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Cross	By : CyreliaJ Category: Star Trek > Deep Space 9 Views: 1139 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Note: So in case anyone's curious about the title. It's "Cross" for double cross, triple cross, what have you So there's a lot of intrigue but I'm quite excited to be moving more towards the heart of it and I'm hoping to maintain the suspense and secrets til the necessary time. This is a lot of fun and hopefully a bit different. Thank you all for reading and supporting me!
   Julian is surprised when he sees Enabran Tain up close. Or rather, as close as he’s likely to ever get. The Federation of United Kingdoms is seated a section over from the Cardassians in that monstrous arena that they had processed to earlier. But that’s close enough with his sensitive vision to make out Tain’s outline, a bit of his face if he squints hard and looks closely. Julian had actually been trying to see Garak, but the seat that would be reserved for the prince is strangely empty. He doesn’t see Parmak either, but it’s possible that his duties are keeping him occupied. Julian has a brief flash of curiosity at the absence of both men, but dismisses that thought. So suspicious, Julian, for all you know he has a bellyache. Garak always did have an overly sensitive stomach. He pauses at that, quickly looking away from his study of the calm, older man lest he be caught staring. Don’t draw attention to yourself, Julian, remember. You know how to do that right? Is wasn’t terribly long ago that you’d managed to live your life without making a regular spectacle of yourself. Last night certainly wasn’t it. Julian had quickly scurried from Parmak’s tent amidst a flurry of snickers and he could swear one of the guards was whispering that his amorous intentions had likely been politely rebuffed by the good doctor. He also thought he’d heard a few hands changing money much to his humiliation and he had half a mind to tell the lot of them that he was doing just fine thank you very much.
   Julian winces at that memory, starting to feel an unpleasant warmth around him. They’re shielded, down far in the pit that the tournament is held, but the mass of bodies congregated together so closely as the sun begins to break shadows over the horizon is warming even the cool stone beneath them. The limestone cliffs a kilometer out from the festival sight, closer to where the opening ceremonies were staged, had been carved out some millennia ago by the ancients of one of their respective civilizations. The Klingons claimed it was Kahless after the Molor’s defeat to celebrate the victory. The Vulcans believed that it was the site where Surak and his followers founded the original T’Karath Sanctuary lost now to time. And so it went. Julian had occasion to wonder how long it had truly stood for surely the ancient tribes didn’t possess the tools for such intricate detail. He was almost inclined himself to believe it some masterful propaganda maintained by the ruling classes for an arena created for this very purpose some centuries back at the most but he’d never dared question such things aloud. Garak had dared. Garak had questioned, had postulated, had set his mind in all sorts of directions that it never should have wandered. But that was in the past and Julian is too old now for such fancies of youth.
   He isn’t, however, too old to appreciate the Ceremony of Sunrise as the music begins, first with the music, the sound of the oulds, of the flutes reaching his ears from the center as the Sultan’s musicians come out first. They’re followed by the dancers, and Julian sees some of the Dabo girls from Quark’s leading the rest- on loan he’s heard for a small price. The costumes are marvelous as the processions of performers from all corners of the world meet, the magicians, the acrobats from as far out as the badlands. It’s a stunning display as the fire eaters from the west come, the final performance before the combatants make their way to center stage. He makes sure to applaud, to whistle and yell as loudly as he can when he sees Jadzia strut out in her outfit designed specifically for the ceremony; some functionally useless sexually enticing bronze brassiere which exposes the navel and leaves little else to the imagination. He watches her in a series of graceful katas with the bat’leth dangerous, beautiful and just damn impressive There’s a particularly loud cheer that makes him shake his head at the nonsense- that is until he sees her alternate walk out behind her. Chakotay, the rumored Maquis sympathizer, as well wears nothing but mantle with the black and red cloak of the House of Sisko flying behind him and some sliver of cloth low on his waist. Julian almost looks away as Chakotay twirls the massive sword, arcing, circling, until he realizes that would likely look even more suspicious. Well it couldn’t look any more suspicious than half drooling over yourself now, could it?
   Well that settles it. Julian decides that now would be the perfect time to relieve himself and he quickly makes his way back up the carved stone steps and out to the plateau surrounding it. He takes that time to look around as well, knowing that there will still be a lot more display before the fights begin; Julian isn’t terribly interest in blood sport aside, only that he’ll be the one to patch Jadzia back together after she and Martok battle. He’s thankful to find the area most empty and decides that he still has time to wander before he’s absolutely needed. There are, after all, several different stalls set up atop the hard ground in the shade of the massive rock formations surrounding where enterprising merchants have set up wares and places for drink. Julian catches sight of Quark still taking last minute wagers on the fight for those content to drink and hear the action second hand. Julian can see, a relay of runners ready to report the action minute by minute through a series of hand signals and mirrors leading back to the top of the stadium. Another Ferengi in a colorful robe is standing near the bar, loudly announcing the entrance of the first two competitors. Julian sighs, feeling restless, and decides to take a detour back, meandering slowly away from the massive crowds and towards the remote rock formations rocks.
   He finds, much to his embarrassment that he isn’t the only one to have had a similar thought. However it seems the majority of those mingling amongst those secluded spaces are couples- and the occasional extra- deciding that there’s better action to be found outside the tournament than it in. Julian turns the corner of a wide base of a large rock that looks like a massive vertical hammer springing forth from the ground and is a whirl of awkward apologies as he nearly walks into two giggling women half covered beneath a sheet. They ignore him quickly enough and he moves further out, making a note of the time that it takes so that he won’t be gone past the first few fights. There will be exhibition matches before the main event and Julian can very well let Doctor Crusher and her expert team field the lot of them; his duties lie with the Sultan and Jadzia and his majesty had informed him quite plainly that he would only be allowed to attended provided that he loosened up and actually enjoyed himself. Julian sighs as he finds a series of short stone cylinders proving small shade and seemingly a fair deal of privacy. He’d made a note of that particular formation during the procession, noting that it’s on the way back towards the main encampment and festival.
