Archive of Our Own

Elim pictured a knife slicing into the soft flesh of his inner wrist, parting the skin downward from the heel of his hand, deep red blood welling up and spilling out. It would sting. Not terribly at first. But throbbing would follow next, a deep ache that was somehow satisfying and fascinating at the same time. He pictured several more slices, maybe criss-crossing in long X’s that overlapped. Both wrists. Not deep enough to sever tendons, of course. One must maintain use of the hands, after all. But sharp enough to distract the mind. Change the course of thought, or even derail it altogether in favor of hurriedly mopping up the mess before it stained clothing or carpet. Cleaning the wounds as burning fires streaked up and down his forearms.

It was almost enough for his abused glands to release a few endorphins, simply at the memory of pain and the euphoria it used to trigger when he had the implant. 

But not these days. Not with the wire deactivated and most of it gone. Removed.

Besides, the wrists were way too vulnerable. And conspicuous. It would be too simple to make a mistake. Draw attention to things that he’d rather remained invisible to the rest of the station’s inhabitants.

Invisible like him. A nobody ex-agent in exile. A figure, almost a caricature, a sad little tailor in his sad little shop, sewing outfits for the few people who wanted something that wasn’t straight out of a replicator and were desperate enough to trust a Cardassian with a checkered past.

But he didn’t mean anything to them. He could just as easily be replaced by an android or a changeling or a hologram, even a mannequin, and no one would notice the difference.

Well, few would.

Quark might, as would Morn. Dr. Bashir, certainly.

But probably no one else.

He sighed.

The stomach would be ideal. Flesh that was always covered, never visible to the public. Easy to grab a hold of, the fatty tissues soft and pliant. Except they were too soft. There was so much give that a knife wouldn’t even properly cut through. The tip would push and push and the skin would give and give and wouldn’t even puncture unless it had been sharpened to the precision of a pin. And even then, the rest of the edge wouldn’t do much, even with pressure. No, if one wants to injure the abdomen, the move must be fast and deep, decisive and intentional.

Which wasn’t what Elim wanted. He had no desire to rupture his liver, stomach, or intestines. And healing such a wound would be a bitch. That wouldn’t do.

An ankle, perhaps. The skin there was taut and easily breached. Especially over the knob, where a large blood vessel crossed over the surface. But just beneath that was bone. A stopping point. Boring. Anticlimactic. 

Behind the bone, however… The meaty divot toward the back.  The dip, the shadow beneath the scale. Even a pin would do the job. 

Had done the job, many times before.

Where hadn’t Garak cut? He’d done his ankles, his biceps, both below the shoulder and underneath, his inner thighs, behind the knees…

Surely there must be some untouched skin that hadn’t been healed a dozen times over already.

The tops of his feet? Between the toes? That could be intriguing.

It was a shame he couldn’t clearly see his back, much less reach it. There was so much untapped potential back there, a veritable canvas of unmarred (at least by him) flesh.

If only he could do the wrists. He’d explored them diligently and in great depth while under the implant’s thrall. They were easy to access: just roll up the sleeve, quick to pierce, barely any pressure needed at all, and there were dozens of nerves right there at the surface, making every mark count. The arteries and veins were shallowly arranged, too, making that region the most desirable when one wanted to see the pain visibly, painted in vivid crimson streaks..

Anything that would focus his mind on the physical instead of the mental. The emotional. The sentimental.

How inconvenient that one couldn’t cut out their feelings. 

Maybe… a little higher up? The inside of his elbow?

The problem with that was the number of injections the Order had administered there. Elim had too many associations with the substances they’d subjected him to: anything from getting him familiar with the effects of truth serum to stimulants before demanding missions to inoculations for every sort of Cardassian and Bajoran STD imaginable.

He had to give Starfleet credit for that one thing, he admitted to himself. Hyposprays were infinitely kinder.

Elim left his counter to pace around the shop and search for inspiration. A new tool for inflicting damage. An opening on a garment or angle on a mannequin that might inspire him to try a new portion of flesh.

It wasn’t as if he had any customers to attend to for the time being.

He studied necklines.

The chest was out of the question. Not only was there too much armor, but he would never harm any of his crests. Tolan hadn’t taught him much of use beyond gardening, but he’d managed to instill a sacred sort of reverence for the chufa, chula, and chuva that made Elim loathe to do them any harm. These he protected, even if he didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he had any spiritual or romantic use for them.

His eyes traced over the mirrors in the back. With their assistance, he might be able to cut at a hip or even buttock and watch the blood run.

Well, not those mirrors, obviously. Much too out in the open. But with a small handheld one, in the back room…

Ugh.

That just felt like too much effort.

Juggling a mirror and a dagger, trousers around his ankles, body bent at an odd angle?

Disgust washed through him.

