DS9 FanFic, "Oasis," G/B, [PG], 1/1
Here's my response to the "Where's Garak?" challenge (to insert Garak into or around episodes where he didn't appear at all), regarding the episode, "Inquisition."
Feedback welcomed!
Title: Oasis
Author: PrelocAndKanar
Series: DS9
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG
Codes: m/m implied, G/B
Summary: Following the events of "Inquisition,*" Garak visits Bashir in his quarters.
Author's Note: I want to thank Jen Ingram, the best Beta in the world. Well, actually, she's my first and only Beta, but I can't imagine that anyone could be more helpful and constructive in their critiques or more generous with their time. Because of her, this evolved from a short drabble to... well, a longer and better something. Thank you, Jen!
Disclaimer: Paramount owns all. I own nothing.
*“Inquisition” - In which Bashir is accused of being an unwitting spy for the Dominion, has every questionable decision he’s made thrown in his face as evidence, is convinced that no one believes him, and is subjected to various threats and assorted nasty mind-games.
Bashir set down his glass rather harder than necessary and tried to pretend that he didn’t hear the door chime. He was grimly in pursuit of numbness and the last thing he wanted was to have anyone in his way. The damn chime was giving him a headache, though. Muttering a curse under his breath, he finally released the privacy lock and called out, “Alright, come in,” without bothering to get up.
“Doctor?”
He looked up, his dull eyes sparked briefly with surprise. Garak. Somehow he hadn’t expected to see him here. He still didn’t rise from the couch.
The Cardassian took a few steps forward, then stopped.
Bashir was seized with irritation. “Don’t tell me. You’ve come to gloat - no, that’s right, you would think of it as teasing, I suppose.” His voice took on a bitter, mocking tone. “Finally, I’ve gotten a taste of what real spies do. Doesn’t quite live up to expectations, does it? After playing in the holosuite all those times, now the silly, naïve human gets a taste of real life. How amusing.”
Garak said nothing.
“Well, don’t let me stand in the way of your fun. Go ahead, ask your crafty little questions.” His voice grew heated and his eyes blazed. “Will I be playing spy again soon? Can I tell you any details that you haven’t already uncovered? Has your ‘dear doctor’ finally gotten into a fight with the big boys and gotten a bloody nose? Do you want to share your vast experience? Go ahead, Garak, you came here for something. Ask away!”
Bashir glared at him, hoping to drive him away, but Garak’s face didn’t react to the vitriol he was spewing. What was the matter with the man - didn’t he know when he was being abused? Disgusted, Bashir turned his head away. Maybe he’d take the hint.
“Actually, doctor,” he heard Garak say quietly, “I just wanted to find out how you were.”
Platitudes. Bashir turned to look at him, but looked away again quickly. He didn’t need anyone’s pity, especially this man’s. His mouth tasted sour.
“Well, thank you for your concern, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course not,” said Garak mildly. “I didn’t expect that you would. I just thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I sat with you for a while?”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Why not?’ countered Garak with a small smile.
“I’m not in the mood for polite conversation right now.”
“Good,” said Garak as he crossed the room to sit down beside him. “Neither am I.”
Bashir looked at him. What was Garak up to? Well, no matter; he wasn’t playing. He schooled his features into a mask of indifference. Whatever Garak was expecting, he would be disappointed. Bashir sat stiffly, his arms crossed, ignoring his companion and staring resolutely at the wall.
Several minutes later he glanced over at the Cardassian, who merely sat there, relaxed and calm, looking as though he would be content to sit there in silence forever.
It was really beginning to annoy the hell out of Bashir. What was the point of this? This watching, this waiting game? Just another emotional vulture, perched on his couch, waiting for him to bare his soul so he could pick it clean. To hell with this.
Couldn’t he just come out and say whatever it was he wanted to say? Why must everything with him be a riddle, an enigma, a dance? For several more minutes he fumed. Fine. I can sit here and ignore you, too, you bastard. Is this one of your interrogation techniques?
The only sound in the room was the slight background hum of the station. He became very aware of Garak’s breathing. Slow and steady. Calm as a Vulcan. Damn it, he wanted to stay furious, but despite himself he could feel his irritation begin to fade. The sense that Garak was playing a game left him. He was just… there. It was actually relaxing, in a weird way.
He asked nothing of Bashir. It was the first time since his return that anyone had done that. He just sat there, next to him. He didn’t try to make eye contact. There was no expectation in the air. Only a sense of a warm, solid body next to his. The tight fist in his belly started to loosen.
Eventually, like a puffer-fish deflating, Bashir slowly collapsed and slumped back into the couch. He closed his eyes and covered them with his hand. He drew a deep, ragged breath.
“Oh, God… I was so scared…” he mumbled.
