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Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:51:57 -0500
Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 2/12 (G/B) [NC-17]
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Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes.

-------------------------------------------
Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 2/12)
-------------------------------------------


Dr. Julian Bashir was a man of many virtues, but he had his vices as
well. Two, to be exact: Tarkalean tea and a sly tailor of his
acquaintance. Both of them were sitting in front of him, and the
warmth provided by the former ate at his resolve to not let the latter
get to him.

"A man of deceptive nature, that's what you are," he said, pressing
his advantage in one of their perennial topics of discussion -- one he
could never tire of, for it was a certain way of making Garak spin on
to one of his more fantastic tales. 

"Doctor, you wound me," Garak said, sounding decidedly unwounded and
perhaps a tad amused. "Deceptive -- I, a simple tailor? Really, now."

"Tinker, tailor...soldier, spy."

Garak glanced at the ceiling as if he was trying hard to place the
quote -- a gesture Bashir knew to be unneeded, given the eidetic memory
Cardassians had. The theatrics undoubtedly amused his companion,
Bashir concluded, pleasantly surprised that he had learned to see
through at least one of Garak's charades.

"Another of your so-called 'nursery rhymes' if I'm not mistaken,
albeit with a twist?"

"I prefer to call it proper appropriation," Bashir countered with a
smirk to match Garak's. "'Sailor' is hardly a descriptive title for
you."

"I'm afraid that apart from tailor, neither are the others."

"Oh, we're not playing the 'plain and simple tailor' game again, I
trust? I had hoped we'd be well past that stage by now."

Garak's smile brightened and he cocked his head. "I wasn't aware you
regarded my profession as a game. I assure you, it's quite an arduous
pursuit of the arts."

"I'm not talking about your current profession, Garak, I'm talking
about your history -- your secrets. You conceal things with aplomb I
can't help but be intrigued about." Bashir snorted. "Plain and simple,
indeed."

"As flattered as I am by your apparent compliment, I simply have no
idea what you're talking about, doctor."

Recognising Garak's prim evasion for what it was -- a method with which
to make him reveal his hand -- Bashir didn't reply
immediately. Instead, he gave his companion a cool scrutiny that was
often enough to make his patients fidget and tug at their
clothing. Garak did nothing of the sort; he merely gazed back, face
schooled to a perfection of guilelessness even when his eyes twinkled.

"Well, the clothing you wear, for starters. Very sinister."

Garak sat back, his eyes widening. "My *clothes*? I assure you,
there's nothing even remotely sinister about my tailoring," he said,
sounding almost injured as he ran a hand down his chest. 

And indeed, there really was nothing wrong with his clothes -- quite
the opposite, Bashir thought distractedly. Garak was wearing a new
suit, a conflagration of patterned silk offset by luxuriously smooth
wool in a shade of midnight blue that brought out the incandescent
blue of his eyes. Catching himself, Bashir almost laughed. He'd
obviously been spending far too much time with the tailor and his
rather stringent sense of fashion, since observing wearables was not
something he had a habit of doing. 

"I meant, what it does is very...secretive," Bashir said, enunciating
the last word with relish as he warmed to his subject. "The style is
cut to be comfortable, yet as unrevealing as possible. It hides all it
can about your physiology, turning what I suspect to be a reasonably
well-maintained body to something far less obvious."

"I'm sure you are aware that we Cardassians are a modest race," Garak
said primly, his hands delicate on his glass of Rokassa
juice. "There's more, isn't there?" he prompted after a moment of
silence from Bashir.

"And it drapes over your neckridges. A most unusual choice of styles
for a Cardassian," Bashir said, smiling at his choice of words. If
there was one thing Garak had taught him, it was subterfuge of the
verbal kind.

"How so?"

"It effectively conceals any unwilling signs of emoting the flushing
of your neckridges might undergo when you're angry, afraid--" 

"Afraid?" Garak broke in, almost laughing. "My dear doctor, you
continue to wound me." His tone suggested that being afraid was a
concept he was familiar with only in the abstract.

