Work Text:
Blankets, a pile of tissues, bleary recollection that it might be Wednesday, and a crushing fatigue that far exceeds Oh, I just didn’t feel like going to work today.
Julian drowns in all of it. He hasn’t bothered with clothes, his head feels as though it’s creaking and splitting apart at the seams of his skull, and he was properly and completely exhausted when he gasped and clawed his way to the toilet in the morning. And the first thought that was able to navigate beyond the gasping and aching? I hope I haven’t given anything to Garak.
Not that they’ve done a whole lot that would transmit a cold or a flu. Though Julian was sure there’d been some close calls of ‘We almost kissed just then,’ it had never happened. If anything, it’d be their ritual hand-holding that would pass a bug, but they both kept themselves so clean, especially for dates. Most likely, Julian picked it up from work or school, and to avoid a cycle of infection, he’s not going to either of places for a day or two.
At least now, locked in his apartment and draped over his lumpy sofa, Julian is infecting no one. Kukalaka can’t get anything, and no one else spends any appreciable time here. The sofa is uncomfortable, made more so by his cough and general overall ache. His television is a nice mindless distraction, though since he has no cable channels it’s the local public channel hosting Kai Winn’s latest sermon that comes through the clearest.
She explains the prophets’ plan for the neighborhood, as it has been so blessedly revealed to her. Their interest in a pizza shop and an old Cardassian apartment building is really rather touching, until Julian hears that the plan is to remove everything that is not Bajoran in origin from the area, including the people. If Miles or Garak were with him, he could muster up a good sarcastic remark, but today he just limply stares into Winn’s sincere and slightly slimy expression.
He drifts in and out of sleep. The light changes, his refrigerator violently kicks off and on, someone down the hall is watching some kind of sporting event that results in them screaming every ten minutes, and the sofa seems to move its lumps to new positions as soon as Julian begins tolerating the old ones. He knows he needs food, needs fluids, and the energy to go retrieve them is scarce. It’s easier to sleep, but after a few hours, his stomach is causing him more distress than the lumpy sofa.
The kitchen he shuffled and staggered to reach has little to offer him. There’s a bag of stale corn chips that he tucks under one arm, some beef jerky that Miles left last time he tried to fix the wiring in the kitchen lights, leftovers from Deep Dish Nine, and a gallon of some extremely sweet iced tea. He considers this ‘food’ for a moment, and then his head throbs with the effort of merely thinking.
Fuck it, I’ll take it all.
Pile of snacks properly situated at the end of the sofa, Julian tries to settle back in to the sound of Kai Winn’s prayer. He doesn’t worship her prophets, and he finds the Kai unsettling in most circumstances, but this time, perhaps aided by corn chips, Winn is soothing and Julian slides into the best approximation of comfort his sofa and processed food can offer.
Kai Winn is followed by a Klingon man painting. This would be odder were Julian less sick, but as it is, he just nods right along with this man’s descriptions of honorable mountains, proud rivers, and vigilant trees. The painting seems to make itself, and Julian can’t tell if he’s nodding off between strokes or if the full painting really does just materialize in four strokes after some gruff encouragement. “Do not think you must make a world like mine. You can conquer the canvas with a world of your own design! Do you wish for more mountains? Make them so.”
The Klingon is making his third painting when Julian’s phone rings.
No phone number on the ID. He smiles lazily, eyes half-closed, and answers. “Hello?”
“Good evening, my dear.”
Good lord. Evening? “Hello, Garak.”
“It sounds as though you aren’t feeling well.”
Julian looks from the Klingon’s volcano painting to his now half-empty gallon of iced tea, and then down at himself on the sofa. He’s got a roll of toilet paper tucked behind his knees and is wearing nothing but boxers sporting a lobster pattern and a two different socks.
“…no. I’m not.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“Someone to drain my head.”
“Anything I can provide?”