   As he realizes that, he also realizes that he’s feeling a bit parched and could probably do with a bite to eat as well. His stomach has been a jumble of nerves as he’s tried to understand what he’s even doing. The mission was Garak, it’s always been Garak, and whatever you tell yourself you’ve no business messing around with Tain’s personal physician. You can’t put this off, you’ve only got three days to get close to him. You haven’t even seen him yet up close to confirm that the man they call the prince is even Garak. It could very well be some poor soul with the same name or the same face and no relation otherwise. What are you doing, Julian? You’re no killer. Yes, you promised father, but where was that even coming from? Guilt? Anger? You should know that sowing emotions like that have never done anyone a single bit of good. Forgiveness, right? Isn’t that what Jadzia’s always saying to you? Isn’t that what Kai Opaca had said when you met her? She took one look at you and told you to let go. Julian frowns, his walk slowing. Even if you could ever forgive him, Julian… Even if you could let that go… what father said... what Garak plans to do… it isn’t a matter of justice or vengeance. It’s a matter of stopping a tragedy. That’s why you became a doctor, after all. To heal pain, to save lives. Well that’s exactly what you’re doing. You know that sometimes there are sacrifices that need to be made for the greater good… You learned that at the academy…
   And Julian heard loud and clear- and could never reconcile that even after his years as a doctor. Julian’s never been about sacrifice- not his patients, not as long as there’s been breath in his body has he ever been willing to ever let one go. He exhales sharply, approaching those stones, hitting one with the side of his fist as he stands there and prays for some sign of what he should do. Julian shuts his eyes tightly, pressing his forehead to the cool of the stone as he lets the quiet of the gentle breeze relax him. He thinks of Kelas Parmak, of that smile, and those hands holding his between them warm- so very warm- his lips again pressing to Julian’s fingers in his mind. He thinks of Garak- of those eyes, always playful, always mysteriously watching him when he thought that Julian wasn’t looking. I wanted to save you too, Garak. I wanted- Julian’s head snaps up as he hears the rustle of footsteps coming behind him. His instincts are quick and sharp, and his hand absently falls to the pocket of his right sleeve knowing the sharp pick is concealed. As his fingers dance over the wooden handle, he feels a faint wave of nausea. Somehow he remembers the way that pick feels driving into the back of a man’s skull- the resistance being met, annihilated. He lets go of it immediately, unable to recall when earlier that day he’d even placed it there. It’s the heat. It has to be the heat. That’s the only explanation he has for why he sees Elim Garak standing there before him now.
   It’s a dream. Of course you’re dreaming, Julian. And any moment he’ll look up from that dream reverie as and see Garak standing there in front of him as he is now, brilliant blue eyes looking into his as if he’s never been gone a single second. Maybe none of it’s real. Maybe nothing in the last ten years. And perhaps than, as now, Julian won’t be able to breathe. He didn’t leave. He didn’t kill anyone. Nothing ever... Julian really truly cannot breathe and he cannot for the life of him fathom if that’s because he’s forgotten how or if he’s in fact desperately trying without success. Stop lying to yourself, Julian. You know that’s a lie just as you know you’re not dreaming him standing there. Julian blinks, that clearing of his vision doing nothing to clear the vision of Elim Garak in the flesh. You tried to kill me. That’s the next vicious thought that seizes him. Julian opens his own mouth, trying to draw some sort of breath, seeing everything around Garak fall out of focus again as he does. You killed Picard. He sees Garak’s hair slicked back, mussed, a few errant strands falling to his face. You started that fire. He sees the dark armor- black leather accentuating that pale gray skin beautifully, nothing like the modest Tailor’s garb of his memory. You killed all of them. He’s shaking. And now you have the nerve... He’s certain he’s shaking. And now you have the nerve to dare…
   “Garak,” he forces through his closing clenching throat, a strangled half sob, the bitterness, the torment, the anguish, wrapped around that word until he may very well squeeze the life out of it. He can’t manage more than that. He knows that if he even tries he’ll- Julian almost goes for the pick again in that moment, but as much as that blood pumps violently and covers his vision in that hateful red stain, Julian feels a strange calm settle over him. He takes the first step forward, Garak’s name spoken again, but this time whispered softly on his lips. There isn’t a denial to that address. Julian had been half afraid there would be some instinctive denial to that identification. But there isn’t. There’s nothing but quiet. Garak wears that pleasant smile armor back. It’s that mask perfectly in place- that mask Julian used to hate- but it reminds him so vividly of the Garak that he knew that it makes an anxious lump swell in his chest. It’s so easy to hate you, seeing you again. But then why do I feel like this looking at you? I hate you. I hate you. I…
   “I missed you,” Julian whispers calling on every bit of his ability as an actor in that moment. He’s almost terrified to find that he doesn’t have to. He hears a distant voice echoing from a bitter memory stained somehow with tears. “That’s your weakness, Bashir. You’re incapable of hate...” Julian takes another step, Garak not yet having moved, looking at him still unreadable, eyes watching as Julian raises a hand, reaching out to him. “I missed you I…” He swallows down the lie as he take’s Garak’s hand. Garak lets him limply, loosely. “I thought you were dead,” Julian whispers, letting their foreheads touch, closing his eyes. He can’t look at him. I have to kill you. Again Garak allows the action. Julian is beginning to wonder if he’s not seeing some mirage in the desert at this point- if he’s not really banging his head against the cold rock. But Garak is warm and Julian can hear, can feel him draw in a breath, the intimacy of that gesture that Parmak had shown him evident. I’m going to kill you. That intimacy is a weapon, he thinks clinically, not sure where that dispassionate voice comes from. It’s just another weapon to use against him. No, he knows that voice. It’s just been so long since he’s heard it that he-
   “Are you sure, my dear Julian, that this is the tact that you wish to take?” The question is a strange one. Julian draws back quickly, looking at him once more. Of all the rejoinders he might have expected it catches him off guard. But Julian is strangely quick, squeezing Garak’s hand.
