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butchdogthing · 2 years ago

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wrote a garashir fic check it out

title: Accommodations

summary:

"I have autism." By the delivery of it, it felt as though there was an expectation that Garak should know what that meant. — Julian asks Garak to make him a new uniform.

5k words, general audiences (but heed CWs below), garak and bashir silly flirty friendship shit. julian is autistic.

notes:

references to major spoilers through early season 7 - takes place between s07e03 “Afterimage” and s07e21 “When It Rains…”

content warnings: big warning for anti-autistic ableism and child abuse. eugenics and so-called “treatments” are discussed. some language is used which may be considered outdated, pathologizing, or not-preferred, but there are no slurs. i’ll tell you that it ends on a positive note.

also available on archiveofourown. if you enjoy it go hit kudos on there! you dont need an account to do so. and uhhh idk, i likely won’t use this blog for anything really, follow me on twitter, art account is butchdogthing and star trek account is omicrontheyta

story under the cut. some more notes at the end.

"Alterations are one thing, Doctor, but to craft an entirely new uniform?"

"Are you saying you're not up for the task?"

"Not at all! I'm merely surprised - aren't there regulations against that sort of thing?"

This earned Garak a skeptical scowl from Doctor Bashir, who pushed off from the shop wall against which he'd been leaning. "From what I understand, you were happy to make a uniform for Nog ." There was a definite tone of accusation to the statement, but he took it in stride, waving a hand dismissively in Bashir's direction.

"No one looks at a lowly Ensign long enough to even tell his species , let alone notice that his uniform is cut from Bolian cotton rather than Terran polyester." - he made a point of eyeing the doctor up and down, from head to toe - "But the Chief Medical Officer of a space station? The station at the head of the war against the Dominion, no less? Everyone's got their eye on him . And I'd like to keep my tail attached, not add it to some austere Admiral's trophy collection when the question arises of just who aided and abetted in Doctor Bashir's dismissal of uniform code."

Bashir crossed his arms. "Garak, please, you're being beyond overreactive right now."

"Oh, am I?"

"No one pays attention to that regulation anyway. It's just meant to deter officers from looking flashier than their superiors. It's an ego thing. So long as the materials are sufficiently resistant to fire and corrosion, no one will so much as bat an eye. That goes for me as well as my supplier ."

"Hmm..."

Garak put on a show of giving the reassurance a great deal of thought.

"Please?" - Bashir's voice dropped to a gentler tone.

One of life's greatest joys, Garak thought, was to push his dear friend into a position of pleading for something Garak had already intended on providing to him all along. First came Bashir's proposal. Then the reasoning. Then Garak would play at refusal, usually citing his busy schedule, and Bashir would dutifully take the role of the reasonable man, the scientist, presenting logic against Garak's reluctance. Without cooperation, finally logic would give way to begging, until he left Garak with no choice but to either paint himself the unreasonable villain or to reluctantly, mercifully concede.

And Bashir's face during the pleading was Garak's favorite part.

"I may be persuaded."

Just as quickly as he'd crossed them, Bashir uncrossed his arms and gave a critical squint toward Garak.

"You're not afraid of being reprimanded by starfleet, you just wanted to twist my arm into haggling with you!"

Being caught in the game made it no less fun. Besides - the doctor was smart, Garak reasoned, surely he caught on from time to time that he was being toyed with. Yet he still played along.

Garak turned to face him. "Nonsense, Doctor! What gives you the impression that I'm not simply being difficult for sport?"

The question apparently did not deserve to be dignified with an acknowledgement. "What's your price?"

Garak allowed him to stew for a moment.

"Only that you finish reading ‘In The Heart of The Devil’ ."

" ‘In The’ - what, the judicial romance novel? Garak-"

"If my culture so disgusts you, Doctor, I'm sure there are innumerable human tailors in this quadrant, in this sector even, who'd be more than willing to take your business."

"I'm not disgusted, Garak, I've read dozens of Cardassian works." Garak said nothing in return, only stared. Bashir held steady for a moment - then, sure enough, cracked and crumpled. A shame that it was over so quickly, Garak thought, he'd have to find some time to give the good doctor a lecture in fortitude. Apparently defeated, Bashir continued: "I, I found it boring. I fell asleep reading that dreadful book."