The corn chips bag is empty. The jerky was almost too tough to eat. The sugar in the tea might be making him a little queasy. It turned out he’d already eaten the leftovers from the restaurant some other night this week and the box had contained only crusts. “Well… if you have some leftovers or something that I could heat up-” He coughs, tries to hold the phone away to avoid doing it right in Garak’s ear, and then finishes, “-that might be nice.”
“Of course you need food. I meant anything beyond the usual.”
Julian tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a heave. “I don’t think so. Thank you.”
“If you say so. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll find you some proper food.”
There’s really no arguing with Garak, and truthfully, Julian doesn’t want to. It will be nice to see him for a few minutes, and the prospect of the warm food he’ll be bringing is so appealing it makes Julian curl his toes and he nearly hums. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Of course. I’ll see you soon.” Julian has never seen Garak talking on the phone before, and so has no idea if he continues to gesture and adjust his posture when there is no one in the room, but from the tone of Garak’s voice alone, Julian has every reason to believe Garak has just bowed.
Julian’s phone reads that the call has ended, shows the time, the duration, and the lack of a name, a number, or a location. Julian frowns, and tries to call the number back, but his phone doesn’t respond.
You seem so keen to have me trust you, but you don’t trust me with your phone number?
As if in response, the phone blares in his face and vibrates violently.
“Hi, Miles.”
“Oh, you really don’t sound good.”
“Thank you. Who told you I wasn’t feeling well?”
“Overheard in the kitchen. Not spying on you, promise!”
Julian attempts another laugh, though the wheeze that happens instead and a sudden concern about Garak put a quick stop to it. Did Garak already know I was sick when he called? “That’s… good. What’s going on?”
“Well, I was going to see if you’d be feeling well enough for the game tonight. I’ve got a few of your things from last time, and…”
Julian winces. “Sorry, no. I don’t think I’d be able to stay awake through it.”
“I was afraid you’d say that, but no worries, I’ve got some other things to do. You need any pain meds or anything? I’ve got great stuff for headaches at home.”
How do I know even two people who will drop what they are doing in order to give me things? Do they all think the poor med student can’t take care of himself? “I do have some, thank you. I’ll call if I need them, though.”
“Anytime. If you aren’t watching them already, there’s some great Vulcan children’s programming on channel thirteen that always puts me right to sleep.”
“I don’t have kids, Miles.”
“You don’t need to. Just give it a try. Works like a charm, honest.”
“I’ll stick to Klingon painting.”
“Oh, that guy. He’ll work just as well. Anyway, I’ll talk to you later! Feel better.”
“Right. Thanks.”
When Miles hangs up, Julian grabs a fistful of toilet paper and sneezes violently into it.
“I can’t believe there’s even that much up there.” Used paper drops to the floor to build up the mountain of disease-ridden tissue and Julian drifts back to the Klingon painting marathon. The trees are now on fire.
It seems the knock on the door happens only a minute later, even though the status of the Klingon painting (now including an entire village running from progressing lava on a moonlit night) says otherwise.
“Come in, the door’s open,” he calls. His voice is groggy and sloppy sounding while he tries to contain a yawn and his eyes attempt to focus on something other than the Klingon painting. A second later, he catches a glimpse of his thigh and wakes up quite quickly. “Shit, wait, no!”
The door opens anyway, and Garak glides inside. His eyebrows make some good effort to become one with his hairline and he abruptly stops moving when he sees Julian sprawled in his underwear surrounded by a littering of corn chips and tissues.
For a several seconds, they are completely silent. Garak’s arm is tucked behind him, bracing himself on the doorknob.
Julian can’t decide if he should move. Someday, I’m going to find this hilarious. Man in flawless asymmetrical tunic walks in on nearly naked sick man covered in snot and corn chip dust. Somehow, sexual tension remains.
Finally, Garak manages,“You’re worse than I feared.”
Julian scrambles for the blanket sitting under his ankles. “Oh my god, I’m sorry.”
