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Julian gets the message when he’s away in one of the outer provinces, helping to organize the staff of a recently rebuilt hospital, because of course he does.
He had noticed Garak coughing a couple of times before he left, had set the back of his hand to one cool gray cheek and found it neither warm nor chilled, and frowned thoughtfully.
“You feel fine, but I’d still like to do a scan,” Julian said.
“You’ll do no such thing; you’re running behind as it is,” Garak had replied, which really should have been Julian’s cue to force the issue.
Instead, because he’s an idiot, he said, “At least promise me you’ll go see someone if it gets any worse.”
“Of course,” Garak lied, with a smile.
“Garak,” Julian said, because he’s not that much of an idiot.
“I won’t allow it to become an issue—of that you can be certain, my dear doctor,” Garak had said, and Julian, who really was quite late and also made the mistake of believing Garak would have some semblance of self-preservation, allowed it.
“Garak, what the hell,” is the first thing he can think to say, when he walks into Garak’s hospital room after an emergency transport straight to the capital.
“Good afternoon, doctor,” Garak says, blithely. “I hope your trip was productive—there really wasn’t any need for you to cut it short.”
Julian gives an exaggerated look at their surroundings, hopefully communicating just how ridiculous he finds that sentiment without having to dignify it with an actual response. “Collapsing at the state archives doesn’t count as going to see someone if you start feeling worse,” he says, instead. “You know you’re never going to be able to fob me off ever again. You’re getting a tricorder scan the next time you stub your toe.”
“I’m certain you’re overreacting.”
“Of course I am. Remind me of your prognosis, again?”
“Surely my physicians already showed you my chart. I don’t know why you expect me to be any more illuminating.” Garak sniffs, but his attempted flippancy is interrupted by a wracking cough. Julian grabs the medical basin set out on Garak’s bedside table for just that reason, and quickly holds it out for his friend.
Julian has taken a cursory look at Garak’s chart, and of course he hadn’t doubted the other doctors—on principle, and also because he personally knew most of them from his time working in the hospital immediately following the Dominion bombing. But it still isn’t until he actually sees Garak cough up a handful of flowers that he can truly believe what he read.
Perek Syndrome. Known as Hanahaki Disease to the Federation’s scientific community, but almost entirely in a research capacity; Julian has never encountered an actual case until now. The condition is rare, but it isn’t unique to Prime—it actually appears in several species from this sector of space, and though the cause is always the same, it manifests differently across the various races it can afflict. Amongst Cardassians, it presents via the patient coughing up perek flowers—thus the name, and the blossom’s association with death.
Or at least that’s normally how it presents. Garak is producing the usual perek, but also Terran irises, of all things.
“Of course you have to be as precious as possible even with a life-threatening illness,” Julian mutters, studying an indigo petal. No blood, thankfully—at least for the moment.
“Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner could use some work, doctor?” Garak comments, hand to his chest.
Julian shoots him a look. “Shut it. Your cute act—”
“Forgive me, my what?”
Julian ignores him. “—Isn’t going to make me any less angry with you. Garak, Perek Syndrome doesn’t progress this rapidly—you’ve been dealing with this for years. I can’t believe you managed to hide it from me for so long!”
“I know you’re upset, but there’s no call to be rude,” Garak replies, primly.
Julian glares, shoving the tray back on its table and then throwing himself down into the visitors’s chair next to the bed. “Yes, yes, your skills of obfuscation are unmatched, of course you could fool the doctor you live with.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, the fight leaving him—it’s too late to change the events that lead them to this point, so it’s probably best to focus on the future. “Have you started discussing a treatment plan with your team?”
“We have,” Garak says, “in that I have decided I’m not pursuing any treatment at all.”
Nevermind. “Garak,” Julian says, stiffening.
“Oh, think for a moment, doctor.” Garak flicks a hand. “If I truly have had this condition for years, wouldn’t I have sought out the operation years ago, if I had any inclination to?”
“Not if you were being a stubborn, secretive bastard and pretending everything was fine until you absolutely couldn’t anymore,” Julian fires back, jaw tense. “Which is your proven record.”
“While it is true that I was rather preoccupied for the past few years, that was not my reason for failing to seek treatment,” Garak replies. “I will not remove the Perek.”
“Alright, fine, understandable,” Julian says. “Which means you will be contacting the source of your unrequited emotions and telling them how you feel, yes?”
Garak pauses, wets his lips. “Not as such.”
“You can’t be serious,” Julian says. “If you aren’t removing it or attempting to resolve it, you don’t have time to try and move on—you can’t just let yourself die, Garak!”