“Of course it is,” he rushes in without hesitation. And only then does Garak squeeze his hand back tightly- almost painfully, that smile still never leaving his face.
“I suppose then, that there’s hope for you yet.”
And those are the last words that Julian remembers as Garak leans to kiss him, before there’s nothing but blackness.
   “You wanted to see me your Eminence, great and venerable Lord and Master of the mighty Cardassian Empire, may she and your Eminence both live eternal.” Garak enters the darkened chamber with a grand flourish, face stone serious as he speaks the words. He bows deeply, reverently, waiting for acknowledgment. In spite of the unexpected meeting, he’s still on time. From the modest seat, only a few scant meters from him, Enabran Tain looks up from a thick green robe, likely drawn over an equally warming tunic. It’s cool in that small space but no heat is dare used that might produce any odor. The light comes only from carefully crafted lamps containing glowing gaseous elements- one of Cardassia’s carefully guarded secrets. The light is faint, one small stick held by Tain’s wide fingers as he carefully the scroll in his other. He doesn’t look up, sitting there, almost as if waiting to see how long Garak might hold that improbable dip. His eyes catch a glimpse of the legs as they begin to tremble and that balance wavers only slightly. Still, Garak does not move until the page is set aside and Tain sighs almost irritably at last.
   “Is it really your intention to stand there and play this game, Garak?” Garak hides a smirk, addressing the thin cloth covering the ground as he answers.
“Games are for fools and children. I believe that’s what you said to me once. But perhaps we might have to reexamine what we consider a game. I would imagine the ruler of a mighty empire skulking beneath the ground like a child playing an elaborate round of tunnels to be playing a game, but then again, I’ve been told I’m a poor judge of these things.” Tain snorts waving his hand at Garak.
“A poor judge of my mood as well then. Stand up, Garak.” Garak obeys, hands clasped behind his back as he approaches; Tain’s mood is exactly as he’d judged it. The banter is a distraction; Garak has never been fond of small dark places. Parmak once postulated that he must have suffered some spiritual trauma in a former incarnation. But then again, Parmak is always far too open to metaphysical nonsense. Healing is as much of the mind and spirit as the body he’s fond of saying. Garak, for his part, has never met the man whose spirit could overcome a sharp blade across the throat. That sort of nonsense was exactly the reason it only took looking at him for four hours to break him.
   That memory makes Garak cold a moment, and he hides a shiver behind a shrug of his shoulders.
“If you let Corat sit on the throne any more, he might begin to think that he truly owns it,” he advises cautiously, referring to the double currently seated at the arena to watch the fights.
“I’m considering Corat,” Tain answers cryptically.
“A pity. I was always fond of him.”
“Considering,” Tain warns. “Not decided.”
“Of course. But I imagine that such talk is the reason that I’ve been… summoned.”
“It is. You’re aware of what the Maquis plan for the festival.” For the festival, not for him. Garak snorts.
“Some token protest no doubt to strike fear into the hearts of their devil lizard enemies and the bloated slug king that leads them… Their words of course, not mine.” Garak chooses not to make mention of his own colorful descriptor of “silver tongued mud snake”; admittedly, it’s grown on him. Tain chooses not to acknowledge his exposition.
“Humans have always been frightfully shortsighted. I have no doubt it’s their intent to use the attack to force a withdraw of our settlers from the demilitarized zone and likely grant some of their land back.”
   “Possibly to stop killing them as well. But I only offer that as speculation.” Garak ignores the fact that many of those killed in the past ten years have been by his own hand; he has his own reasons for that after all that have nothing to do with Tain.
“Whatever their foolish motivation, and you and I know that terrorists are the most foolish and hopeless of any rabble, we’re going to let them succeed.” Garak does not allow himself to be silent for any stretch of time at that. It’s taken him years to claw his way back up to this most tenuous of positions after his “betrayal” and only then because as Tain has been forced to concede, there’s still no one more capable.
“Of course,” he agrees having absolutely no intention of allowing Julian to take his life whether Tain orders it or not. He keeps his expression neutral as Tain laughs.
“Ah, Garak, I’ve no doubt that first thing tomorrow you’ll be on your way to Andromeda while some prisoner wearing your face bleeds all over those lovely sheets our beloved doctor Parmak has gifted you. No, I’ve always valued your sense of self preservation almost as much as your loyalty. It’s served me well over the years.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You will.” Tain shifts his bulk on the seat and Garak is reminded with a faint creak of bones just exactly how old he is. In body perhaps, but never in mind, he amends.
   Garak glances around briefly to the carefully constructed underground room known only to a select few. They’d arrived earlier and dug out the space, deep in the sand, careful to reinforce it minimally with the wood growing deep in the jungles. It was buried, this living tomb right below Tain’s tent where the double Corat sleeps and allows Tain to direct the action carefully from below. Garak is certain that Tain hasn’t spent more than a few hours at most above ground since their arrival here. Corat is perhaps worthless at best in the interrogation room, but he’s a veritable sponge and a quick study when it comes to mannerisms and behavior. Tain knew exactly what he was doing when selecting him for the assignment; there were times when Garak couldn’t be sure if it were Corat that he was speaking with or Tain. He didn’t dare allow himself to slip and find out. Garak cannot help but admire the cunning, as well as the cruelty in Garak’s role as his son. Yes, his son playing a role that he will never truly be allowed to assume but for that guise. It’s his punishment, of course, one of many for not just his betrayal but also for causing the violent change in government in the first place. Garak has accepted it without complaint.
