The Radicals, Part II

[dark_sinestra]

Garak

Garak's Clothiers

 

He had no idea how late it was, and he didn't really care. The shipment of Deltan fabrics had arrived earlier that day. The colors and textures were so impressive that he had started to experiment with them right away and stayed through supper and beyond, peacefully ensconced in his stock room at his work table. His outer doors chimed, and he paused, scissors in hand. Who would approach him after hours? Glancing to the wall chronometer, he did a double take. Quark's would already be closed by now. Had he truly been so focused that he lost all track of time? It had been over two years since that had happened for a good reason. The door chimed again.

 

Frowning slightly to himself, he palmed the phaser he always kept close, tucked it against the back of his thigh, and approached the entrance. He relaxed when he saw Rom on the other side of the doors. “Computer, open shop doors,” he said. Rom hurried in, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. Not liking the look of that, Garak added, “Close and lock shop doors. Engage opaque mode.” The wide doors slid shut with a loud hiss, the lock clicked, and then the Promenade beyond was shut out completely behind a milky white sheen. “What is it?” he asked. “Is someone after you?”

 

“No,” Rom said, looking apologetic. “I didn't mean to make you nervous. I just wanted to be sure Brother wasn't watching.”

 

“It's very late,” he said, not in the mood for foolishness. “This couldn't wait until morning?”

 

“Uh, not really,” Rom said.

 

Sighing inwardly and reminding himself to be patient, he gestured Rom toward the back. “All right,” he said. “You may as well have some tea with me while you're here. How are you feeling, by the way? I heard about what happened to you.”

 

“I'm better,” he said. “Doctor Bashir fixed me up. Instead of tea, could you make it snail juice? Tea will make me jumpy.”

 

Garak privately thought Rom already looked jumpy. He wasn't sure what difference tea would make. “Of course,” he said and set aside his weapon. He replicated the vile smelling drink and his own preferred tea and passed Rom his mug. Once they were both seated on stools, he looked expectantly at his friend and waited to hear what all of this was about.

 

Rom took a couple of gulps of his snail juice first. “Have you ever done something you've always been told is wrong, but you know is right?” he asked anxiously.

 

A moral question? he thought with some surprise. He's asking me a moral question? He couldn't quite wrap his mind around that at first. “Are you quite certain you feel all right?” he asked.

 

“No. I feel terrible. My stomach is all in knots. I don't feel like I can get enough air, and it seems like the room might be spinning a little,” the waiter confessed.

 

Garak set his tea aside. “It sounds as though we ought to get you to the infirmary,” he said, concerned.

 

Rom shook his head. “No. I'm nervous. More nervous than I've been in my life. More nervous than I was when Nog was taking his pre-entrance exams for Starfleet.”

 

“That's pretty nervous,” the tailor said, eyes widening.

 

“You're telling me!” Rom exclaimed and took another gulp from his mug.

 

Actually, you're telling me, Garak thought, painfully slowly. He reached for his tea again and took a small sip.

 

“Brother has gone too far,” he said.

 

He should have known this had something to do with Quark. Garak held up a hand. “If you're about to let slip some dreadful arms deal or something that will get me questioned by Odo or Worf, please stop right there,” he said.

 

“No, much worse than that,” Rom continued in a rush. “He cut all our pay because of the Time of Cleansing, and he probably won't raise it again even when it's over.”

 

“I see,” Garak said neutrally. He had long thought that Quark deserved more than a little comeuppance for his treatment of his family and employees, but he had never felt it was his place to say much of anything, to Rom or anyone else about it.

 

“According to Ferengi law, I'm not supposed to do anything about it,” Rom added dejectedly.

 

“No,” Garak said agreeably, “I can see how workers' rights have the potential to eat into profits.”

 

“That's just it,” Rom said. “He's already making a ridiculous profit margin over the rest of us. He's...he's just being greedy.”

 

It took every ounce of self-control Garak had not to laugh aloud. The complete absurdity of the situation combined with the late hour and Rom's genuine outrage over Ferengi greed was almost too much for him. “What do you have in mind?” he asked, hoping he didn't sound too breathless. He knew Rom would pick up on it much easier than he would.