“It’s certainly not my preference,” Garak says. “But as adept as I am at surviving, death does come for us all—even me.”
“But not via diseases that are easily treatable!” Julian exclaims. “Why now? Why this?”
“Why else?” Garak replies. “Because I find the alternative more unbearable than death.”
He says it simply, calmly, expression direct and solemn. Julian has known Garak for over a decade, and through their friendship has become familiar with the very rare sight of the man at his most honest. He used to long for it, the proof that he had been taken into Garak’s confidence—but now he would give anything to see Garak’s jovial insincerity instead.
“I had no idea that you could be so selfish,” Julian says, and he isn’t even lying. Garak has always been one of the most self-sacrificing people Julian knows, assuming what he’s sacrificing himself for is Cardassia.
“Well, that was your first mistake,” Garak replies.
“Cardassia still needs you, Garak!” Julian cries. I still need you. “You can’t possibly be expecting me to just sit here and let you die.”
Judging by the set of Garak’s jaw, that’s exactly what he’s expecting. He lifts his chin. “I’ve already had this conversation with more doctors than I care to, and you are not, at the moment, part of my healthcare team. If my decision upsets you so, by all means…” He sweeps out a hand so deliberately insouciant that it's insulting. “I’m certain you can find your way out.”
Julian grits his teeth. “Fine,” he snaps, and bounds from his seat to stalk right out—out of Garak’s suite, and then out of the hospital all together, out into the Cardassian evening.
Tain’s estate had been a loss that Garak wasn’t particularly interested in attempting to recover—he instead used the land for an actual orphanage, which is providing more measurable good for Cardassia than Tain had ever done in life, at least as far as Julian is concerned. He and Garak shared an apartment instead, an arrangement initially borne from the lack of inhabitable space immediately following the bombings, and continued because, well—well. They had grown used to the way their lives fit together, and Julian, at least, simply liked living with Garak, liked being able to come home to him when their schedules began allowing it. Their positions are both nebulously governmental; in Garak’s case, because no one (up to and especially Garak himself) is willing to let the last surviving Son of Tain hold any sort of actual title, and in Julian’s case, because he’s not technically a Cardassian citizen. It’s an arrangement that works well enough—and, most importantly, means they chose their current accommodations for proximity to the city center, so the walk Julian desperately needs also has a destination.
The open air helps immediately and immensely. Cardassia is heading into the cool, dry season—which was probably making the Perek that much worse, though most of it was simply time. If Julian’s trip had been postponed by even a day, they’d have probably had this fight a week ago, because even a brief glance at Garak’s scans was shocking. It’s a wonder—or just pure, Cardassian obstinance as only Garak can deliver—that he’s remained upright and walking for as long as he has, an actual miracle that the profusion of vegetation in his chest hasn’t already caused some sort of pulmonary event, and Julian is genuinely, horribly proud that Garak didn’t slip right back off the wagon with how much pain he must have been in. He’s got weeks, if that—one way or another, Garak won’t be leaving that hospital room with the Perek in his chest.
God, what a fucking mess. Julian would think that perishing from unrequited love didn’t seem like Garak’s style, but then what had the man been doing when they met, other than dying by inches for something that couldn’t love him back? Given that his father was Enabran Tain, Garak was born with more affection to give than he’d ever receive; Perek Syndrome probably seemed practically predestined, the fulfillment of Tain’s favorite little declaration: not only was sentiment Garak’s greatest weakness, but now it was going to kill him.
But Cardassia isn’t a person. And Julian—Julian has immense difficulty believing that someone who spent enough time around Garak to secure such devotion wouldn’t love him right back.
He’s biased, of course, but it’s not that he doesn’t recognize what could be considered Garak’s flaws—he’s finicky and superior and will always choose the least direct and most dramatic option possible. He still lies all the time, mostly for his own amusement, and he can be the most irritating person in the quadrant when he wants to be, and that’s all to say nothing of the violence of his past, even if that hasn’t been so much as a consideration for Julian in years.
But he’s also absolutely gorgeous, wildly interesting, and blisteringly intelligent. He can be both terribly brave and incredibly kind, and he’s so openly, unambiguously dedicated to Cardassia; being back on Prime while also being out of the Obsidian Order (and his father’s shadow) has allowed something in him to settle into a sincere contentment—Julian would never say that Garak has become less dangerous, not if he felt a need, but he’s significantly less desperate.