He’d be embarrassed just to catch himself doing such a thing, even if no one else saw.

A scarf caught his eye, and he ran a hand down the sheer material. Perhaps it was time to branch out, and try new avenues of pain infliction. Choking? The bruises would be simple enough for even an old and broken-down dermal regenerator.

But it’d be so much easier on a human. Cardassian ridges made wrapping anything around the throat utterly useless.

His mind deviated for a minute to his dear doctor’s brown, smooth throat rather than his own. He imagined the scarf knotted around it, but not in harm. Just perched at a jaunty angle, leaving enough space to reveal the hollow between his clavicles. Oh, the tender skin that he longed to taste. The scent would probably linger there, and if he were to be sweating, and on his back, the liquid might form a little pool that he could lap at. Sweet and salty, he imagined.

And completely unobtainable.

He released the scarf.

There was always…

Elim’s eyes dropped. 

He’d never cut down there before.

It had all the necessary requirements. Accessible, firm skin that could be easily split, quick to bleed. Undoubtedly painful.

What was wrong with him that he was nearly aroused at the thought?

Just how deviant was he?

Maybe Tain had been right after all, and there really was something deeply wrong with him.

Flawed.

Aberrant.

Disappointing.

Those dark eyes bore into his psyche, searing into his brain, scorching his soul. Back when he’d still had a soul, at least.

Before he’d ripped it out and shoved it in a jar of sand and stuck a stopper in the top to keep it from escaping and bothering him again.

How old had he been? Ten? Thirteen?

After Bamarren, he’d dug the bottle out of storage and studied it. The mottled mix of deep red, beige, orange, and black from four of the seven Cardassian deserts that had once been artistically layered but become mixed when he’d knocked it over by accident.

Curious, he’d pulled the stopper out.

Predictably, nothing escaped.

Nothing filled him up, replaced the empty void he’d grown used to living with.

He wondered where it’d gone, his soul. Maybe it had dissolved. Turned to dust and settled in with the grains.

He didn’t know where it was now.

The bottle.

He didn’t really believe in a soul anymore. Just the fanciful imaginings of a child.

Superstitious nonsense.

Elim turned toward the front of the store and watched the passersby. The sounds of their conversations were muted, not just by the acoustics of the room but by his own apathy. His brain just didn’t care enough to hone in on the sound of the voices.

Behind the ear?

No, there was bone there as well.

And his neck ridge.

He’d seen a mentally ill man on the street once, picking away at a scute that was nowhere near ready to be shed. His nails had been crusted with blood from the habit, his neck and shoulders marred with scars and even holes where parts had been dug away.

He’d barely made it around the corner and into an alley before being violently sick.

He’d recognized the man. A gul, once upon a time. Someone who’d failed in his task of keeping ungrateful Bajorans under control. No one knew what had been done to him as punishment (or even who had administered it), but the message had been clear enough that his successor had ruled with an iron fist, and hundreds of workers paid the price with their own blood. And their lives.

That had only been a decade ago. Maybe a little more. Elim had been an adult, and not even a young one at that.

He still didn’t know why it had affected him so.

He just knew he didn’t want that to be him.

Elim’s eyes fluttered shut. This was getting to be so stressful that it was wearing him out. He ought to just pick a place and be done with it. The sooner he could cut the pain away, the sooner he could heal it up and get back to work.

Pick a place. Just pick it.

The crease where torso met thigh. He hadn’t used it too often. It was tender and would be relievingly sharp. The blood would well up readily.

But guls damn it, he’d have to remove clothing. Sitting on his bare arse with fabric bunched up around his knees. Pitiful.

The ankles it was, then. Back where he’d started. Just lift the hem and roll it out of the way.

The shackles around his chest released. Calm descended.

He had a plan of action. A solution. This was something he could control.

And it’d all be over soon.

Elim stopped to consider dreamily for a minute. The pocketknife he had tucked into his sleeve at all times? The larger dagger in a hidden compartment behind his work desk? The Nausicaan leather needle? 

His stomach clenched and throat closed at a wild, wonderful thought.

The scalpel he’d filched from the infirmary.

Oh, how tempting to be given relief by the doctor. To know that a tool that’d been held in his hand would help Elim to face his worries and move beyond them. Why, it’d almost be like the doctor touching him, wouldn’t it? Running his fingers over scale and skin, tracing vessels and muscles lovingly before opening them up to the air. Releasing the demons to haunt some other corner of the station.

Something warm and alien woke and swirled around inside his chest. Something he usually kept firmly chained away in the dark, hidden from the light of day.

The faintest thread of guilt seeped in.

Dr. Bashir would not approve of him hurting himself.

Would definitely not approve of him using a tool for healing as an instrument for harm.

But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Elim wandered into his back room and got to work.

