Chapter Text
Looking up from his PADD as the doors to the infirmary whooshed open, Julian was surprised by the figure who strode in.
“Garak! Bit early for lunch aren’t you? It’s not even eleven yet. Or, have you perhaps finally come in for that physical, hm?” He joked, approaching his friend.
“You may wish as hard as you like for that, my dear doctor, but unfortunately I come with much less exciting news. Doctor, I’m afraid I won’t be able to have lunch with you today,” Garak said, bowing his head in apology.
An innocuous phrase, perhaps, but it was one that sent a searing pain through Julian’s chest and suddenly he was back in the corridors of the station, hearing those words coughed around quickly weakening breaths. The rest of Garak’s sentence was drowned out as the very alive and healthy man in front of him merged with the image of a much paler Garak, a Garak brought to his knees by Jem’Hadar fire, a Garak who was dying in Julian’s arms and there wasn’t anything Julian could do . All his studies, all his awards, all his years in Starfleet and he couldn’t do anything to save his friend.
“Doctor?” And Sisko was dragging him away now, yelling something Julian couldn’t comprehend as Jem’Hadar weapon fire barely avoided grazing the tops of their heads. Julian couldn’t take his eyes away from the slumped figure of Garak in front of him. The man was so lifeless.
“My dear doctor, are you quite alright?” A cool, soft palm against the back of his hand shocked Julian back into the present, and after a few moments the dim station corridors and sounds of the Jem’Hadar faded into the walls of the infirmary and the quiet murmurs of patients and nurses.
“What? Oh, yes, Garak, sorry - long shift. No need to worry about lunch - our discussion of Maurice can surely wait another day or so. Though I’m sure you can’t wait to tell me all the ways it reveals the ridiculous human disregard for class and disrespect for the state.”
“Oh but quite the contrary, doctor, this recommendation of yours is perhaps my favourite so far. Though to hear any more details I am afraid you shall have to wait for our next lunch - shall we say Thursday?” Garak said, followed by a rather suspicious smile. A smile that knew Julian was lying.
“That sounds good, Garak, I suppose I’ll see you then.”
“Indeed. Well, urgent tailoring duties await - I mustn't leave my customers stranded.”
Julian could only watch in a blustered silence as Garak departed the infirmary. He had sworn to himself that he was over the events on the Founders’ homeworld. Sisko, O’Brien, and Jadzia certainly seemed unaffected by the simulation, except for, perhaps, a growing awareness of the true threat facing the Alpha Quadrant. But then, who was Garak to them but the station’s tailor? The sole Cardassian onboard their Federation space station, who could so easily betray them as support them.
Kira and Odo had debriefed them on the conversation they had had with Borath while the rest of them were locked inside their own minds. They had explained that the intention of the simulation was to measure how much they would sacrifice in order to win the war. Garak had been a part of his sacrifice, that much was clear. And with the way that even the mere memory of Garak’s manufactured death was affecting him, it was clear that the Founders’ simulation was more aware than perhaps even he was of his own subconscious.
Frankly it was a surprise Jadzia hadn’t yet hunted him down to elaborate upon that little detail. He was sure she’d have picked up on that. But then, he figured, there were bigger worries on their hands at the moment.
Snapping himself out of his daydreaming, he turned back to the PADD in his hands, reacquainting his thoughts with the patient information he had been studying before Garak had strolled into the infirmary just five short minutes ago.
“Damned ensigns and their damned raktajinos,” Miles muttered, his hands wrist-deep in the transporter room’s controls, “have they not heard of closed-lid mugs? They’ve only existed, oh, for a few hundred years now-”
Miles’ angry mumbling was cut short by a brief but intense shock shooting up his arm, followed by the distorted sound of the transporter beam slicing through the air. Shaking his arm of the last of the tingling sensation, he turned his attention to the transporter pad.
“Fuck.” Miles said.
Two figures were materialising on the pad in front of him, two increasingly familiar figures. As they solidified, Miles’ suspicions were both confirmed and utterly confused.
“Garak? Julian?!” Miles squawked.
“Miles?!” The human in front of him replied, with equal levels of surprise.
These two men held similarities to Julian and Garak, certainly, but there was an undeniable age difference. Miles scanned over the men, taking in this Julian’s greying hair, the salt and pepper beard, and the lines around his eyes. This Garak’s age was less discernible - though perhaps, Miles thought with more than a little bit of spite, that was because their current Garak was already decidedly middle-aged - but it was still evident in the white streaking through otherwise solid black hair. They were both wearing tunics, tunics which stood out to Miles only in that their style was distinctly Cardassian.
“Miles? What are you doing here? Is Keiko with you? Molly? Yoshi?” The Julian figure continued.
“My dear, you may wish to look a little closer at our friend here,” This time it was the Garak figure who spoke, his voice a gentle nudge. The man in front of Miles squinted at him, seemingly taking him in properly for the first time since their abrupt arrival.
“Oh dear…”
Finally finding he once more had control over his body, Miles turned away from the two men in front of him and slapped his combadge, “O’Brien to Sisko. O’Brien to Sisko! We’ve got a little… situation in Transporter Room Three. Bring Dax - she’ll need to see this.”
“Well my dear, it seems we may be causing quite the ruckus,” the older Garak quipped.
“When don’t we, Elim?” the older Julian replied with what Miles could only describe as true fondness.
Elim? Well that either had to be the true name of whoever was disguising themself as Garak, or… Garak’s first name? Either way, Miles wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Turning back around to face these familiar strangers, he was stopped in his tracks for the second time that afternoon, as he observed something he had not seen since the border wars.
The two men before him had their opposite hands enjoined, palm-to-palm with fingers interlocked, and their foreheads rested gently against one another’s.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”