Garak shakes his head, waves his hand. “Don’t be, it’s nothing. I’ll just be in the kitchen.”
He ducks by Julian, conspicuously avoiding looking at him, and Julian feels worse about embarrassing Garak than he does for himself. He shrugs the blanket over his shoulders and manages to sit up. Immediately after, he needs to shove some tissue in his nose.
“Julian, you have no food in here.”
“Umb, I know.” He sniffs, tosses the tissue aside and gets to his feet, a little wobbly. Drawing the blanket close like a cloak, he shuffles to the kitchen, and peers around the refrigerator at Garak, who is wearing an expression of increasing despair with each door he opens. “I thought that was why you were here.”
“I didn’t expect-” Garak looks at him over one shoulder, his hand still gripping the handle on an overhead cabinet. Julian grins, and it’s interrupted by a sniffle. Garak’s distress melts and he smiles back. “That’s very fetching. You might consider investing in a belt.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
Garak sighs, closes the empty cabinet, and drops his arm. “Look, I’m afraid this is really not going to work.”
Julian blinks. “What?”
“I can’t do this here.”
“I… can go put some jeans on or something. I didn’t mean to make you come unglued, I just-”
Garak frowns. “I am not unglued, I simply mean there is nothing to work with here, and you obviously need more than just a bowl of soup.”
“Hey, this isn’t fair, I’m-” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and Garak cringes. “I’m sick. I thought it would be nice to see you and eat some leftovers, but if you’re going to be nasty about it, go home.”
“Certainly.” Garak bows, smiling, and ducks by Julian, heading toward the bathroom. “I’ll get you some things.”
“Whoa, hey, what?” Julian tries to turn quickly, but wobbles a bit and has to brace himself on the fridge.
Garak stops short of entering the other room, hovering there, elegantly framed by the doorway. Somehow even his casual movements are perfectly composed. “I’m going home. You should come with me. It will be much easier there.”
“Go with you? I’m ill.”
Garak smiles. “I noticed. And you’re dealing with it by eating terrible food, on your terrible couch. Let me help, and come with me.”
There are a myriad of reasons why this is a bad idea. Scads of them. Burning, painted, exploding Klingon mountains of them.
And Julian can’t bring a single one to mind.
He clutches the blanket at his throat. “Okay. Let me just…get some clothes.”
****
****
The trip downstairs is embarrassing and likely recorded for posterity on at least six security cameras. While he has managed to get into a pair of jeans, Julian has to pause for breath more than once, can’t carry his own bag of clothes, and walks braced against Garak for the majority of the walk down. He regrets every step as he pants outside of Garak’s door, wondering why he couldn’t think of a single one of the reasons this was stupid idea before he left his apartment. Once Garak opens the door, however, this trip quickly becomes one of his finer decisions.
The first thing that hits him is the smell. Some incredibly fragrant food drenched in spices is being cooked in Garak’s apartment and suddenly eating it is at the top of Julian’s list of fantasies. Once completely inside, Julian slides his shoes off and attempts to inhale deeply. He coughs instead.
Garak adjusts the weight of Julian’s bag on his shoulder, places a hand gently on the small of Julian’s back and makes a sweeping ‘after you’ gesture toward the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable. I dare say that will actually be possible here.”
The sofa is so much more comfortable than Julian’s own that it might as well be a bed. Julian stretches from his finger tips to his toes and curls into plush fabric that cradles every ache in his body. The pillows and blankets here are infinitely softer and warmer than his own, the cushions less scratchy, there are no lumps even if Julian tries to make them, and the sheets are –
Sheets.
“Garak?”
Garak appears beside the sofa and settles Julian’s bag on the floor. He pops a box of actual tissues – not toilet paper – on the table by Julian’s head. “Yes?”
“Did you plan this?”
Garak offers an innocent smile. “What do you mean?”
“There are sheets on your sofa! You were planning to get me down here before you even —” He snatches a tissue and sneezes into it. “Before you even looked at my cupboards!”