   But now it would appear that Tain has tired of the assumed mantle of leadership and Garak, while disappointed that the Empire will lose a man who in his estimation was the competent pragmatist that it sorely needed, is thankful to once again be out of the spotlight. He’s always operated best from the shadows. And those shadows cast now along Tain’s face as he speaks again, softly, deliberately.
“When you shine a light on the darkness then people forget to be afraid of it. And when the rabbits no longer respect the darkness, that’s when the wolves come for them.” Ah, of course. The order cannot possibly continue as it is. Lok is capable but not extraordinary, and you know that is exactly where Tain belongs. Still, it’s in Garak’s nature to needle him, the walls feeling like they’re closing in in that cold dark.
“I’ve heard our people likened to many an animal, but I must say the noble leporidae is a first.”
“All men are prey, Elim. It’s their natural condition. It’s only when you pull enough of them together that they begin to feel brave, accomplished. It’s only when they’re molded to it that they learn to become the predators.”
   “I take it you plan on spending your retirement from public service in the creation of this grand manifesto.” Tain laughs.
“Spare me your curses and well wishes. You and I are destined to have the same retirement date, Garak. This will be our opportunity to retreat back to where the most capable of us best serve. And the Maquis and their foolish pawn are going to delivery us that opportunity. Yes, you are going to die, my noble son,” Tain promises, a mocking to that title, “But not a day before I order it.”
“They say the Ancients had their servants buried with them,” Garak offers as he looks up and swears that ceiling is beginning to cave in.
“Ah, whatever would I do without you, Garak?” Tain says affably. Garak stiffens warily at the tone. One must never strike in anger; some of Garak’s greatest pain has been endured with that gentle fatherly smile. A smile- the greatest blessing and the cruelest weapon.
“I believe you’ve said on occasion that you’d sleep far more comfortably.”
“Perhaps. But not tonight. And not tomorrow night. For now, you need to live. Play the human’s game. I don’t imagine that should prove too difficult. You’ve always had a weakness for those idealistic little rabbits. But now, I believe we can consider that weakness something we can use, wouldn’t you say?”
   Garak ducks his head and nods, feeling a cold chill at that tone. No, There’s no way that he could know. Not even Tain, not even he could know that-
“I’m glad we understand each other.” Garak bows again, ready to take his leave.
“It was a pleasure as always, your eminence,” Garak says with a smile, stopped mid turn when Tain’s voice speaks again.
“Do you remember Garak, when you were a child and you’d asked Mila if you might keep a pet? Some chittering rodent you’d found scurrying around the gardens. Do you remember what she’d said to you?”
“A foolish sentiment.” Of course he remembered it quite vividly. Just as he remembered that disobedience. And then being forced to kill it with his own hands.
“And have you kept that directive in mind?” Garak swallows, glad that he’s no longer facing Tain.
“I’ve always obeyed your directives whether real or imagined.”
“Ah, dear Elim, sometimes I think you actually believe that.” Garak is wise enough to know not to dispute the point further but merely to wait for Tain to tell him exactly how he’s disappointed him today.
   “There are some men,” Tain continues, “who would argue that belief is at the core of truth, and therefore a man who believes his own lies cannot possibly be lying.”
“A foolish sentiment.” Garak repeats. He knows quite well that is not a sentiment shared by Enabran Tain.
“I might be able to overlook one little rabbit for my favorite mistake, Elim. But not two.” Garak hears the words, acutely aware of his own breathing and how loud it seems right now.
“Far be it for me to question your sources when I’m sure they’re far superior to mine. But in this one instance I believe that you’re mistaken. ”
“Oh?” A dangerous sound that Garak ignores for better or worse.
“I don’t keep rabbits any longer,” Garak says glibly as he walks, almost defiantly towards the narrow tunnel leading out. “But I shall keep your words as always, close to my heart.”
   Yes, they might have been rabbits, once upon a time, Julian and Kelas, but not any longer. Garak had seen to that himself.
   The first face Julian sees when he opens his eyes is not Elim Garak’s but Kelas Parmak’s. The flash of disappointment is quickly enveloped with a fast rush of excitement. He has to blink a few times, his mouth unpleasantly dry and sandy as Parmak helps him sit up, the two of them shaded by the large rock. There’s a skin of water passed to his lips and he’s careful to drink from it slowly. Julian nearly panics when he realizes that he was unconscious but looks to the sun’s positioning and realizes that it wasn’t nearly as long as he’d feared. He opens his mouth to speak but Parmak is faster.
“Prince Garak asked me to see to you,” Parmak informs him from his kneeling position, sitting back on his feet with an ease that would be the envy of men half his age. Julian notes that Parmak seems to have some strange garment tied around his waist over the loose tank top and familiar pants with a cloth sack next to him. There’s no doubt it’s probably the remnants of whatever dress clothes he was supposed to be wearing. “He said your seeing him was too great a shock for you but he couldn’t wait to be sure.”
   “I doubt he put it that succinctly,” Julian says with a snort, without thinking, almost cursing himself out loud for the slip. Parmak merely smiles as if he were part of that inside joke as well, patting the top of his hand.