"--humoured, embarrassed," Bashir plowed on, "and maybe even..." He
again trailed off, gesturing with his hand in his excitement that had
derailed his train of thought.

"Aroused?" 

Bashir's hand froze in the air as Garak's choice of words, nonchalant
and airy in delivery, sank in. Lowering his hand, Bashir found his
gaze jumping between the amused glint in his companion's eyes to the
short length of neck ridge visible as it emerged from underneath the
inky silk that covered Garak's left shoulder. 

As he watched, the ridge suddenly darkened, the edges of the scales
over and below it lifting in a rippling frisson that ran the length
from the collar to Garak's ear. The skin normally hidden under the
scales was gunmetal grey, and Bashir found he had to fight his impulse
to reach over the table and touch the delicate layers that had
performed such an elaborate dance. It was a show he'd never been privy
to before, a hypnotising reminder of how alien his lunch companion
really was. He wondered how the scales would feel under his
fingertips: rough and clammy, like the skin of a crocodile, or smooth
and slick, like the Andorian silk that hid the rest?

"Mmm, yes," Garak said blithely as if nothing was amiss. His skin
paled to its normal colour in a matter of seconds. "Because of its
easily concealed location, the *rak'tal* a much more convenient
physiological phenomenon than the one Humans are so very unlucky to
have," Garak said. The Universal Translator refused to provide a
translation for the Kardasi word.

Bashir frowned through his haze, deciphering Garak's redirection of
the topic. "Which is?" he asked, clearing his throat when he found his
voice to be wavering.

Garak said nothing, merely continued to look at him with a deadly
approximation of his earlier physician's scrutiny. The unblinking
study made Bashir blush, although he couldn't quite put his finger on
why it did so.

Flexing his jaw, Bashir tried to will the colour down, but it was in
vain. "All right, I concede your point," he muttered, feeling the heat
on his cheeks.

"Even with my considerable talents in tailoring, I'm afraid any
clothing covering your cheeks would be terribly unwieldy," Garak
continued blithely, his eyes never leaving Bashir. "Although I do find
the colour quite...enchanting."

Garak's comment served to only intensify Bashir's flush. He was saved
from further embarrassment by the chirp of his combadge. Stifling a
sigh of relief, he tapped it.

"Bashir here."

"Sorry to interrupt your lunch, doctor," Captain Sisko intoned through
the comm, "but would you please join us in the wardroom, at your
convenience? Bring Mr. Garak with you if he's available."

Bashir's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "How'd you...never mind," he
amended hastily and stood up. "On my way."

"Good. Sisko out." 

Bashir eyed his companion who was staring up at him with unfathomable
depth in his eyes, their tint a blue reminiscent of Romulan ale. "You
busy?" he asked.

"I'm assuming this has something to do with the Cardassian resistance
envoys that boarded the station last night," Garak said and patted the
corners of his mouth with a napkin, his manner unhurried and
contemplative. 

Bashir blinked. "What the hell?" The visit, representatives of the
Cardassian Underground Movement that opposed Cardassia's pact with the
Dominion, was a top-secret affair that only the command staff was
supposed to know about due to security reasons. "Garak. How would you
know anything about such things?"

Letting the napkin drop, Garak stood up and smiled. "You wouldn't
believe the things people, even Starfleet officers, discuss with their
tailors. Now let us not keep our good Captain waiting."

Bashir sighed in resignation and nodded towards the Promenade. "After
you."

"Please, you first," Garak said and gestured with flourish. "I
insist."

"Somehow, I knew you would," Bashir grunted under his breath and
headed for the replimat exit.

* * * * * * * * * *

"So, let me ask you something, doctor."

Bashir glanced at Garak, who was at his side. In the narrow space of
the corridor, they were walking close to one another but not too close
-- just close enough for Bashir to feel the heat of Garak's
warmer-than-human Cardassian body on his arm and side. 

"Yes?"