"But you hardly made it past the post-prologue!" He placed down the piece he'd been working on and threw his hands up in the air. Bashir scoffed at the display, but Garak only shook his head. "I don't see how you expect to enjoy it without even giving it a chance. It's really quite a cerebral story, especially once you've surmounted the second act."

"And if I read the whole book, then you'll make me the uniform?"

"Free of charge. In fact, you don't even have to read it first . Get started as soon as possible, and I'll have your garments ready by the end of the week. I trust you'll keep your word."

"Really?"

"Would you rather I took the offer back?"

"Well, no. It's just that you haven't exactly got a reputation for being..." - He turned his hand over in front of himself, searching for the right word, until Garak offered -

"Generous?"

" Trusting. "

"Ah, how disconcerting - maybe that counselor friend of yours is making more of an impression than I realized." Garak frowned. "But in any case, Doctor Bashir, I've found that a happy client makes for a happy businessman."

Until that point, Garak had been working on small tasks around the shop, but now stopped to get his equipment for working on Bashir.

"I'm not sure that ‘happy’ describes how I feel at the prospect of keeping up my end of this bargain." Despite what he was saying, the doctor smiled and appeared at ease.

"So, tell me - what are you looking for? A brighter hue, a tighter waist perhaps?"

Bashir blushed and looked down. "No, the color and the cut are fine, it's the material."

Garak deflated upon hearing this - he would have loved the chance to exhibit some artistic liberties with Bashir's fashion, but his frequent offers to pretty the doctor up were always either turned down or had drab and nullifying limitations placed upon them.

He reached out to catch the sleeve of Bashir's Starfleet jacket between two fingers and a thumb. He felt the material of the outer jacket, then slipped his fingers under the teal sleeve below. When his scaled knuckles brushed against Bashir's wrist, Garak found his human skin to be smooth and delightfully warm. "What's wrong with it?"

Bashir pulled his hand (and, by extension, his sleeve) away from Garak and held it close to himself, again turning it in a circular motion as he seemed to search for his words. I hope I haven't bothered him.

"Actually - I suppose the fit could use some work. This jacket is stifling." After a nod from Garak, he continued. "The material, it's... Too..." - Bashir squinted - " Catching . It clings to my skin, as if electrically charged."

This was not the impression Garak had gotten from the fabric. "And a different material would be preferable?"

Garak eyed the doctor carefully. Not with caution, or delicacy, or suspicion - just with the careful and attentive gaze one would lend to a curiosity, or to a friend when you're just getting to learn something new about them. He wasn't sure if Bashir would notice the change in demeanor, but then again, his perceptive nature had, at times, surprised Garak in the past.

If Bashir saw how Garak was looking at him, he wondered, then how would he interpret the look? Or the touch, for that matter? If their literary discussions were anything to go off of, his ability to accurately read meaning into implicit gestures was greatly impaired, by Cardassian standards, or at least unconventional.

Bashir nodded. "My old uniform was much better..."

The new uniform's rollout was fresh in Garak's mind. He was quick to ask Bashir (or, rather, his changeling doppelgänger) for an opportunity to take a closer look at its construction. Careful investigation revealed the previous blend of natural and synthetic fibers had been retired in favor of wholly synthetic material. Apparently, supply issues led Starfleet to reconsider how they clothed their officers, and mass-replicated textiles proved most practical. Despite all the millions of man-hours of research put into the subject since the replicator's inception, by chemists and agriculturalists and animal farmers and Garak's own tailor brethren, the structure of animal- and plant-based fibers had yet to be adequately recreated. Growing it the old-fashioned way was still the only option, and made it inconvenient for such large-scale operations as these.

Quieter this time, Bashir spoke again: "I miss my old uniform."

"The one you wore in the prison camp?"

He knew the answer, but asked anyway. There was a need to explicitly acknowledge that fact between the two of them, to establish the timeline.

"Yes." - quieter still.

"Why, that was two years ago, and I haven't had any of my other Starfleet customers come to me with complaints about the material."

"Well, I'm not your other Starfleet customers."

"No, your taste is much more discerning. " Garak smiled at Bashir, and he weakly smiled back.

"I suppose so."

