DS9 FanFic, "Blind Date," G/B, PG, 1/1
Title: Blind Date
Author: PrelocAndKanar (Prelocandkanar@aol.com)
Series: DS9
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG
Codes: G/B
Summary: Julian suffers a set-back, but finds the silver lining.
Author's Note: Thanks to the two best betas in the world: Jen Ingram, who is always there for me, and Charlene Vickers, who treated this modest little trinket like a precious jewel, giving it care and polish well beyond what it deserved. How lucky am I to have these two as betas??
Comments, constructive criticism and other feedback are very welcome!
Disclaimer: Paramount owns these characters, even though it never it never played with them enough. I only borrow them.
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“Aren’t you finished yet?”
Dr. Kitemba sighed. His patient was anything but. Impatient, irritated, and surly, the young man sitting on the bio-bed was in a foul mood, and not bothering to hide it. Of course, he had had a terrible accident. The explosion had been so close. Really, it was a wonder that he hadn’t been more seriously injured, or even killed. Most of the damage had been relatively easy to repair. However, there was still the matter of those retinal ganglion cells, and eye injuries of any nature were nothing to take lightly. Kitemba slowly passed the tissue regenerator one more time over the affected area, just as his patient reached up to swat angrily in the general direction of the instrument. He shouldn’t have been surprised, of course. Doctors made notoriously terrible patients.
Finally satisfied, he returned the regenerator to its case. He turned his gaze back to the young man’s face, checking to make sure that the eyelids were sealed firmly closed and the blocktite was dry.
“Why do I need these seals?” the young man asked. “You’ve fixed up the damage, didn’t you? You were at it for long enough. What kind of backwards medicine is this - eye seals? Why don’t you just give me eye patches and a hook?” His voice lowered until it was barely a mutter. “You’d think we were back in the Dark Ages.”
“Thank you, Julian, for your warm and gracious attitude,” Kitemba said. “And now, may I speak to Dr. Bashir for a moment?”
Bashir grumbled.
“Dr. Bashir. Would you like to answer the patient’s question regarding the seals?” Kitemba prodded.
Bashir scowled. “It’s infuriating!” he finally sputtered. “Sealing the eye shut! Is that all you can do?”
“Of course not,” rumbled Kitemba. “You were lucky, you know. The facial damage and the corneal tissue damage were minor. The regenerator took care of that. But your retinal ganglion cells suffered a trauma, and - well, I don’t have to tell you about it.”
Bashir was silent.
“For all our skills, there are some things we do better than others, aren’t there? These tools of ours -” he gestured toward the regenerator automatically, even as he remembered that Bashir couldn’t see it- “they’re not magic wands, are they, even though most of our patients assume they are. But you and I know better, hmm? And you know as well as I do that this is not as simple as a muscle pull.”
He waited for some response. Bashir folded his arms across his chest. Kitemba thought he looked like a sulking ten-year-old.
“Well, you do have options,” he allowed, when the silence had stretched for long enough. “If you like, I could pluck out those eyes of yours, and replace them with artificial ones. Pretty good ones, too, I might add. It’s an interesting procedure; I’d love to do it. It’s up to you. Or, you could go with option number two. Doctor, that would be...?”
Bashir recited through clenched teeth: “To let the eyes rest and allow them to recover on their own.” Kitemba could see his jaw muscles working. “It’s unbelievable that we don’t have a regenerator that works on retinal ganglia!”
“Yes, they’re tricky little devils, aren’t they,” Kitemba said without much warmth. “And how long, doctor, would you suggest we let them rest to allow them to recover?”
“Three or four days.”
“Try more like a week, doctor.” countered Kitemba.
Bashir swore under his breath.
“Do you or do you not want to allow for the best chance of full recovery, Dr. Bashir?” asked Kitemba, exasperated. “Of course, if you’re in that much of a hurry, we can revisit option number one. I could have your eyes enucleated and artificial ones in place and ready to function in three or four days. Perhaps you’d prefer that, after all.”
Bashir’s eyebrows drew together and downward, deepening the furrows in his forehead, and his lips pressed tight. His hands gripped the edge of the bio-bed, his knuckles whitening. Kitemba observed how well the blocktite was holding, despite the wrinkles, and absently moved a diagnostic sensor, perfect for hurling across a room, out of reach.
It didn’t take long. He could almost see Bashir summon his acceptance of the situation. After a few moments, the young man uncrossed his arms, took a deep breath, and on the exhale, his face smoothed out and his shoulders dropped. He leaned back slightly and lifted a hand to first one eye, then the other, tracing the sealant that had been applied over his eyelids.
“It feels so odd.” Bashir’s voice had lost its hostility, and Kitemba found himself feeling grudging sympathy for the young doctor-turned-patient. “I’m sorry for being such a pain,” he continued, without much grace. “It’s... infuriating. I’m used to being the one-” he waved his arms vaguely.
“Yes. It’s different, being on that side of the bed, isn’t it? No feeling of control.”
“That’s it exactly. I feel... so helpless. Like a child. What am I supposed to do for a week, anyway?”
“Well, you won’t have to go to work. Think of it as an extra week’s vacation.”
Bashir muttered something rather rude.
“Just relax. Listen to some books, some music. Catch up on the news. Whatever you like, as long as you don’t try to fiddle with those seals. I’ll have an aide come by daily to help you with whatever you need. Now, let’s see... I think I can order a Concealed Automated Navigation Enhancer...”
“No,” said Bashir firmly. “I don’t need one. I don’t need any help.”
“What about an aide? I’m sure I could find someone young and sweet to escort you about.”
Bashir didn’t crack a smile. “No. I’ll be fine. And if I need anything, I’m sure Miles will be happy to give me a hand.”
Kitemba peered at him. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. No CANE. No aide. Promise?”
Kitemba considered it. “OK. Nurse Bandee will escort you to your quarters. Will you call your friend to arrange things?”
“Yes, mother.”
Well, that was a little better than what he’d called him a few moments ago. “All right. I’ll see you in a week. Behave yourself!”