He pulled down a box from one of the upper shelves and dug around until he found the tube of implements. They were all sewing tools except for one.

It gleamed silver and spotless, with such a delicate curve of the blade. He held it up and admired the shape for a moment. So simple and utilitarian, yet classically efficient.

Yes. This would do.

He sanitized it quickly, along with his hands. Took off his shoes and socks, set them aside. Meticulously folded up the bottoms of his slacks over and over until they were firmly in place and wouldn’t fall back down. Ran the sonic sterilizer over each ankle, both left and right sides of each. Sat down on the floor. Made sure there were wipes for mopping up blood and a disposable scrap of fabric beneath his feet in case anything ran too fast for him to catch.

He considered turning on some music or white noise to ease the oppressive silence.

But no, it would take too long to pick something appropriate. He’d already lost a good hour of his day, and at this point anything else felt like procrastinating.

Elim started out just running the blade gently up and down the exposed area, getting a feel for it. The sensation should have tickled, but these days he was usually too numb to feel anything less than forced pressure. He tilted the scalpel so that only the very tip touched him, and traced it along the vein. On a human, it might have already opened something up. But his Cardassian hide required more force.

A quick poke and then pull it up, or something slower?

He stuck with his favored method: begin at the bottom, then press harder as the tool was drawn up. It started as a scraping feeling, then burning, then stinging as it pierced deeper. The base of the line was white from scratched skin, but then it turned dark gray where the swelling started and finally was pebbled by tiny dots of burnt scarlet towards the top.

Elim repeated the process several times, each cut getting gradually deeper. His ankle was on fire now, but the blood was hardly there, not even enough to require blotting. He drummed the fingers of his unoccupied hand. The scalpel might be too delicate. He should have sat closer to his supplies so that he could reach for something else should the need arise.

Or he could stop being a coward and just push . Steeling himself and holding his breath, he penetrated harder. This time when he dragged the knife, blood welled up immediately. By the end of the gesture, a fine rivulet was running towards the floor. He blindly grabbed for a wipe and removed the evidence, then watched as it happened again. Another swipe and another until the flow slowed.

He returned to the scalpel. Something itched at him, prompted him to move north. He repositioned the blade and pulled it up the back of his calf.

The flair of pain was delicious. He winced instinctively at the intrusion, but inside he hissed with satisfaction. 

Pointing the knife just below the underside of his knee, Elim made several quick, viscous lashes downward, waiting through the initial shock of blankness for the nerves to catch up.

The streaks smarted gratifyingly, transforming from a pinch to a throb and then alternating back and forth between the two. The tickle of droplets trailing toward his heel were barely even noticeable. Too late, one of them departed and hit the rug, just outside of the scrap under his foot.

He’d have to clean that up soon.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Elim froze. Had he forgotten to close up the shop and lock the front door? Unacceptable. He’d let his mind become clouded, and he didn’t even have the wire to blame for it.

Dr. Bashir stood in the doorway, his face a mixture of anger and horror. He dashed over and removed the scalpel from Elim’s hand before it even registered what was happening. Kneeling on the floor, he made quick work of sterilizing the wounds and staunching the blood. “Garak, what happened? What’s going on here? Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

Elim tried to shove his hands away to take care of the mess himself, but was blocked at every turn. “What do you think this looks like, doctor?”

Annoyed eyes flicked up at him and then back down again. “It looks like you’re cutting yourself. What I’m hoping you’re going to tell me is that you got one of your shipments through Quark and found out it was infested with mites that immediately started burrowing under your skin.” He set down the sterilizer and took a quick look at the metal implement next to it. “Damn it, this is one of mine. Where’d you get it?”

Elim ignored the first statement and replied to the second. “I found it in the pocket of a pair of trousers I was mending,” he fibbed. “I was meaning to return it to you shortly, but such a fine piece of equipment is quite useful to a tailor. Scissors can be so imprecise.”

Bashir picked up the dermal regenerator and pointed it awkwardly under Elim’s leg. “Uh huh,” he muttered distractedly. “This isn’t working. I can’t see what I’m doing.” He finally lifted his head and met the tailor’s gaze. “Lie down on your stomach.”

Oh, that didn’t sound appealing at all. “Doctor, I assure you I can take care of this myself. Just hand me the-”

“I told you to lie down. Now do what I say or I’ll call Odo in here to hold you there.” Eyes blazing, the Human pointed to the floor.

Elim complied, but grumbled on the way down. “If this is your bedside manner, then I’m glad I haven’t visited the infirmary more often.” A hot glow enveloped his leg as the regenerator was flipped on.

“I don’t have a bedside to use my manners at, because I know you’ll never allow yourself to be put there.” 