 

“Doctor Bashir mentioned...” the Ferengi paused and swallowed audibly. “He mentioned a union.”

 

Suddenly, it didn't seem so funny anymore. Frowning slightly, Garak leaned toward his friend. “Rom,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “far be it from me to...discourage anyone...from standing up for himself. We Cardassians are known for drawing lines in the sand and making those who cross them pay dearly. In the process, we understand that there's a good chance that we might be the ones to pay.”

 

Rom nodded slowly. “Go on,” he said.

 

Garak exhaled softly through his nostrils. “Once a line is drawn, you don't always have the option to erase it. If you're going to do something this drastic, think long and hard about what you have to gain versus what you have to lose. It's my understanding, limited though it may be, that you could lose everything doing something like this, not just now, but forever. Your people's...enforcers...could literally hound you to the far corners of the galaxy and make your life a living hell.” He knew more about what that was like than he cared to reveal.

 

“True,” Rom said with a thoughtful nod. “But...my life is a living hell now. I almost died because Brother wouldn't give me time to go see the doctor. This time, it's not just me who's suffering. Leeta could lose her quarters, and Frool's back hurts so much sometimes he can barely stand, much less walk. All my life, Brother has found ways to make me miserable. He almost ruined Nog's chance to get into Starfleet Academy. If I hadn't figured out what he did, he would've.”

 

“I remember that,” Garak said. “I'm not telling you not to do it. I'm telling you to be sure before you make the move. Drawing a line and holding it takes resolve. If you plan on bringing others into it with you, they'll be counting on you the same way your son has for most of his life.”

 

Rom's blue eyes glinted with a forcefulness Garak had only seen in them twice before, once on Nog's behalf and once on his when he was being kept from Julian by Lisane. “I failed my son too often,” Rom said quietly. “I made him ashamed of me. I don't want to be someone my own son is ashamed of anymore.”

 

“It sounds to me as though you've made up your mind,” Garak observed.

 

“I suppose I have,” he said, setting his mug aside and standing. “Thank you, Garak.”

 

“Don't thank me yet,” the Cardassian cautioned him and walked with him to the doors. He watched him leave with a purpose to his odd, shuffling gait. Smiling very slightly to himself, he decided that at that particular moment he wouldn't want to be in Quark's shoes.

 

Julian

Private Quarters

 

Pressing his lips together, Julian eyed the table setting. Was it too elaborate? Maybe the central pillar candle was a bit much. He plucked it out of the mixed greenery and flowers. Now the centerpiece looked a little flat and lopsided. “Damn,” he muttered, setting it back in place. Why couldn't it have been a little shorter? He decided to trim it down himself and was on his way to the back for his spare medkit when his door chimed. Garak was uncharacteristically a half hour early. “Damn,” he said again. He brushed his fingers quickly through his hair, tugged his navy tunic hem and called out, “Enter!”

 

Garak stepped into the quarters, an eye ridge rising at the sight of the decorated table. “Is this a special occasion?” he asked, offering Julian a small tin of Bolian krellfish, the delicacy wrapped neatly in decorative paper. “Am I under dressed?”

 

“No,” he said, taking the tin with a nod and smile of thanks. “And no, you look impeccable as always. I just...well, I realized that I've gotten a little lazy when I've invited you over. It doesn't have to be a special occasion for things to look nice.”

 

“I've often thought the same,” Garak said approvingly.

 

“You're early,” he said as he sat the gift aside and stepped toward the replicator.

 

“Am I?” the tailor asked innocently.

 

Julian glanced over his shoulder and snorted softly. “I can only assume that you wanted to catch me off guard.”

 

“That is one interpretation, isn't it?” he replied mildly as he moved to take a seat. “Don't mind me. I won't get in your way.”

 

Snorting another half laugh, he began replicating the meal and taking the dishes over to the table. “You'll never guess what happened today.”

 

“Rom started a union,” Garak said.