"With the war going on, many of my suppliers have run dry, but - I may have the right material in my stores already..." Leaving his side, Garak turned, deeper into the shop, searching.

The dreary manner was gone from Bashir's voice as he spoke up from behind, usual affectation of self-assuredness (or self-centeredness) in its place. "You can ask, you know."

Garak turned around. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're referring to, Doctor."

This wasn't entirely truthful: he could sense something was peculiar about Bashir's demeanor today, from the moment he'd walked in the shop. Initially, Garak had suspected it was to do with the fact that the shop was even open for business at all - meaning that he was taking on tailoring work again, something which Bashir would likely have opinions about - but as their chat moved along, he started to feel that this wasn't the case. Then his curiosity had been piqued by the ‘catching’ fabric comment, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was some sort of connection, a thread tying it all together.

Now, that thread had presented itself, and all Garak had to do was pull.

"It's unusual, and I figure you're curious about why I hate my uniform so much when no one else cares. So I'm telling you - you can ask me why." He put on a gentle smile, like the one he always used on his pediatric patients. "I won't be offended."

But it wasn't as fun when the thread was quite literally asking to be pulled. The investigation, the interrogation, was the real thrill of it. But once it laid itself out in this way there was no enjoyment left in even trying to make a game of it. He'd have to give Doctor Bashir yet another lecture about subtlety, as well.

Noting that his itinerary was filling up at an alarming rate, Garak gave in, and turned back to his selections of cloth. "Alright. Why?"

"I have autism."

By the delivery of it, it felt as though there was an expectation that Garak should know what that meant.

He knew enough at least to sense that a few seconds' pause - of ‘dawning understanding’ - was likely appropriate.

"Oh... I see."

"Until - until recently, I never wanted to... Acknowledge it. Finally telling people, talking about it," he sighed, "it feels good."

"And you didn't want to, because?"

"I suppose I thought I could power through it. And that it was something to be ashamed of."

"What's the prognosis, then, Doctor?"

A genuine question, but easy enough to pass off as a joke if needed. But the doctor just laughed and said, "Well, I'll always be autistic."

Grabbing a few bolts of cloth, blends similar to the constituents of the old uniform, Garak returned to Bashir and laid the materials on a table.

The initial impression he'd gotten was that this ‘autism’ was a disease, perhaps of the skin. Garak had had the rare client or two in the past who broke out in rashes when exposed to certain animal hairs. But then Bashir's use of ‘autistic’ - an adjective? Something significant enough to one's position in the world that it needed its own descriptor? - had thrown off the dermatological illness hypothesis. Unless it's terminal, he thought, slow-progressing enough that he feels it won't significantly impact his lifespan.

Or he could be dying as we speak, and doesn't have the heart to tell me.

But Garak brushed this thought aside - surely the doctor had more sense than to try ‘powering through’ a terminal illness. That couldn't be it.

A lesson Garak had resisted learning on Cardassia was the need to back down at times, and to admit to a conversational partner that he didn't follow what was going on. Vulnerability was a danger, betraying his lack of information carried severe consequences, and stubborn adherence to a persona of understanding had nearly always served him well. These schemas never posed a problem until well into his time on Deep Space Nine - his non-Cardassian acquaintances seemed to be constantly calling him out on his lies, and worse still was that some of them seemed hurt by the behavior. It was a hard habit to break, but Dax encouraged him to practice as much as possible.

A version of her voice urged him now to put that skill to the test.

"...I must admit, I'm unfamiliar with this human..." - ‘disease’? Was it a disease? It stung to be this honest - "...Concept."

"Oh." It seemed to take a moment for him to fully realize the meaning. "Oh! Of course you would be."

Glancing from his friend's eyes down to the selection of fabrics on the table before them, Garak waited. Bashir reached for the farthest one and stroked it.

"Autism is, um... People with autism have differences in brain function, so they - we - experience difficulties in cognition, language, executing social behaviors, and... Sensory processing. Hence, the uniform."

"Ah, a mental disorder, then."

"Yes. Well," he furrowed his brow deeply and frowned, vigorously fiddling a corner of fabric in one hand, a face of concentration but lacking that same focus in voice, "it's not that simple, I suppose. But in a sense, it could be considered... A mental disorder." He seemed to regain his senses and treated the cloth with more care. "...I like this one, for the interior."

