“I had a lovely evening, Garak.” They stood again outside Garak’s door.
Garak had to admit that Julian had impressed him. He’d been expecting satin leisure clothes in colors so deeply saturated they left an after-image when he looked away, horrendous table manners, and distractedness, until the inevitably clumsy first move. And to be quite honest, he would have embraced all of that, he would have thrilled to accept whatever Julian gave him.
Perhaps Julian had been determined to show him why he called himself a gentlemen’s man. Or perhaps he wanted to make up for his earlier impetuousness and drunkenness, or for storming out of Garak’s quarters. Or perhaps (and Garak only allowed himself to entertain this possibility fleetingly) he truly cared about Garak’s feelings and experiences, and the effort he put into their date was a promise.
“I suppose I should say goodnight, then.” Julian continued. “I hope–”
“My dear.” Julian waited for the next words, unsure of what to expect.
The evening had begun here hours ago. Julian had arrived holding a potted orchid he’d begged from Keiko (along with a promise not to tell Miles the intended recipient.) He wore a slate gray tunic that showed off his collarbones in a scandalous manner, made of a woven fabric that begged to be touched. He kissed Garak on the cheek in greeting, admired his placement of the orchid, and offered his arm as they strolled to Garak’s favorite Bajoran restaurant.
They discussed Whitman. Garak, though initially horrified by the very concept of a song to oneself, argued that there was something almost Cardassian in his views of brotherhood, and his connection to Earth’s nature stirred Garak’s never entirely dormant longing for his home-world. Bashir took a more social-historic approach, delighting in telling Garak about the context of the work, and of Whitman’s love for men.
As they ended the meal, Bashir asked if he would like to continue the evening in a coffee-house. He had booked a holosuite, and brought along a program his friend Felix had given him after seeing Bashir’s fascination with mid-20th century Earth culture.
“I thought if you enjoyed Whitman you might enjoy his descendants.” Bashir explained as they entered a smoky room. “This is from the same Earth era as my spy program, but I promise you it is not more of the same.”
They sat at a small table and took in the scene around them. On stage was a short, wiry human with a beard and glasses. He began to read:
“What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.”
Garak let the words wash over him and used the opportunity to gaze at Julian, at the earnest expression on his face as he listened intently.
“Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?”
After the reading ended they sat in companionable silence, listening to a nuanced instrumental music, until they were interrupted by Quark’s yelling, “Time’s up!”
And now they stood at Garak’s door, the evening’s words and music echoing as he looked at Julian, beautiful Julian, and said, “My dear. Please do come in.”
MORE
It’s here on AO3, with 30 other fics I’ve written since! :D
https://archiveofourown.org/works/11767518/chapters/26528076
Thank you!!! I am currently nannying a three month old who only sleeps when held and Garashir is a delightful distraction.
Happy to provide!