“Would you like me to haul you back upstairs?” Typically Garak, he doesn’t confirm or deny, just poses another question.
And the sofa is soft, warm, comfortable, and situated in front of of a television three times the size of Julian’s. Julian frowns as he sits with a tissue that’s probably been fortified with expensive lotion in his hand and sheets so nice they could have been imported from another planet sliding against his ankles. The smell from the kitchen loops around his head and he doesn’t know whether to be angry or to ask about the possibility of soup. “No. No, I don’t. But…”
Garak answers the objection Julian hadn’t even voiced. “I thought if I brought you down here, it would be best to have something already prepared. You didn’t have to wait to lie down, and I won’t have to hose down my couch cushions when you leave.”
Almost plausible, but still bizarre. “That’s ridiculous.”
Garak nods his head with his usual grateful elegance, eyes fluttered shut, small controlled smile. “Then we’ll be in agreement that I’m ridiculously fond of you, and I’ll bring you something to eat.”
Julian laughs. The sound is soft, embarrassed, and a little water-logged.
Garak returns with a bowl of soup on a small matching plate. The smell is so good Julian nearly tears it from Garak’s hands. “What is this?”
“A recipe I modified slightly.” Garak’s pleased smile when he hands the bowl over makes Julian suddenly wary of the contents.
He stirs the concoction, and the amazing smell only intensifies. It’s strange being able to smell each ingredient alone and the scent they create together at the same time. “What’s in it?”
“Nothing you won’t eat. I can even promise the meat is from an animal you’ve heard of.”
An inspection of a spoonful reveals chunks of something sort of pale among all the vegetables and bits of spice, and Julian is immediately searching his mind for the oddest creature he can ever remember Garak mentioning. “That doesn’t really put me at ease.”
“It’s chicken, my dear. I think you can handle it.”
Julian grins sheepishly. “Sorry. You went through all the trouble and I just –” He dabs at his nose with a tissue. “Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome. I hope it helps.” Garak opens the drawer on the table beside the sofa and pulls out the remote for the television. “Feel free to turn this on and find more painting. I do have a few things to do this evening, but ask if you need anything.”
Julian nods, spoon in mouth.
The soup is amazing and already doing a ton for Julian’s stuffed nose. He feels a little spoiled surrounded by Garak’s nice things, especially when there is full knowledge that he’s going to get snot all over all of it. The controls for Garak’s television are far more complicated than anticipated and he worries he’ll contaminate the thing indefinitely with all the fussing he has to do with it.
While Julian attempts to navigate more channels than he knew existed, Garak sits at the desk by the wall shuffling papers, taking notes, and categorizing things with some incredible speed. Julian has soup, endless television, and the contents of the little drawer by the sofa, but Garak making rapid, certain, precise decisions about lines, colors, finances and where to file it all is the most fascinating thing in the room.
Garak has his back to Julian, which is a blessing, since Julian has to lean forward to see Garak sitting at the desk. No matter how fond of Julian Garak might be, Julian doesn’t really want to be caught watching him.
He switches his attention to the television, though it takes considerable will power to do so. When he’d turned it on, it was on the Home and Gardening Channel, which had been a surprise only for a moment or two. It stayed on in the corner while Julian scrolled through several hundred channels, distracting him from actually finding something to watch. Does Garak watch this show? Is he interested in this business about ‘curb appeal’ and cost-cutting fixes for decorating?
He scrolls through now, looking for something that isn’t a shopping channel or a Bajoran religious program. There’s a list of favorite channels, which Julian has high hopes for until he sees them. Garden channels, food and cooking channels, classic movie channel, style channel… At the bottom is the travel channel, which makes Julian a bit more sad than he thinks it ought to.
Things Garak likes: Clothes, food, films. The gardening he can’t do, and places he can’t go.
Thanks to the soup, Julian’s nose feels up to the task of breathing again, though he’s still a bit drippy.