And, most importantly, he’s so fucking charming. Falling for Garak is the easiest thing in the world—Julian would know. He’d done it for the first time all the way back on the station, and he keeps stumbling deeper in love as the years pass. He’ll think it’s been long enough, think he’s got a handle on it, and then Garak will do something—prove what a good man he is deep down or say something especially witty or even just unguardedly smile—and it will hit Julian all over again.
He’d almost said something a thousand times, but the timing always seemed wrong. On Deep Space Nine, he had been all too aware of his position of privilege as not merely Starfleet, but an officer; the last thing he wanted to do was put Garak in a position of assuming his place on the station relied on bowing to Julian’s whims. That particular issue didn’t exist on Cardassia, of course, but at that point they had much bigger things to worry about—once things had stabilized, and they had room to breathe…
Julian has reached the apartment. He slumps against the door, pressing his forehead to the cool metal.
He had gotten comfortable. He was happy with what they had. It had been years, he told himself, and Garak always seemed so sure of himself and what he wanted—if that included Julian, surely he would have done something. But now…
Julian closes his eyes tight.
He should have done something. Hell, back on the station, consequences be damned. Maybe Garak would have indulged him; maybe he would have indulged himself—Julian would have spent years pining as nothing more than an occasional, no-strings-attached tumble if it meant they wouldn’t be in this situation right now.
Julian sighs, straightens up, and keys in his code for the door. The luggage from his trip was sent ahead: it’s waiting for him just inside. He picks up his shoulder bag, and heads for his room.
Of course, he was always going to go back. Honestly, he probably would have just cooled off in a lab if he hadn’t needed to go home to pack some clean clothes and ask their downstairs neighbor Mrs. Dajett to water Garak’s plants. Once he’s done, it’s right back to the hospital, where Garak has the absolute temerity to widen his eyes in slight surprise.
“I’m sorry,” Julian says, this time.
“You have nothing to apologize for, doctor,” Garak replies. “You were understandably upset.”
“That’s no excuse for my tone, not to mention what I said,” Julian insists. “It was totally uncalled for and I’m sorry.”
“Very well, then: your still unnecessary apology is accepted,” Garak says, and smiles when Julian rolls his eyes—though it’s brief, vanishing in favor of solemnity as he adds: “And I must offer one of my own—and not merely for how short I was. I am being selfish. But I will not change my mind.”
More unbearable than death, that was how Garak described the concept of having the Perek removed. Julian looks down at his hands, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs. Unlike Garak, he can’t say that he considers the apology unnecessary—or even that he can find it within himself to forgive Garak for his decision. Not yet. What he can say, though, is: “I understand.”
This is, perhaps, the first time Garak has chosen something—someone—above his duty to Cardassia. It’s not like Julian has any room to be throwing stones from the glass house that is his experience in that area.
He sets his bag down, carefully out of the way; Garak eyes it. “I take it you’re staying?”
“Of course I’m staying,” Julian retorts, retrieving the copy of Garak’s chart he had acquired and settling back in his seat next to the bed to study it more thoroughly. “If you won’t get the surgery and won’t contact the cause, I’m going to have to figure out some other way to save your life.”
“I suppose I should have expected that.” Garak chuckles—which turns into a cough.
Julian passes him the medical basin. “Oh, don’t pretend for a moment that you didn’t.”
At first, it’s very nearly bearable.
Initially, all Garak’s condition calls for is a cannula delivering pure oxygen to compensate for the reduced function of his lungs, and analgesics to treat the pain the Perek growth causes in his chest. He spends his time reassigning the strange myriad of tasks he’s assumed for the government over the years to a seemingly endless assortment of various aides, who often leave looking rather shell shocked.
“When you get out of here, we’re going to have a serious talk about delegation,” Julian mutters, after what must have been the twentieth person to take over some aspect of his duties.
Garak merely hums. Despite his predilection for it, he’s never made a point of arguing with Julian’s assertions that he will find another way to deal with the Perek. Possibly because he knows it’s mostly performative; Julian isn’t in denial. He’s been doing this for too long to have the same arrogance he brought with him to the Teplan homeworld—and that was one disease with multitudinous cases to study. The last time he tackled something like this was with Odo, and unfortunately Perek Syndrome doesn’t have a tailor-made cure ready to be plucked from someone’s mind. Julian is well-aware it’s a long shot.
And so: he talks about a future where Garak is cured, but he obviously does not attempt to dissuade his friend from doing what needs to be done. Garak makes a will—“Surprised you didn’t have one before.” “Oh, I had just always assumed what little I had would go to the Union in the event I ended up in an unmarked grave. What a novelty to have an actual estate to arrange!”—and finalizes the do-not-resuscitate order preventing removal of the Perek. Julian, now an official “consultant” to Garak’s team, splits his time between camping out at a computer in the lab and—when he has work that can be taken away—sitting at Garak’s bedside.