"We haven't had our regular lunches for months, and now suddenly,
we've eaten together twice this week already," Garak said, his hand
gesturing with delicacy so very unsuitable for its obvious
strength. "While not unpleasant, this sudden change of heart is
somewhat unexpected. May I inquire as to why you're so eager to spend
time with me again?"

Trying to school his face into blandness so as not to show the
amusement he felt, Bashir mused how much he'd really missed Garak. He
also recognised the truth in the rather cruel reproach the polite
wording of the question concealed. 

Looking back, Bashir could only conclude that it really hadn't been
anything special that had caused him to drift away from his friend,
more a collusion of many small things. It had been the war and the
long days it had meant for him, the blows he'd taken both personal and
war-related, and the sudden bleakness of the future that had caused
him to retreat from contact. He'd sought refuge in the mindless games
he played with O'Brien and in his work, because neither of them
reminded how he'd been before the war: happy.

And so, amidst the discord of war, he'd lost sight of what was
important to him: the company of his friends. He'd played games with
Miles but didn't really spend time with him; he'd exchanged
pleasantries with Jadzia but never saw her outside work; he'd engaged
Garak in pleasant small talk whenever they met on the Promenade but
had stopped having actual conversations with him. Unwittingly and
slowly, like a cancer transforming tissue, his friendships had
deteriorated into the casual interaction of acquaintances. 

The turning point in his thinking hadn't been just one thing, more a
slow change of tide. A month spent in a Dominion prison had been the
start, because after returning to Deep Space 9, he'd come to realise
that none of his so-called friends had recognised that a changeling
had replaced him. The revelation of the secret in his genes a clear
jolt in the right direction, and the final push had been that one
night a fortnight ago when he'd visited the O'Briens for a dinner and
felt like an outsider in their table. Coming home that night, he'd
poured himself a stiff drink, talked with Jadzia over the comm for two
hours, and sent Garak a lunch invitation. 

He knew just the thing to say in reply to Garak's query, but it needed
a bit of a build-up or else he'd disappoint his friend with his
directness. So, all Bashir said in all seriousness was, "Would you
believe me if I said I've missed you?"

"No, because it would lead me to believe you had once again been
replaced by a changeling," Garak replied smoothly. The look he gave, a
calculating glance from narrowed eyes, made Bashir shiver. "Perhaps I
should do my very own kind of blood screening on you, doctor."

With a slightly uneasy smile, Bashir wondered when he'd lost control
of the exchange. He knew Garak was only joking, but as it always was,
he took the safe route. Just in case. "I don't think that's necessary,
really. But thank you for the kind offer."

With one final glance, Garak's features softened to their usual
amicable facade. "So if you indeed have not been missing me, what's
the truth then?"

Bashir paused for a moment, trying to think of the exact words he
should use to convey what he thought. He clearly recognised how he'd
forgotten how he enjoyed the matching of wits, the elaborate,
infuriating webs of Garak's lies, the blunt questions that were so
un-Cardassian that Bashir was certain their straightforward nature was
designed to unbalance him. So he went for bluntness as well.

"I've lost sight of a lot of good things during this war, Garak,"
Bashir said with emphasis. "I don't want to lose you, too." There, the
surprise. The truth. 

Garak did a double take that would've been almost comical had it not
been quite so practiced. His laughter, low and rich, made Bashir's
blush return with vengeance, for it was a sound that made his insides
tumble about in a rather pleasant way. "My dear doctor, I am a lot of
things and none of them would I characterise as good," Garak said, his
eyes twinkling. 

Bashir sighed and valiantly ignored his flushed state. Of course. With
most people, declarations of low self-worth were a way to court
compliments or present a humble exterior so thin one could see right
through it, as intended. But when it came to Garak, as it was with so
many things, self-effacing remarks were not what they seemed. They
were a blatant lie designed to be discovered -- the only way Garak knew
how to tell the truth. 

Bashir grinned. Garak had said it himself, years ago in the holosuite:
good operatives had no egos. It was certainly true of Garak for all he
had was the greatest of ironies: a truthful picture of himself. 