“His exact words were “My dear Kelas, I had the earlier good fortune of running into an old acquaintance along the road back to the encampment and while mere words cannot begin to describe my elation at our fateful encounter, I’m afraid that our impromptu meeting was more of a surprise than he could properly accommodate, though I wouldn’t rule out a heat related malady either. If you could possibly see any way to tend to him in my absence I will be eternally in your debt.”
Julian shakes his head, sitting up.
“That sounds like him, alright.” He looks towards the ground uncomfortably. “I suppose the cat’s out of the bag, isn’t it? That we… know each other…”
“Was it supposed to be a secret?” Parmak doesn’t sound particularly surprised or concerned. Julian looks over to see him writing in a bound book, not looking at him.
“No,” he says perhaps too quickly. “Nothing like that I just… ah… I didn’t want you to think my interest in you was motivated by… something else.”
   “You wouldn’t be the first to think that my acquaintance would be a sure path to Elim.” The scratch of that quill continues absently. “It’s a poorly kept secret that Elim is one of my dearest friends, but you know how he covets his secrets.” Parmak speaks with a familiarity that Julian irrationally envies. For all the time they knew each other, were intimate, he’s never felt that he ever really knew Garak at all. But that doesn’t matter, Julian. You don’t need to know him. Not like his dearest…
“You’re Garak’s Kelas!” Julian exclaims suddenly, recalling the book, recalling the way that Garak would frequently mention him in passing, in some story or another, once, oddly in bed as strange as that was. But even with all that mention, Julian had begun to wonder if there even was a Kelas Parmak or if that name wasn’t some allegorical nonsense or some archetypical character from myth. Julian hadn’t made the connection with the names when he’d met him either, chalking it up to some common tradition. Why should he? Garak had said Kelas Parmak had died years ago. Should’ve known that was just another damn lie he told you.
“Garak’s? Kelas?” Julian, not known for being the most astute when it comes to reading the atmosphere- as Keiko O’Brien would say- can tell nonetheless that somehow that was not the right thing to say.
Julian isn’t quite sure if that expression is one of anger or something else. It’s calm, extremely calm, which seems unusual compared to the usual open expression he wears. Parmak closes the book and absently brushes his pants off. He seems troubled though perhaps not angry.
   “I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant to offend you It’s just that I… ah…” Somehow he doesn’t think saying that he thought Parmak was dead is the right answer in any circumstance.
“There’s no offense. No…” Parmak stands up. “You’re mistaken, I’m afraid. I think you’re conflating human concepts of…” he makes a vague gesture with his hand. “No, that’s not it.” Julian is on his feet as well, though perhaps a bit too quickly as he feels a touch of vertigo. He leans back against the rock as he hears the book drop, finding Parmak almost flush against him suddenly, hands on his shoulders, a hand moving to his neck, to his forehead examining him.
“Really,” Julian says unable to help savor the warmth of those hands. “I’ve an awful tendency to say things that have no sense to them.”
“It was a sensible conclusion given the information you had… I’m sure… whatever impression that Elim gives it’s intended to be the wrong one. It usually is.” Parmak speaks clinically, calmly as he checks Julian’s pulse. “Your pulse is fast,” he says only inches from Julian’s face and Julian wonders madly if that’s intentional or not. He stops wondering when Parmak steps back and retrieves the book. “Of course it’s the natural human physiological result of close body proximity… of a male or female or other to which one feels sexual attraction.” Those fingers drum on the book absently while Julian ponders what exactly Parmak means by other.
“I’m fine, really. Ehm… can we forget I said anything perhaps? If it’s a sore point I…” And why else would a man say another was dead if there wasn’t some sore point?
   “Again, you’re not understanding. Parmak looks over at him speculatively and it’s not entirely pleasant. “There is no Garak’s Kelas.” Ah. Right. Bad parting of ways then. “Just as there is no State’s Kelas.” Or maybe not. Julian has no idea what he’s trying to say. “Do you understand?” Not in the slightest. Julian opens his mouth and shuts it again. He doesn’t need to shake his head. Parmak looks at him making Julian feel impossibly young. “No, I don’t imagine that you would.”
“What about Julian’s Kelas?” He says that stupidly, thinking of all the young ladies he’s charmed with such bold lines when there weren’t any stakes or any real risk of them even accepting. The completely blank expression that Parmak shoots him in answer makes the last tiny quivering bit of his ego shrink back into the dirt.
“You won’t get to Garak through me,” Parmak says to him matter of factly as he retrieves the water skin from the ground as well. There isn’t much that Julian can say to that but he’s also acutely aware that saying nothing would be far more damning.
“You don’t believe that I want you for just you?” He takes the skin as it’s handed to him. What are you saying, Julian? The man just told you that you’re not getting to Garak through him. There’s no need to continue this ridiculous charade.
“You don’t know me.”
“You’re an incredibly attractive man.” And I want to know if everything that Garak ever told me about you is true.
“No. I’m not.” Like that stubbornness…
“I’m not arguing a subjective matter with you.” Now Garak on the other hand would argue it until the wheels fell off…
   Parmak isn’t Garak, Far from it.
“Alright.” There’s a nod to that as Parmak turns, seeming to consider the matter settled. Julian sees today that his hair is plaited into a long tail swinging behind him. Parmak is already throwing back on that garment around his waist that Julian can see is a dark green coat.
“You’re just going to take me at my word?” Julian’s sure he sounds incredulous but in his experience that’s the sort of response that usually followed up with some eternal harboring of ill feeling- at least if Miles O’Brien is anything to go by.
“Shouldn’t I?” Julian sees the hopeless looking wrinkles of that coat and can only imagine how Garak would despair to see it. There’s an odd cold feeling that Julian finds to the ease in which these thoughts insinuate themselves into his mind. As if this is normal. As if this is okay. As if Garak isn’t the monster that he’s sworn to destroy in some divinely sanctioned retribution. That upset him more than he can quite understand.