Garak had known that the doctor would speak eventually, but he was still surprised by the raw emotion so evident in his voice. He remembered how he’d felt after his first mission. How the fear that he’d held in check while he got through it hit him with overwhelming force only after the fact, once he was safe and alone. How frightening the fear was, how much safer it felt to be angry. Or to not feel anything at all.
“Of course you were,” murmured Garak. He winced. He hadn’t meant it to come out so condescending but… He glanced at the man beside him. He apparently hadn’t noticed.
The silence began to grow between them once more. It was not an unpleasant silence. It gave Garak space to reflect.
Fear. Yes.
He understood fear. He had been trained for these things. How much more terrifying it must have been for the doctor, suddenly thrust into such a nightmare.
When he’d heard what had happened, Garak’s mind had leapt to all the unpleasant outcomes that might have resulted. Perversely, the most abhorrent possibilities had gripped him. Even now he shuddered to think of it. He hadn’t thought he was still capable of feeling that intensely. Well, he hadn’t been… until recently.
He noticed the half-empty bottle of scotch on the table. Single malt, from the look of it. From O’Brien, no doubt. Bashir was looking for that safe place.
He was so caught up in his own turbulent thoughts that when Bashir suddenly listed into him, his warmth slumping against his shoulder and his breathing rough, he almost jumped in surprise.
Bashir’s eyes were shut tight, his expression pained. Without allowing himself to think about it, Garak brought his arm around and let it rest firmly on Bashir’s shoulder. He gently pulled the young man in, to lean up against him. He allowed himself to breathe in the scent. He could smell the strong, smoky aroma of the whiskey, but also the more intoxicating scent beneath. He let his lids droop to half-mast.
Bashir turned his torso toward Garak and set his forehead against the offered shoulder. He didn’t cry. He didn’t quiver. He just sat there, letting Garak support his weight. Garak held himself as still as possible, the movement of his chest lifting them and releasing them like gentle waves. Bashir’s bowed head was so close. Garak wanted to let his nose nestle into those dark curls, but he kept still. He savored the quiet joy in this moment. Slowly the doctor’s breathing mimicked his, becoming slow and steady. Finally he straightened up, drew his head back, and regarded Garak with dark, solemn eyes.
“Why are you doing this?”
Garak felt a flicker of annoyance but let it go. Don’t tempt me, he thought. Instead, he projected mild offence. “Is offering comfort to a friend so unusual? Perhaps you think me incapable of compassion?”
Bashir didn’t answer at first, and although his eyes were still circled with dark shadows, they seemed to be less icy than a few moments ago. Then, he pressed his lips together and said, “I don’t know what you’re capable of, Garak. You told me that yourself.”
Indeed. His dear doctor had no idea what thoughts invaded his foolish old mind in those odd, unprotected moments, nor what images flashed through his dreams when he couldn’t keep them at bay. Best not to dwell on those now.
Garak thought of the times in his life, so long ago, before he was self-contained and well-armored, when he would have given anything to have a friend sit next to him and say nothing. He had never had such a person. But now…
If he could never have those dreams of his, the ones he both feared and desired, fought against and craved… and he knew it was impossible… he could at least be that steady friend to the young man beside him. It was almost as good as his dreams. Almost.
Bashir was still looking at him, the challenge still ringing in Garak’s ear. Bashir expected him to be the mysterious spy, the ruthless torturer. He had no idea that he himself held Garak on the rack.
Better to simply reinforce the expectation. He inclined his head. “That’s true, doctor. You’d probably be very surprised if you knew. ” Very surprised.
Bashir continued to regard him with a measured gaze. There was some hostility left in his expression, to be sure, but there was also something else. Garak did not trust himself to speculate on it.
Instead, he made sure that he was properly attentive to his own feeling of serenity in this moment, while his face remained placid. He indulgently enjoyed it as long as he felt he could, then with a sigh, he rose from the couch.
As he approached the door, he turned back and smiled at Bashir.
“Thank you, doctor. You’ve given me a great gift today.” Without waiting for the puzzled response he could see forming on the doctor’s lips, he slipped out and walked down the empty corridor to his quarters so far away, his footsteps echoing slightly in the cold, indifferent halls.
Bashir just sat there, staring at the blank doors of his quarters long after the whoosh had faded from his ears. He felt thick and slow, as if swaddled by quilted cloth. But his jaw no longer ached, and he realized that his body, which he’d been holding tight as a fist for days, had softened with a sigh.
The effects of the scotch suddenly came rushing forth, and he felt dizzy. Giving up hope of dealing with any of this, he let himself fall back onto the couch and stretched out lengthwise. The spot where his head landed was warm. He reached over and grabbed the cushion where Garak’s back had rested and hugged it to himself. He buried his nose in it, imagining he could catch a spicy scent. Not two minutes passed before he was asleep, still hugging the cushion, dreaming a dream that he would never dare to remember in the morning.