"Somehow, I knew you were going to say exactly that," Bashir said.

"Ah, what a shame," Garak muttered at length and clucked his tongue in
consternation. "I shall endeavour not to disappoint you in such a
manner again."

"And I knew you were going to say that, too."

Whatever loquacious retort Garak had in mind, it was forestalled by
their arrival at the wardroom. The doors swished open and Bashir
stepped in, followed closely by Garak. 

The wardroom table was fully manned, with the senior staff on one side
and a half a dozen Cardassians of varying ages and genders seated in
the chairs on the far side, by the windows. At their entry, Major Kira
paused mid-sentence as all heads craned to look their way.

"Reporting as ordered, captain," Bashir said, straightening his back
even as he cursed himself for his stiff formality. Being the centre of
attention did always make him nervous. 

At the head of the table, Captain Sisko swiveled his chair to face the
door. Tenting his fingers in front of him, the stern look on his face
softened minutely. "Ah, gentlemen, good of you to join us," he intoned
in his rich baritone and gestured at them for the benefit of the
table. "This is Dr. Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer on this
station, and our resident Cardassian, Mr.--"

Sisko never got to finish his introductions. As soon as his eyes
alighted on Bashir and Garak, one of the Cardassian visitors stood up
so abruptly he sent his chair rolling back against the wall. It hit it
with a loud thump that was drowned by his strangled exclamation.

"Elim?!" 

Sisko glanced at the man, clearly as surprised as Bashir felt. "You
know Mr. Garak?" he asked of the man -- a middle-aged, trim Cardassian
with sharp features and a sudden fire burning in his dark eyes. 

"Elim! You son of the dead!" the Cardassian yelled louder and from
within the folds of his tunic, he pulled out a fist-sized square box
and hurled it at Garak with all his strength. It hit the tailor
squarely in the chest and disintegrated on impact, covering the front
of Garak's dark jacket with luminescent yellow powder. Without pause,
the Cardassian jumped up on the table to launch himself at Garak and
Bashir. Bashir started, his body tensing in anticipation of the
impact. It never came, for the newcomer had aimed at Garak and as with
the box, his aim was true.

He knocked Garak over and they landed on the deck with a
bone-crunching thump, the Cardassian giving Garak a two-fisted
assault. It was a short moment of dominance for him, though, since
Garak twisted under him, tossing him off with a hip throw and
following the flow so that he was straddling his assaulter.

"Garak! Don't hurt him!"

Bashir's urgent voice didn't register with Garak; no, his attention
was entirely on the man pinned underneath him. Both of Garak's hands
came to press on the man's neckridges, squeezing until the man groaned
out in desperate pain.

"Delemek, you fool, what are you doing?" Garak barked, oblivious to
the trickle of dark maroon blood flowing from a cut on his cheek and
dripping down onto the face of his erstwhile attacker. "You
contemptible fool. *Emtek fa'ar gelom'tak!*" he hissed and backhanded
the Cardassian across his face with something akin to disinterest, as
if it were the most normal thing for him to do. 

Bashir had a fleeting thought that the Universal Translator was having
a bad day with Kardasi today since already twice inside one hour, it
had failed to translate something. That thought was quickly pushed out
of his mind when suddenly, the Cardassian struggling underneath Garak
ceased his struggling and went limp. 

Bashir's eyes darted between Garak and the unconscious
Cardassian. "Are you all right?"

Garak let go of his attacker's neck ridges and touched his cheek. His
fingers came away bloody and he absently wiped them on his stained
tunic. "Nothing serious, I assure you," he said with a thick voice as
he stood up and stepped aside, his eyes never leaving the prone
Cardassian. "What about him?"

Doing a quick visual analysis and checking his pulse, Bashir was
relieved to notice that all obvious vital signs were within normal
parameters. "Just unconscious," Bashir replied and tapped his
combadge. "Bashir to Infirmary. I need a medical team and an antigrav
stretcher in the wardroom."

-------------------------------
End of part 2/12.




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