“What exactly are you pursuing, doctor?” Garak asks, on one of the latter occasions, when Julian is curled up in his chair and engrossed in a paper on his PADD.
“Oh, now he’s interested in treatment?” Julian comments, shooting him a look.
“I’m not disinterested,” Garak argues. “I am fully prepared to participate in any course that isn’t removal—”
“Or a conversation?” Julian asks, sardonically.
Garak ignores him. “—And since you won’t indulge in more diverting discussions, I thought I would attempt to engage with you on a level you are likely to respond to,” he finishes.
“Sorry, Garak, but if you wanted someone to sit at your bedside and talk about books while you’re dying, you should have befriended someone other than a doctor all those years ago.”
“I’m certain I would have, if anyone else had seemed as interesting and intelligent.”
It’s flattery and Julian knows it—if Garak had been after interesting and intelligent, he would have approached Jadzia, if anyone; it was Julian’s naïveté that caught Garak’s calculating eye, and he was just lucky he was diverting enough to keep Garak’s attention even after his immediate utility was served.
But: he had. And it had spawned one of his most enduring friendships, which is why he’s here right now, buried in an atrociously written Ventani paper, in hopes of gleaning anything of value.
“So?” Garak prompts, and Julian, as always, indulges him.
“Of course I’m not the first person that’s got it in their head to cure Perek Syndrome without removal,” Julian explains. “There have been—well, not extensive research, given its rarity and how easy it usually is to resolve, but there have been studies. They were ultimately mostly dubbed interesting but not overly useful, which I have to agree with, but—Cardassians aren’t the only ones that can contract this disease. So: I’m attempting to hunt down the common factor between all of the various species it can affect. Unfortunately, that’s a lot like finding a needle in a haystack made of several other haystacks—”
“I do realize it’s simply a figure of speech, but did ancient humans go around losing their tailoring implements in animal fodder that often?” Garak muses.
Julian rolls his eyes, but he probably looks embarrassingly fond. “A Hebitian coin amongst a forest of Ithian leaves, then,” he says, and Garak smiles at him with such a sudden, almost startled sort of pleasure that Julian has to fully pause to regain his train of thought before he continues. “The point is, not every species has done a comprehensive study on individuals with their cultural equivalent of Perek Syndrome, or at the very least haven’t published them to the wider scientific community, and I’ve no idea if this is a problem that only some people are susceptible to—the Cardassian research would suggest not, but, like I said, it’s not the most widely examined phenomenon. So—I have no idea what I’m looking for, no idea if it’s even present in the information I do have access to, and no idea what to do if I find it.” He rubs a hand over his face, and shoots Garak a look. “Maybe if I’d had years to research…”
Garak’s expression goes rueful; he looks out the window of his room. “You wouldn’t have had years of attention to spare even if I had told you when it first manifested.”
He’s not wrong—it’s only within the last couple of years that Cardassia’s situation stabilized, and the both of them settled into lives that involved more than being run ragged by the rebuilding efforts. Julian understands Garak not mentioning it immediately, really, but he still sets his jaw. “I could have at least helped. I’m not entirely useless outside of my abilities as a doctor; maybe I could have—” He waves a hand. “—convinced you to give them up on your own—”
Garak’s gaze snaps back to him. “Oh, there was never any chance of that.”
Julian is really beginning to hate Garak’s mystery infatuation, even as he becomes ever surer that they must be gone. That would explain why Garak won’t try to contact them, why he won’t remove the flowers—even the timing. As near as anyone could tell (Garak wasn’t saying, of course), the Perek first appeared just after the bombing: when Garak would have heard about the death of anyone he had left behind on Cardassia Prime.
It’s understandable. God knows what Julian would do if—if all he had left of Garak were flowers choking the life out of him. While he hasn’t tried to interfere with Garak’s end-of-life planning, Julian also hasn’t been able to think about what he will do in the worst case scenario, mostly because he has no idea. The thought is so bleak and horrible he can’t bear to let his mind even touch upon it.
Julian takes in a deep, steadying breath. “I wish you would at least tell me about them,” he says. “Even if you won’t give me a name. They must be something truly special, if you’re willing to…” He motions to Garak, to the biobed.
“They are, at that,” Garak agrees, fondly. “And as much as I would love to sing their praises to anyone who might be willing to listen—or simply finds themselves lingering for too long in my company…” He smirks, but only for a moment. “I would not wish for you to resent them.”