Bashir was quiet for a minute as he worked, but then he expelled a breath noisily. “I knew something was bothering you,” he muttered quietly. “You were really distant at our last lunch, and didn’t talk as much. Or eat as well as you normally do.” He cursed quietly. “I’m sorry, Garak. I should have known something was wrong. I should have talked to you about it, or checked in on you.”

How preposterous! “Whatever are you apologizing for, my dear doctor? This has nothing to do with you.”

The regenerator thunked to the ground. Bashir scooted up by Elim’s head, where he stared down with a haunted expression. “I’m a medical professional, Garak, and your friend. I should have read the signs.”

“You forget that I’m trained to obscure any signs that would reveal a weakness of mine. You’re absolved of all guilt, I assure you.” Elim raised his brows. “May I rise now?”

“Oh. Yes. I’m done.” The doctor held a hand out and helped him back into a sitting position. He seemed to relinquish the hold with reluctance. “Are you going to tell me what happened? Why you did this?”

Elim stifled a sigh. “You already figured it out, didn’t you? My latest Voltarian wool was infested with scale mites. I was able to dislodge them all just before your interruption.” He stared pointedly at the floor. “Although they’ve probably all escaped now, so there may be a repeat infection.”

“I mean what really happened. To make you want to harm yourself. How long has this been going on? I’m assuming you started at some point with the implant, but did you continue after it was neutralized, or stop then and start back up again recently? What triggers you normally? Did something happen, or has it all been building up over time?”

Elim shifted into a more comfortable position for his legs and rear, but straightened his back to look as imposing as he could without rising to tower over Bashir. “Are there any more questions, or are you done? And do you really expect me to answer them?”

Bashir closed his eyes and dropped his head, then looked back up. “Garak, darling, this is not okay. I want to help you.”

What had he just said? That had to have been a slip of the tongue or an error of the universal translator. 

The phrasing also had the unfortunate effect of throwing off Elim’s entire train of thought. He floundered silently.

The Human pushed off with his hands and repositioned his rear alongside so that they were facing one another. “I know we don’t have a ship’s counselor, god knows why, and you probably wouldn’t see them even if we did…” He set his hand on the tailor’s knee. “But you can talk to me if you ever need to. As a doctor I do have some background in psychology and psychiatry, and as your friend I’d do whatever it takes to get you through this. I just… I want you to know I’m here.” He frowned and removed his hand. “I’m sorry. I should have asked first.”

An irrational flare of anger spiked through Elim. He didn’t want to feel like this, didn’t want to talk about it, and most of all didn’t want anyone to see him like this. To perceive him as weak or anything less than sane. Would Dr. Bashir look down on him now, pity him? Lose respect for him? Sure, he’d seen the tailor at his lowest point when the implant was breaking down, when he’d tried committing suicide by triptacederine, and it hadn’t seemed to influence the way he treated Elim. But this was different, wasn’t it?

He hated feeling helpless and out of control. Hated being seen in a momentary lapse of judgement. Hated being vulnerable. Hated not having that infernal instrument in his brain that could so easily turn everything else off with a simple flick of the switch.

He wanted to throw something. He wanted to see glass or ceramic shatter into a hundred jagged shards and scatter across the room. He wanted to hear the crash, feel the jolt of adrenaline at the violence and noise of the action. He wanted to hurl with his greatest strength until something smashed into the opposite bulkhead and dented it before falling to pieces in a scattered pile on the floor. His fingers flexed, but there was nothing even remotely fitting the description of what he wanted, and he doubted he’d be allowed to do such a thing anyway.

“Garak?”

And he’d let his mind wander off and make him look even less balanced by not replying. Stars and sands, he hated that. Hated himself.

“I’m sorry, my doctor.” An explanation or fabrication failed to materialize. “I believe it would be best if you left now.”

“What? Um no, I don’t think that’s best. You shouldn’t be alone like this.”

Why was it Dr. Bashir only became assertive with him at the least desirable times?

If the foolish young man would leave him alone, at least Elim could find a few items destined for the recycler and phaser them into oblivion instead. Or lock himself in the hidden room with its soundproofing and scream until his throat was raw and the ache in his abdomen subsided. It’d been a terrific release once or twice before.

He tried to stand up and found that his legs weren’t cooperating. The signal didn’t seem to extend beyond his head. His hands twitched. The muscles in his thighs trembled. A fluttery, confused jumble tangled inside his chest. He recognized the panic setting in, but instead of taking deep, measured breaths like usual, tears stung in the corner of his eyes.

The urge to fling the dermal regenerator, or himself, as far and hard as possible shot through his arms, and he almost made it off the floor.

“Garak, is it okay if I hug you? I know you don’t normally like me to touch you when you’re like this, at least you didn’t like it last time, but maybe if I apply some pressure it could help?”

Oh guls, he did need a hug.

