chemicals that any medically used space acquired. Somewhere outside his field of vision a monitor changed its tune.
"Welcome back."
"Doctor Bashir, you certainly a sight for sore eyes. Speaking of which..."
"Oh, sorry!" The lights dimmed. "Better?"
"Immensely."
By now he felt steady enough to turn his head in order to study the unexpected vision. Doctor Bashir was sitting on a chair near his bed, dressed not in hideous Starfleet uniform, as his memory insisted in dressing him, but in spacer attire -- even uglier outfit of drab pants and tunic, mainly designed for ease of wear and resistance to stains and lacking in any aesthetic sensibility. It was often hard to read aliens, but he spent enough time with this one to claim some small ability. Bashir looked tired and still a little concerned, but also relieved.
"Dare I hope that we are no longer keeping company with dear Dukat?"
"No. I have gotten you back in a fair exchange for a poison antidote."
Garak widened his eyes. "Doctor... have you been pretending to be this James Bond fellow again?"
"I might have channeled him a fair bit. At the end of the transaction, when Dukat proclaimed that I have joined the ranks of his enemies, I asked him if he now had the whole set. You had to have seen the expression on his face..."
Garak chuckled politely, but couldn't help his concern. "Are you quite certain that this was a good idea? Dukat may not be a very *imaginative* enemy, but he is certainly tenacious."
Bashir smiled and briefly touched Garak's hand. "I wouldn't worry about it overmuch, Garak. Since I went off on my own I found that *I* am very good at making friends."
The answer bothered Garak for some reason, but he felt too exhausted to pursue it immediately. When he felt like he could carry civilized conversation again, he would have to have a long talk with the doctor. Catch up. Compare friends and enemies... Later...
He barely noticed as sedatives in his system drew him under.
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Julian closed the door to the sickroom behind himself. He was now completely sure that Garak will recover, ready and able to return to DS9 and rejoin the war effort. It was too close for a couple of days, especially since he didn't really have the range of equipment he would have been able to access on a Federation outpost. He was glad of the preparations he made for his eventual exposure as an augment. It set him up with a nice lifeline as he adjusted to the life as an outlaw beyond UFP borders. One didn't need a Federation-approved shingle to practice medicine, if you were good enough. His expertise was very much sought after out here. If Federation Medical was willing to do without his services, even during the war... He forced the bitterness down with the force of long practice.
A notification light was blinking on his communication console. He read the message and released the breath he didn't notice he was holding. One less enemy for himself and Garak, since Skrain Dukat had died from a heart attack several hours ago. Heart attacks, he learned from his research, were extremely prevalent in male Cardassians beyond middle age, a genetic flaw that was probably able to develop freely because so few of them lived that long. As a cause of death it was unlikely to raise any alarms or to be investigated closely. The antidote he had provided Dukat worked perfectly… While also releasing a hormonal cascade that attacked the Cardassian's weakest point. The whole thing was a trap within a trap, something that he though Garak might be able to appreciate, if Julian was ever tempted to share this story.
He probably should feel guilty for murdering a man in cold blood, but his memories of Garak's condition made him too angry to bother. Julian's conscience may never be clear again, but his heart held no regrets.