Chapter Text
i. REQUIEM
“Are you certain?”
Dr. Julian Bashir wasn’t in the habit of accepting other doctors’ diagnoses blindly. But in this particular case, it probably did seem strange to ask. And the way he asked, so calmly. So…matter-of-fact. Even by Cardassian standards, he was playing it close to the chest.
“I’m afraid I am,” the coroner replied, with only the slightest quirk of one eyeridge. “We were able to identify the body based on our existing files, but if you’d like to see him…”
“No thank you.” Bashir stood, offering his hand across the table. “Is that all?”
“Well - yes. I suppose that’s all.”
The two men shook hands, and Bashir took his leave. It was the height of the Cardassian summer, and he re-wrapped his shemagh to keep the dust out of his mouth as he walked home. Since he lacked the adaptive membranes that the native Cardassians used for this purpose, it had always seemed like an elegant solution.
He got to the side entrance of the house in record time, stepping inside and shaking the dust off.
The housekeeper was waiting silently in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands clasped in front of her apron. She had been crying. Bashir was suddenly, acutely aware of his dry eyes, his stolidly unemotive face.
Bashir didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but after silently watching him for a few minutes, she made herself scarce. He picked up his book from the end-table where he’d been reading when he got the call, and headed back towards his bedroom.
The news was going to spread across the quadrant soon, and he had to avoid the temptation to check his messages once they would inevitably start to pour in.
Julian, I just heard the news. I’m so sorry.
Julian, I know it’s been a long time, but I just heard…
Julian, I just saw the news, let me know if there’s anything I can do…
Julian…
Even with a disconnected PADD, the temptation would be too great. Paper books for tonight, then.
***
“Garak, wait.”
The Cardassian stopped, but he didn’t turn. He stood in the doorway and he waited.
“I’m not leaving. I’m putting in a request with Starfleet. I can lead their recovery efforts, I’m already here, it would be a stupid waste to send me back to the station and then deploy me back again in a week. I wasn’t going to bring it up, because I thought…”
Garak had turned to look at him, but only halfway.
“...I honestly thought you would ask me to stay,” he finished, lamely.
“Well. I certainly didn’t mean to undermine your fantasy. But at the moment I find myself…distracted by more pressing matters than which Federation doctor is going to be digging Cardassian bodies out of the rubble.”
“Oh. Of course.”
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
***
Bashir returned to the hospital in the early morning, a few hours before the first sunrise. His access codes still worked, but he broke in anyway, not wanting to leave such clear evidence of his visit.
The morgue was double-locked, but Bashir was triply clever.
He hadn't been able to stomach the idea of a viewing in front of the coroner, in front of the hospital staff, half of whom used to work for him. If the sight of the body finally jostled that loose piece of his consciousness into place, the one that had been floating about and vaguely bumping into the sharp reality of the life he'd made for himself since the end of the war, he had the sense his mind could shatter like sugar glass.
There was only one body still laid out on a gurney, not tucked away in a metal drawer, and he suspected…
He pulled the sheet back just enough to look.
He stood for a long time, just looking. Waiting. For what, he didn’t know. The eyes were open, vacant, milky. The face was entirely too still.
One disruptor shot, straight through the heart. No amount of medical attention, no matter how quickly, could have saved his life.
Bashir pulled the sheet down a little further, to see the wound. It was all there, just as he expected. It was real.
Elim Garak was dead.
And he felt nothing.
***
They were sitting in the erstwhile Dominion Headquarters, long after the generators had been shut down to save power. It was still the safest place to sleep, and they had enough candles that it didn’t feel too oppressive. Julian had his own bedroll in another room, because it had felt safest to keep some distance between them, but they’d found a stash of kanar that Odo’s forces must have missed when they cleared out the place of everything non-essential to the recovery efforts. And now, they were arguing.
"It's not about whether you agree with me, it's the willful misinterpretation of the whole theme of the book just to get a rise out of me -"
"Oh, my dear doctor. Don't flatter yourself. You really are just that wrong."