How pathetic.

And one from the warm, desert-brown doctor would be better than any other, too.

He bet Dr. Bashir was very proficient at hugging. Would throw himself into it with the same fervor and attention as he did everything.

Another voice in his head rose to the surface. It reasoned that allowing Bashir to hug him would make the dear doctor feel better, maybe even relieved, to be taking action. Give him the impression that he was helping. Elim could do that for his friend.

His mouth wouldn’t open to reply, but he nodded his head. It was a jerky, somewhat diagonal motion, but it was understood clearly enough.

Fabric rustled as the Human unfolded himself and scooted against Elim’s side. He didn’t hesitate, just wrapped his arms around the thick shoulders and didn’t let go.

The pressure did help.

A few wavering components ceased jittering and righted themselves back into place.

“I have a hypo that could help you relax,” a quiet voice said next to his ear. “But it’s back in my medkit. Is that something you’d like, or no?” He was being offered a choice.

“No.”

It was short and barely made it out, but it felt good to say.

“Okay. Are you alright with me staying here with you a while? Or we could go somewhere else. Your quarters. I know you won’t go to the infirmary.”

That sounded somewhat appealing, if he was capable of getting off the floor.

Elim tried nodding again, but his teeth were clenched and his neck wouldn’t move.

“I know that…” Bashir swallowed. “When I was little and had… episodes, sometimes touch helped. Having someone pet my hair or hold my hand. Being held tightly.” He cinched his arms briefly in demonstration. “It helped center me.”

The part of Elim’s brain dedicated to the Order kicked in. Gathering information was ingrained. “Was this a regular occurrence?”

A clearing of the throat. “Only when I was severely stressed out. My mother would hold me. At least, she would if my father wasn’t around.”

“I see. And you grew out of it then?” A child had gone through this. Not an adult. Elim was nothing more than a feeble hatchling.

The shift in hold and stance alerted him immediately that a nerve had been struck.

“No. Not really.”

Oh. 

“And what do you do now?”

To be honest, he was desperately curious. Not only hadn’t he known the doctor experienced such incidents, but he wondered if any of his solutions would work for a Cardassian. Stranger things had been known.

But the arms slipped away as Bashir drew inward instead.

“Now? I go out and look for company. Quark’s, mostly. To see if I can find someone who’s off duty. And if no one’s available, I-” He huddled in on himself. “Then I try to get into the holosuite. Lose my thoughts in mindless games. Or find someone to talk to.”

That really didn’t sound helpful at all.

“What about the pressure and contact? I thought you said that approach was what worked best.”

“Well, I can’t exactly go around just touching people, now can I? You have to have consent. And it doesn’t look very good if the station's Chief Medical Officer is propositioning coworkers or strangers for a big tight hug. So I-” His mouth clacked shut.

The agent scented information. “So you what?”

“I find someone to come home with me and spend the night shagging so I won’t feel so lonely. So someone will hold me or lie on top of me. Make me feel special, even if it’s only for a couple hours.”

That certainly was pertinent information. The agent was pleased. Such details could be used in manipulation and blackmailing. Coercion. 

He’d been right in the beginning. The doctor was susceptible to physical persuasion. He could have had so much intelligence in regards to Starfleet by now. A pity.

But the part of him that had been training the young Human as a sort of protégé was… well, not necessarily displeased. Not disappointed. But something.

“That doesn’t sound like a particularly healthy approach, doctor. At least not by Federation standards as I know them.”

“Yes, well…”

Elim studied the face that was looking everywhere but at him. “Well?”

“I may be a doctor, but I don’t always take my own advice.” He looked sheepish. “I’ve never been very fond of taking medicine, at least not unless it’s an emergency, and we technically have a virtual counselor, but it’s just… so… impersonal.”

He could relate to that. It wasn’t as if he wanted to deal with even more dependence.

“Besides, some of what I experience, it isn’t even really a chemical imbalance. It’s more of a wiring in the brain. I probably ought to try cognitive behavioral therapy or some such.” A frustrated noise escaped. “But I just don’t see how training my thoughts could ever replace humanoid touch, you know? I just crave to be held. It calms me. Soothes me. It makes everything feel alright, like the gravity was turned off but it suddenly came back on.” He glanced at the tailor and made a face. “I’m sorry, this isn’t helping. We’re not supposed to be talking about me; this is about you.”

“On the contrary,” Elim replied. “I find it very illuminating.”

“Are you feeling any better then? Would you like to go somewhere else?”

He couldn’t really think of anywhere else to go. At least in the shop there was the familiarity of his possessions and their orderly arrangements. Predictable schedules and appointments. “You may go. I’ll remain here for a little while. I need to… tidy up.”

“Garak, I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone right now.”

Another surge of anger washed in, albeit weaker than before. “I’m perfectly fine, doctor.”