Feedback welcomed!
Title: Oasis
Author: PrelocAndKanar
Series: DS9
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG
Codes: m/m implied, G/B
Summary: Following the events of "Inquisition,*" Garak visits Bashir in his quarters.
Author's Note: I want to thank Jen Ingram, the best Beta in the world. Well, actually, she's my first and only Beta, but I can't imagine that anyone could be more helpful and constructive in their critiques or more generous with their time. Because of her, this evolved from a short drabble to... well, a longer and better something. Thank you, Jen!
Disclaimer: Paramount owns all. I own nothing.
*“Inquisition” - In which Bashir is accused of being an unwitting spy for the Dominion, has every questionable decision he’s made thrown in his face as evidence, is convinced that no one believes him, and is subjected to various threats and assorted nasty mind-games.
Bashir set down his glass rather harder than necessary and tried to pretend that he didn’t hear the door chime. He was grimly in pursuit of numbness and the last thing he wanted was to have anyone in his way. The damn chime was giving him a headache, though. Muttering a curse under his breath, he finally released the privacy lock and called out, “Alright, come in,” without bothering to get up.
“Doctor?”
He looked up, his dull eyes sparked briefly with surprise. Garak. Somehow he hadn’t expected to see him here. He still didn’t rise from the couch.
The Cardassian took a few steps forward, then stopped.
Bashir was seized with irritation. “Don’t tell me. You’ve come to gloat - no, that’s right, you would think of it as teasing, I suppose.” His voice took on a bitter, mocking tone. “Finally, I’ve gotten a taste of what real spies do. Doesn’t quite live up to expectations, does it? After playing in the holosuite all those times, now the silly, naïve human gets a taste of real life. How amusing.”
Garak said nothing.
“Well, don’t let me stand in the way of your fun. Go ahead, ask your crafty little questions.” His voice grew heated and his eyes blazed. “Will I be playing spy again soon? Can I tell you any details that you haven’t already uncovered? Has your ‘dear doctor’ finally gotten into a fight with the big boys and gotten a bloody nose? Do you want to share your vast experience? Go ahead, Garak, you came here for something. Ask away!”
Bashir glared at him, hoping to drive him away, but Garak’s face didn’t react to the vitriol he was spewing. What was the matter with the man - didn’t he know when he was being abused? Disgusted, Bashir turned his head away. Maybe he’d take the hint.
“Actually, doctor,” he heard Garak say quietly, “I just wanted to find out how you were.”
Platitudes. Bashir turned to look at him, but looked away again quickly. He didn’t need anyone’s pity, especially this man’s. His mouth tasted sour.
“Well, thank you for your concern, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course not,” said Garak mildly. “I didn’t expect that you would. I just thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I sat with you for a while?”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Why not?’ countered Garak with a small smile.
“I’m not in the mood for polite conversation right now.”
“Good,” said Garak as he crossed the room to sit down beside him. “Neither am I.”
Bashir looked at him. What was Garak up to? Well, no matter; he wasn’t playing. He schooled his features into a mask of indifference. Whatever Garak was expecting, he would be disappointed. Bashir sat stiffly, his arms crossed, ignoring his companion and staring resolutely at the wall.
Several minutes later he glanced over at the Cardassian, who merely sat there, relaxed and calm, looking as though he would be content to sit there in silence forever.
It was really beginning to annoy the hell out of Bashir. What was the point of this? This watching, this waiting game? Just another emotional vulture, perched on his couch, waiting for him to bare his soul so he could pick it clean. To hell with this.
Couldn’t he just come out and say whatever it was he wanted to say? Why must everything with him be a riddle, an enigma, a dance? For several more minutes he fumed. Fine. I can sit here and ignore you, too, you bastard. Is this one of your interrogation techniques?
The only sound in the room was the slight background hum of the station. He became very aware of Garak’s breathing. Slow and steady. Calm as a Vulcan. Damn it, he wanted to stay furious, but despite himself he could feel his irritation begin to fade. The sense that Garak was playing a game left him. He was just… there. It was actually relaxing, in a weird way.
He asked nothing of Bashir. It was the first time since his return that anyone had done that. He just sat there, next to him. He didn’t try to make eye contact. There was no expectation in the air. Only a sense of a warm, solid body next to his. The tight fist in his belly started to loosen.
Eventually, like a puffer-fish deflating, Bashir slowly collapsed and slumped back into the couch. He closed his eyes and covered them with his hand. He drew a deep, ragged breath.
“Oh, God… I was so scared…” he mumbled.