And chasing me.
Julian flips through a few more channels. He makes a token effort of selecting a few, letting them play and sound like something he’s invested in, but the only thing really picking at his brain is sitting at a desk behind him. He turns the television off, twists around to look at Garak over the arm of the sofa.
“Garak?”
Garak doesn’t look up, doesn’t even flinch in his routine. “Yes?”
“Are you busy?”
Garak’s shoulders shake with a little puff of laughter. “What do you need?”
Ask a question, get a question. “Nothing, I just think I’m tired of television today.”
“Would you like me to find you a book?”
“No, no, I don’t want to stop you.”
Garak sets down his pen, and turns around. Julian grins to keep from flinching. Luckily, Garak is smiling. “You already have. What can I get you? Do you need more soup?”
Julian shrugs, tries to look innocent. He doesn’t really know why he feels otherwise. He sets his soup bowl aside so he doesn’t look like some orphan begging for food. “The soup was lovely, but I don’t need anything else. I just thought we might talk.”
He looks pleasant, even sweet, but Julian worries he’s hit a nerve when Garak asks, “About what?”
Perhaps better to just jump in. “What are you working on?”
Garak’s smile falters. He tilts his head to one side and looks between his desk and Julian. “It’s shop business. I promise it’s rather mundane.”
Usually, the mundane is the least of Julian’s interests. The details of whose girlfriend had left and for what reason had only ever been relevant when it was his girlfriend. Despite Deep Dish Nine’s attempts to marinate Julian in the gossip du jour, he rarely stayed interested beyond the length of his shift. Scandals of perceived offense, infidelity, revenge or anything else the people in his daily life could get up to didn’t hold his interest nearly as well as intrigue in a story. Some things reeled him in and kept him there: spy novels, strange films, the fantasy worlds he explores with Miles on game night, graphic novels from other cultures, things strange and new that don’t require acting to interact with ‘properly.’
And Garak. Who perhaps had a little of all of that.
“I’m interested. I don’t know anything about what you do but what I’ve seen in the shop.”
Garak shakes his head. “That’s the only part worth knowing, I’m sure you’d agree.”
“No, no, I think —” He coughs, ducks his head and curls in on himself as he tries to avoid doing it in the open air.
“You should be sleeping.”
“I’m not tired,” Julian answers. His voice is strained from the cough, and his protest is kind of a lie. He can’t see Garak anymore, but he hears a sigh.
“I’m planning for summer.”
Julian freezes. Curled up, back to the television, tissue in hand tucked under his chin. Don’t move. Just talk. “Summer? Isn’t it a bit early?”
“These things do take time.”
It’s warm coiled up against the back of the sofa, almost too much so. But if he moves, or fusses, or does anything but talk, Garak will get up, find tea, and the conversation with stop.
“What do you need to do?”
Garak laughs. “Quite a bit. Winter and summer have different color palettes, different fabrics, different garments, different needs.”
“Colors?”
“Does anyone wear bright pastels and white pants in mid-winter? Or chocolate brown and deep purple in the summer?”
Julian coughs as softly as he can, hoping to mask it as laughter. “Maybe I do.”
“Perhaps I’ll have an improving effect on you before I have to be subjected to that.” Some papers rustle, and a highlighter squeaks. Garak has gone back to work.
Is that the plan, then? Improving me? “Maybe.” He stretches his legs, slowly, hopefully quietly. “Do you like summer or winter better?”
“You have to ask? I thought we knew each other at least that well.” The sound of a pen, hastily scratching away at a pad of paper.
“I know you don’t like being cold, and you like long sleeves. Do you wear long sleeves when it’s boiling outside?” He sniffs and draws the tissue close to his nose, just in case.
“I burn easily.”
“Isn’t Cardassia hot and sunny?”
“Perhaps you think your own skin unsuited to this place that rains and snows half the year?”