“I don’t think you are.”

The energy to stand galvanized Elim. He stood up and brushed himself off. Bashir hurriedly rose too. Why did they have to be so close in height? It was so much easier to intimidate from a taller position. “I’d like to ask you to leave now.”

“No.”

He’d be proud of the stubbornness if he wasn’t slightly fed up. “Just what do you think is going to happen if you leave? I’m a grown man, in case you haven’t noticed. I can take care of myself.”

Bashir’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Exasperation and irritation warred inside. “I’m not going to try ending my life, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

To his surprise, the Human’s face softened. “Garak, I know that if you truly wanted to off yourself, there isn’t anyone or anything that could stop you.”

“Excepting yourself, of course.” It just slipped out, and he instantly regretted it.

The eyes widened. A glittering sheen crossed them. “You let me, though. You told me how to help you, where to find the device to turn off the wire. Give yourself some credit.”

“Then give me some credit now. I have no intention of taking my own life, and I haven’t for some time. This was completely different.”

“How so?”

Elim looked around the room, feeling overwhelmingly exhausted. He pulled over a chair and sat down. “A suicide attempt and cutting oneself are two very different things, my dear doctor. One is aimed at escape, the other moving forward. The former means giving up. But the latter is a coping mechanism for dealing with the pain so that one may ‘get it out of the way,’ as you humans say. And once it’s dealt with, you can return to being productive and carrying on. This was my exact intention.”

Bashir crossed his arms. “What you described is not always the case, but yes, I agree to some extent.”

“You do?”

“Well, obviously it’s a case by case basis from person to person. But for you, I believe you’re correct.” He stepped closer. “Cutting isn’t a healthy coping mechanism by any standard, but it is, in essence, optimistic. It means you believe that things will get better. So I know you’re not suicidal.”

But… “Then why make me say it?”

“Because sometimes you need to hear it from yourself. For reassurance. For verification.”

He may not be a counselor, but he was beginning to sound like one. “So you understand that cutting oneself is not the same thing as trying to commit suicide?”

“Of course. It’s the 24th century, after all. Humans have been dealing with this for centuries.”

Elim shook his head. “It’s not the same on Cardassia. Anyone caught harming themselves is immediately sterilized to prevent the propagation of faulty genes.” He could see the question lurking behind Bashir’s eyes, and the effort it was taking not to say anything, so he went ahead and answered it. “I said anyone caught. I am completely intact. For all the good it’s done me.” 

More questions flashed across the Human’s face, but none were voiced. “I’m sorry to hear that. That Cardassia has that rule, not the other part of what you said.” He pressed his lips together in embarrassment.

“No need to apologize, doctor. My homeworld has its reasons, and my love life is hardly your concern.”

Bashir’s mouth opened to speak, then snapped shut. He pivoted sharply and strode away, stopping to study the wall of hanging fabric rolls. 

How intriguing. He clearly wanted to say something and yet was trying very hard not to. His body language gave everything away. In fact, it almost appeared as if he wanted it to be noticed that he was hiding something.

“Doctor? Are you concerned about my love life?”

The way he spun around and his eyes widened guiltily was comical. “I- Wha- Um.” Bashir reached up and ran his hand through his hair. “No, of course not. I mean, not unless you want me to be. I mean… As your friend, I’m concerned about everything about you.” His hand dropped absently onto the Andorian suede. “You don’t have to talk about your romantic relationships with me unless you want to. Friends do that, though. It’s pretty common. Me and Miles talk about it all the time. Although it’s usually him trying to understand Keiko and me sharing my latest disaster with dating. You and I never talk about that, but I’d be okay with it if we did, since we’re friends. I wouldn’t mind.” At that, he rushed in the opposite direction until he was practically standing in the corner like a naughty child. He covered his face and mumbled something into his hands.

“What was that? I didn’t catch it.”

A guilty face peered back. “Nothing. Berating myself is all. Sometimes I’m an idiot. Just forget I said all that.”

The strangely irregular and gentle feeling returned to his chest. “I find it hard to forget anything you say. You’re quite unforgettable, at least to me.”

Confused emotions darted across the dusky face. Gratitude won out. “Thank you,” Bashir said bashfully. “There aren’t many who would agree with you. I think some would even say the opposite, that I’m someone they want to forget.” His legs carried him back, and he perched on the desk by Elim’s chair. “I find you very memorable as well.” He furrowed his brows, concern and affection openly displayed. “I hope you know that, Garak. You mean a lot to me. The time we spend together, the things we talk about. I don’t like seeing you in pain.” He looked so earnest. “And not just because I’m a doctor.”