 

“You know, I am bound and determined one day to get my hands on a piece of news or gossip before you do,” he said with mock exasperation. “How did you hear about it?”

 

“I have my ways,” the tailor said smoothly. “I'm assuming Leeta told you?”

 

“Yes, well...and Rom. He came to ask me and the Chief for advice.”

 

“He came to the Chief as well?” Garak asked, glancing at him in surprise.

 

Ha! He thought triumphantly. At least one piece of the puzzle he doesn't have. “Not specifically, no. Miles was in the infirmary today, and apparently he knows a lot about the issue. One of his ancestors was in a famous labor dispute in the States.”

 

“I trust he's not ill?” Garak asked with just a little too much enthusiasm.

 

“You really don't like him, do you?” he asked, setting a final platter on the table and moving to light the candle.

 

“I'd be willing to say it's entirely mutual, wouldn't you?” Garak asked reasonably. “If you must know, I think he's a bigot.”

 

“Coming from a Cardassian, who thinks all other races are inferior,” Julian retorted. He was hard pressed to believe that Garak saw no irony in that.

 

“I never thought you were a bigot, too,” Garak said, standing and turning to face him. “What else are we Cardassians? Cruel, sly, underhanded, brutish, power mad. Am I missing anything?”

 

“I didn't mean it that way,” he said, frowning.

 

“Didn't you? There are very few races that I know of to be true hive minds, the Borg most readily coming to mind. Do you truly assume that after all the years I've spent living among others, not just here but across the galaxy, I have learned nothing? That my way of thinking has gone completely unchanged?”

 

“It's just the way you talk about my literature and culture in comparison to yours...”

 

“Please!” Garak scoffed. “You act as though you're handing me something rare on a gold pressed latinum platter and become offended the moment I don't value it the way you think I ought to. Have you ever once, even once, made serious effort to appreciate my people or my culture in their own context without painting it in broad strokes of judgment from your values?”

 

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know you saw it that way. If I have done that, it hasn't been intentional.”

 

“Lack of intent is a flimsy excuse. The effects are the same.”

 

Julian nodded slowly. “Will you please come sit? If we're going to fight, we may as well do it properly, over food.” He saw some of the tension drain from the Cardassian's posture and inwardly smiled. He had learned a few things about Cardassians over the years, too, at least his Cardassian. Once they were both seated, he continued the conversation. “Are you saying you truly don't see Cardassians as a superior race?”

 

“I'm saying I'm capable of judging individuals based upon their own merits,” Garak retorted, tucking his napkin carefully into place to protect his rust and silver tunic. “Whenever your Chief O'Brien looks at me, it's painfully obvious that he is seeing an archetypal Cardassian, and not just any archetypal Cardassian, but a Cardassian during war time. He has never made the slightest effort to get to know me as anything else. Would you please pass the salt?”

 

Julian complied. “To be fair, Garak, you've never made any effort to get to know him, either.”

 

“What incentive do I have for that?” he asked, liberally salting his food. “He glares at me with those beady little eyes and gets red blotches on his cheeks.”

 

Trying not to laugh, the doctor said, “His cheeks are always red.”

 

“Never redder than when glaring at me,” Garak asserted and fixed Julian with a mockery of the expression he was referencing.

 

He couldn't help himself. That tipped him over the edge. Tossing his head back, he gave a hearty laugh. “That was actually quite good, which is disturbing given how little the two of you resemble one another.”

 

“It's all in the eyes,” Garak said primly.

 

Happily, he seemed content to move on to other subjects. Both were in agreement that while forming the union was the right thing to do, it seemed a risky venture. Julian was surprised to discover how much Garak actually liked Rom. Although he knew the two of them were on friendly terms, he had always assumed that Garak was simply being charitable, or perhaps accepting company he wouldn't otherwise if he wasn't so lonely. More than ever, he realized that he had allowed his sense of rejection to color the way he saw the waiter and wondered if it was too late to try to mend that fence.

 

“I've been meaning to ask you something, and I keep forgetting,” Julian said during a natural lull. Both of them were almost fully done with their meal, just picking lightly at the plates.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes. Dukat's daughter, Ziyal, has been asking me questions about you. What do you want me to say?”

 

“The same thing I always say, Doctor,” Garak said lightly. “Tell her I'm a simple tailor and really not all that interesting.”

 

“That's what I've been saying,” he said. “I don't think she believes me.”

 

“Then be more convincing,” the Cardassian said with a pointed smile.

 

“I'll try. So, did you save room for dessert?”

 

“I'm afraid not,” he said and pushed back from the table. “Shall we clear it off?”

 

“Yes, let's,” he agreed. The two of them made quick work of the dishes, and Julian blew out the candle, the scent of soot briefly filling the air. He glanced at Garak who was now heading over to take a seat on his sofa and felt a small twinge of misgiving. Short of trying to pick another fight or actually making a move again, he could think of no other way to pique his interest. Was it possible that Garak didn't want him much but was being accommodating just because it was better than always being alone? Did he think he was doing Julian a favor? It was a disturbing thought. He gave the table a quick wipe down and set the rag aside, moving to take up the other end of the sofa. “We haven't read together in a while,” he said.

 

“Did you have something specific in mind?” the tailor asked, perking with interest.

 

“Not really, but it's something we've both enjoyed in the past. I know you like poetry,” he offered.

 

“Some poetry,” Garak clarified dryly.

 

“We can stay away from Shakespeare,” Julian said. “There are plenty of poets to choose from. How about...I'll search the archive first, read one to you, then you can pick one you like and read it to me? You can read Cardassian poetry to me if you prefer.”

 

“You never seem to understand it,” Garak said. “We'll stick to Terran poets. Go ahead.”

 

“All right,” he said. He reached to his side table and picked up a PADD, hoping that Garak wouldn't be able to tell he already had something specific in mind. He couldn't comfortably express his unease with the one sidedness of their arrangement, but perhaps he could send him a message this way. “Here's one by Edna St. Vincent Millay called 'Ebb'.

 

'I know what my heart is like

Since your love died;

It is like a hollow ledge

Holding a little pool

Left there by the tide,

A little tepid pool,

Drying inward from the edge.'”

 

“How very dreary,” Garak said with a shake of his head, leaning over to take the PADD. “Why are so many Terran poems so pitiful and full of woe?”

 

“I don't know,” he said a little shortly.

 

“Oh, right. You liked that one,” the Cardassian said with a shake of his head. “What I meant to say, of course, is what a lovely expression of the destitution of broken love.”

 

“You don't have to be sarcastic. If you don't like it, you don't like it,” he said impatiently. “Will you please choose one now?”

 

It took Garak much longer, not surprisingly, for he was unfamiliar with most of the poets and poetry from which he was asked to select. To Julian's surprise, he chose Robert Frost. “Lodged,” he said.

 

“The rain to the wind said,

'You push and I'll pelt.'

They so smote the garden bed

That the flowers actually knelt,

And lay lodged—though not dead.

I know how the flowers felt.”

 

He offered the PADD back without further comment. Julian took it but couldn't help but to glance at him. Was he sending him a message the same way he had chosen to do? Without looking back to the PADD, he said, “Emily Dickinson. 'My River'.

 

'My river runs to thee.

Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?

My river awaits reply.

Oh! Sea, look graciously.

I'll fetch thee brooks

from spotted nooks.

Say, sea,

Take me!'”

 

“What are you doing?” Garak asked.

 

He frowned and set the PADD aside. “I was looking for a way not to be completely humiliated, but it looks as though that plan is a wash. Do you not want this? Would you rather I not...come to you?”

 

“Have I given any indication of that?” he asked.

 

“Aside from the fact that you haven't once made a move since our arrangement, despite numerous opportunities? No, you've given no indication of that. You were perfectly agreeable and cooperative several nights ago,” he said, disliking the sarcastic edge in his own voice.

 

Garak stood and crossed to the star port. “Your problem is you don't know what you want. Whatever you get isn't enough, until suddenly it's too much. The line is never in the same place. In fact I never see it until I've already crossed it. Don't speak to me about humiliation.”

 

I do know what I want. I simply can't have it, Julian thought. He knew Garak had a valid point. He stood, too, and moved to stand beside him, their reflections ghostly images against the dark star field, as though neither of them was truly there at all. “Did I humiliate you in the dressing room?” he asked softly. “Do you wish you had told me no?” When Garak didn't answer, he stepped behind him and slid his hands over his shoulders, clasping them loosely and drawing the Cardassian back against him. He breathed lightly over his right neck ridge and caressed his cheek to the side of his head. “You can tell me no now,” he murmured close to his ear.

 

He met Garak's gaze in the faded reflection, lowered his lids, and lightly lipped the shell of his ear. This was how he wanted it? The only way it would happen? So be it. If Garak could swallow his pride, Julian could, too. He caressed down his arms and tucked his hands beneath them to embrace him across his chest, hands spread flat and warm. He smiled to himself when Garak lifted his hands and caressed his palms over the backs of them, lightly twining fingers and holding him there. He continued to rub his cheek against the side of his head, feeling the ridges of lower ear and jaw and then the very outer edge of an eye ridge against his temple. His light growth of whiskers rasped scale so softly he wondered if he imagined the sound.

 

Garak turned his face into his slightly, and when he glanced back at the port, he could see the man had his eyes closed. He kissed the long dimple of his cheek, reached up to turn Garak's head more so that he could kiss the corner of his mouth. He tightened his embrace when Garak tried to turn. Not yet, he thought. His fingertips traced lightly down the long line of throat, from beneath his chin to the hollow. It struck him how much trust that took to allow without so much as a flinch or cracking an eye. He realized that Garak told him these sorts of things all the time, only he was too busy focusing on his many rejections to see where he was accepted.

 

All right, he thought, turning him. Talk to me... He pressed parted lips to parted lips, fit himself against his lover like a puzzle piece, and gave a languid twine of tongue. As their breath mingled and they fell in closer upon one another, he felt the slower rhythm of Garak's heart thrumming powerfully enough for the beat to penetrate both layers of tunics. Nothing about that rhythm spoke of apathy or humoring him. Nothing in the fingers digging deeply into the muscle of his back said that Garak didn't want. Didn't need.

 

This was the only way he could ever set aside the inconveniences of his genesis. Was Garak listening as closely? He carefully opened the throat of Garak's tunic, just enough to slide his tongue into the teardrop indentation of scale over sternum, his lips finding a perfect fit to their curves at its apex. Garak's breath stirred his hair, harsher now, and a broad hand cupped the back of his head, encouragement and affection both. He felt it as surely as he felt the fingers sifting the curls at his nape.

 

Taking the tunic open further, he slipped his hands into the warm air between cloth and flesh before it had the chance to dissipate, offered his greater warmth in its place. He knew every ridge and scale as well as he knew himself, but he relished these reintroductions and treated this one as though it were the first. Lightly scraping his thumb nails beneath the lower edges of each pectoral ridge, he gave Garak his mouth again. He could feel the wall of passive acceptance starting to crumble in the way the Cardassian devoured his offering. It wasn't his goal, but he had no intention of rejecting whatever was given, regardless of what he might be asked to pay for it afterward.

 

Garak unfastened his tunic, and he allowed it, helping him shrug it free, but when it seemed as though the tailor might pause to fold it neatly, he stilled his hands with a firm grip and smiled his approval against his lips when he tossed it aside instead. Those hands knew him, too, so intimately, exactly where and how to touch. He pressed into the palms shamelessly, arching and shifting. The slightly rough skinned touch was electric enough that at times he wondered if it was more than imagination, if there wasn't a physical difference that accounted for it.

 

He unfastened Garak's belt and held both loose ends, playfully pulling the tailor against him at the waist, went for a third dizzying round of deep kissing. Garak moaned and suddenly wrapped him so tightly in both arms that he could hardly breathe. He knew he had breached another barrier, but he felt no triumph. He dropped the belt and returned the embrace. Was Garak listening? Did he know he strove to meet him there, wherever he was?