It’s so close to what Julian was thinking that he twitches. “Resent them?” he echoes.
“Could you forgive them? For this?” Garak mirrors Julian’s motion—to himself, to the bed. “For what’s to come?”
Julian sends him a sharp look. “It’s not their fault you’re doing this,” he says.
“I never suggested it was,” Garak replies. “But my question stands.”
And Julian doesn’t have an answer.
Soon, the pure oxygen delivered by the cannula isn’t enough, and they can’t even intubate—the vines would choke any artificial airway as efficiently as they were blocking Garak’s actual airway. Extracorporeal life support and intravenous nutrients are keeping him alive, now, but there’s only so much they can do, and for only so long.
Julian doesn't entirely notice when he stops sleeping entirely, too busy spending all his time either in the lab or in the chair next to Garak’s bed to visit the on-call room. Garak himself is getting visibly weaker with each passing day, his lovely voice obscured by the increasing pressure in his throat, but he remains, apparently, entirely content with his decision, even as the pain of the vegetation in his chest increases to the point the analgesics can no longer safely treat it.
He never speaks of pursuing voluntary euthanasia, which makes Julian, horribly, so grateful he could scream. Even when he knows a patient is truly suffering, with no chance of recovery, it’s always a wrenching decision to carry out—and the thought of taking that step with Garak makes something inside him feel cracked open and bleeding. He truly doesn’t know if he could survive it.
Once he has enough of a theoretical foundation to start genetic comparisons on the races that can have Hanahaki Disease, hoping to hunt down the cause, he routes the program running them through to his PADD so he doesn’t have to leave Garak’s side at all. He sets quiet alarms beneath the range of Cardassian hearing to tell him when he needs to make an adjustment, and focuses the rest of his energy on Garak. He reads to him, mostly, every terrible Cardassian classic they’ve ever argued about, and Julian hates them even more when there’s no debate to be had, not when every conversation is interrupted by Garak coughing up whole flowers on entire stems. He brushes Garak’s hair, sometimes, usually when the other man is asleep—he’s let it grow out, recently, and it spills across his pillow in a dark cascade, somewhat dried out from the sonic sanitizers that Garak so loathes. The only real luxury in their apartment is a water-based refresher—an indulgence, Garak had called it, just like his long hair, and the memory makes Julian grip the brush he’s using so hard the handle cracks. God, but he wanted—he wants—Garak to have more opportunities for indulgence. Even with him finally home and close to safe and reasonably happy, they simply hadn’t had the time.
The perek and irises start coming up bloody.
And now we never will.
That’s when Julian goes to the lab and looks at the computer he has running comparisons. There are currently fifteen tentative leads, and even if he miraculously stumbled on the cause with the very next one, he would still have to figure out what to do with it. The last time he slept was a nap in the visitor’s chair almost five days ago; he’s, honestly, already past the limits of even his endurance, slogging through the haze of exhaustion via his own sheer bloody-mindedness.
He always knew he was racing against the clock. He thought he had been realistic about things, had prepared himself for an eventuality where he failed.
He hadn’t.
Julian goes back to the suite. Garak’s looking a bit tight around the eyes: his last dose of painkillers is wearing off, and it’s too early for the next—though at this stage, there’s probably a conversation to be had about keeping Garak as comfortable as possible in his final days.
Julian slumps against the wall by the door, drawing Garak’s attention. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but apparently it’s enough to have Garak pushing himself upright as best he can.
“Doctor,” he says—he rasps, throat so full of flowers that Julian is surprised they aren’t spilling out as he speaks. Garak is still, technically, breathing, chest rising and falling as his body fights for what little air it can receive, but every inhale is a struggle that it kills Julian to hear.
It’s all too much.
“This is torture,” Julian murmurs, and Garak’s eyes widen slightly. “I thought, before, when Koval had me—of course that was just Sloan’s little game, so they didn’t want me permanently damaged, but in the moment…” He waves a hand. “Now I know just how wrong I was. Because I would say anything, do anything—betray every single principle I’ve ever claimed to have, if it would make this stop.”
“Not every principle,” Garak observes, quietly.
“And God damn me for that!” Julian cries. “Do you have any idea how much I wish I could force myself to barricade us in an operating theater and rip those fucking flowers out of your chest myself, consequences be damned?! Even if you never forgave me, even if you hated me, even if I could never practice medicine again?! I’ve planned it all out, exactly how to do it, exactly how to buy enough time to do the procedure, but I—just—can’t! All I can do is beg.” He staggers to Garak’s side—his place at Garak’s side—and grips the edges of the biobed. “Garak, please. Please let me operate. No one worth loving at all would be willing to see you in this much pain!”
