Chapter Text
Bashir walked into Garak's greenhouse. It was evening on Cardassia, the dim sun creating rich red hues in the sparse clouds. It was still miserably hot. Over a year on a desert planet had given Bashir a strong constitution against heat, but he still dreaded these summer months. He'd had Garak call on his old tailor skills and make him a thawb of white Vulcan cotton. Garak had insisted on embroidering the collar with an intricate green and blue pattern. The long robe allowed for air flow, and the loose, long sleeves kept him from direct sunlight. Garak said it looked quite fetching on him so he often wore it at home. Garak's cottage outside of town with its slanted roof, mismatched tiles and gorgeous garden, was home. It was a place of comfort in this war-torn country.
Bashir sat in one of the chairs in the middle of the greenhouse and took a vial from his pocket. He opened it and let the air rush in. He breathed in deep, letting the same air fill his lungs. The scent of damp dirt, orchids, decaying leaves, and tree sap filled his nose and the vial. He wanted to be able to replicate this smell on a holosuite one day. He put the cap back on and put the vial in his pocket.
He needed to leave. It wasn’t a conscious thought that helped him come to that conclusion. It had been an action. He’d gone to leave for work after a routine breakfast together and almost kissed Garak goodbye. He’d covered it up by kissing the air over his cheek and mimicking a sitcom housewife with an over-the-top goodbye. Once upon a time, that wouldn't have happened.
When Bashir arrived on Cardassia almost two years ago, he hadn’t planned to stay. He had only wanted to visit Garak and see the planet and the people that his friend had given his life to. The visit had started out fine enough. He stayed in Garak's guest room. While Garak was working, Bashir had been able to visit many natural wonders and see some rebuilding efforts.
Nothing had truly taken hold of him at first. Catching up with Garak had been lovely, but the planet was hot and the people cold. It wasn’t until his curiosity took him to the local hospital that everything changed. They were horrifically understaffed and under prepared. While the technology was passable the staff's training was behind. The focus had been on combat medicine and primary care had fallen to the wayside. The hospital was unorganized, unprepared for viral outbreaks and had major staffing issues specially in the upper ranks. Bashir had offered his help. His vacation had turned into a working holiday, which had turned into an obsession. He was practically rebuilding a healthcare system from scratch. So much of the planet's medical resources had gone to the military that people had gone without. They had felt it was their duty.
After six months, he had been given two unwelcome surprises at the same time. His commission required him back on a StarFleet post, and his planet-side visa had expired. Everything pointed to him going back to Deep Space Nine. He could work for a federation relief organization on Cardassia, but he'd have to leave his hospital and settle for a more limited role. Now that he was a known augment, he was never going to be given an officer's role so easily, accolades be damned. He didn’t want to go back to Deep Space 9. His relationship with Erzi hadn't worked out. The O'Briens were back on Earth. So many of his friends were scattered all over the galaxy or gone forever. He was more embedded here than he had ever been on any planet, and he had been told to leave.
He’d been lamenting his woes to Garak when his friend had had an idea. He’d explained that enjoinment was taken very seriously, and no one would force him off the planet if he was enjoined with a native. Bashir had asked for volunteers jokingly, and Garak had offered himself. No pause for thought. It was a recipe for disaster. Julian had always harbored feelings and desires for the tailor. They had never gone anywhere and, at the time, they weren't love, but he should have known better. Garak talked him into it nonetheless, making it all seem very pedestrian. A marriage license was procured and signed. There was no ceremony, no family gathering, just two lines of ink, and they were married.
Garak was soon after elected Castellan and was often working long, hard hours. Bashir was at the hospital for long hours as well. They met like ships passing in the night. Both would often make meals and leave leftovers for the other. On the rare occasion they were off at the same time, they ate together, read together, and argued. It’d been over a year since they were married. Nothing had changed. Which is why Bashir had no idea when he’d fallen so deeply in love.
He could clearly remember one day looking up and watching Garak cooking. His heart had felt so incredibly full. Garak understood him in a way no one had bothered to. The handsome older man had opened his home to him, taken care of him. Garak took time out of his busiest days to make sure Julian wanted for nothing. He was in love with his husband. It was ridiculous. It shouldn’t hurt so much. He had tried to stay normal, to avoid his feelings, but his mask was slipping. Garak would notice soon, so Julian had to leave.
Garak didn’t feel the same. Bashir could calculate speeds, angles, and possibilities, but people were too complicated. It was cruel. He could only guess, and Garak didn't make it easy. Surely, if Garak had wanted more, he would have said so by now. There were moments he wondered if he didn’t see something extra in his eyes or if a flirty comment wasn’t sincere. Garak was an enigma. Bashir couldn't risk saying anything and ruining the only home he had. Forcing Garak to reject him would put a wedge in their friendship; no amount of novels and dinners could fix. That’s why Bashir had to leave. He had to put some distance between them. It likely wouldn’t be long, but he couldn’t afford another slip-up. Garak was thriving here. The acceptance of his people and building a better Cardassia had given him a certain glow. Bashir couldn’t tarnish that.
