the thing bashir likes best about garak is how he handles their baby. he’ll occasionally steel himself away behind doorways or walls when garak and the baby are in a room together, taking a moment to himself before walking in just to listen to the softness of garak’s voice as he reads to their child or instructs it. he finds himself occasionally looking at the pair of them in wonderment, not unaware of how this change between self-medicating, friendless, isolated garak and at-ease, garak occured–having witnessed all the steps and back-steps it took for him to reach this point, but knowing keenly that there’s something about the way garak’s expression melts when he looks at their little one that bashir can’t place, even after all this time. it’s something akin to his own look when he sees his child–something of disbelief and love beyond love, but some wisp of sadness trails behind it too, as though this is more a solace than a simple gift. one day bashir makes a stray remark about how changed garak is–how gentle. how surprised he sometimes is about how easily he carries himself around the baby. he laughs and says that it’s almost as if he’s “done this all before!” and garak turns to him with a sharpness behind his eyes and just blinks. carefully. pointedly. and bashir feels his stomach drop. “have you done this before, garak?” he asks, his laughter from just a moment ago having fallen flat to his feet and his voice just above a whisper. garak just turns away, facing his child again and pushing a stray curl back into place on its little head.
ALTfuuuuuuuuck