“Of course! I mean… Well... People lie you know.” As soon as he speaks the words, he realizes how completely stupid such a statement that is to anyone who’s known Garak for any length of time. Julian opens his mouth but shuts it again quickly, taking a long drink. The water is cool and refreshing.
“No one lies,” Parmak says stunning him with the finality of those words. Julian thinks he really believes that.
“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone lies.”
“Is it a human custom to resort to ad hominem attacks so early in a debate? Or is that because your argument is going to be weak?”
   “My argument is not- First off, ‘don’t be silly’ is an idiomatic expression and second off…” Julian trails off seeing a small smirk twitching the corner of Parmak’s mouth. He laughs, not even realizing how badly he needed that release of tension. Parmak laughs as well- quite loudly in fact, with his full face, that laughter drawing out until Julian has to lean back on that stone hard, knees starting to buckle. His head dips forward, dots starting to form in front of his eyes. Julian takes another drink. The water is cool and refreshing. When he looks up, he sees Parmak, right there, the book set down on top of the bag. There’s still a grin on his face as he steps closer.
“Lie to me, Julian.”
“I… beg your pardon?” Julian feels almost foolish as his head quickly darts around, feeling strangely as if the two of them are engaged in some illicit activity. But no, there’s no one else about, the two tall pillars shading them, hiding them rather neatly from the south east sun in the neat “L” that they form. Parmak repeats the request holding up his hand.
            “Here. Put your hand here and tell me a lie.”
“Is this some sort of magic trick?” Julian asks him as he places his right hand against Parmak’s. In spite of the amused denial, Julian almost thinks that it is, feeling almost immediate warmth when their skin touches. “I know that there are psychological tricks… that there are components to deceit such as increased respiration, movement of the pupils, extraneous blinking but right now…”
“It’s a matter of the body. The body, the spirit the soul, if you will. Our bodies, our deepest selves want to be connected to each other. They want to be united, they want to be one. That’s what the Ancients believed.” Julian looks at their hands meeting, at their fingertips touching.
“Is that what you believe?”
“Do you know,” Parmak allows their fingers to thread, “that my people believe touch to be a sacred intimacy? You might think that we don’t consider it important but that’s not correct. We Cardassians like to hold onto our most valuable possessions.” Yes, like Garak and his secrets. Julian isn’t sure who squeezes first. He only knows that their hands lock tighter together. “But I’ve never understood why keep that warmth to yourself. If all that our spirits want is to go back to one another...” Julian isn’t sure when it happened but his eyes have fallen closed, those words spoken against his mouth, breath to breath.
            And so he breathes When Parmak is silent, Julian doesn’t answer him but instead allows that life to pulse between them slowly and steadily until the world nearly falls out of focus before being set somehow perfectly back into balance. He becomes acutely aware not just of skin, but of scent. There’s a common story that tells the cobras always smell of cucumbers, and to smell that sweet scent means certain death. And maybe it does. And so defiantly, Julian licks that scent from Parmak’s mouth, a soft taste at first three swipes before it’s met with a tongue lapping back, not urgently but slowly. Their joined hands drop down. Parmak presses against him- chest, stomach, standing straddling Julian’s left leg, arm to arm as well. Not hard, but gently, lightly as if Julian’s body were a continuation of his own.
   “Julian,” Parmak breathes his name like a benediction.
“Yes?”
“Tell me a lie, now, Julian.”
“I...” He tries to think of something, anything from Parmak being an inveterate imbecile to the sky being green but they all flash by so quickly that he can’t seem to grasp hold of just one.
“Do you want me to help you?”
“Yes please... if you would. I’m afraid that I-”
“Are you Garak’s Julian?” said just as it was said to him, that inflection a perfect mirror. “Don’t open your eyes,” Parmak says as his mouth passes over the rough of Julian’s beard, their cheeks brushing, Parmak’s lips at his ear. Julian shivers as if he has a fever. “Are you Garak’s Julian?” he repeats and and the response is immediate with that second time.
“No. Never.” Except that Julian was supposed to lie and instead he spoke the absolute truth. Only Parmak laughs softly, warm, like coming home, letting him go but not quite stepping away.
   “See,” Parmak says as if that somehow proved everything that he was saying. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
   “To my dearest friend, Elim.” That was the brief dedication in the book sitting on the small table in the center of the living room above Garak’s shop. The book was curious in that it didn’t seem to be professionally bound but rather threaded together carefully- though not in the manner of a commercial work. It also wasn’t typeset. It was handwritten. Oddly the dedication was written in their standard alphabet but the remainder of the work was in that spidery Cardassian script. He recognized a few words- mostly medical- which definitely didn’t make sense given the small bit of context that he could make out from the rest but little else. Julian quickly set the book back down when Garak returned to the room with a tray holding two glasses and bottle of blue liquid that appeared more like some magic alchemic elixir than a proper drink. In fact, it almost seemed to glow in the dim lighting.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be looking through your personal articles. I thought it might have been a medical book from the title but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
“Think nothing of it, my dear. The book is meant to be a conversation piece and it seems that it’s fulfilled its purpose quite admirably.” Garak sounded amused as he continued. “What, might I ask though made you think that it was a medical text?”
   “Well the title, of course, “On the treatment of Cardassian illnesses.” Julian looked up at him confused.
