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“Happy birthday,” Julian says, plopping a bag in front of Garak before he slides into his seat across the table.
Garak blinks at the bag—reflective silver, with colorful tissue paper stuffed inside and a matching string bow securing the thin handles—and then looks at Julian. “I’m sorry, my dear doctor—I think you’ve mixed me up with someone else.”
“I haven’t,” Julian argues, smiling one of his loveliest smiles, the one that indicates he’s feeling terribly pleased with himself. “I know you wouldn’t ever tell me your real birthday, but I still wanted to give you something to show how much I appreciate your friendship—so I just picked a day with appropriate significance in human culture.”
“The first of April,” Garak notes.
“Exactly. It’s terribly fitting—I’ll explain later.” Julian pokes at the bag, scooting it that much closer to Garak. “So? Open it!”
“Human traditions are so very odd,” Garak says, because he does not, as a rule, receive gifts, and certainly not for no other reason than someone appreciating his company. Julian remains the only exception, and if Garak allows himself to dwell on the situation he has a suspicion he might find it honestly affecting. Instead, he heaves a suitably dramatic sigh, and reaches for the gift. “But I suppose, if it makes you happy…”
The string is tugged free, tissue paper parted, and within—Garak pulls out one of several orbs, big enough to rest comfortably in the palm of his hand. It feels rather chalky, and smells of k’hava fruit. He looks back at his friend.
“They’re bath bombs,” Julian offers, brightly.
“You must forgive me, doctor, but I believe my universal translator just malfunctioned.”
Julian grins. “They’re bath bombs,” he repeats. “They were first created on Earth—oh, centuries ago. Obviously with the rise of sonic sanitation, they’re less popular these days, but I thought you might enjoy them. You draw a bath, and then drop one in, and it fizzes up and releases the colors and additives that have been mixed in.”
“I see.” Garak turns the ball slowly in his hand—it doesn’t look like much, but the scent, at least, is quite nice. He puts it back in the bag, and wipes the residue off on his napkin, and flashes Julian a smile. “If nothing else, it sounds positively intriguing.”
They part with a promise to meet again the next day, so Garak can report what he thinks of the gift—Julian had been firm that he wasn’t demanding that Garak try them immediately, but Garak, ever ready to have an excuse to see his dear doctor more than once a week, insisted.
In the evening, Garak draws a bath; as it fills, he examines the so-called bombs. There are five in total, each a different mix of colors and featuring a different scent—in addition to the k’hava, there’s one that shares the floral tones of good kanar, another wrapped in cheesecloth that smells subtly of mekla blossoms, and yet another still that has a sweet note of nhemeni. Cardassian scents; Garak has no idea how Julian found them. Possibly the doctor created them, but Garak doesn’t allow himself to dwell overlong on that thought. It feels too soft to touch.
Instead, he selects a mostly cerulean bath bomb that smells of oceanleaf, and drops it into the gently steaming water. Immediately, as promised, it begins to fizz, spinning lazily under its own effervescence and blooming into a bright blue spiral that actually reminds him somewhat of the wormhole. It is rather pleasant to watch; he can see the appeal.
Once it seems to have dissolved to an appropriate degree, he sinks into the water, and oh. He always enjoys a soak, of course, especially given that the plumbing was the one thing Starfleet couldn’t be fussed with and he can still draw baths hot enough to suit him, but there was clearly some sort of oil in the bomb he had selected; it makes the water feel silky against his scales and particularly soothing against the patches that tended to dry out in Deep Space Nine’s cold, arid environment. And on top of that is the scent—he’s surrounded by the smell of a Cardassian sea, oceanleaf and salt, gentle enough not to be overwhelming. It’s wonderful.
And it’s from Julian.
But then that makes sense—only his beloved doctor has ever made him feel quite so warm.
Garak can still smell the sea when Julian joins him at their usual table for lunch the next day.
“So?” he prompts, as he sets his plate down and slides into his seat. “What did you think?”
Garak shoots him a glare. “What did I think? My dear doctor—if you wanted to do me harm, there are easier ways to go about it.”
“What?” Julian says, alarmed. “I replicated the bath bombs myself! I made sure there was nothing in them that would interact poorly with Cardassian physiology—”
Garak flicks a hand. “I realize that you’re new at this, but relaxing a man to the degree that he half falls asleep in the bath is truly far too indirect, as far as assassination attempts go.”
“Oh,” Julian huffs, and then he laughs. “You absolute ass. You scared the hell out of me—I spent forever getting those patterns right!”
He had created them himself. The present wasn’t simply plucked from a shop—Julian had put significant time into making an impossibly thoughtful gift, simply because he cared and wanted to show it. The realization is somewhat heady.
“It was time well spent,” Garak says. “In all honesty—I can’t remember the last time I had a more pleasant experience.”
Julian ducks his head, beaming. “That’s wonderful to hear, Garak. I’m so glad you liked them.”
“I did, very much. Actually—if it’s not too much trouble, I would greatly appreciate it if you could stop by my quarters tonight to program the patterns into my replicator.” Julian hums in agreement, and—truly, Garak could leave it there. But instead, emboldened by the events of the last two days, he reaches out instead, pressing his hand over Julian’s. “And perhaps afterward you’d allow me the pleasure of your company for dinner, my dear.”
Julian’s head comes up; he looks startled, and somewhat flustered, eyes going from Garak’s hand to his face. “Oh, of course—I mean, it would be my pleasure—”
“Yes?” Garak prompts, gently, and Julian visibly allows himself a moment to settle—then he takes in a breath and smiles his very loveliest smile.
“Yes,” Julian says, turning his hand over and lacing his fingers with Garak’s. “Absolutely.”