And as Bashir pushed himself off the bio-bed and made his way awkwardly toward the door with Bandee’s help, Kitemba decided that if he was ever unfortunate enough to be in a similar situation, he hoped it would be under Bashir’s care, so he could give the doctor a taste of his own medicine. Spare me, he prayed, from ever having to treat another doctor again.
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Bashir sent the nurse away at the entrance to his quarters, refusing her offer to help him get oriented.
“These are my quarters, after all. I’ve lived in them long enough to know them, thank you very much.”
“Very well, doctor.” He could swear he heard a smile in her voice, but couldn’t imagine what was so amusing.
He waited until he could hear her footsteps fading down the corridor, then he entered and made confidently for the couch.
He didn’t know who had moved the coffee table. He didn’t know why someone would do such a thing. He only knew that he had never before fully appreciated just how much a blow to the shin could hurt. He remembered curses he hadn’t heard since medical school, although he forgot what some of them meant. He directed them all at the table, shoved it aside angrily with his foot, ignored an ominous sound of breaking glass, and finally flung himself on the couch.
When the waves of pain faded and he had stopped sucking air through his teeth, he straightened up and tapped his comm badge.
“Bashir to O’Brien.”
Chirp. “Julian! How are you? I heard all about it. They said if you’d been a foot closer - No, no, not that one! This one, here, and it doesn’t go that way -”
“Chief?”
“What did I tell you, you can’t treat these systems like they were from Starfleet... What? Oh, Julian. Yeah, they told me you were lucky. Did they release you yet?”
“Yes, in fact I just got-“”
“No! Don’t force it! I know what you thought. Look, just don’t think, OK? Julian, can I get back to you later? Oh, wait, Molly has her performance tonight. How about tomorrow evening? Right, now that’s better - hey! use the reverse polarizer-”
Julian broke off the comm, and leaned back. The week ahead seemed to stretch out like space itself. It’s funny; just a few weeks ago, he’d been wishing he had some spare time. Now... Wasn’t there a novel he’d been meaning to read? He hoped it was available on audio.
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Garak paused for a moment in the corridor, to make sure he was perfectly composed. For the past few hours he had been in full operative mode, responding to the crisis smoothly and efficiently. He had analyzed the situation and responded to it, considering various options, rejecting some, accepting others. His training would not allow for any personal feelings; for that, he had been grateful. But now, the immediate crisis was over, and if he were not disciplined...
He smoothed his tunic as he smoothed his face, then pressed the chime.
“Come.”
The door swooped open, and he entered. One didn’t need to be an Obsidian Order agent to notice the overturned coffee table and the shattered vase. He noted automatically where the broken glass lay, then turned his gaze to Bashir.
He instantly categorized the doctor’s physical condition. His face bore the slight redness associated with recent regenerative treatments and his hair was mussed, but otherwise he seemed undamaged. Garak closed his eyes briefly in silent thanks once more. He noticed patches of redness on Bashir’s hands as well. Bashir’s eyelids were shut tight, and they seemed to shine slightly.
On closer examination, he could just barely make out the sealants the other doctor had applied to Bashir’s eyelids. Blocktite, they called it: a polymer that both protected the eyes against ambient light and kept the lids shut. Seeing the doctor with his eyelids held shut was strange. It was both disturbing and compelling at once. There was a vulnerability associated with this sightlessness that was interesting...
“Hello, Doctor.”
“Garak!” Bashir, who had been slouching on the couch, sat up straighter. “What are you doing here?”
He shifted his focus instantly from the micro to the macro, and affected an annoyed manner. “The most infuriating thing has happened, doctor.”
Bashir’s mouth seemed to twitch a little. Garak chose to ignore this.
“I had ordered an entirely fresh inventory for the new season-”
“I wasn’t aware that there are seasons on a space station, Garak.” Bashir seemed amused.
“In the world of fashion, doctor, there are always seasons. It has nothing to do with suns, orbits, or the weather. May I continue?”
Bashir nodded, the smile still playing on his lips, and Garak found his eyes drawn to that smile.
“As I was saying, I had sold all the old line to make room. The shipment was due today. And what do you think?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I just received a message that there’s been a delay. The new shipment won’t arrive for another week! Well, I was livid, I can tell you that.” He paused. “May I have a seat?”
“Of course, Garak.” Without those expressive eyes to speak to him, Garak noticed the tiniest muscular shifts in his face. “A week, you say?” the doctor asked evenly.
“Yes! Can you believe it?” He kept his eyes on Bashir’s face, which, even as he watched, seemed to still itself. He righted a chair that had apparently been knocked on its side by the errant coffee table and lowered himself into it, returning his gaze to Bashir’s face. “What am I supposed to do with no inventory for a full week? I expressed my displeasure very clearly, I assure you. But I have been told there is nothing that can be done. Well. I was forced to close my shop. For a week! Can you imagine?”
“A week,” Bashir repeated. “And just when did you receive this message?”
“Oh, an hour or two ago,” said Garak, breezily, his hands waving airily. Bashir’s mouth seemed to twitch again. Garak shifted his tone, as he allowed himself to lean forward and assume an expression of concern.
“Why, Doctor Bashir. Whatever is the matter with your eyes? They appear to be glued shut.”
Bashir’s lips didn’t just twitch - he outright smirked. “Too much, Garak. You’re off your game. Try again.”
Garak attempted to ignore this, but apparently he, who had once been renowned for his subtlety, had played the field vole and been caught. He re-grouped. “Oh, yes! I think I did hear something about an accident. Are you quite all right, doctor? You appear to be relatively unharmed.”
He wondered if Bashir would remember those first, frightening moments in the Infirmary. Garak had been in his quarters idly trolling for data when news of the accident had popped up. In seconds, before he had even had time to think, he had found himself in the outer rooms of the infirmary, arguing with a technician.
There had been an odd smell in the air, a smell at once familiar yet slightly different: the smell of roasting flesh. The memories that flooded his brain were easily swept aside as he focused on the immediate problem - staying as close as he could while finding out as much as he could.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the pale, thin form of the doctor stretched out, with that red, red human blood everywhere, in such contrast to the ghostly skin which should be golden-brown... The well-trained team had leapt into action, each playing some role, speaking softly yet urgently to each other, as though reading from a much-rehearsed play.