Garak is silent, for a moment—and then he presses a cool hand over one of Julian’s. “I am sorry,” is all he has to say, and Julian bites his lip so he doesn’t scream.
“Then at least tell me who,” he hisses. “Help me understand, so maybe it will hurt a little less. Who could possibly be worth all this?”
“Oh, my dear doctor,” Garak murmurs. “Who else?”
It takes a moment for the implication—the impossible implication—to sink in through the haze of fear. And then Julian rears back. “No.”
“Oh, yes.” Garak’s gaze is remarkably steady.
Julian stares at him, searching desperately for something to say, but all he can manage, in a terribly small voice, is: “I don’t understand.”
“It seems reasonably straightforward,” Garak replies. “Come now, false modesty doesn’t suit you—it can’t be such a surprise you managed to catch my eye, after your list of conquests.”
Julian’s list of conquests, as if he had so much looked at another in years! As if he hadn’t been here, with no one but Garak, exactly where he wanted to be!
“No—no, I don’t understand,” Julian repeats, forcefully. He pushes away from the bed, unable to stay still, running a hand through his hair. “Of course there’s the aspect of perception, but how is it possible—”
“Doctor,” Garak says—warily, as if Julian is the one that’s acting irrationally!
Julian’s gaze snaps to the man on the bed. He’s gone from the depths of total despair to total shock in such a short span of time that he feels almost dizzy from it, but now he’s so suddenly, blindingly furious it takes him a moment to speak. “Garak. I’ve been on Cardassia for years. We live together! How in the fucking universe could you not know I love you back?!”
Garak’s eyes go wide. Julian thinks the last time he saw the man looking so surprised was when Julian shot him, and it would be hilarious if it was happening, say, a few weeks ago (a few years ago, preferably). As it is, Julian throws his hands up, because otherwise he might actually throttle the infirmed object of his apparently reciprocated affections.
“I can’t believe you!” he shouts. “I’ve never been angrier with anyone in my life! You almost let yourself die for me?!”
“My dear—Julian,” Garak almost stutters. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious! Good lord, Garak!” He promptly abandons any semblance of sense to climb onto Garak’s bed and take that horrible, beloved face in his hands, and bow his head to bring Garak’s chufa to rest against his own smooth brow; Garak sucks in a struggling breath. The rush of rage, too, is starting to recede, and all that’s left is the trembling horror of just how closely they had cut things, and Julian has to shut his eyes against a wave of tears. “I thought I was going to lose you,” he hisses, voice breaking on it, “And it turns out it was all my own fault?!”
“It was not your fault,” Garak whispers; he presses a cool hand to Julian’s cheek. “You did everything in your power to get me to accept treatment—to tell you. You know very well my own obstinance is to blame, along with my inability to conceptualize—”
“If you insinuate you don’t believe me, Garak, I will not be responsible for my actions,” Julian warns. “I may very well stab you.”
Garak lets out a weak chuckle. “Oh, I believe you.” The hand cradling Julian’s face goes to his shoulder instead, and Garak gently pushes him back. “In fact, I believe I’m going to prove exactly that momentarily,” he adds, with what sounds like intense control, and Julian’s eyes widen as he realizes what that means. He scrambles off the bed for a biohazard container.
It’s not a pretty process. Julian, with a doctor’s stomach and a lover’s concern, sits beside Garak and rubs his back as he hacks up a seemingly unending tangle of bloodied perek and irises into a medical waste bucket.
“It is nice to have proof, at least,” Julian mutters, scowling at the vegetation. “And now I know why you were coughing up Earth flowers as well as Cardassian ones. I’m writing a paper about this, Garak, just you try and stop me. Comparative biogenic botanical manifestation in cross-species Perek Syndrome causation.”
Garak, of course, is hardly in a state to try and stop anyone from doing anything, and Julian is only talking to try and make himself feel better. He runs out of words before Garak runs out of flowers, and then he just strokes his hand slowly along the broad scales of Garak’s spine, hoping the repetition and warmth helps even a little.
Once it’s over, he fetches his tricorder, which confirms that there are no traces of the biogenic flora left in Garak’s system, and then a tissue regenerator, which he runs slowly over the older man’s chest and neck to repair any lingering damage.
“Better?” Julian asks, rather unnecessarily.
“Much,” Garak confirms, and smiles. Not one of his terribly charming customer service smiles, with secrets dancing in his eyes, but something small, and tired, but sincere.