Pulling a few feet from the roll, Garak held the fabric in front of Bashir's body. "The color isn't quite right. I'll have to source some in a bluer shade."

"I think that'll do quite nicely, Garak."

Garak beamed. For all the hassle he liked to give Bashir, it pleased Garak to please him.

"So, um - do you have any questions?"

"Will you take off your jacket, Doctor?"

"I meant, about-"

"I understood. I do have some things I'm curious about." Garak paused for a moment. "These ‘cognitive difficulties’ - is that why you were unable to finish ‘In The Heart of The Devil’ ?"

Bashir grinned as he pulled the zipper down. "I think there's a fair number of factors we can blame before we pin it on autism."

"Oh, such as?"

"It's not cognitively taxing. I told you, it's just boring! " As it always did when he raised his voice, it sounded like Bashir had never yelled before in his life and was holding back for fear of hurting himself. He handed over the black and gray jacket.

"How does that human expression go - ‘there's no accounting for taste’?"

"Explain to me, where does the ‘taste’ lie in a forty-page monologue detailing The Conservator's entire life history of staunchly abiding by the law?"

"You should know by now, the-" Garak began, but was interrupted.

"I know, I know, it would be irresponsible -"

" Unconscionable! "

"- to leave any shadow of a doubt that the main character is a pristine example of an obedient Cardassian citizen."

When he finished, the room went completely quiet. Even from the other side of the Promenade, cries of ‘Dabo!’ could be heard. After several seconds of perfectly orchestrated dramatic silence, Garak spoke again.

"Wait."

"What?"

"Before we get any further in this discussion, tell me -" He held out a hand and touched Bashir's upper arm, "just who do you believe to be the main character of the novel?"

"Now, what kind of a question is that?" Bashir jerked away slightly, but the expression on his face seemed more playful than truly bothered.

"Humor me, Doctor."

"The Conservator! Obviously!"

"Of course you would think that." Pulling his hand away, Garak located an autoripper and ran it along several of the jacket's seams. He'd make the appropriate adjustments on this one, and use it as a guide in assembling the new one from scratch.

"What do you mean by that? " The doctor scoffed.

"I mean no insult, Doctor - your intellect is clearly intact - but your worldview reeks unmistakably of the culture in which you've lived." It took all the resolve and strength of will in his being to not add ‘Or perhaps I should say the lack thereof.’

"Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!"

Garak blinked. "The pot and the kettle?"

"Earth idiom, meaning ‘to point out a quality in another that the speaker also possesses’." He poked Garak squarely in the chest to drive home his point. " Hypocrisy ."

Huffing, Garak continued. "Obviously, one must be inevitably shaped by his environment, no matter who he is. But the difference between you and I, Doctor, is one of choosing to expand one's horizons once he has been shaped. I find you Federation types are all too pleased to let your horizons stay just where they've always been." He handed the garment back over to be tried on. "Ironic, for a group that so prides itself in its quest for diversity ."

"You know, Garak, you always make such a point of, of positioning Cardassia as an other to the Federation, to draw upon our differences," Bashir paused until Garak hummed acknowledgement, with pins now held between his lips. "As unlikely as it is, I can't help but imagine what you'd do if Cardassia ever were to join the Federation. Half of our lunchtime debates would fall flat then and there."

Garak lifted a hand to his mouth to remove the sewing notions. "I shudder at the thought! You shouldn't even joke about the idea - for all you know, I might even lose my concentration enough that I could stab you with one of these pins!"

At this, Bashir laughed a little - a nervous and stuttered little noise, as if he wasn't sure whether to take the threat seriously - and squirmed under Garak's touch.

"...Why, accidentally , of course. Stop moving." Garak grabbed his friend by the shoulders, steadying him, then looked up to meet his eyes and smiled his best non-threatening plain and simple smile.

At this gesture, Bashir relaxed - marginally, but relaxed nonetheless. The ease with which the doctor would let his guard down, the minimal display of friendliness that it took, had always fascinated Garak. Such a demeanor would have made for a terrible operative in the Order. But, Garak supposed this unrelenting pleasantness was one of the factors that had most intrigued him and drawn him in to Bashir's acquaintance after the thrill of meeting wore off.