He was so close that Elim could feel a soft wave of heat emanating from his mammalian form. He wanted to wrap himself up in it and just tune out the rest of the world. Or station. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to lose himself in Bashir’s embrace, to cover that body and be covered in turn. To be pressed so close together that he couldn’t tell where one ended and one began. 

He was so close.

Within reach.

“Doctor…”

“Please. Call me Julian.” 

The Human’s eyes darted back and forth, and Elim could feel them tracing his ridges, his hairline, his nose. His lips.

He was so tired of holding everything in, everything back. 

Of being restrained. Of denying himself any pleasure.

What did it really matter, anyway?

“Julian.” Elim swore he could taste the man in the name. He threw caution to the wind. “You offered me a hug earlier. Might I offer you one now?”

Hazel eyes locked on his, uncertain but willing. Elim didn’t rise. He simply raised his arms in offering, heart accelerating with every breath. There was a pause, a hesitation, and then Bashir slid off the desk and down into his lap.

They maintained a distance at first, a loose grip on each other’s arms as they faced each other. The weight on Elim’s legs was so much slighter than he’d expected, and yet it weighed down on him with more gravity than the walls at Tzenketh. His fingers tightened, he tugged forward, and Bashir leaned in. But there was no hug, only a fluttering of the eyelashes and a barely open mouth that made time slow to a crawl.

Hardly believing what was happening, he tilted up to meet the descending face. Silken lips brushed over his, left to right, and his tongue darted out for a taste. There was a tremble, a surprised inhalation, and then his partner simply melted into him with a moan. Surprised at the complete surrender, Elim could hardly do more than kiss and nibble gently and receive the pecks and nudges given in return.

But when Bashir’s hands kneaded their way upward to his shoulders, just grazing over the beginnings of his ridges, his whole body stiffened in want. He worked his way back towards one delicate shell of an ear. “Come back to my quarters with me, my dear. Come to my bed.” He sucked the lobe into his mouth and licked at it. 

The Human hissed and quivered again. But then he pulled away. Not completely, not leaving the chair. But he drew back. Lust-clouded eyes blinked and cleared. “Oh gods, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear that. But. Ah. Fuck.” Bashir dipped his head down to rest just above Elim’s chufa. “This really isn’t the right time. We shouldn’t. Not right now, at least.” He sighed unevenly.

Confused at the sudden change, the tailor trailed a few fingers down his arm and watched the reaction. It was certainly positive. A clenching of the thighs, tightening of the shoulders, lips pressed together in restraint. “What makes this time any less favorable than others?”

Bashir lifted his face and moved back again. “I don’t want to have sex with you. I mean... not now , not under these circumstances. Normally, that’d be a different story. But we’re both sort of in a vulnerable position, and… and people don’t always make the best decisions when that happens.”

“But under normal conditions, you would find my proposition appealing?”

“Well, yes.”

If only he’d known. “So why does it matter if we act on it now rather than later?”

“Because…” The doctor glanced away, seeming to search for the answer, or the words to say it. “Because I don’t even know what brought you back here in the first place. I don’t know what’s wrong and if us being intimate will affect that.”

Elim grasped his jaw, swiping one thumb over the chin. “What if I told you that I was feeling terribly alone and that your charming attentions would convince me otherwise?”

There were several blinks of consternation, but then Bashir squeezed his eyes shut. “I think that’s actually worse. You shouldn’t confuse physical proximity with emotional affection. Especially not now.”

There was a pang of hurt that made him want to lash out. He dropped his hands. “Isn’t that what you’ve admitted to doing time and again yourself with your numerous conquests at Quark’s?”

“Yes, but I also said it wasn’t the best idea. I’m aware I shouldn’t do that, even as I keep doing it anyway.”

That sounded so very familiar. “Then why would one more time be any different?”

Elim wasn’t sure what happened. One moment, they were several hand spans apart, the next thing he knew, his face was being cradled and a fierce kiss was smashed into his lips. Several more small ones traced over each ocular ridge, followed by another--so light it was barely perceived--in the center of his chufa.

“Because it wouldn’t be one time. And it wouldn’t be meaningless, like all those others.” Bashir looked searchingly into his eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I’m not certain that I do.”

Two hands swept over his hair and down the back of his head. It wasn’t a move Cardassians would normally make, but it felt very natural from the Human and was amazingly soothing. “I care about you, Garak. Not just as a friend but something more. I’m not entirely sure what. But I do know that I want to have a clear head before we move forward. And I’d appreciate you having one, too.”

There was a dizzy and disorienting moment. Elim tried to process what was being said. “You… care about me?” 

His question was met with another. “Were you telling the truth when you said that you hurt yourself because you were feeling alone?”

There was a flicker of irritation, but it was suppressed by the need to know where the conversation was going. “There is more to it, but that is the main premise.”