Garak had known that the doctor would speak eventually, but he was still surprised by the raw emotion so evident in his voice. He remembered how he’d felt after his first mission. How the fear that he’d held in check while he got through it hit him with overwhelming force only after the fact, once he was safe and alone. How frightening the fear was, how much safer it felt to be angry. Or to not feel anything at all.
“Of course you were,” murmured Garak. He winced. He hadn’t meant it to come out so condescending but… He glanced at the man beside him. He apparently hadn’t noticed.
The silence began to grow between them once more. It was not an unpleasant silence. It gave Garak space to reflect.
Fear. Yes.
He understood fear. He had been trained for these things. How much more terrifying it must have been for the doctor, suddenly thrust into such a nightmare.
When he’d heard what had happened, Garak’s mind had leapt to all the unpleasant outcomes that might have resulted. Perversely, the most abhorrent possibilities had gripped him. Even now he shuddered to think of it. He hadn’t thought he was still capable of feeling that intensely. Well, he hadn’t been… until recently.
He noticed the half-empty bottle of scotch on the table. Single malt, from the look of it. From O’Brien, no doubt. Bashir was looking for that safe place.
He was so caught up in his own turbulent thoughts that when Bashir suddenly listed into him, his warmth slumping against his shoulder and his breathing rough, he almost jumped in surprise.
Bashir’s eyes were shut tight, his expression pained. Without allowing himself to think about it, Garak brought his arm around and let it rest firmly on Bashir’s shoulder. He gently pulled the young man in, to lean up against him. He allowed himself to breathe in the scent. He could smell the strong, smoky aroma of the whiskey, but also the more intoxicating scent beneath. He let his lids droop to half-mast.
Bashir turned his torso toward Garak and set his forehead against the offered shoulder. He didn’t cry. He didn’t quiver. He just sat there, letting Garak support his weight. Garak held himself as still as possible, the movement of his chest lifting them and releasing them like gentle waves. Bashir’s bowed head was so close. Garak wanted to let his nose nestle into those dark curls, but he kept still. He savored the quiet joy in this moment. Slowly the doctor’s breathing mimicked his, becoming slow and steady. Finally he straightened up, drew his head back, and regarded Garak with dark, solemn eyes.
“Why are you doing this?”
Garak felt a flicker of annoyance but let it go. Don’t tempt me, he thought. Instead, he projected mild offence. “Is offering comfort to a friend so unusual? Perhaps you think me incapable of compassion?”
Bashir didn’t answer at first, and although his eyes were still circled with dark shadows, they seemed to be less icy than a few moments ago. Then, he pressed his lips together and said, “I don’t know what you’re capable of, Garak. You told me that yourself.”
Indeed. His dear doctor had no idea what thoughts invaded his foolish old mind in those odd, unprotected moments, nor what images flashed through his dreams when he couldn’t keep them at bay. Best not to dwell on those now.
Garak thought of the times in his life, so long ago, before he was self-contained and well-armored, when he would have given anything to have a friend sit next to him and say nothing. He had never had such a person. But now…
If he could never have those dreams of his, the ones he both feared and desired, fought against and craved… and he knew it was impossible… he could at least be that steady friend to the young man beside him. It was almost as good as his dreams. Almost.
Bashir was still looking at him, the challenge still ringing in Garak’s ear. Bashir expected him to be the mysterious spy, the ruthless torturer. He had no idea that he himself held Garak on the rack.
Better to simply reinforce the expectation. He inclined his head. “That’s true, doctor. You’d probably be very surprised if you knew. ” Very surprised.
Bashir continued to regard him with a measured gaze. There was some hostility left in his expression, to be sure, but there was also something else. Garak did not trust himself to speculate on it.
Instead, he made sure that he was properly attentive to his own feeling of serenity in this moment, while his face remained placid. He indulgently enjoyed it as long as he felt he could, then with a sigh, he rose from the couch.
As he approached the door, he turned back and smiled at Bashir.
“Thank you, doctor. You’ve given me a great gift today.” Without waiting for the puzzled response he could see forming on the doctor’s lips, he slipped out and walked down the empty corridor to his quarters so far away, his footsteps echoing slightly in the cold, indifferent halls.
Bashir just sat there, staring at the blank doors of his quarters long after the whoosh had faded from his ears. He felt thick and slow, as if swaddled by quilted cloth. But his jaw no longer ached, and he realized that his body, which he’d been holding tight as a fist for days, had softened with a sigh.
The effects of the scotch suddenly came rushing forth, and he felt dizzy. Giving up hope of dealing with any of this, he let himself fall back onto the couch and stretched out lengthwise. The spot where his head landed was warm. He reached over and grabbed the cushion where Garak’s back had rested and hugged it to himself. He buried his nose in it, imagining he could catch a spicy scent. Not two minutes passed before he was asleep, still hugging the cushion, dreaming a dream that he would never dare to remember in the morning.