I still wonder if those holosuite programs of his are rigged.

"So if I'm wrong, about the main character," - He paused while Garak made an adjustment - "then why don't you enlighten me?"

"I don't recall telling you that you were wrong." Bashir opened his mouth, presumably to object, but Garak continued, "You really must hold still right now. Besides - the narrative's unraveling is its charm, I'd hate to spoil the story and rob you of the chance to experience it for yourself."

"Certainly." He held in a deep breath and spoke quietly, trying not to move as much as he could help it, but the sarcasm came through in his tone regardless.

For a while, Garak worked in pleasant silence, adding and removing pins around Bashir until the jacket fit just right - or, as close as he could get it, considering the material. In addition to rebuilding the inner components of the uniform from scratch with an analog of the old uniform’s material, he wanted to rebuild the jacket in a looser fit as well. For that, he had a particular fabric in mind, more breathable than its current construction but thicker and sturdier still than the inner material.

Eventually, Garak broke the silence.

"You say you have this ‘autism’. What is the social standing for humans with this disorder?"

"Well... That's sort of hard to say. Today, on Earth, autistic people are granted the same rights under the law as anyone else. I'm not big on history, but it used to be quite terrible, from what I've heard, in the pre-contact times... Now, in practice, it all depends on how well each individual is able to blend in or to make themselves useful. Some of our greatest scholars and artists have been on the spectrum." - Garak inferred that this phrase related in some way to autism, but made a mental note to ask about it later regardless - "But if you can't act normal and can't contribute, you won't get far."

Garak processed this for a moment.

"On Cardassia,” he began, “children with mental disorders are seen as a burden to the family. If an embryo is found to be defective, it's generally destroyed before viability. Those who are born tend to live out their lives in institutions."

"That's horrible." Bashir’s expression was a mix of sadness and disgust.

"Hm. We should both be grateful you weren't born on my homeworld, or the two of us would never have had a chance to be acquainted." Garak felt he was out of his element here - comfort had never really been in the repertoire of interactions modeled for him. "...For as much as my opinion is worth, you seem very ‘normal’ to me, Doctor."

Bashir stiffened a bit -

"That's because I've had my whole life to practice the act. And it comes at a price."

- And he didn’t seem at all pleased as he said it.

Garak wondered if he’d said or done the wrong thing. He didn’t understand why it would be the wrong thing - being normal was good - but he didn’t see any other apparent explanation for Bashir’s response.

"What is that price?"

" You've paid the price, Garak. Think of how cold it is here, and the havoc that that chronic stress wreaks on your body. Think of having to put on a face for your customers. Or having to pretend -" He searched for his words, "pretend to be an entirely different person than you are, never dropping the façade."

It’s no easy feat, but that’s simply the way life is, the way it has to be.

That’s what he’d been taught, at least.

You just have to suck it up.

Garak thought of his talks with Dax, though, and what she had said about the so-called flaws in his traditional Cardassian upbringing, and how he’d supposedly been ‘traumatized’ by it. She still didn’t have him fully convinced, but in the interest of respecting other cultures he felt it would be prudent to humor her here and not give voice to these critical thoughts.

"It seems it's been... Hard for you."

Bashir scoffed. "You don't know the half of it."

"Surely there are ways of treating the condition at its source."

"Oh, they tried. That's what the genetic enhancements were for."

"But they didn't work."

"Well, the treatments certainly changed me, there's no denying that. Before, I couldn't even pretend to be normal. Couldn't follow most conversations. It rid me of some of my difficulties. Gave me some new ones, as well. But as I said, I'll always be autistic. At the core, it's not something that can be... Extracted. It's just who I am."

"I see.” He wasn’t sure he truly did, but he was trying to. Plus, it seemed what his friend needed right now was to feel understood. “And those genetic enhancements - that is the only treatment option?"

"More or less. If you can even call it a ‘treatment’. Of course, there's also the option to just try to bully and torture the disability away. My father gave me a plentiful taste of that .” As if sensing that Garak was going to say something on the choice of words - he wasn’t - Bashir continued, “I mean - what, what he did wasn't quite tantamount to torture, on a physical level, but... I've heard stories."

The work on the uniform had been paused and forgotten by now.