“Good,” Julian murmurs. He has an urge to run his fingers through Garak’s hair, and almost immediately realizes he has no reason to resist it, so he lets himself. Garak’s eyes flutter closed.
“Alright. I’m going to dispose of that—” Julian indicates the bucket, even if Garak can’t see it. “And then let the team know what’s happened. Ah—I mean—” He hesitates, and then puffs out a breath. “I’ll keep it vague, but honestly I can’t imagine they won’t put two and two together. Especially with the shouting.”
“Tell them whatever you wish, Julian,” Garak says, without bothering to open his eyes. It feels like an apology, punctuated by a name in lieu of his usual affections—an offer of transparency after the horrible secrecy.
“… Okay,” Julian whispers. “I’ll be back.” He strokes Garak’s forehead, letting his fingers drag gently over the shape of his chufa, before he steps away.
He finds those members of Garak’s medical team that are on duty clustered at the nurses’ station, doing a very poor job of looking like they hadn’t been listening intently to whatever had been happening in Garak’s room. Julian doesn’t actually inform his fellow doctors that he was the one responsible for the resolution of the Perek—though, as he expected, given their expressions, they’ve probably figured it out. It’s not so much that he wants to keep it a secret as much as it doesn’t feel like a time for any sort of announcement; he doesn’t want to be congratulated, the joy at him at war with the shivery aftershocks of fear. Thankfully, this, too, the team seems to understand, and he’s never been so glad for the Cardassian affinity for cool professionalism.
The next few minutes aren’t the kind of “love heals all” fairytale ending the most romantic of Perek tales feature. Garak has to be taken off the ECLS machine (the cannula goes back in, just as a precaution) and intravenous nutrients, and it’s been days since he’s had real food, so he’ll have to be weaned back onto solids slowly. But eventually, at least for the moment, it’s over—Garak is looking significantly more comfortable and they’re alone once again, whereupon Julian kicks off his shoes and then climbs right back into Garak’s biobed, slotting himself next to the other man.
“I’m fairly certain if this was anyone else, you wouldn’t be allowing it,” Garak notes, though of course that hardly stops him from wrapping an arm around Julian immediately.
“Physician’s prerogative,” Julian replies. “Besides, given the nature of your condition, this counts as viable medicinal treatment. Also I'm very tired, and we still need to talk, as much as I’m sure you’d rather keep what secrets you have left to yourself.”
“I flatter myself that I will always have secrets, my dear; it’s why you like me,” Garak comments, running his fingers along the line of Julian’s shoulders.
“I love you,” Julian corrects—the fingers stop, and then spread gently over his spine as he continues, “And that includes the secrets. But I don’t love them any more than any other part of you.”
“That’s quite reassuring,” Garak murmurs, though not without an uncertain pause.
“Doubt me all you like, but I plan on making sure we have years to convince you otherwise,” Julian says, and Garak sighs at the notion.
“We’ll see,” Garak says, though at least it doesn’t sound too dismissive. “For the moment, though—you want an explanation.”
“Yes. Garak, it—I'm not saying I wouldn’t—” Die for you. Julian trips over the words, because it feels so strange to say—to say and to mean, which he would. Absolutely. He had already killed for Garak, the once, back in that Dominion camp—dying himself would be even easier, if he knew it had to be done. But to perish from something like Perek Syndrome? “I would have still been here,” Julian says, with a certain amount of desperation. Wasn’t that enough?
“I did tell you I was being selfish,” Garak points out. “It had, I’m afraid, very little to do with the possibility of losing you—I’ve been prepared for that eventuality for years.”
Julian tenses. “You were prepared for that, but not for your feelings to fade?!”
“Exactly,” Garak agrees, as if it was the most sensible decision in the world. “Julian, loving you is the best and easiest thing I’ve ever done. I love you to a degree I believed genuinely impossible, and it has sustained me and uplifted me. I don’t want to know who I would be without you. Is it any wonder that I would rather die than lose that? Is it any wonder that’s how I wanted to spend my final days?”
Julian swallows, eyes stinging. It’s awful to hear in the oldest sense of the word, overwhelming in its magnitude. Wonderful beyond description to know that loving him made Garak so happy, and horrifying that it came so close to killing him. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?” he finally manages.
“I truly believed you didn’t feel the same way about me, and if you hadn’t…” He brushes a finger over Julian’s cheek. “Oh, my darling.”
Julian wishes he couldn’t see Garak’s point—but he can. God. If he had known and truly couldn’t bring himself to reciprocate, he really doesn’t know what he would have done. Perhaps threaten to leave Garak entirely unless he got the operation, as horrible as it sounds to contemplate, and Garak anticipating exactly that was probably how they ended up in this situation in the first place.