“Yes, I can definitely see where you would read it that way.” Garak’s head tilted a bit, examining the words from Julian’s angle as he set down the tray. Garak took a seat next to him on a large cushion, looking slightly unsteady as he did. He’d been determined to get the hand of the provincial earthy sitting habits of their people and Julian hadn’t been sure at the time if he’d been joking or not. Seeing Garak trying to get comfortable made him recall in his studies the tendency for Cardassians to have a rather prominent coccyx, extra cartilage, the remnants of that vestigial tale. He couldn’t imagine that Garak could have been terribly comfortable. “But I believe that you, as many other novices before have made the mistake of reading only the ah… I’m not sure how the word translates but the top reading. There is an eastern Federation script I’ve had a chance to see once before that uses characters more similar than our own in that they possess multiple readings.”
   Julian watched his mouth, watched his hands, watched every bit of him determined to commit it to memory now that he’d finally allowed himself that transgression. If he was going to die... “But the differences in how they read is essential- I believe your similar script is dependent upon the character proceeding it whereas ours... You see if you read this in a right to left circle as I believe you are, you come to your conclusion. But here, the “treatment” takes a different meaning as does “illnesses”. Oh, it’s a subtle difference to be sure, but if you parse the text in the reverse, you’ll find that it says “To Cure the Cardassian State.”
“Wait,” Julian reexamined the path of Garak’s finger, certainly understanding but- “You said it’s not dependent on the surrounding characters but then how on do you know which reading to use?” Garak merely smiled, pouring the thick blue liquid into two glasses.
   Julian admired the ornate glasswork of the bottle, waiting for him to give a response. The bottle almost resembled a hookah in design, carefully carved, some parts seeming to twist back around on itself so that one couldn’t quite be sure where it began and ended. Somehow that clicked in him and he looked over, that revelation dawning as he also realized that Garak’s silence was all the response he was going to get.
“You can’t be serious… it’s nothing but guesswork? All of it?”
“I prefer to think of it as a mystery. As well as an invaluable insight into one’s character. For once you know the manner in which an author chooses to make use of their words, you learn all sort of things about them. The author here, Kelas Parmak for example, chose to reverse “illness” and yet didn’t quite seem to make a solid commitment to the Cardassian State itself. Doubtless a reluctant holdover from the years he was imprisoned. But then again, Kelas has always been a bit different, a bit sensitive, if you will. If I had to describe him, I would say that he’s a man who’d have had a happier life were he born a human. He would vehemently disagree with that sentiment of course, in that way of his.”
   “It sounds like the two of you were very close.”
“Oh no, not at all. I only knew him briefly. A day I would say and no more than that. And then he was gone.” Julian suddenly remembered something he’d heard once, from Chief O’Brien remarking on the departure of their Cardassian guests.
“You know, I’ve heard that one day in Cardassia is as long as two in the Federation.” Julian grinned at him with what he hoped was the proper amount of challenge. “Because the locals will talk the sun into setting a day late.” Julian shifted from where he sat crosslegged, trying to remember body language, to lean back. He’d had the lessons somewhere, in a time that he couldn’t quite recall. Open, listening, willing, but not passive. That was what he needed to convey now. Or was that correct for the current situation? He wasn’t sure, but Garak seemed to give an appreciative nod for his effort.
   “Dull witted humans with little mind for intelligent conversation,” he replied easily.
“Some might say it’s only the man who can’t properly engage an audience that curses it for being unworthy... like a man cursing the Prophets for not blessing him with the gift of wit.” That was one he recalled from Leeta on more than one occasion.
“Ah, whatever would we do without such thoughtful Bajoran proverbs?”
“You say that awfully dismissively.”
“No more than a man speaking of the language of animals. I’m certain a horse would have quite a bit to teach me about being a horse. But in the end, who really wants to learn the ways of a beast of burden.”
“Spoken like a man who clearly sees nothing wrong with the Occupation,” Julian said with a flush of anger.
“Now why ever would you come to that conclusion?”
“But you just-” Nonplussed, Julian almost visibly deflated. “You can’t... You cannot possibly tell me-”
“That one must believe a race equal to his own to believe that they hold a right to self determination?” Julian’s mouth bobbed open shut a moment before he scratched his neck self consciously feeling just a bit foolish. He decided to examine his cup a little further.
   Julian sniffed at the cold liquid in the long stemmed glass curious. It had a sweet aroma but it was subtle, faint, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Garak’s tongue dip into the glass without touching the liquid. He recalled what he’d read of Cardassian taste and smell, how they, like snakes and other lizards posses that organ in the roof of the mouth to press the tongue to both smell and taste at once. He’d imagined, when he’d read it some reptilian creature flicking a forked tongue out of a lipless mouth. No, not at all. There was something sensual about that delicate poke of Garak’s pink tongue, tasting that taste itself by way of introduction in out, a small dart from between his gray lips once, twice, a quick motion that made him feel warm. It was a silly thought, but nerves and that innate inquisitiveness prompted Julian to do the same. He thought he saw Garak stare at him a moment just a bit but he wasn’t sure. Julian had noticed his senses sometimes seemed just a bit faster than those of his peers but then just as often it was his mind, his mishmash of memories playing a trick on him.
   “A good year of kanar,” Garak remarked, seeming to tease him.
“I really wouldn’t know, what with not tasting it and all.”
“Ah right, a pity. I forget sometimes that humans are limited where the matter of taste is concerned. I would advise against sticking your finger in it as I’ve seen some humans do to taste their food. It has certain properties that doesn’t always agree with the skin.”
“I think we have a very fine sense of taste, thank you.”
“Perhaps fine when functional but I can say that since I’ve gotten here, every new face that I meet seems to be a study in aromas. Whether it’s the garlic, the turmeric, that stuff that you burn when your own bodily scents become too strong. Incest?” Julian almost choked on his own saliva at that word just about convinced Garak has confused the similar sounds for that very effect.