A transport came up the drive, and Bashir stood up. That must be Garak. He ran his hand over a tree he had helped Garak plant and whispered goodbye for now. He turned towards their humble house with the tilted roof, mismatched tiles, and sun-bleached walls with a sad smile. As he started inside, he saw there were two transports. Garak never brought anyone home without telling Bashir first. They parked at the end of the driveway, and multiple militarily dressed personnel started filing out.
All thoughts of love and home were banished from his mind. His training kicked in and he made a mental map of where every possible weapon was. He calculated how long it would take to get to them. He considered the fact that Garak might have been killed or kidnapped. They might be here to blackmail Bashir. He should leave at least one assailant awake in case he needed to find out Garak's location. Some sections disagreed with Garak’s approach. They wanted the old days back. They were against Federation involvement and anti-aliens like himself.
Bashir quickened his steps, going in the side door and into the kitchen. He was careful to be silent as he pulled a knife out of a drawer and palmed it. There was a phaser in the house, but it was in his room. He’d retreat there if they opened fire.
Someone knocked on the door, three sharp thumps.
“State’s business,” came a deep, male voice from the other side of the door.
Bashir didn’t believe them. In Cardassian double speak, that could mean the ‘true’ state, the one that had stood before the new government had started. He didn’t answer. He debated going to his bedroom, but that would cross multiple windows and expose his position.
“Alpha, quid, nomis,” the voice stated in a clear, strong tone, “This is state's business, please open the door. We are unarmed.”
That was the code they used in Garak’s office. Only the highest had clearance to know it. They must have known that he’d be suspicious. Bashir went to the door and opened it, knife tucked into his sleeve to free his hand.
Beyond the door was an old male Cardassian in a formal suit with gold piping on the shoulders. Bashir checked his hands and saw they were empty as promised. He had a stern expression, but his eyes were friendly.
“What’s this about?” Bashir asked, his voice tight and his eyes scanning the rest of the crowd. Two more male Cardassians and two females, all of whom were carrying boxes. What was in the boxes? They said they weren’t armed, and Bashir was trying to believe them. There were more than he had hoped, but he could still put up a good fight if needed. He had the home turf advantage if nothing else.
“You and your husband have been chosen for Ru’Nul,” the man said, the edges of a smile on his lips “May we come in?”
Bashir cursed the limits of the Universal Translator. It didn’t have a translation for Ra’Nul. It could mean anything. What if it was ritual sacrifice?’At least if they came into the closed quarters, that would give him the advantage. He backed up and let the crowd of strangers in. They filed in one after another and started putting down the boxes in neat rows in the living room. Since that wasn't immediately threatening, Bashir allowed it. After they stood in a formal line by the door, two on each side. The older Cardassian stood next to him, facing the door, almost like they were waiting for something.
An elder female Cardassian came through the door pushing a floating bassinet. The Cardassians on either side started politely clapping as she came up to Bashir with a smile. She reached into the bassinet and pulled out an extremely tiny baby. The baby was swaddled, but the face peeking out had the distinct ridges of a Cardassian. He’d never seen a baby so small and wanted to pull out a tricorder to make sure it was healthy. Was it here for an exam?
“Congratulations,” she said, offering the baby to Bashir. Bashir rushed to take the child. She was cold in his arms despite the blanket, and he instinctively pressed her to his chest to warm her.
“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from the child to all the eerily cheerful faces that watched him.
“As I said, you’ve been chosen for Ra’Nul,” the old man said again, seeming irritated at having to repeat himself.
“I think there’s been some sort of mistake. What’s Ra’Nul?” he asked, his voice steadily getting louder. The baby in his arms started fussing and he tried to hand them back to the woman. She looked stricken and stepped back. Bashir cradled the child carefully again.
“This is,” the older woman said, getting irritated, “You know rejecting Ra’Nul comes with a death sentence."
Bashir felt the room get chilly and tense. He would have to figure out what was going on later. Asking about it seemed to really ruin the mood.
“Oh, Ra’Nul! I thought you said renege. Sorry, the translator can be finicky," Bashir said with a big smile, “Of course, I’m excited about my Ra’Nul. I’ve always wanted one.”
“As do we all,” the older gentleman said, gazing lovingly at the older woman who Bashir assumed was his wife.
“We shall leave you to it. Your husband is going to be so happy,” the lady said as she motioned to the people to start packing out.
They each bowed his head to him and filed out. No one went to take the baby. When the door closed behind them he still had the infant in his arms. He stared down at their half lidded blue eyes and watched as they rolled in closer to Bashir’s chest. The child made a little grumble as one hand grabbed onto Bashir’s thawb.
“Computer emergency call to Garak. Garak, come in.”
“Heard, doctor. What’s going on?”
“I need you to come home immediately,” he said, but he didn’t know who else was listening. Showing his ignorance on the topic might get them both in trouble, so he simply added, “We’ve been Ra’Nul-ed.”