“But you do believe it now,” Julian says, somewhat desperate to make sure despite all the evidence at his disposal.
“Oh, yes,” Garak agrees, and he smiles. “If you didn’t reciprocate, I did expect that you would be startled, but then you would have most likely tried to play along. But you were so incandescently angry with me and the entire situation—in the face of that, even I couldn’t doubt your sincerity.”
He sounds so terribly fond. There’s still a rasp in Garak’s lilting voice, but that’s to be expected, given the extent of the damage; it will heal in time, but the regenerator could only do so much. Julian tucks his nose against Garak’s shoulder, and sighs.
“I can’t believe you really didn’t know,” Julian murmurs.
“I occasionally allowed myself to believe I had your regard,” Garak replies. “But—no. I did not consider that it could go beyond friendship and flirting. I didn’t dare.” The last part is quieter, almost like a confession, before Garak is moving on. “After all, you were always rather obvious when you were interested in someone.”
“Obvious,” Julian repeats. He can’t exactly deny it—in fact: “Like resigning my commission and running away to another planet?”
“You didn’t come to Cardassia for me,” Garak points out.
“I didn’t not come to Cardassia for you,” Julian counters. “And I’ve stayed for you. Otherwise I would have—tried harder, to remain with Starfleet and help with the reconstruction efforts. Even after everything, it was terrifying to just leave, but I thought… ‘No matter what happens, at least I’ll be with Garak. I can survive whatever comes, as long as we’re together.’”
Humiliating, how his voice breaks at the end.
“Oh, my dear,” Garak murmurs, and shifts enough to wrap both arms around Julian. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you.”
“You’re goddamn right, you should have,” Julian says, and buries his face against Garak’s chest until he has himself under control, or close enough. Then he sighs, and tilts his head to speak. “But I could have told you, instead of just thinking it went unsaid. God knows I need things spelled out more often than not. As we can see.”
“I had thought I was being somewhat obvious, myself,” Garak notes, wryly.
“You’ve never been obvious a day in your life,” Julian grouses. “I did—wonder. Hope, even. But you never really treated me any differently than you had on the station.” Garak doesn’t immediately answer; when Julian lifts his head, it’s to find the older man watching him, steadily. Julian’s eyes widen. “Since then?”
“Not at first,” Garak replies. “At first I was merely—”
“Playing with me?” Julian guesses.
“Indulging in invigorating conversations with a beautiful young man,” Garak corrects, primly. “But—you did secure my sincere favor quite early.”
“Oh my God,” Julian moans. “Garak, you could have mentioned it! I spent ages agonizing about potentially taking advantage of you—”
“Taking advantage of me,” Garak echoes, incredulously.
“Captain Sisko literally blackmailed you, don’t you even try to pretend that your position on the station was secure enough that it wasn’t a credible concern,” Julian says. “At least I had a reason! What was your excuse?”
“That I’ve already told you,” Garak replies; Julian arches his brows in a somewhat sarcastic, very obvious question, and he huffs. “I certainly wasn’t eager to overstep myself and lose the only other thing that made life on that awful icebox livable.”
“Garak. As if I was the sort to reject someone and then stop speaking to them,” Julian grouses, and scrubs at his face. “Lord. We’re both idiots.” He pauses, and drops his hand. “You’re worse, though. Almost dying.”
“You’re not going to let me live this down,” Garak muses.
“I’m going to hold it over you for the rest of your life,” Julian promises, and realizes, only in the ensuing silence, what he essentially said. He meets Garak’s suddenly intense gaze, and lifts his chin, making it clear he isn’t interested in taking it back. Garak smiles.
“I believe I can live with that,” he says, voice terribly gentle, and Julian cannot help himself: he leans up for a kiss, short and soft. It’s objectively not a great kiss—Garak tastes of blood and flowers—but it’s the best Julian has ever had, especially with the way that Garak looks at him afterward, as if he is something utterly precious.
“Good,” Julian murmurs, before profoundly ruining the moment by yawning expansively.
“You’re exhausted,” Garak notes, pressing a kiss of his own to Julian’s forehead.
“Now that the adrenaline is wearing off,” Julian agrees. He should get out of the biobed and back into his chair, at least, even if he doesn’t go to the on-call room, but instead he lets Garak guide his head back down to his chest.
“Rest, dearest,” Garak says, and strokes his fingers through Julian’s hair. He’s out before he knows it, lulled to sleep by the sound of Garak breathing, deep and even.