"The method I believe you're describing is seen as the golden standard for those Cardassian children who are well enough to avoid institutionalization but who don't quite conform to societal expectations."

"Somehow I doubt the Cardassian parents who employ it would recognize it as bullying." Bashir’s voice turned from that aggrieved and hurt tone to something a little softer, sweeter - bordering on sympathetic in a way that made Garak’s scales crawl.

"What we would call a stern hand has often been labeled ‘abusive’ by outsiders."

Meant to be a deflection, Garak’s statement seemed to have the opposite effect. The doctor’s sympathy now appeared as full-blown compassion across his face, and Garak found himself wishing desperately that he hadn’t turned the conversation in this direction at all.

He worried for a moment that Dax had forgotten her vow of confidentiality as a counselor, that she’d spaced out like she always did and let slip Garak’s tales of childhood woe, that Bashir’s unsolicited care here stemmed from pitying Garak in the knowledge of what Tain used to do to him.

But, he reminded himself, Tain likely already appeared as a less-than-ideal father in Bashir’s eyes - even aside from the issue of the closet. That was probably the reason for the sympathy, and that was a somewhat more tolerable explanation.

Still, it made him uneasy. He decided to change the subject.

"There's another thing I don't understand, Doctor."

He felt that he was treading on unsteady ground here, perhaps throwing knives at the vole’s nest, but he wanted to fully understand the issue, and as it was he barely understood.

He could also tell that Bashir had some mixed and unspoken feelings on the matter, and may need a well-placed push in order to work through them. He took in a breath and continued.

"You struggle due to your autism." Bashir nodded in acknowledgement. "And your suffering is compounded as well by your efforts to deny your autism." He paused again - now Bashir did not nod - and he continued, "Your parents - your father - made the decision to have you altered, in an attempt to fix you - arguably, a decision made with your well-being in mind."

Bashir shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He didn’t meet Garak’s eyes. Garak continued:

"Had it gone as they'd wished, you'd be free of this affliction. Yet you resent your parents for what they did. Why?"

"Well, they haven't ever given me a good reason not to resent them! What kind of a thing to say is that? What kind of a question is that?" Bashir had been so quiet before, seemed so perturbed, that when he spoke now Garak startled. Preparing to explain his rationale, Garak opened his mouth to speak, but Bashir interrupted him. "No - I know this is new to you, I don't fault you for that. And that's hardly the first time I've heard the sentiment."

It was a small comfort, at least, to know their relationship’s standing had not been injured. Bashir’s voice rose - again, with that quality of trepidation - as he carried on.

"It's because it was my life and body and future, and they made the choice for me without any regard for what I wanted. And- and I know it's different, on... On Cardassia... But on Earth there are these expectations for how a child is to be treated - with respect, as if they were an adult, and with patience, gentleness, care, and love, because, because they are a child. "

He stopped only long enough to take a breath.

"There was no respect in that decision, no respect at all for my autonomy, my capacity to think or to have my own desires... Even if it was in a different capacity than other children. No patience to see what kind of person I could have become... They said it was because they loved me, and I'm sure they think they do - Oh, I bet it really feels like love, to them at least - but it's not a love that I recognize. And..."

After this trailing off, Garak stood there, and waited. The pause stretched on, Bashir’s face turned away to look at something on the other side of the shop, until Garak began to wonder if he’d even had anything more to say at all, or if maybe he’d simply forgotten to keep talking.

When he did pick up again, the sound of it was low and sorrowful.

"...It's not a bad thing. To be autistic. To have a child who is. I thought it was, for so long, because of all this. You know, you hear about it," - at this, Garak thought to himself, he didn’t hear about it, but he understood the meaning behind it - "you hear someone's just found out their little girl has autism, and you're supposed to feel sorry for them, pity them, grieve everything she's holding her family back from doing. And her subjective experience? Even if she's a healthy and happy and joyful child, it doesn't matter. It's ‘tragic’, only I don't think it really is."