“Incense!” He corrected quite flustered.
   Garak tasted that air again seeming almost relieved at whatever brushed those unique taste buds. Julian couldn’t help but feel some offense at that last bit but then he recalled quite poignantly from his texts that unlike humans and other races, Cardassians didn’t perspire. Seeing Garak’s eyes closed, Julian gave a sniff to his own garments discreetly. He’d washed of course- washed and even borrowed some of Jadzia’s oils. But Julian was thinking now as he smelled the earthy myrrh, that perhaps that was the worst thing that he could’ve done. Well, Julian, if you haven’t already made a mess of things you might as well at least enjoy the drink. Growing tired of tasting bland air and making an ass of himself, Julian took a small sip finding that the kanar slipped over his tongue and nearly down his throat like a living organism. It was quite unnerving, the convulsion of his of throat almost reactive and a second too late. He blinked a few times, feeling not fire but cold falling down his esophagus, down his chest until it settled in his belly still never seeming to be still. It was then that he felt the warmth begin to bloom out, a sun rising in his gut, a tingle beginning to spread down his arms and legs. His heart was racing in an instant and he nearly dropped the glass as he went to put it down.
   “Garak?” Julian asked feeling just a bit panicked. “What is… ah, what is in kanar?” He thought that he already had a guess, that he foolishly hadn’t realized a foreigner would think nothing of imbibing an alcoholic drink for a festive occasion, but he just needed that confirmation. He watched as Garak paused his non drinking to look at him. It seemed he realized the issue as well, setting his own glass down with a sigh.
“You don’t drink,” he said rather than asked. Julian shook his head almost violently.
“No of course not it’s-“ It’s what Julian? Against your beliefs? Immoral? Take a look at yourself. You’re sitting next to a man close enough to touch, looking over at him with that lust, looking at his mouth, looking at his body beneath the dark green tunic. Julian hadn’t yet released the stem of the glass. He rolled his thumb over the delicate neck of the glass, staring hard at the blue liquid, pursing his lips tilting his head. “I’m going to die you know,” Julian said, a laugh sticking in his throat as he picked the glass back up.
“I know.”
“You what?”
“It’s hardly a secret, dear Julian. Even the Ancients, fabled to have lived centuries eventually met their timely end. So of course... one day... you will perish.”
   “You’re not listening to to me I mean I...” Julian stopped, almost sensing that pain in his head threatening to come back but as he looked at Garak, looked in his eyes he saw the words for what they really were. Garak knew. Julian didn’t know how Garak knew that he was going to die. But he could see it in those eyes, just like Dr. Crusher’s, almost down to the same blue, they knew, they understood. “I mean that it doesn’t particularly matter, does it?” He took another long drink this time ready for that cold warmth that blazed back up hotly. “I mean if I... if we’re both destined to rot into this Earth then we should enjoy it, shouldn’t we?” Garak placed his hand over Julian’s, easing that glass down.
“As refreshingly pure as I find your newfound nihilism, Julian, I might warn you that for the unseasoned, just a few sips can be quite life altering.” His voice was an odd quiet and Julian wasn’t sure what had changed suddenly.
“It seems like a waste of your drink if I’m not going to drink to a stupor so you can ravish me.” Julian felt a heat to his cheeks as he said those words, feeling bold just as he felt that pain begin to encroach on him. He wondered if he might drink it away. Hardly likely- Julian was well aware of the effects of alcohol on the body and none were particularly beneficial.
   “If you need to rely on the drink to be your moral crutch, then perhaps I misjudged you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’d taken you for a man of stronger character, stronger conviction once his mind had been set to a course. A perfect representation of that vaunted Federation man.”
“And am I somehow failing to live up to your expectations?” He felt the sharp sting of disappointment, of rebuke. He was angry at himself for his behavior, for his failure, for his stupid decisions ever since he’d met Garak. He was angry with Garak as well for the same. He took another drink almost spitefully knowing that Garak was watching him.
“I expected a man. I got a child,” Garak replied primly. Julian opened his mouth to reply frozen still as a sharp pain hit him. His jaw clenched tight, teeth almost grinding. Garak seemed not to notice as he too took a drink. The words stung. They hurt like hell and he wasn’t quite sure where they were coming from. Garak wasn’t looking at him and Julian grabbed his arm, yanking harder than he’d intended.
   What happened next stunned them both. Garak moved quickly, grabbing his wrist twisting, Julian having no idea where that attack instinct came from. But just as alarming was his own unconscious response to that defense, a series of patterns playing through his head frantically, that pain blaring until he moved. Sacrifice wrist, glass, throat, kill. The pain stopped the instant he acted, his hand already seizing the broken stem, ignoring what was sure to be a terrible injury. Except he stopped, staring at his hand, dropping it back to the ground, eyes wide with fear. Garak released his wrist, and Julian thought he saw a flash of silver but just as quickly it was gone. And there was Garak, that mask fallen away to something far darker, far more dangerous, speaking to him with words that he couldn’t understand. Julian couldn’t understand anything in that moment. He couldn’t hear, he could barely see, the room unfocusing to nothing but black, to pinpricks of light swirling until he had to shut his eyes against it. And then Garak was at his side, lowering him to the ground on the pillow, face a picture of grim concern that Julian didn’t understand. He thought that he felt himself being moved, hands clutching the sides of his head as the pain was accompanied by images flashing fast in a series of still shudders. Pain, blood, hate, fight, kill, all converged to that man’s face again, the one his mind knew as Sloan. Only this time that man was shaking his father’s hand, looking at him with a smile before he was taken away.
   And then the pain finally reached the blackout threshold, pulling him into a world of darkness and dreams.
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