Julian smushes his face into the back cushion of the sofa. “Sorry.”
“Quite all right.” The sound of Garak’s pens is oddly relaxing. There’s a warm feeling from the sound that’s independent of the heat from having his face in a sofa. Garak doesn’t feel the need to entertain, and Julian doesn’t need to be entertained. Garak can work with Julian there, and Julian could almost sleep to the sound of it. It’s odd that the same person who so frequently confuses, excites and intrigues Julian could also make him so comfortable.
“I much prefer the summer,” Garak says suddenly.
“Even with sunburn?”
“Even with sunburn.”
“I kind of like autumn, myself. Crisp air, the colors are beautiful, people start drinking hot chocolate and lots more tea. Start of a new school year, usually, though I’ve been going all the time… Not too hot, but not too cold either. ”
Garak sighs, and Julian bites his lips shut. Babbling.
“Autumn also seems to be the coldest season you’ve ever dressed for.” His words are gentle, amused.
“Teasing a sick man, Garak?” Julian sniffles, but more for emphasis of his condition than needing to clear his nose. “I’m surprised at you.”
Garak sighs, affecting a mournful tone. “Alas, I am not perfect.”
“You aren’t?” It came out automatically, and were this a telephone conversation, Julian would have gritted his teeth and hit his head on the wall.
Garak takes the comment with a smile, no head-slamming required.“Now who’s teasing?”
“You… can do an awful lot for being a tailor.” He’d never risk this over lunch. Perhaps the back of the sofa between them and Julian’s foggy head make this feel safer than it would normally be.
“By your own admission, you have no idea what I do.”
“I don’t know-” He has to stop to cough, “-exactly, but-,” and cough again, “-I’m pretty sure it doesn’t-,” and again, “-involve anything that gets you kicked out of your own country.”
There’s no more noise from Garak’s pen. “Who said I was kicked out?”
“It’s a theory.”
“Amusing, but incorrect.”
“Will you tell me? Since we’re-” He coughs again, this time particularly hard and leading to small fit of coughing that leaves him short of breath. He gasps for breath and tries to get a look at Garak, but his desk is empty. “Sorry, I-”
A few moments later, Garak is standing at Julian’s back.
“Here.” Garak offers a mug of warm water and a few pills. “Sit up.”
Julian puts forth a good effort to reorient himself. Garak reaches to steady his shoulder only once, though how he expected to be useful with a glass of water in his hand, Julian doesn’t know. Julian accepts the water once he’s reasonably upright and then Garak drops two pills into his hand.
“What is this?”
“What else? Pain killer. For whenever you need it.”
“I meant what kind.”
Garak raises an eyebrow and smiles, just a little. Maybe it’s not a smile so much as the tiniest flickering threat of one. “I’ll get you the bottle.” Garak holds his hand out again, like he’s about to drop something else, and Julian automatically holds his own hand out to receive it. Three little wrapped cough drops and a few dissolving cold tablets. Julian laughs seeing them.
“Thank you. Sorry about the noise.”
“The noise is not my concern.” Garak ducks away to retrieve the bottle of painkillers and takes Julian’s empty soup bowl with him. When he returns a few moments later, he sets the bottle down on the end table. “My concern is you coughing.”
Julian turns the bottle of pills, frowning a bit when he has to squint to the last tiny lines of print on the label to find information in his own language. Oh, ibuprofen. Great. He drops the pills into his mouth and downs the glass of water without a word.
“I’ll assume you approve.”
Julian smiles, though it’s a bit awkward and the movement switches the faucet in his nose on again. He snatches another tissue with one hand, and offers the empty glass to Garak with the other. “Just making sure it wasn’t ground human bones.”
Garak sighs wistfully and looks toward the ceiling on the far wall as he accepts the glass. He’d be looking at his shop were the building around them transparent. Julian isn’t entirely sure the dramatic flair is fake. “Goodness knows I have an ample supply. So many customers who were easier to kill than they were to dress.”