Bashir sighed. "I've friends who are autistic, too, except they're not all augments like me. And I don't think anything - not a single thing - is wrong with them. As, as people, that is, of course there are sleep disturbances and digestive disorders, and - but, as people , they've as much a right to exist as anyone.” He raised his voice again as he said this. Despite feeling like a stranger to the nature of the conversation, Garak couldn’t help but admire Bashir’s passion. “ We have a right to exist. I do, and I don't have to pretend I've risen ‘above’ autism somehow to acknowledge that, I think. And I damn well don't have to be thankful to the people who tried to make me into something I'm not."

He turned back to face Garak again, seeming to have finally lost his steam. "I don't know... I'm sorry for blowing up on you like that, Garak."

"If that's the worst you have in store for me when ‘blowing up’, I should consider myself lucky." He delivered this with an easy smile, but then felt perhaps it wasn’t appropriate. I don’t know what else to say . Garak cleared his throat. "...Evidently, this is something which you feel strongly about."

After a moment, Bashir nodded. "It is. It's confusing, too - because I still don't feel good about it. I know that it's right. That being like this is just another way to exist, and that it's not a lesser way of being. But I suppose the damage's been done and I can't seem to internalize it for myself. I treat patients who are autistic. I told you, I have friends who are. They're proud of it. And at the same time, they're people who are whole and complex. When I think about - about Doctor Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer... I don't know. It's different. I can't imagine being taken seriously."

Garak wrapped his fingers loosely around Bashir’s wrist, hoping the reassurance in the action came through. "I won't claim to entirely understand the position you're in. You are... Aware of the differences in our cultures."

People who were disabled, and people who otherwise failed or refused to conform, didn’t exist in the public eye in Cardassian culture. Those who were in any way different had to make a choice between hiding it (and hiding it well) or living on the fringes. Anything less would place too much power in the mind of the citizen - power that came at the expense of the state.

They both knew this, though. To point it out anyway, though intended to illustrate his point, could be construed as rubbing it in.

It made him uneasy to show sentiment and vulnerability, just as it had stung to be honest, but there was no one else in the galaxy that Garak would rather be so sentimental toward. He continued.

"Should anyone judge you for a congenital difference, let them judge. Your merit as a doctor and as a friend will more than prove that judgment to be a reflection of their own character rather than yours."

"...You really mean that, Garak?"

He nodded - using such explicitly caring vocal language would have been too much in that moment. Being this open was beginning to wear him down, and the line had to be drawn somewhere. He let Bashir’s wrist fall from his grip, and gestured to take the jacket in his hands. "... Are you familiar with the Vulcan philosophy of ‘Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations’?"

"Passably familiar." Bashir smiled. "It hadn't occurred to me to apply that philosophy here."

"Some Vulcan you are."

Bashir’s optimistic little smile turned to a grin, and he chuckled boisterously, wrestling the jacket off without dislodging any of its pins. "Thank you."

"What did I say about happy clients?"

"Still, you didn't have to... Do this. It means a lot."

It was true. He wouldn’t do this - act this way, be so willing to talk and to truly listen, be so friendly - with any other client.

"Hm." He smiled. "Now, tell me, my dear Doctor - what has brought this all up all of a sudden?"

"I'm glad you asked. Recently, I received a subspace message from a friend of mine serving on the Enterprise, Commander Data -"

"The android?"

With palpable enthusiasm, Bashir nodded and continued.

Garak had a feeling the conversation would prove to be very interesting yet.

------

end notes:

1) julian’s feelings here are largely reflective of my own point of view regarding autism back when i was a teen. i knew it was something normal and value-neutral that i had to accept about myself, but at the same time i felt fine calling it a disorder/illness and i heard sentiments from others that made me feel ashamed of it, so my feelings were very complicated. having since made more autistic friends and engaged more with online disabled (+ disability activist) communities as a whole, i have a much healthier happier viewpoint/understanding of my autism now. hopefully julian can obtain that as well.

2) mega thanks to my handsome genius wife for giving me the idea “julian goes to garak for help getting some sensory-friendly clothes for his autism”. accordingly, i wanna dedicate this story to my beloved schizospectrum brethren. no one has made me feel as understood, as worthwhile, or as human in my autism as they have.

3) i actually wrote up several paragraphs about ‘in the heart of the devil’ detailing its premise, because at first i thought it would be a lot more involved in this story - here’s that, if you wish to see.

#garashir #ds9 #star trek deep space nine #julian bashir #elim garak #butchdogthing

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