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Garak arrived at Quark's promptly at the teveket hour, entirely by design. The Patlakian was a Cardassian freighter carrying a cargo manifest of biocompound adhesives and, more interestingly, a complement of civilian crew who would be on the station for exactly one night. Cardassians were rare enough on Deep Space Nine; Cardassians who were not actively hostile to him were rarer still, and Garak intended to make the most of the opportunity. And so one of his rarely-worn shirts was donned, a tall glass of kanar ordered, and he himself settled to survey the room and its uncharacteristic Cardassians complement.
It did not take long before he noticed the hair.
It belonged to a rather young thing, and was entirely the kind of signal that would go unnoticed by all but the most observant of offworlders: cut closer at the sides and longer through the crown. Such asymmetry was, itself, a very small and specific act of rebellion; the ambiguity it imparted had been all the rage among the more... radical students in the last few years before Garak's involuntary departure. It was, in short, the kind of hair that got noticed.
Even in his exile, Garak was never the sort to stop noticing.
The Cardassian to whom the hair belonged, was, themselves, listening to one of Quark’s waiters rattle off the night’s drink specials with bland disdain, an instantly endearing view. Their orbital ridges rested a little too high up from the eyes, their aural ridges stretching a little too far down the chin; they were not conventionally attractive by the rather narrow standards of Cardassian aesthetics.
But then again, neither was Garak.
He approached.
"The drinks here," he said, arriving at their elbow and not-so-subtly pretending to continue a conversation rather than beginning one, "are subpar at best. The kanar is particularly suspect. I'd advise against it, unless you have someone to guide you through the menu."
The Cardassian turned, unhurried and only slightly less disdainful than they were toward the Ferengi.
"Is that so?" they gave a wry smile. "And I suppose you might be the one to give such… guidance?"
Ah, they knew their literature. The classic dynamic: the leading figure, wise and seasoned; and the follower, naive and practically desperate for a guiding hand.
One only invoked it so blatantly when there might be a certain kind of encounter in mind.
"Elim Garak." He inclined his head with exactly the correct degree of old-administration courtesy, the kind he suspected had gone well out of fashion even in the later years of his civil service. "The resident tailor."
"Gaell." No surname given—or perhaps only surname given; like their appearance, it fell in the grey area of delineation. "Hauler on the Patlakian, resident of this charming station for one night only."
Garak hummed. "One can accomplish a great deal in one night, in the right company."
"Is that so?" Gaell's grinned, entirely unbothered by the transparency of the opening. Good. One evening left little time for games—or at least, the more time on verbal games now, the less time for other games later. “You’ve been away from home too long, velm. You’re positively direct.”
"Directness is simply a matter of proper fit, in my experience." Garak spread his hands. "I find that out here, most species wear bluntness like badly fit clothing: as though it were the only option available to them, when in fact they never took the trouble to be measured."
"And I suppose you have… considered my fit?"
"An occupational hazard," Garak let his gaze travel, leasurely switching to the second layer. "I could have given you a fairly accurate estimate from across the room."
"Ah, you find me that readable?”
“That notable, certainly.”
Garak was enjoying himself rather more than the stakes warranted for a conversation with a stranger he would, in all likelihood, never see again that night. Ah, but half the pleasure was anticipation. Buildup was its own reward, and besides: Deep Space Nine was, on most nights, a profoundly lonely place to be Cardassian. Here, at least, was someone who required no careful softening of what he was.
And damn it—he permitted himself the thought—he was tired, and the station was cold, and he was entitled to precisely one warm, uncomplicated night before he went back to being despised again.
"So, Garak,” Gaell continued, bringing him back to the present, “you look at me like you’re considering a measurement. Are you thinking to test your tailor’s eye?”
"Ah, but how else would I maintain my standards, if not through practice?"
"And if I were willing?"
"Then I'd say we've already wasted several minutes discussing tailoring when we might have been discussing logistics. Time, on a one-night layover, is rather the scarcest resource available to either of us."
"Now that is a justification for directness I can work with."
"A citizen after my own heart. Now, I would expect the station cleaners maintain your guest to a degree of cleanliness," Garak mused, because no one-night stand warranted the introduction of an unknown—if attractive—quantity into his sanctuary. “And considerably more private than a Ferengi's bar. I would be more than happy to continue this conversation somewhere—"
The holosuite door opened, a rough pneumatic hiss, and then—
Scent.