Bashir combed his fingers through the ends of Elim’s hair. “You’re not alone. You have me.” He straightened up, tilted his head in thought. “Would it help if I said that I love you?”

Words he hadn’t heard in years. 

It felt patently unfair to be hearing them now, although he wasn’t sure why. “Julian, I… don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything back. You just deserve to know that you’re loved, and valued, and that your absence is noticed. I miss you when you’re gone. I think about you throughout my day. You’re not alone, because you’re always with me in my thoughts. And- and my heart.”

Elim’s arms rose on their own to grasp his waist, and this time the two of them closed the distance at a different angle, faces turning away in order for chests to meet in a true and real hug.

It felt… healing.

“Could you just hold me for a minute, Julian?”

He was squeezed tighter. “Of course.”

Elim closed his eyes. Everything faded away until all he could feel was the legs on top of his, the arms around his shoulders, the twin heartbeats in their chests. All he could hear was the doctor’s breathing; all he could smell was skin and hair and whatever products were used on them. “Harder.”

There was a muffled laugh as the compression increased. “I don’t know if I can do much more than this.”

“It’s enough.” 

It was enough for something solid and substantial to slide in, for it to expand inside his skin until he was filled. There was almost a tingling in his fingertips, a loosening of the muscles in his lower back. 

And then the emotions came.

Everything after that was fuzzy. 

There was joy; there was terror. There was peace and anger. There was frustration and confusion and revulsion and shame. There was hope.

And wrapped up around it all was love.

When Elim finally and slowly came to himself again, he was curled up on the floor with his head in the Human’s lap. One hand was on his arm, the other played idly over his scalp.

His eyes were gritty, his nose stuffy. The fabric that had been under his feet before was balled up now and coated in crusty fluids. He vaguely remembered it being dabbed over his face. He would have preferred tissues, but recalled a soft voice murmuring to him the reason why there weren’t any. “I won’t leave you. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” He swallowed past a lump in his throat.

The movements in his hair stopped. “How are you?” Bashir whispered.

“I seem to be more lucid now.” He ought to sit up, but he wasn’t yet ready to move.

“Would you like me to take you home? I was thinking maybe a blanket on the sofa, some biscuits and tea. I could… stay with you for a bit.”

Elim didn’t remember acquiescing, but soon after he was being pulled up off the ground and led from the back room.

Bashir tucked an arm through his, and joined their hands.

They remained that way through the promenade, up the lift, down the corridors of the habitat ring. Everyone they passed was a blur, the faces barely noticeable, the voices muffled. He thought, at one point, that Odo may have asked a question and his companion answered it, but otherwise they were left to their own devices.

The medical override that the doctor tried using to access his quarters didn’t work because he’d found a way to override that after the last time, but he didn’t hide his new code from prying eyes when he entered it. 

After all, there was the hint of a promise that the doctor may visit him more often in the future.

He was guided to the couch, where he sat down just off center and stared into space for a few minutes. A cup of tea was set down on the table, with even a napkin and a saucer underneath. 

When Bashir returned, he’d removed his jacket and was just in his Starfleet undershirt with a blanket draped over his arm. He shook it out and swung it around his own shoulders like a cape. What…?

But then he dropped to the sofa next to Elim. “Here, turn a little bit.” Befuddled, the tailor did as asked. Two draped arms encircled him, pulling him against Bashir’s chest so that they were both nestled inside the cocoon. “There.” His voice was soft and low now, warm and calming. “Snuggled up all safe and cozy.”

Despite his earlier actions, Elim wasn’t a child and resented being treated like one. “Are you coddling me?”

“No, of course not. This is accupressure and swaddling therapy. It’s very scientific and not at all made up.”

Knowing the Federation as he did, Elim wasn’t at all sure whether to believe that or not.

But he decided he didn’t have the energy to question it.

In fact, he didn’t have much energy at all; he was exhausted.

“Julian?”

“Hm?”

“I may fall asleep soon. You don’t have to stay if that happens. I understand that you have other obligations.”

A cheek was pressed into his hair. “None more important than you right now. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

Elim was overtaken by a huge yawn. His body seemed to be accepting the physical intimacy, even if his mind was still wary. “That may be a while, my dear doctor,” he found himself saying sleepily. “I’ve been alone for so very long.”

There was a thoughtful pause. “Like I said. I’ll stay as long as you need me. Today, tonight, tomorrow.” A squeeze of the arm. “Next week, the one after that. Whatever you need.”

He couldn’t be offering what that sounded like. But the idea was nice to think about as his eyelids grew heavy. “Then you may as well call me Elim.”

Could you feel someone smile, even if they were behind you? A kiss dented the hair on his crown.

“Get some rest. It’s safe to sleep now. I’ll watch over you. And… I love you, Elim.”

Serenity washed in, and he drifted away on the tide.