Bashir had been reduced to a mere object as they had debated various approaches to the problem. The player with the least seniority - Garak had known his place in the hierarchy instantly - approached him. He politely but firmly explained why Garak had to leave.
Impatiently, irritably, Garak had given no more than a fifth of his attention to the young orderly, no matter how earnestly he asked Garak to leave. His eyes had never left Bashir’s ravaged face.
He remembered how tightly the fear had gripped his chest then, seeing that face so torn. He focused back on the face before him now, with only that slight pinkish cast, and the almost-demur closed lids, and shuddered at the thought of how close it had been.
Bashir tilted his head slightly- a charming gesture that Garak did not recall seeing before. “You ‘heard something about an accident’? Is that why it took four orderlies and a security officer to remove you from the Infirmary?”
“Excuse me, doctor? Me, being forcibly removed from the Infirmary? I’m afraid your memories of,” he almost faltered, “of that time are not accurate.” He saw Bashir frown slightly. “I was merely concerned with your condition.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me, Garak. You probably know more than I do at this point. After all, I’m only the patient.”
“Really, doctor,” protested Garak, but he could see Bashir smile again. He attempted to recover. “Well, you know, I did accidently stumble upon something when I was trying to track my shipment. I’m relieved to hear your prognosis is so optimistic.”
“And did you also know that I’m required to keep my eyes sealed for a week?”
“A week! Imagine that!” Garak spoke his lines flawlessly. “You know, Doctor, you could do me a tremendous favor.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. What in the world will I do with myself for a whole week, without my shop to keep me busy?”
“Hm. To keep you out of trouble, you mean.”
“That, too. Why, if I have too much time on my hands, who knows what I’ll decide to do to occupy my mind? Perhaps you would consent to spend some time with me. I’d be forever in your debt.”
Garak was entranced by the variety of emotions which swirled transparently upon Bashir’s face. He could see amusement, and anger as well. There was a hint of something else, which was too quickly shoved underneath by the anger. The anger grew...
“So, what are you planning for me? Let me guess. A walk in the gardens, through fragrant blossoms. A symphony. An opera, perhaps.” Bashir’s voice was brittle and sarcastic.
Garak raised an eyeridge. Not the response he’d expected. “Perhaps I’d thought to do something like that.”
Bashir snorted. “What a cliché! Take the blind man to smell the flowers, to hear the music. He can’t see, so we’d better appeal to his other senses. Give him something to smell, give him something to hear.” He frowned. “What a crock. I don’t need your sympathy!”
Garak looked at the doctor. “Sympathy? I’m sure I explained my situation clearly.”
“Garak,” Bashir growled.
Garak found he had no stomach for confrontation, and he gave way. “Well, I’m not very good at sympathy, as I would assume you have noticed. However, I am extremely susceptible to boredom. I do, actually, face a week without work, as I see you do, too. I had no idea that gardens and symphonies were too banal for you. Apparently, I must be more creative when choosing entertainment for my d-, for you, doctor.” He stopped, shocked that that endearment had almost slipped out when he hadn’t meant for it to. He quickly added, “But I’m sure that I’m up to the challenge.”
Bashir immediately looked abashed, if such a thing were possible without benefit from deep, warm, human eyes. “I’m sorry, Garak. You’re just trying to help, and here I am being rude. The gardens and music sound wonderful.” He turned his head away and was silent for a moment. “It’s like you’re planning a date. I should be grateful for all the trouble you’re taking.” He paused again, then spoke more quietly. “It’s really very sweet of you, you know. I do appreciate it.”
Garak gazed intently at the young man. He was finding it freeing and exciting to be able to look closely at Bashir, to stare at him, even, without giving himself away. Ever since this extraordinary man had come into his life, he had had to be careful. So careful. Now, while this was no doubt horrible for his dear doctor, the situation was not without its pleasurable aspects. To be able to fill his eyes with the sight of that impossibly slender and graceful neck! To be able to look so closely with immunity. To be able to study the tiny hairs on the back of that neck, the stubble on those cheeks. The dark fringe of eyelashes, splayed out so boldly and unmoving - posing for him. To study those ears to his heart’s content. Even -
Bashir looked up suddenly. “Stop staring at me.”
“What?”
“You’re looking at me. I can tell.”
Garak prayed that his voice would not betray him. “You can?”
“Yes.”
Garak considered. He shifted in his chair, then silently slid forward until his knees were almost touching Bashir’s. He was certain with every core of his agent’s training that he hadn’t made a sound. He held his breath. Bashir’s face pulled his gaze in. Without the magnetic draw of those irresistible human eyes, there was more time to investigate the rest.
“...you’re doing it again.”
Garak was silent.
“And... you’re very close to me.”
Garak breathed at last. “How could you tell?”
“I don’t know. I could... sense it. Also, well, -” he broke off, flushing slightly.
Garak was intrigued. “What?”
“Well.... I think... I can almost smell you. Not that it’s bad or anything,” Bashir babbled hastily. “It’s barely discernable. You must be...” He reached out his hand.
Garak slid back quickly in his chair and smiled. “Well, I can smell you too, doctor,” he said smoothly. Avoiding the young doctor’s touch, he didn’t think he needed to dwell on how that specific human’s scent affected him.
Bashir’s hand waved vaguely, like a sea anemone. Suddenly, Garak was seized with a desire to see - he broke off that line of thought.
“I think we’re always more sensitive to the scent of another species, wouldn’t you say?” he offered, instead. “There are... differences, after all. And you know that we Cardassians have a much better sense of smell than you humans.” His smile broadened. The good doctor would never know just how attuned Garak was to his particular scent. He allowed himself to breathe in deeply the scent of the man. Surely, within this context, it would be... unremarkable. “I don’t find the scent to be objectionable,” he allowed, grinning a bit evilly.
Bashir seemed to hesitate, then burst out, “You’re smiling at me! No, no, it’s that sly look you have when you’re enjoying yourself at my expense. Damn! I can just picture it. You’re enjoying this!” He fumed, but Garak thought he didn’t seem truly upset.