Mammalian, alive, indecent in its overwhelm. The human profile was normally a faint thread Garak had to hunt for beneath the olfactory chaos of crowds and recycled air, but here? Now?
Now it arrived less a smell and more an event: sweat, salt, the musk of exertion cutting through everything else like a proton blast.
Garak's head turned sharply toward the second floor. Most Cardassians did the same, Gaell included.
Several tables down, Morn continued drinking his usual in placid, magnificent indifference; the sensory assault happening to the Cardassians in the room clearly did not impact him.
Then Julian rounded the stair curve.
His trappings could only generously be called "period appropriate adventure wear:" loose linen dark with sweat, boots with real rubber treat, and a shirt—if it could be called that—that hung mostly open and half-off one shoulder, exposing his collarbones. Stomach. Long length of his throat.
All of which glistened with sweat.
His hair lay plastered to his head, face flushed brown in that mammalian way when blood rushed to the surface, cooling, wafting. He was panting, open-mouthed, and oh that man, every exhale adding another layer to the scent profile that was currently overwhelming every vomeronasal organ in the room.
Garak's tongue flicked against the top of his involuntarily, that automatic response to chemical information. Human, male, Julian, exertion, heat, alive, aroused—no, wait, that last one was himself.
And still, Julian was making for the bar with single-minded determination, each clanking step a mountainfall. A Ferengi passing by him skewed his face in disgust, but that was absurd, because the scent-taste was the opposite of unpleasant. Rich, organic, fundamentally foreign and therefore intriguing.
"Quark." Julian's barked out, half-hoarse with exertion. "Water, please. Three glasses."
If the bar had been inhabited by only Cardassians, conversation would have dropped off completely.
Garak realized he was holding his breath, which was counterproductive given that his olfactory system was actively trying to draw in more, to process all the information in the profile. He exhaled slowly, drew in air, and got another concentrated hit. His neck ridges began to darken, entirely without his permission.
He quickly took stock of his room. Good. He was hardly the only one. Marginally less embarrassing.
By that point Quark set the first glass down, full to the brim. Julian seized it with both hands and brought it to his mouth.
His head tilted back. His eyes closed. His throat became the single most fascinating thing in the entire bar.
And he drank.
Though perhaps drank did such luxuriation a disservice. He devoured, consuming in a way no Cardassian in four hundred years would even think of drinking water: fast, careless, extravagant, no ministry counting liters as the water disappeared in long, continuous swallows.
His whole body was engaged in the act: his shoulders, his chest, the very movement of his thin skin and fragile diaphragm visible beneath the open shirt—and oh, State— he was going too fast, and water spilled from the corners of his mouth, ran down his chin, tracked down his already-wet throat across his—
And the boy didn’t even notice! Such waste, and yet he continued to down the precious drops, to let it spill and not ask for forgiveness for the decadence of it all?
Garak watched a drop of water trail down Julian's sternum and held his tongue back between clenching teeth.
Because the smell was still there, and disbelief over what he was seeing was warring with the barrage of tantalizing taste-scents upon him. Salt. Sweet. Adrenaline, bitter and astringent, still working its way out of his system.
And underneath all of that, the simple fact of Julian, Julian, Julian, who he alone in the crowd could suss out on a packed promenade, on any planetfall, great Guls above, even in the vacuum of space.
The water was gone all too fast. The glass came down hard enough to crack against the bar. Julian gasped, such obscene relief, and the exhalation sent another wave of scent rolling out across the room.
One of the haulers at a Cardassian table made a sound that was not, by any station regulation Garak was aware of, appropriate for a public establishment. He didn't look to see who. He was too busy tracking the water still drip-drop-dripping down Julian's chin.
His chuen buzzed, mouth salivating, and he knew what color his ridges would be if he looked in a mirror. They’d be the same deep gray as the dozen others before his eyes, subtle as a klaxon.
The human concept of water scarcity was academic, he knew. Julian knew Cardassia Prime was a desert world the way he knew facts about any number of planets: by rote and no lived understanding.
How little he knew.
Water was precious. Water was life. It was survival and sustenance and the literal foundation of life. Cardassian poetry, Cardassian euphemism, Cardassian intimacy: it all spoke of rain, the desert blooming after a storm.
And then Julian reached for the second glass.