 

“What are you doing to me?” the tailor whispered harshly against his lips.

 

Julian saw the same fierce eyes he had seen in the mirror that day and stilled in his arms. “Do you want to stop?” he whispered back.

 

“I ought to,” he murmured more loudly.

 

“That's not what I asked,” Julian said gently.

 

“No, I don't want to stop, damn you.”

 

Julian accepted the harsh kiss that followed, but instead of rising to it and meeting heat with heat, he did as Garak had several nights before, received until he felt the anger ebb. He unfastened the thick tunic the rest of the way and pulled the edges around his sides, once more trapping heat. He loved the slightly convex curve of broad belly scales against his skin and sidled in as closely as he could, tucking his face into the natural indentation formed by a neck ridge and nuzzling until he felt Garak shiver. “You smell good,” he murmured. “You always smell good.”

 

“Regular baths do wonders,” Garak said a bit breathlessly.

 

He smiled against his throat and nipped him lightly. It was good to see his humor returning. Whatever crisis point the tailor had just reached seemed to be on the retreat, or he was coming to terms with it. “I'm about to give you an excuse to take another one,” he said, taking the man by the hands and leading him into his bedroom. Somehow they always made do with the narrow bed and made it a big enough world to contain them.

 

Julian continued to listen, more attentively than ever before. He found care in Garak's control, ardor in the exploration of his pleasure, and as he kissed the closed eyes and allowed him to take him in the most intimate way, chest to chest and with his legs wrapped about the tailor's waist, he believed he understood why this was up to him. The secret lay in the closed eyes. Garak was vulnerable. He held him tighter in the realization. I'll take care, he thought silently. I will, even if you never know.

 

He gave himself over to the intimacy of the moment, and when it crested, he allowed it to fill and then empty him. He held to Garak when he tried to roll to the side, only relaxing after he was sure his lover would remain atop him. In long strokes, he trailed his fingers to either side of the dorsal ridge, each caress downward with the pattern of scale growth.

 

“I'm crushing you,” Garak protested quietly.

 

“Luxuriously,” he affirmed with a lazy smile.

 

“I should go soon.”

 

“Soon, yes,” he said agreeably, “but soon isn't now. Just relax.” Perhaps that was easier said than done. This time he allowed his partner to roll to the side, but he kept his hands on him, dropping one down for a languid caress of outer thigh, the strong leg draped over him as much by necessity as convenience. “You make me wish I was a poet. Then I wouldn't have to borrow others' words to bridge the gap that opens between us the times we forget ourselves.” He glanced over, relieved to see that Garak's eyes were open, not shut, and he was singularly focused upon him with almost unnerving intensity. It was better than the alternative.

 

“Being a poet doesn't help,” Garak said wryly. “Trust me. You'd just find other ways for inadequate appeal.”

 

He stopped himself on the cusp of taking the statement personally. “Believe me, my dear tailor,” he said, squeezing his thigh lightly, “there is nothing inadequate in your appeal.”

 

“And still you manage to surprise me at times,” he said, reaching to brush a damp curl from Julian's forehead. A moment later, he rolled to his other side and sat up.

 

Julian did nothing to prevent him. He watched him walk to the wash room and waited patiently for him to take his shower. Shifting to his back, he propped his head in a hand and considered what he had discovered just by letting go of his agenda for once. Garak was right. He never did consider his cultural concerns divorced from his own judgment. He spent so much time and energy being on guard against the constant barrage of barbs that he never realized that they could only pierce him if he gave them something to hit. This new approach of his had yielded some surprising results. He hoped that he could remember this in more heated moments of rancor.

 

When Garak returned to the bedroom, he sat up and reached out to him. “Come kiss me good-bye,” he said.

 

Agreeably, Garak did as he was asked, leaning over to do just that. “Not good-bye,” he corrected him, “but good night.”

 

He found the correction very encouraging and wisely chose to keep the fact to himself. He was sleepy enough that he was gone to the world by the time his door hissed for Garak to exit. He slept undisturbed until morning.