“Your perceptive skills are really quite remarkable, doctor,” he responded.
Bashir shook his head, grinning now. “It’s really no fair, Garak. You have all the advantage. You can look at me, but I can’t see you. You were already challenging enough as it was. Now you have an unfair edge over me.”
Garak immediately saw an opening, and wondered if he dared take it. “You want to see me? But you know what I look like.”
Bashir sighed. “I know. It’s different, though. In a conversation, there’s so much that’s conveyed by expressions. I’m playing now with one hand tied behind my back.”
Garak quickly dismissed an image which sped through his mind. “It doesn’t seem so, doctor. You’ve ‘caught me out,’ as it were, several times now. You knew when I was looking at you, you knew when I moved closer, and you knew when I was smiling. I’d say you’re not missing much.”
Bashir was silent.
“Of course, we were talking about finding... activities that would be interesting for you, and yet avoiding the clichés, as you called them, of the more obvious choices. We’ve already found some. We’ve discovered that you have an ability to sense more than you knew. Air currents, the direction of a voice, scents that might have seemed too subtle to be aware of... It’s truly amazing that you can tap into this level of awareness so soon after being temporarily deprived of your sight. You see, there are other senses besides sight, smell and hearing. You sensed me with your very skin.” Garak paused. “And what if I were a stranger? Would you be able to form a picture of my face by looking at me in another way?” He reached out to Bashir and tapped the back of his hand lightly with one finger, taking a moment to notice the tiny hairs and elegant fingers. “May I?”
Bashir nodded.
Garak moved his chair closer, so that their knees were just touching. He took hold of Bashir’s hand and guided it to his face. He tried to ignore the part of him that shouted out at the risk he was taking. It was so unlike him. He could hear his own heart pounding.
Bashir’s hand seemed to hesitate for a moment, then began to move. The other hand rose up to join the first, and his fingers traced Garak’s brow ridges. They moved along the ridges, up and down, lightly at first, then more inquisitively, feeling the textures of the ridges themselves.
Garak could hardly keep himself from allowing a gasp to escape his lips. His eyes fluttered shut. The sensations alone were too much; he could not deal with any extra sensory input.
The doctor’s fingers traced his eyeridges, then moved upwards. Garak had had physical examinations aboard DS9 before - despite his protests - but never before had his doctor’s fingers lingered so much- the word “caressed” whispered in his mind - on his teardrop. Garak drew a ragged breath as quietly as possible, but could not entirely suppress a shudder.
“Does that... tickle?” asked Bashir softly.
Tickle? No, that’s not the word that comes to mind, thought Garak ruefully. He hardly trusted himself to speak. “Hmm,” he responded noncommittally, exerting all his self-control.
His eyes remained shut, so he would have missed any speculative expression which might have flown across Bashir’s face. All he knew was that the doctor’s fingers returned to his eye ridges, then made their way down to his thicker neck ridges. Garak felt as if he were in a trance. His mind was spinning away from him. He was totally consumed by the exquisite touch of Bashir’s fingers tracing his embellishments.
It was all too much, suddenly. The scent of the human filled his being, and the feeling of those fingers touching him were like the Cardassian sun itself; giver of light and warmth, yet too intense to bear. Surely whoever was next door could hear his heart pounding. He had to stop this...
Bashir’s fingers slid up and down his thick neck ridges, squeezing them gently.
“Why, Garak.” Had he not had his eyes shut, had he not been drawing deep, shivering breaths, had he not been trying so hard not to lose himself entirely, he might have picked up on the knowing smile in Bashir’s voice as he said innocently, “Your pulse is racing. Are you all right?”
Garak tried to open his eyelids, then with a sigh he allowed them to slide shut again. Those fingers, those fingers, they weren’t stopping. They were probing, rubbing, stroking... He surrendered; he was not strong enough.
“I’m... fine,” he managed. Then, before he could stop, he murmured to himself in an undertone, “... I’m just being a foolish old man.”
“Old?” The hands followed Garak’s neck ridges down to where they faded away, and he felt them probe the hard muscles in his shoulders and arms. After exploring his muscles for a moment, they returned up, tracing the ridges again. “Old?” Bashir repeated. “I don’t think so. But foolish?” The doctor paused. “Yes, you are foolish,” he stated suddenly. His hands stopped their movement.
Garak’s eyes flew open with surprise and he looked deeply into the young man’s face.
“You are foolish,” Bashir repeated stoutly, then continued a bit more gently, “... if you never ask for what you want.”
Garak’s world went still for a moment, as the words echoed in his head. He could see Bashir’s face tilted toward him expectantly. Evidently, Bashir was pleased at this volley, as well he should be.
Garak held himself perfectly still - a safe defensive position. He was momentarily speechless, for which he grudgingly allowed Bashir a point. Then he recovered.
“I’ve been accused of many things, doctor, but I’ve never been called a coward before,” he said, still pondering the doctor’s surprising shot.
“You’ve never been a coward, I think. And you’re not going to start now. Are you?”
“There are some things,” Garak said slowly, stalling for time, “that one should understand are beyond one’s grasp, or else risk tragic results. Your Shakespeare spoke of it as hubris, I believe.”
“I’d call it failure of nerve. I’ve always believed in ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ myself. But maybe I was wrong about you. You’ve always been very protective of your own safety, it’s true. You told me a good spy was willing to quit to avoid getting killed. That it was foolhardy to take risks. I guess you are a coward, after all.”
Garak looked at Bashir with renewed respect. “ ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ you say?” he repeated slowly.
Bashir reached forward and placed a hand on Garak’s chest. How did he know just where my heart was, Garak wondered vaguely. Before he could notice how warm the hand was, he heard the doctor’s words: “Your heart is still pounding. Do I have to declare you a medical emergency?”
Garak quickly abandoned his chair and sat next to Bashir on the couch. He was very close. Bashir lifted his face toward Garak. It was very strange: for once in his life, Garak didn’t quite know what to do.
“Well?” asked Bashir quietly. “What do you want?”
Garak took a breath. There was only one answer.
“You.”