"If you don't shut up I'm going to find a way to shut you up."
"Promises, promises."
Before he knew what his body was doing, Bashir lunged across the space between them and kissed Garak.
It all happened very quickly after that. Mouths and tongues and hands under clothes, rough and hurried and messy. Bashir didn't want it to be over so quickly, not after all this time, but if they stopped they might think, or God forbid talk about it. That was too great a risk to take.
And so he spilled in Garak's hand, inside his Starfleet uniform, while his own fingers slid awkwardly between slick folds that he didn't quite understand the layout of. His wrist was twisted painfully, but he kept at it until Garak tensed and shuddered.
That was it. That was how it started.
The next time was a week later. Bashir came to him in the middle of the night. He'd managed to have a proper bath and it seemed a waste not to take advantage of it.
He said as much to Garak, which earned him a chuckle.
The Cardassian flipped him over, and that was a relief. There was too much on his face he didn't know how to hide. Garak was surprisingly tender, all things considered - well, no, that wasn't the right word. Careful, methodical, like he'd read the user's manual. How to Fuck Your Human.
Whatever he'd been concealing inside that slit was shockingly thick and blunt. Bashir bit back a whimper.
"Do tell me if I'm hurting you."
A huff of laughter. "Do you think I wouldn't?"
"I never quite know, with you."
What an odd thing for Garak, of all people, to say.
***
“Am I a widow, or a widower?”
“Um…I don’t know, Julian.” Miles O’Brien was fidgeting in his chair. “I’ve never exactly been clear on the difference.”
“Well, you’re meant to be a widow if you were a wife, and a widower if you were a husband. I’m not sure which one I was.” He played idly with the Rubik's cube he kept on his desk.
“A husband, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know. Widow feels more appropriate.”
“I think you can call yourself whatever you like.”
A tense silence stretched between them. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”
“Julian, don’t - don’t do this now. I’m just glad to hear from you again. I’ve been - well, you know, Keiko’s been worried about you. She bothers me about it. Now I can finally tell her that we’ve talked, and she’ll be able to relax a little.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m calling you because I’m grieving. I really did want to talk. To catch up. I’ve just been…”
“Busy,” Miles finished for him. “We’ve all been busy. I get it, I really do.”
Another silence.
“Julian, are you…I mean, are you alright?”
“As well as I can be, considering the circumstances.”
Despite his nature of letting things be, Miles clearly wanted to push him. Bashir could see everything he wasn’t speaking aloud: Julian for God’s sake, what’s going on with you? Did you - didn't you love him? Not that it ever made sense to me in the first place, but I thought…don't you miss him?
But Miles wasn’t going to ask any of those questions, which was exactly why Bashir called him first.
***
“I know one of your primary concerns will be whether you can remain here on political asylum,” said chief of staff Alon Ghemor. “I want to assure you, the protections of Cardassian law will live as long as you do. Elim made sure of that.”
“I have no doubt.”
“You should still be able to travel through Federation space without any trouble, but I’d advise against staying planetside for any length of time - I don’t know how they would react. Space stations are a different story - it’s likely up to the whims of whoever’s in charge. They are liminal spaces as it is.” He cleared his throat and shuffled through a few PADDs. “As for non-Federation space, that'll be on a case by case basis. Our diplomatic relations with Bajor are surprisingly good…"
"Ghemor -"
"Of course you know that already. I'm sorry." Ghemor pushed a button on his desk. "Arvold, could you send a reminder to Natima about our two o'clock? She always forgets."
"Yes, sir," came the solemn young voice through the intercom. Bashir felt a rush of… anger .
It had been so long since he'd felt anything, he almost didn't recognize it. The rush of blood to the head, the constriction in his chest, the churning nausea in his stomach.
He stood abruptly and paced over to the window.
Very suddenly, Arvold was at the door. Ever attentive, ever helpful, and only a little bit awkward in the way he leaned against the frame, hip cocked as if he was posing for a casual apparel catalog. Bashir could see him in the reflection of the window, until he closed his eyes. "Oh. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize you were in a meeting."
"It's all right," said Ghemor. "It wasn't on my schedule. We'll talk in a moment."
"Dr. Bashir," Arvold said, tentatively stepping into the room. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
Bashir composed his face into something that was fit to be seen before he turned around.
“Thank you,” he heard himself say. The big, brown eyes across the room were filled with genuine pity and respect, and it was more than he could stomach. Without looking back at Ghemor, he pushed his way past the younger man, their shoulders briefly touching as Bashir made for the door.
He should have known he’d have to see Arvold. Arvold was always there.
A twenty-something Bajoran was certainly a rare sight on Cardassia, but by now everyone knew his story. His mother had also borne a child by Gul Dukat, one who was lucky enough to come out looking passably Cardassian, so Dukat had taken her back with him and placed her with a family that owed him a favor. It was all covered up very well, but Arvold found her and they’d struck up a correspondence. He came to find her after the war, and he did - but not alive. His dogged dedication to his half-sister and his public grief when he found her body had cemented his reputation in Lakarian City as the kind of man you could trust, in spite of his species. It was a strange phenomenon, but as Garak had once said, “stranger things have happened.” Bashir had invited him to name one, and the Castellan had made a vague gesture between the two of them, over their dinner table, with his usual impassive face that betrayed absolutely nothing.
Stranger things, indeed.
***
If he'd believed Garak to be capable of such machinations, he would have almost been suspicious of the timing. Oddly enough it was Natima Lang who pushed the legislation through, and the reports all sounded baffled, and Bashir supposed it was because they'd never been privy to the little looks and smiles she shared with her assistant, a young Cardassian woman named Jeri. He did feel a little bad for Quark, not that it ever could have worked out between them.
It was a purely practical concern. All of the wartime orphans were now able to be recognized as citizens, but only if they were adopted by a married couple. There were still many more children than families to take them, but every little bit helped. The Cardassian fixation on the family unit was, for once, directed towards legitimizing same-sex relationships instead of discouraging them.
Only about a month later, Bashir felt a tingle on the back of his neck. He was on a duty shift at the hospital, and there was someone in the waiting room that seemed to be watching him a little too intently. Other than taking note of the man's appearance, he did nothing. Two days after that, he walked into his office to find six men waiting for him. Ridiculous overkill, he thought, as they slapped a pair of Starfleet issue cuffs on his wrists.
At the time, he had been righteously indignant. Foolishly angry. How dare they? How could they? He was a Federation citizen. He had rights.
He was on his second hour of demanding a holocall with Commander Kira Nerys and refusing to answer any of their questions when Garak appeared in the doorway. His heart soared traitorously with relief. He didn't need rescuing.
The ringleader insisted they had authorization to be there.
"Not from me," the newly minted Castellan said.
The hospital staff was gathered in the hallway just outside, like they were watching a particularly fascinating soap opera.
Something about Garak's presence made the agents start talking. At a certain point Bashir felt a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest because he got the sense they were throwing every charge they could think of at him, just on the chance one could stick. Not that it mattered. It was, he realized, only a pretense. Once they got him into Federation space, he was illegal. An augment. A dangerous aberration they could lock away for his own protection.
Treason? Sedition? Conspiracy? Garak was staring the ringleader down, and Bashir could see entirely too much of the whites of his eyes. He hardly blinked.
Bashir remembered what Dr. Parmak had told him once, a story he assumed was a fanciful lie meant to spare him the gory truth, but now he was more disposed to believe it. He could see the ringleader breaking down in real time, his resolve cracking a little more with each passing moment.
At last, a concession. They would remand Bashir into the custody of the Castellan, who would keep him under house arrest on a handshake agreement. They had five days to produce a valid warrant, and if they did, Garak would hand him over quietly and not make a fuss. He promised.
That moment was the hardest Bashir ever had to bite back a smile.
Uncharacteristically, they didn't talk about it. Not until later.
"I hope you have a plan," was all he said, tangled up in Garak's bedsheets, still catching his breath.
"I have a few," the Castellan said. "Which would you like to hear first?"
"The best one, I should think."
"That's a matter of opinion."
"Stop equivocating."
"I'm a politician now, I don't dare."
"I can tell I'm not going to like these plans. Come on. Give me the least distasteful one."
"It's still rather distasteful, I'm afraid."
"Oh, go on."
"We don't have an extradition treaty with the Federation. They know that good and well. They're not coming back with a warrant, they're coming back with an infantry. The only way to be absolutely sure they won't dare is to ensure it would be a diplomatic incident."
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
"A public event. A change in legal status. There's no path to citizenship for aliens, not yet, likely not within our lifetimes, but I am in the position to offer you the next best thing."
"I wish you'd get to the point."
"Will you really make me say it?"
Bashir sighed deeply, flopping onto his back. "This is absurd, Garak."
"You'll have to start calling me Elim if we go through with it."
"You're toying with me, as usual." Why was his heart beating so fast?
"I'm not. Truly. I can protect you, if you don't let your pride get in the way. You've been here long enough to know what's expected of a spouse in public. You won't need to put on any theatrics, just stand next to me at speeches and come to a few stuffy dinners every month."
"And how does this protect me, again?"
"If you marry me, you belong to Cardassia. They would have to start a war to take you away from me."
This was the moment, Bashir thought distantly, to say it. If he was ever going to, this was the moment.
"Very possessive, suddenly," he said, with just a tinge of hopefulness in his tone.
"I'm only practicing for the inevitable conference holocall," said Garak evenly. "Have to make it convincing."
"Oh. Naturally. Well it is very convincing, you nearly had me for a moment there."
"Well, you're very gullible."
"Not as much as I used to be, thanks to you."
"Now you're the one equivocating."
"What? Do you actually even need my consent for this? I assumed you would have already forged my fingerprint on the marriage license if you've put this much thought into it."
"I had thought about what to do when this happened."
"You knew this was going to happen?"
"I thought it might. Not this soon, though. It's a good thing Parmak called me. How long were you going to keep on with that 'am I being detained' nonsense? You know the kind of attention you've attracted. Section 31 didn't die with Luther Sloan."
"They still have to follow some kind of laws. Otherwise there's no point in marrying me." Bashir was trying not to sound petulant, and mostly succeeding. It was a very generous offer. He ought to be grateful for it.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. For one thing, you'd have to move in. I'll get a lot of opportunities to see you naked."
"Very charming."
"But more to the point, I'm popular enough to help turn the tide of public opinion about aliens in general, the Federation in specific. The people will still see you as a Federaji and they'll see that I trust you and you trust me. It's a start."
"You trust me?"
"Well, they'll certainly think so."
"And they'll think you're insane for it."
"They already know I lived in exile with aliens, with you, for nearly a decade."
"And do they know why?"
"Certainly not. But they know enough about my past that the election results were a surprise even to me."
"Not to me."
"Yes, I remember. I’ll thank you not to compare me to that twenty-first century human despot ever again. Shall I have the forms sent over? I'd rather not go through the trouble of forging your fingerprints if I don't have to."
"Just like that? There's no ceremony?"
"Later. I'll need a few days to arrange it."
"Well. All right then."
They completed the forms just as they were, naked on rumpled sheets, and when it was finished, Bashir impulsively leaned in to give him a kiss.
"Thank you," he said. "Really. I know this can't have been an easy decision for you."
He looked for anything, anything at all in Garak's eyes that would betray the emotion behind his decision. Even just a flicker.
"Not as easy as it was for you," Garak said. "I thought I'd have to do a good deal more convincing."
"Well, as you said. I'm gullible."
And Julian Bashir went to sleep that night a married man.