“And you haven’t asked me to help you hide the evidence?” Julian sniffs again. “I thought we were friends.”
Garak bows. “I wouldn’t dream of dirtying your future as a doctor, my dear. It wouldn’t be right. I have come to a rather mutually beneficial arrangement with your colleague Mister Worf, however.”
Julian blows his nose and nearly snorts laughter into the tissue at the same time. Garak spent so little time interacting with anyone in Deep Dish Nine but Julian, and yet even he had picked up on the faulty seal on Worf’s otherwise bottled anger and frustration. “I’m not surprised, though I’m pretty sure he’s a coworker, not a colleague.”
“Perhaps he is my colleague in some dirtier business than pizza, then.”
Another attempt to laugh instead erupts as a terrible coughing fit that sends Julian’s knees jerking toward his face more than a few times. The weight of Garak’s hand on his shoulder makes Julian strain to stop the fit, if only to make Garak feel like he’s helped.
When the coughing subsides, whether it has run its course been willed away, Julian opens his eyes and looks blearily at Garak, who has lowered himself onto his knees in front of the sofa. His hand still sits on Julian’s shoulder and his expression is oddly sweet for someone who has just joked of murder and cannibalism.
“I think you should get some more sleep. It’s getting late, and all this chatter can’t be good for you. Are you going to be comfortable here?”
Julian blinks. “Comforta- oh, oh. You mean sleeping?”
“I do.”
“I did wonder if you were planning to have me stay.” Julian sniffs and his head throbs, just a bit.
“It was the idea.”
“Would it be weird for you?”
There were few times when Garak was transparent about his feelings. His dislike of root beer was the clearest feeling Julian had ever seen from him that he could be certain of, followed closely by Garak’s entirely un-root-beer-like feelings for Cardassia and reading. He could now add summer and gardening to the positive list, and it was reasonable to assume Dukat feel on the negative side, but beyond that, things became hazier. Despite their talk, or maybe because of it, Julian doesn’t even know if Garak likes tailoring.
“I invited you.”
It was a bit less inviting and more ‘talking into,’ but Julian lets it slide. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own home.”
“I will sleep much easier knowing you are here resting, and not bent at right angles on your awful couch consuming stale chips and lukewarm tea.” There’s a gentle pressure on Julian’s shoulder. It’s a suggestion to settle in, not a shove or a grope or anything else Miles might turn it into should he hear about this later. It’s every bit as pleasant as the smile that goes with it, though Miles would be hard pressed to believe that existed either.
Because the other thing that Garak rather transparently likes, next to Cardassia, reading, gardening, and summer-despite-sunburns, is Julian.
Julian smiles back, suddenly desiring to be rather transparent himself and immeasurably fond of the entire situation, sniffles and all. “Hey. They weren’t completely stale.”
“I have no wish to test your claim, so I’ll take your word for it.” Garak takes his hand from Julian’s shoulder as Julian worms his way under the sheets and blankets.
“You’ll have to, unless you want to come up and have a marathon of The Honor of Painting with me.”
“I think I’ll pass. As tempting as the opportunity to eat corn-flavored cardboard is, I’m keeping an eye on my waistline.”
Julian pauses, almost disappointed. “What about the other part?”
“The marathon?” Garak is seated in front of the sofa now, rather than on his knees and looks quite skeptical.
So much for saying goodnight and stopping any more chatter. “Yes.”
“I would quite like that.”
“Good.” Julian nods, and then nods again, suddenly feeling a bit warm. “That’s… good.”
This was the sort of place where Julian expected a formal and very dignified offer for any more help, another glass of water, and a polite and well-rehearsed wish for a recovery. And it nearly happens. Garak moves to stand, bracing a hand on his knee. “Well then, I’ll just—”
Julian stops him with a hand on his arm and there’s a bit of a jolt in his arm when he realizes they’re only the length of a hand away from each other. “Garak, if I weren’t —”
And then Julian’s phone rings.