Then he closed his own eyes, and, for the first time in his life, he surrendered.
Author: PrelocAndKanar (Prelocandkanar@aol.com)
Series: DS9
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG
Codes: G/B
Summary: Julian suffers a set-back, but finds the silver lining.
Author's Note: Thanks to the two best betas in the world: Jen Ingram, who is always there for me, and Charlene Vickers, who treated this modest little trinket like a precious jewel, giving it care and polish well beyond what it deserved. How lucky am I to have these two as betas??
Comments, constructive criticism and other feedback are very welcome!
Disclaimer: Paramount owns these characters, even though it never it never played with them enough. I only borrow them.
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“Aren’t you finished yet?”
Dr. Kitemba sighed. His patient was anything but. Impatient, irritated, and surly, the young man sitting on the bio-bed was in a foul mood, and not bothering to hide it. Of course, he had had a terrible accident. The explosion had been so close. Really, it was a wonder that he hadn’t been more seriously injured, or even killed. Most of the damage had been relatively easy to repair. However, there was still the matter of those retinal ganglion cells, and eye injuries of any nature were nothing to take lightly. Kitemba slowly passed the tissue regenerator one more time over the affected area, just as his patient reached up to swat angrily in the general direction of the instrument. He shouldn’t have been surprised, of course. Doctors made notoriously terrible patients.
Finally satisfied, he returned the regenerator to its case. He turned his gaze back to the young man’s face, checking to make sure that the eyelids were sealed firmly closed and the blocktite was dry.
“Why do I need these seals?” the young man asked. “You’ve fixed up the damage, didn’t you? You were at it for long enough. What kind of backwards medicine is this - eye seals? Why don’t you just give me eye patches and a hook?” His voice lowered until it was barely a mutter. “You’d think we were back in the Dark Ages.”
“Thank you, Julian, for your warm and gracious attitude,” Kitemba said. “And now, may I speak to Dr. Bashir for a moment?”
Bashir grumbled.
“Dr. Bashir. Would you like to answer the patient’s question regarding the seals?” Kitemba prodded.
Bashir scowled. “It’s infuriating!” he finally sputtered. “Sealing the eye shut! Is that all you can do?”
“Of course not,” rumbled Kitemba. “You were lucky, you know. The facial damage and the corneal tissue damage were minor. The regenerator took care of that. But your retinal ganglion cells suffered a trauma, and - well, I don’t have to tell you about it.”
Bashir was silent.
“For all our skills, there are some things we do better than others, aren’t there? These tools of ours -” he gestured toward the regenerator automatically, even as he remembered that Bashir couldn’t see it- “they’re not magic wands, are they, even though most of our patients assume they are. But you and I know better, hmm? And you know as well as I do that this is not as simple as a muscle pull.”
He waited for some response. Bashir folded his arms across his chest. Kitemba thought he looked like a sulking ten-year-old.
“Well, you do have options,” he allowed, when the silence had stretched for long enough. “If you like, I could pluck out those eyes of yours, and replace them with artificial ones. Pretty good ones, too, I might add. It’s an interesting procedure; I’d love to do it. It’s up to you. Or, you could go with option number two. Doctor, that would be...?”
Bashir recited through clenched teeth: “To let the eyes rest and allow them to recover on their own.” Kitemba could see his jaw muscles working. “It’s unbelievable that we don’t have a regenerator that works on retinal ganglia!”
“Yes, they’re tricky little devils, aren’t they,” Kitemba said without much warmth. “And how long, doctor, would you suggest we let them rest to allow them to recover?”
“Three or four days.”
“Try more like a week, doctor.” countered Kitemba.
Bashir swore under his breath.
“Do you or do you not want to allow for the best chance of full recovery, Dr. Bashir?” asked Kitemba, exasperated. “Of course, if you’re in that much of a hurry, we can revisit option number one. I could have your eyes enucleated and artificial ones in place and ready to function in three or four days. Perhaps you’d prefer that, after all.”
Bashir’s eyebrows drew together and downward, deepening the furrows in his forehead, and his lips pressed tight. His hands gripped the edge of the bio-bed, his knuckles whitening. Kitemba observed how well the blocktite was holding, despite the wrinkles, and absently moved a diagnostic sensor, perfect for hurling across a room, out of reach.
It didn’t take long. He could almost see Bashir summon his acceptance of the situation. After a few moments, the young man uncrossed his arms, took a deep breath, and on the exhale, his face smoothed out and his shoulders dropped. He leaned back slightly and lifted a hand to first one eye, then the other, tracing the sealant that had been applied over his eyelids.
“It feels so odd.” Bashir’s voice had lost its hostility, and Kitemba found himself feeling grudging sympathy for the young doctor-turned-patient. “I’m sorry for being such a pain,” he continued, without much grace. “It’s... infuriating. I’m used to being the one-” he waved his arms vaguely.
“Yes. It’s different, being on that side of the bed, isn’t it? No feeling of control.”
“That’s it exactly. I feel... so helpless. Like a child. What am I supposed to do for a week, anyway?”
“Well, you won’t have to go to work. Think of it as an extra week’s vacation.”
Bashir muttered something rather rude.
“Just relax. Listen to some books, some music. Catch up on the news. Whatever you like, as long as you don’t try to fiddle with those seals. I’ll have an aide come by daily to help you with whatever you need. Now, let’s see... I think I can order a Concealed Automated Navigation Enhancer...”
“No,” said Bashir firmly. “I don’t need one. I don’t need any help.”
“What about an aide? I’m sure I could find someone young and sweet to escort you about.”
Bashir didn’t crack a smile. “No. I’ll be fine. And if I need anything, I’m sure Miles will be happy to give me a hand.”
Kitemba peered at him. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. No CANE. No aide. Promise?”
Kitemba considered it. “OK. Nurse Bandee will escort you to your quarters. Will you call your friend to arrange things?”
“Yes, mother.”
Well, that was a little better than what he’d called him a few moments ago. “All right. I’ll see you in a week. Behave yourself!”
And as Bashir pushed himself off the bio-bed and made his way awkwardly toward the door with Bandee’s help, Kitemba decided that if he was ever unfortunate enough to be in a similar situation, he hoped it would be under Bashir’s care, so he could give the doctor a taste of his own medicine. Spare me, he prayed, from ever having to treat another doctor again.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Bashir sent the nurse away at the entrance to his quarters, refusing her offer to help him get oriented.
“These are my quarters, after all. I’ve lived in them long enough to know them, thank you very much.”
“Very well, doctor.” He could swear he heard a smile in her voice, but couldn’t imagine what was so amusing.
He waited until he could hear her footsteps fading down the corridor, then he entered and made confidently for the couch.
He didn’t know who had moved the coffee table. He didn’t know why someone would do such a thing. He only knew that he had never before fully appreciated just how much a blow to the shin could hurt. He remembered curses he hadn’t heard since medical school, although he forgot what some of them meant. He directed them all at the table, shoved it aside angrily with his foot, ignored an ominous sound of breaking glass, and finally flung himself on the couch.
When the waves of pain faded and he had stopped sucking air through his teeth, he straightened up and tapped his comm badge.
“Bashir to O’Brien.”
Chirp. “Julian! How are you? I heard all about it. They said if you’d been a foot closer - No, no, not that one! This one, here, and it doesn’t go that way -”
“Chief?”
“What did I tell you, you can’t treat these systems like they were from Starfleet... What? Oh, Julian. Yeah, they told me you were lucky. Did they release you yet?”
“Yes, in fact I just got-“”
“No! Don’t force it! I know what you thought. Look, just don’t think, OK? Julian, can I get back to you later? Oh, wait, Molly has her performance tonight. How about tomorrow evening? Right, now that’s better - hey! use the reverse polarizer-”
Julian broke off the comm, and leaned back. The week ahead seemed to stretch out like space itself. It’s funny; just a few weeks ago, he’d been wishing he had some spare time. Now... Wasn’t there a novel he’d been meaning to read? He hoped it was available on audio.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Garak paused for a moment in the corridor, to make sure he was perfectly composed. For the past few hours he had been in full operative mode, responding to the crisis smoothly and efficiently. He had analyzed the situation and responded to it, considering various options, rejecting some, accepting others. His training would not allow for any personal feelings; for that, he had been grateful. But now, the immediate crisis was over, and if he were not disciplined...
He smoothed his tunic as he smoothed his face, then pressed the chime.
“Come.”
The door swooped open, and he entered. One didn’t need to be an Obsidian Order agent to notice the overturned coffee table and the shattered vase. He noted automatically where the broken glass lay, then turned his gaze to Bashir.
He instantly categorized the doctor’s physical condition. His face bore the slight redness associated with recent regenerative treatments and his hair was mussed, but otherwise he seemed undamaged. Garak closed his eyes briefly in silent thanks once more. He noticed patches of redness on Bashir’s hands as well. Bashir’s eyelids were shut tight, and they seemed to shine slightly.
On closer examination, he could just barely make out the sealants the other doctor had applied to Bashir’s eyelids. Blocktite, they called it: a polymer that both protected the eyes against ambient light and kept the lids shut. Seeing the doctor with his eyelids held shut was strange. It was both disturbing and compelling at once. There was a vulnerability associated with this sightlessness that was interesting...
“Hello, Doctor.”
“Garak!” Bashir, who had been slouching on the couch, sat up straighter. “What are you doing here?”
He shifted his focus instantly from the micro to the macro, and affected an annoyed manner. “The most infuriating thing has happened, doctor.”
Bashir’s mouth seemed to twitch a little. Garak chose to ignore this.
“I had ordered an entirely fresh inventory for the new season-”
“I wasn’t aware that there are seasons on a space station, Garak.” Bashir seemed amused.
“In the world of fashion, doctor, there are always seasons. It has nothing to do with suns, orbits, or the weather. May I continue?”
Bashir nodded, the smile still playing on his lips, and Garak found his eyes drawn to that smile.
“As I was saying, I had sold all the old line to make room. The shipment was due today. And what do you think?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I just received a message that there’s been a delay. The new shipment won’t arrive for another week! Well, I was livid, I can tell you that.” He paused. “May I have a seat?”
“Of course, Garak.” Without those expressive eyes to speak to him, Garak noticed the tiniest muscular shifts in his face. “A week, you say?” the doctor asked evenly.
“Yes! Can you believe it?” He kept his eyes on Bashir’s face, which, even as he watched, seemed to still itself. He righted a chair that had apparently been knocked on its side by the errant coffee table and lowered himself into it, returning his gaze to Bashir’s face. “What am I supposed to do with no inventory for a full week? I expressed my displeasure very clearly, I assure you. But I have been told there is nothing that can be done. Well. I was forced to close my shop. For a week! Can you imagine?”
“A week,” Bashir repeated. “And just when did you receive this message?”
“Oh, an hour or two ago,” said Garak, breezily, his hands waving airily. Bashir’s mouth seemed to twitch again. Garak shifted his tone, as he allowed himself to lean forward and assume an expression of concern.
“Why, Doctor Bashir. Whatever is the matter with your eyes? They appear to be glued shut.”
Bashir’s lips didn’t just twitch - he outright smirked. “Too much, Garak. You’re off your game. Try again.”
Garak attempted to ignore this, but apparently he, who had once been renowned for his subtlety, had played the field vole and been caught. He re-grouped. “Oh, yes! I think I did hear something about an accident. Are you quite all right, doctor? You appear to be relatively unharmed.”
He wondered if Bashir would remember those first, frightening moments in the Infirmary. Garak had been in his quarters idly trolling for data when news of the accident had popped up. In seconds, before he had even had time to think, he had found himself in the outer rooms of the infirmary, arguing with a technician.
There had been an odd smell in the air, a smell at once familiar yet slightly different: the smell of roasting flesh. The memories that flooded his brain were easily swept aside as he focused on the immediate problem - staying as close as he could while finding out as much as he could.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the pale, thin form of the doctor stretched out, with that red, red human blood everywhere, in such contrast to the ghostly skin which should be golden-brown... The well-trained team had leapt into action, each playing some role, speaking softly yet urgently to each other, as though reading from a much-rehearsed play.
Bashir had been reduced to a mere object as they had debated various approaches to the problem. The player with the least seniority - Garak had known his place in the hierarchy instantly - approached him. He politely but firmly explained why Garak had to leave.
Impatiently, irritably, Garak had given no more than a fifth of his attention to the young orderly, no matter how earnestly he asked Garak to leave. His eyes had never left Bashir’s ravaged face.
He remembered how tightly the fear had gripped his chest then, seeing that face so torn. He focused back on the face before him now, with only that slight pinkish cast, and the almost-demur closed lids, and shuddered at the thought of how close it had been.
Bashir tilted his head slightly- a charming gesture that Garak did not recall seeing before. “You ‘heard something about an accident’? Is that why it took four orderlies and a security officer to remove you from the Infirmary?”
“Excuse me, doctor? Me, being forcibly removed from the Infirmary? I’m afraid your memories of,” he almost faltered, “of that time are not accurate.” He saw Bashir frown slightly. “I was merely concerned with your condition.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me, Garak. You probably know more than I do at this point. After all, I’m only the patient.”
“Really, doctor,” protested Garak, but he could see Bashir smile again. He attempted to recover. “Well, you know, I did accidently stumble upon something when I was trying to track my shipment. I’m relieved to hear your prognosis is so optimistic.”
“And did you also know that I’m required to keep my eyes sealed for a week?”
“A week! Imagine that!” Garak spoke his lines flawlessly. “You know, Doctor, you could do me a tremendous favor.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. What in the world will I do with myself for a whole week, without my shop to keep me busy?”
“Hm. To keep you out of trouble, you mean.”
“That, too. Why, if I have too much time on my hands, who knows what I’ll decide to do to occupy my mind? Perhaps you would consent to spend some time with me. I’d be forever in your debt.”
Garak was entranced by the variety of emotions which swirled transparently upon Bashir’s face. He could see amusement, and anger as well. There was a hint of something else, which was too quickly shoved underneath by the anger. The anger grew...
“So, what are you planning for me? Let me guess. A walk in the gardens, through fragrant blossoms. A symphony. An opera, perhaps.” Bashir’s voice was brittle and sarcastic.
Garak raised an eyeridge. Not the response he’d expected. “Perhaps I’d thought to do something like that.”
Bashir snorted. “What a cliché! Take the blind man to smell the flowers, to hear the music. He can’t see, so we’d better appeal to his other senses. Give him something to smell, give him something to hear.” He frowned. “What a crock. I don’t need your sympathy!”
Garak looked at the doctor. “Sympathy? I’m sure I explained my situation clearly.”
“Garak,” Bashir growled.
Garak found he had no stomach for confrontation, and he gave way. “Well, I’m not very good at sympathy, as I would assume you have noticed. However, I am extremely susceptible to boredom. I do, actually, face a week without work, as I see you do, too. I had no idea that gardens and symphonies were too banal for you. Apparently, I must be more creative when choosing entertainment for my d-, for you, doctor.” He stopped, shocked that that endearment had almost slipped out when he hadn’t meant for it to. He quickly added, “But I’m sure that I’m up to the challenge.”
Bashir immediately looked abashed, if such a thing were possible without benefit from deep, warm, human eyes. “I’m sorry, Garak. You’re just trying to help, and here I am being rude. The gardens and music sound wonderful.” He turned his head away and was silent for a moment. “It’s like you’re planning a date. I should be grateful for all the trouble you’re taking.” He paused again, then spoke more quietly. “It’s really very sweet of you, you know. I do appreciate it.”
Garak gazed intently at the young man. He was finding it freeing and exciting to be able to look closely at Bashir, to stare at him, even, without giving himself away. Ever since this extraordinary man had come into his life, he had had to be careful. So careful. Now, while this was no doubt horrible for his dear doctor, the situation was not without its pleasurable aspects. To be able to fill his eyes with the sight of that impossibly slender and graceful neck! To be able to look so closely with immunity. To be able to study the tiny hairs on the back of that neck, the stubble on those cheeks. The dark fringe of eyelashes, splayed out so boldly and unmoving - posing for him. To study those ears to his heart’s content. Even -
Bashir looked up suddenly. “Stop staring at me.”
“What?”
“You’re looking at me. I can tell.”
Garak prayed that his voice would not betray him. “You can?”
“Yes.”
Garak considered. He shifted in his chair, then silently slid forward until his knees were almost touching Bashir’s. He was certain with every core of his agent’s training that he hadn’t made a sound. He held his breath. Bashir’s face pulled his gaze in. Without the magnetic draw of those irresistible human eyes, there was more time to investigate the rest.
“...you’re doing it again.”
Garak was silent.
“And... you’re very close to me.”
Garak breathed at last. “How could you tell?”
“I don’t know. I could... sense it. Also, well, -” he broke off, flushing slightly.
Garak was intrigued. “What?”
“Well.... I think... I can almost smell you. Not that it’s bad or anything,” Bashir babbled hastily. “It’s barely discernable. You must be...” He reached out his hand.
Garak slid back quickly in his chair and smiled. “Well, I can smell you too, doctor,” he said smoothly. Avoiding the young doctor’s touch, he didn’t think he needed to dwell on how that specific human’s scent affected him.
Bashir’s hand waved vaguely, like a sea anemone. Suddenly, Garak was seized with a desire to see - he broke off that line of thought.
“I think we’re always more sensitive to the scent of another species, wouldn’t you say?” he offered, instead. “There are... differences, after all. And you know that we Cardassians have a much better sense of smell than you humans.” His smile broadened. The good doctor would never know just how attuned Garak was to his particular scent. He allowed himself to breathe in deeply the scent of the man. Surely, within this context, it would be... unremarkable. “I don’t find the scent to be objectionable,” he allowed, grinning a bit evilly.
Bashir seemed to hesitate, then burst out, “You’re smiling at me! No, no, it’s that sly look you have when you’re enjoying yourself at my expense. Damn! I can just picture it. You’re enjoying this!” He fumed, but Garak thought he didn’t seem truly upset.
“Your perceptive skills are really quite remarkable, doctor,” he responded.
Bashir shook his head, grinning now. “It’s really no fair, Garak. You have all the advantage. You can look at me, but I can’t see you. You were already challenging enough as it was. Now you have an unfair edge over me.”
Garak immediately saw an opening, and wondered if he dared take it. “You want to see me? But you know what I look like.”
Bashir sighed. “I know. It’s different, though. In a conversation, there’s so much that’s conveyed by expressions. I’m playing now with one hand tied behind my back.”
Garak quickly dismissed an image which sped through his mind. “It doesn’t seem so, doctor. You’ve ‘caught me out,’ as it were, several times now. You knew when I was looking at you, you knew when I moved closer, and you knew when I was smiling. I’d say you’re not missing much.”
Bashir was silent.
“Of course, we were talking about finding... activities that would be interesting for you, and yet avoiding the clichés, as you called them, of the more obvious choices. We’ve already found some. We’ve discovered that you have an ability to sense more than you knew. Air currents, the direction of a voice, scents that might have seemed too subtle to be aware of... It’s truly amazing that you can tap into this level of awareness so soon after being temporarily deprived of your sight. You see, there are other senses besides sight, smell and hearing. You sensed me with your very skin.” Garak paused. “And what if I were a stranger? Would you be able to form a picture of my face by looking at me in another way?” He reached out to Bashir and tapped the back of his hand lightly with one finger, taking a moment to notice the tiny hairs and elegant fingers. “May I?”
Bashir nodded.
Garak moved his chair closer, so that their knees were just touching. He took hold of Bashir’s hand and guided it to his face. He tried to ignore the part of him that shouted out at the risk he was taking. It was so unlike him. He could hear his own heart pounding.
Bashir’s hand seemed to hesitate for a moment, then began to move. The other hand rose up to join the first, and his fingers traced Garak’s brow ridges. They moved along the ridges, up and down, lightly at first, then more inquisitively, feeling the textures of the ridges themselves.
Garak could hardly keep himself from allowing a gasp to escape his lips. His eyes fluttered shut. The sensations alone were too much; he could not deal with any extra sensory input.
The doctor’s fingers traced his eyeridges, then moved upwards. Garak had had physical examinations aboard DS9 before - despite his protests - but never before had his doctor’s fingers lingered so much- the word “caressed” whispered in his mind - on his teardrop. Garak drew a ragged breath as quietly as possible, but could not entirely suppress a shudder.
“Does that... tickle?” asked Bashir softly.
Tickle? No, that’s not the word that comes to mind, thought Garak ruefully. He hardly trusted himself to speak. “Hmm,” he responded noncommittally, exerting all his self-control.
His eyes remained shut, so he would have missed any speculative expression which might have flown across Bashir’s face. All he knew was that the doctor’s fingers returned to his eye ridges, then made their way down to his thicker neck ridges. Garak felt as if he were in a trance. His mind was spinning away from him. He was totally consumed by the exquisite touch of Bashir’s fingers tracing his embellishments.
It was all too much, suddenly. The scent of the human filled his being, and the feeling of those fingers touching him were like the Cardassian sun itself; giver of light and warmth, yet too intense to bear. Surely whoever was next door could hear his heart pounding. He had to stop this...
Bashir’s fingers slid up and down his thick neck ridges, squeezing them gently.
“Why, Garak.” Had he not had his eyes shut, had he not been drawing deep, shivering breaths, had he not been trying so hard not to lose himself entirely, he might have picked up on the knowing smile in Bashir’s voice as he said innocently, “Your pulse is racing. Are you all right?”
Garak tried to open his eyelids, then with a sigh he allowed them to slide shut again. Those fingers, those fingers, they weren’t stopping. They were probing, rubbing, stroking... He surrendered; he was not strong enough.
“I’m... fine,” he managed. Then, before he could stop, he murmured to himself in an undertone, “... I’m just being a foolish old man.”
“Old?” The hands followed Garak’s neck ridges down to where they faded away, and he felt them probe the hard muscles in his shoulders and arms. After exploring his muscles for a moment, they returned up, tracing the ridges again. “Old?” Bashir repeated. “I don’t think so. But foolish?” The doctor paused. “Yes, you are foolish,” he stated suddenly. His hands stopped their movement.
Garak’s eyes flew open with surprise and he looked deeply into the young man’s face.
“You are foolish,” Bashir repeated stoutly, then continued a bit more gently, “... if you never ask for what you want.”
Garak’s world went still for a moment, as the words echoed in his head. He could see Bashir’s face tilted toward him expectantly. Evidently, Bashir was pleased at this volley, as well he should be.
Garak held himself perfectly still - a safe defensive position. He was momentarily speechless, for which he grudgingly allowed Bashir a point. Then he recovered.
“I’ve been accused of many things, doctor, but I’ve never been called a coward before,” he said, still pondering the doctor’s surprising shot.
“You’ve never been a coward, I think. And you’re not going to start now. Are you?”
“There are some things,” Garak said slowly, stalling for time, “that one should understand are beyond one’s grasp, or else risk tragic results. Your Shakespeare spoke of it as hubris, I believe.”
“I’d call it failure of nerve. I’ve always believed in ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ myself. But maybe I was wrong about you. You’ve always been very protective of your own safety, it’s true. You told me a good spy was willing to quit to avoid getting killed. That it was foolhardy to take risks. I guess you are a coward, after all.”
Garak looked at Bashir with renewed respect. “ ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ you say?” he repeated slowly.
Bashir reached forward and placed a hand on Garak’s chest. How did he know just where my heart was, Garak wondered vaguely. Before he could notice how warm the hand was, he heard the doctor’s words: “Your heart is still pounding. Do I have to declare you a medical emergency?”
Garak quickly abandoned his chair and sat next to Bashir on the couch. He was very close. Bashir lifted his face toward Garak. It was very strange: for once in his life, Garak didn’t quite know what to do.
“Well?” asked Bashir quietly. “What do you want?”
Garak took a breath. There was only one answer.
“You.”
Then he closed his own eyes, and, for the first time in his life, he surrendered.