This time, Garak let himself really look, because there was no form of restraint that he could continue to perform, and so this time he saw the muscles and hair peeking out from under the shirt as they shifted and stretched to raise the glass, the tilt and exposure and bob of his throat as he downed and drank, drank, drank, needing and taking.
One, two, three, four—how could he count those as sips when surely more water was spilling than consumed, running down his neck in rivulets, soaking into the already-wet shirt, and he must be letting it spill on purpose, because how could any species think so little of that vital life-giving liquid as to treat it without regulation, so unashamed that someone might have need of it later?
Or perhaps Julian was aware—maybe he was the only still-sane man in the room. Garak himself was spinning, the up and down of the room harder and harder to parse out, and who could blame him, there was too much to process all at once: the visual, the olfactory, the utter cacophony of it that would not be amiss in an interrogation room, if the goal was to overwhelm and break down a being’s every sense, every thread of reason and logic and drive them to a state of oh-so-too-much—
Julian finished the second glass, and there was now an undeniable chemical conversation happening in the bar, passing under the noses and over the heads of the other species in the room, a shift in the collective scent profile of interest, attraction, desire. The whole bar was becoming one large feedback loop of pheromones and response.
And at the center of it, Julian Bashir, completely oblivious, reaching for the third glass.
Elim, his mother named him, it means ‘wise,’ and that is what you must always be, because the Union is not kind to the foolish, and you have more to gain than most, if only you foster the cleverness and wisdom to seize it and hold onto it all.
He’d held so much, and lost the entirety of it, and one would think that would teach him to consider more critically his choices—
The third glass went up, and that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? How was any self-respecting, doggedly disciplined, loyal citizen of the state expected to be wise when such a siren of the Hebetian legends stood before them, poisoning the air with sweet promises and sweeter taste, with a shirt that was becoming so soaked that it ceased to be a garment and instead became a second skin, nearly translucent where the water ran and clinging?
Or perhaps, he was the good citizen. He, after all, for his engorged ridges and chu’en humming in harmony, was not nearly so repugnant as to do what others in the bar were doing: resorting to open-mouth panting, fingers twitching and eyes locked. He may be responding with an intensity that was fast turning salacious beyond just inconvenient, but at least he was not a degenerate. The young first mate two tables over was gripping his glass hard enough that it was half a wonder it had not shattered. The woman by Morn had closed her eyes, clearly trying to limit sensory input, as if not looking would help when the smell was this pervasive.
Julian finished the third glass and set it down with a heavy thunk. He braced his hands on the bar, head hanging, still breathing hard, and water dripped from him onto the counter. His shoulders rose and fell. The open shirt shifted with each breath, exposing more skin, more sweat, more everything.
And of that sweat—a single drop ran from Julian's temple, down his cheek, along his jaw to join the rivulets of water before dissapearing into his collar. Garak tracked its entire journey as though he himself had been traversing the eastern dunes without a drink for days, and that drop his only chance for sustenance.
"Better?" Quark asked.
"Much," Julian panted. He straightened, pushed his wet hair back from his face with both hands.
Somewhere behind Garak, someone made a pained sound.
"That treasure hunting program is brutal. I don't think I've run that much since the Academy's endurance test."
His voice was still rough, half-breathless. The exertion had taken its toll, and that and his breath, combined with the scent and visual—
Neither Garak nor Gaell were holding each other’s attention, and no amount or pretending or performance could cover up the fact that the perfectly pleasant evening that had been building between the two of them had just been comprehensively outbit.
It was a decision, as were all the moments of his life of consequence, big and small. Gaell was a sure thing. A royal flush, to use the Chief’s language: one night, no complications.
Julian…
He was a full house. There were promising indicators there, to be sure, but even if Garak played his hand very carefully, day in and day out, lunch after lunch, there was no guarantee he would reap any sort of playoff.
There was no guarantee; there never had been. That was rather the point of continuing to have lunch instead of doing anything more about it.
There was gambling, and there was wisdom.
Remember your name, Elim.
“I’m afraid,” he said, to the still-staring Cardassian, "that I'm going to have to withdraw my earlier offer."
Gaell's attention didn't move from the bar. "You're joking."
"I rarely joke about withdrawing offers. It's bad for my reputation."
That got their eyes back on him, and there was nothing rueful in the look. "That?"
"That seems needlessly hostile toward a man who's done nothing to you."
"He's about to do something to my evening." Gaell's ridges, already dark, deepened further, shifting from desire to an irritation Garak otherwise considered rather proprietary.
Garak considered several answers, weighed their relative usefulness, and selected the one that would end the conversation fastest.
"I supposed I’d better attend to my young man, then. Which, I'm afraid, settles the matter."
It wasn't true in any sense he could defend or Julian himself would agree to, but Gaell had no way of knowing that, and Garak found he had no particular interest in enlightening them.
Gaell studied him a moment, the hostility ebbing into something closer to grudging appraisal. "Of course. Go on, then. Go collect your—" a last, unmistakably covetous glance toward the bar "—whatever he is."
"That," Garak said, already turning, already crossing the room, "is what I plan to do."
Every Cardassian in the room was now looking at Julian with some jumbled combination of shock, desire, or scandalized interest. Several were looking at Garak as he approached
The territorial response was immediate and overwhelming.
Julian's lit up when he saw him, bright and completely unaware that he smelled like sex and exertion and was dressed straight from the worst kinds of indulgent holonovels.
"Garak, what a surprise! God, Felix sent me a new program that got a bit intense at the end. I had to—"
"Dr. Bashir." Garak pitched his voice to carry, let it be heard. "How are you feeling? You look rather..."
He looked, and made sure every Cardassian in there see he was letting himself look at the wet, flushed chest, wet flushed fact, wet and flushed everything.
"Parched," he finished, loading the word with every possible meaning.
Off in some corner, glass shattered.
"Oh, I am," Julian agreed earnestly. "Absolutely parched. I think I sweated out my entire body weight in there. Thank goodness for replicators, I could probably drink another three glasses—"
The mental image—Julian drinking three more glasses, the same way—made Garak's composure waver dangerously.
"Perhaps," Garak managed, "we might proceed somewhere where you can cool off better? I'm sure we can find something to help… quench your thirst properly in my shop. Much more privacy there, of course."
The innuendo was so blatant that even Julian paused for a moment, before he shook it off.
"That sounds perfect. I'm starving too. Let me just—" He looked down at himself, finally registering his appearance. "Oh. I should probably change first. I look like I've been dragged through a desert."
"You look," Garak said with dangerous honesty, "like you've had a vigorous adventure. I find it quite… invigorating."
Julian laughed, still oblivious, still smiling. Still radiating heat and scent and unconscious appeal.
Garak reached out and placed his hand on Julian's bare shoulder. The skin was hot and slick with moisture. The contact sent a jolt through Garak.
“Besides, I may have just the outfit for you to change into. A lovely Bolian cotton blend I thought you might appreciate after a long double shift…”
He guided Julian away, aware of every eye following them, and more than aware of the scent trail Julian left in his wake, knowing full well his own presence was adding to it.
As they rounded the last barstools, Garak matched the gaze of the woman who'd closed her eyes earlier. Her ridges were still dark, yet her fixed frown indicated just how hard she was at control.
Garak gave her the smallest smile. Yes. Exactly what you're thinking. And no, you can't have him.
Her acknowledgment came as a glare that was equal parts respect and frustration.
"Why is everyone staring?" Julian asked headed out the doors. He'd finally noticed, though definitively too late to matter.
"Are they? Perhaps they're simply unused to such enthusiasm."
"Oh, the water?" Julia’s brows furrowed, darling thing. "I didn't mean to be insensitive. I suppose I should have known Cardassia Prime probably has water scarcity issues—"
"I assure you, Doctor, no one is offended." Garak's smile was sharp with satisfaction. "If anything, I believe you've made quite the impression."
Julian frowned slightly, still not understanding, and reached up to push his hair back again, releasing another wave. Julian, exertion, satisfaction, alive.
"Garak, why are you smiling like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you've won something."
Garak shook his head, smile widening. "My dear Doctor, I have no idea what you mean. Now, you said you needed to change?"
Julian grinned at him, familiar and affectionate.
If he were a gambling man, he might have found interest in the dabo table Quark so prized. But with the fragments of wisdom he perhaps managed to maintain through the years, Garak had never had much patience for that particular game.
He preferred the kind of wager where the odds shifted the longer you stayed at the table, where patience compounded interest a reckless gambler could never see, where the house— and he had, after all, spent a career being the house— came out ahead eventually, provided it didn't panic and cash out early.
"Coming?" Julian asked, already three steps ahead, entirely unaware he was, at that moment, the single largest bet Garak had made.
"Right behind you, Doctor," he said, and followed him out with no hurry at all.