Garak startles as Julian flops his hand around blindly on top of the table by his head. Garak reaches up and hands the phone to Julian without a word, seemingly frozen to the floor but for his arm.
“Hi, Miles.” He flinches when he says it and shoots an apologetic look toward Garak.
“Hey, Julian, are you feeling any better?” Miles is cheery, which would be a welcome change, normally.
“I am, yes,” Julian confesses. “Though I should still be down for a bit. I don’t think I’ll be at work tomorrow.”
“I figured. Anyway, I’m on my way up and I’ve got some stuff to drop off for you.”
“Oh. Um, you really ought to wait.” Julian sends Garak a look he hopes communicates apologetic distress. “I could still be contagious, and-”
“It’ll be just a minute. I’ve got a few things leftover from our last game, and some juice, if you want it.”
“Um.”
“I’ve just got one floor to go. I’ll at your place in a minute, can you let me in?”
Julian looks helplessly at Garak, who shrugs. Utterly unhelpful. “No,” Julian sighs.
“Come on, I won’t be any trouble. I’ll tuck the stuff inside the door and go. I don’t want to have to take it to work again.”
“I’m not at home, Miles.”
There’s silence on the phone for a moment, and then the sound of knocking. “Say that again.”
Garak rises to his feet and wanders away toward his desk as Julian heaves another sigh. “I’m not home, Miles.”
Apparently satisfied that the voice on the phone is not coming from the door he’s standing in front of, Miles grunts. “Garak again? Maybe you’re not that sick after all?”
“I am, but I’ll be fine. He made me some soup and we’re just settling into bed.”
“Whoa, isn’t that going a bit fast?!”
Julian frowns. “I’m on his sofa.”
Miles shaking his head is almost audible and then he sighs. “Fine, Julian. You can come get the stuff whenever you want it.”
“Thanks, Miles. I’ll see you in a day or two.”
“Right.”
The calls ends and Julian flails about to drop the phone on the table behind him. Garak hasn’t reappeared. “I’m sorry, Garak,” Julian says, hoping his voice will carry to the kitchen or wherever. “Other than his weird fixation on you being shady, he’s really a good man.”
“I’m sure he is, or you wouldn’t be friends with him.”
Garak rounds the side of the sofa with another glass of water and sets it gently on the table. Julian smiles at him, but it’s sheepish and sad. Any of the close conversation from earlier has been shaken into propriety by Miles’ call. “Sorry again.”
“It’s nothing,” Garak says. He sounds as though he means it. “There are more blankets in the closet in the hall down there. Help yourself if you need more.”
“Thank you.”
“I heard you say you weren’t going out tomorrow?”
“No. Is that okay?”
“Please stay as long as you like. If you need extra clothes, I’d be happy to find them for you.”
Julian nods against the pillow. “You don’t have to do any of this.”
“I’m well aware. Anything else?”
“No.”
“I have to rise early to open the shop in the morning, but I’ll try not to disturb you. Help yourself to the kitchen if you can manage.”
Julian nods again, though the plan seems a little dubious. “Okay.”
“And if you can’t manage, don’t hesitate to ask for something.” He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and tucks it under Julian’s phone on the end table. He gives a shallow bow and another smile. Again, it’s the sweet smile that Miles would deny existed.
“I won’t, thank you.”
“Good night, Julian.”
“Good night, Garak.”
Julian waits until Garak’s bedroom light has been off a full fifteen minutes before he stirs. He pulls himself up on one elbow and rakes his hand over the table, holding his other hand underneath to catch what he scrapes off. A few effervescent tablets fall into his palm along with his phone and the slip of paper. He pokes at his phone until it gives him a bright screen and angles the light enough to see.
In a script far too nice for a piece of scrap paper is a small note reading, “For anything,” and underneath that is Garak’s phone number.
Julian sleeps remarkably well.
————-
And just as a bonus:
