Distant Deeps
     by Mary Knasinski  (mkk2@csd.uwm.edu)
     DS9 alternate "Mirror" universe, G/B (PG)

DISCLAIMER:
     Star Trek, Star Trek:Deep Space Nine and the characters created within
     are property of Paramount.  However, the story and those parts not
     used by Paramount are COPYRIGHT 1996 by Mary Knasinski.

SUMMARY:  
     In the mirror universe, Captain Julian Bashir and First Officer
     Elim Garak share a cell as prisoners of the Klingon Regent.

NOTE:  This is a sort of "character study," an alternate resolution to the
fourth season DS9 episode "Shattered Mirror;" it thus departs from the
storyline of that episode at several points.  It's my first fan fiction -
comments are welcome.






          "In what distant deeps or skies
          Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
          On what wings dare he aspire?
          What the hand dare seize the fire?"
                                   William Blake, "The Tiger," 1794



Distant Deeps, Part One


Captain Julian Bashir jumped to his feet as the door to his cell slid open.
Standing was purely a reflex action, however; he had no intention of
attempting an escape.  The bruises on his face and body from his previous
two attempts took away his resolve to try it a third time, at least this
soon.  So he simply looked on, his hands at his sides, his face displaying
a mixture of challenge and resignation to the Klingon guards who had so
abruptly burst in.

The guards were not alone, however; they were half pushing, half dragging a
new prisoner with them.  When he was inside the cell, one of the guards
quickly sent him sprawling across the bench with a kick to his back.  The
prisoner landed hard on his stomach, and remained draped across the bench,
his knees on the floor, his hands chained behind him.  Julian felt 
a rush of pity for him - he himself had been in much the same position just
four days ago.  His attempt at engaging the flagship of the
Klingon-Cardassian Alliance in battle with nothing more powerful than a
Raider had not ended well.  True, the Rebellion had been able to put a
"flagship" of their own, the Defiant, into operation, but the fate of that
ship was a complete mystery to Bashir.  He had been beamed aboard a smaller
vessel and then taken as a prisoner to meet the Klingon Regent.  As for
Jadzia Dax, his companion on the doomed flight, no one seemed to speak of
her or even acknowledge her existence, so Bashir assumed she had somehow
managed to avoid capture and had returned to the Defiant.  Then too, the
Regent's ship had not docked at Terok Nor - perhaps there was hope after
all, and the rebels had won their fight, at least for the time being.

Still, the new prisoner could very well be the first of a steady stream of
rebel fighters to grace the Regent's cells.  Not Dax, however; this one was
male, tall and muscular, and at the moment remained hunched over the bench
in obvious pain. The two Klingons who had escorted him in sneered something
at him in their own language, then said "Enjoy the company - dog," as they
slammed the door closed with a grinding shriek.

When their footsteps had died away, Bashir approached the huddled form.
The man was still doubled over, breathing hard, but otherwise silent, his
head resting on the bunk.  Julian Bashir was not compassionate by nature.
He was arrogant, overconfident, argumentative, and sometimes even cruel,
but very seldom tender or compassionate toward any living soul.  A year in
the Rebellion hadn't helped to instill gentler virtues in him.  If
anything, he was even more prone to violent fits of temper as a "freedom
fighter" than as a Terran slave processing ore in the bowels of the Terok
Nor uridium refinery.  In those days, the merest hint of rebellion or
insubordination had been brutally put down by the Cardassian overseers.  He
learned then to defuse his anger by concentrating on his work rather than
his feelings.  After his escape, though, he embraced the rebels' cause,
honing his predilection for sarcasm and casual cruelty to a keen edge.  But
four days of beatings and starvation in the Alliance ship had begun to dull
that edge, thus the unaccustomed pity for his new companion.

The pity died away when, to his horror, Bashir saw that the prisoner was a
Cardassian.  More than that, he was - or had been - in the military, as his
uniform attested.  Only the armor over the chest and back was missing.  Two
large, ugly, violet bruises stood out on either side of his neck ridges,
below his chin, as if he had been choked by some device or hand around his
neck.  In addition, blood had spattered on the floor on either side of him.
As Bashir wondered at the circumstances that would reduce a Cardassian to
this level, on an Alliance ship no less, the prisoner raised his head
slightly, turned, and fixed him with a pained but penetrating blue gaze.

Bashir reflexively took a step backward and then, as realization dawned, he
began to laugh.  And laugh, and laugh, till he felt almost lightheaded from
breathlessness and hunger.  Collapsing onto the bench attached to the
opposite wall, he managed to choke out "Garak!" before surrendering to
another fit of laughter.  Garak twisted around so he was lying
uncomfortably on his side, against the hard surface.  "I'm so glad you find
this amusing," he rasped.

"Oh, I do, I do.  This makes it all worthwhile.  You here, and in that 
position- "  Garak didn't answer, so Bashir continued, "You know we've got
your precious Intendant, don't you?  But we thought for sure that *you* at
least were all cozied up to the Regent now."

"The Regent and I - didn't part the best of friends.  Now, if you please,
Terran, I'm tired.  Keep your ridiculous speculations to yourself."  Garak
closed his eyes, but Bashir, intent on relishing the moment awhile longer,
said,  "I would have thought that you especially would have had the Regent
eating out of your hand by now.  First Officer Garak, feared by all on
Terok Nor, certainly feared by *our* pitiful little band of patriots-"
Bashir rose and advanced on him, "-and able to bend even our revered
Intendant to his wishes."  Bashir crouched down and held his face inches
away from Garak's closed eyes.  "Tell me, how *do* you manage that?  Even
the implant we've given her doesn't make her submit to *our* will any more
easily.  But I suppose we're facing a lost cause - I think she's developed 
a taste for Cardassian whores like you."  Garak snarled and tried to stand,
but Bashir easily knocked him off balance and he thudded back hard against
the bench, panting heavily.

"Oh, come now, Garak, you're really in no condition to fight me.  Granted,
you may have a fuller stomach than than I have- "

"I assure you, that's not the case," Garak sighed.  Something in his tone
caused Bashir to look down and notice the dark maroon bloodstains that had
spread over the front of Garak's black tunic.  "The Regent chose to
perform a little - surgery - on me a few days ago."

In spite of himself, Bashir gasped, "My God, didn't they try to fix that?"

"Oh yes, they tried, but not carefully, and not well."  Again Garak closed
his eyes and slumped to the floor.  As Bashir stood gaping at him, the door
to the cell was pushed open with a resounding crash and the previous two
guards entered.  An unappetizing-looking plate of food was slammed down
onto each bench, a bottle of water placed on the floor, and the guards
withdrew.  Garak called out after them but ended up addressing the closing
door.  Bashir, anticipating food at last, grinned unkindly.

"First meal I've had in four days, and I am truly going to enjoy it.  If
only I could have gotten away with feeding the Intendant like a dog,
too..."  Getting no reaction, he sat, took the plate onto his lap, and
began hungrily stuffing bits of the overcooked vegetables into his mouth.
Garak slowly swiveled around on his knees till he faced his own plate.  As
he was lowering his head to eat, his chained hands thrust out awkwardly
behind his back, Bashir leaped up.

"Here, please let me help you," he sneered, with an oily, solicitous gleam
in his eye.  "At least where I come from, dogs are supposed to eat on the
floor."  He grabbed Garak's plate and slid it across the metal floor till
it thudded against the cell door.  That drew his attention to the water
bottle resting nearby.  "Oh, I'm sorry - are you thirsty?"  Tipping his
head back, Bashir let the water flow into his mouth and down the sides of
his face, feeling it form rivulets through his long, greasy hair. 
He'd only been deprived of water a day, but that was long enough; the water
was refreshing and delicious.  When he had drunk his fill, he bent down and
held the bottle near Garak's face.  "Here - lap this off the floor as
well."  Slowly and deliberately, he upended the bottle and let the
remaining water splash onto the floor.

Garak, wisely acknowledging the fact that he was being baited, said
nothing, but gazed tiredly at his tormentor through half-closed eyes.
Bashir retreated to his side of the cell and proceeded to hungrily devour
the rest of his meal, laughing uproariously at his own antics.  After he
had finished and had emitted a loud belch of satisfaction, he leaned back
on the narrow metal bed, knees drawn up and feet resting against the
wall, and drifted off into a restless sleep.  He was dimly aware of the
sound of Garak slowly and painfully slithering across the floor to his
food, but then heard no more.


Hours later, however, he was awakened by the sound and the pungent smell of
someone vomiting.  Garak was leaning over the edge of his bed, vomit
dripping down to the floor as he lay curled up in obvious agony.  Bashir
made a loud moan of disgust and yelled out, "HEY!  SOMEONE!  Get him out of
here!  Get him away from me!"  He didn't really know whether his complaint 
would be heeded but, amazingly, a guard entered the cell within minutes
and hauled Garak to his feet.  He pushed the staggering Cardassian ahead of
him through the doorway, as Bashir screamed "Wait!  Is anyone going to
clean this up?!"  It appeared not.  Supressing the urge to gag, Bashir
rolled over and faced the wall, but the cell was small and the stench was
overpowering, mixing with the previous heady scents of badly cooked food
and human body odor.  Bashir sat up and put his head between his legs,
holding on to his forehead with splayed fingers.  His eyes were open, and
he couldn't help glancing at the pool of vomit splattered over the rough
metal floor.  To his shock, the pool was stained here and there with traces
of dark red Cardassian blood, mixed in with a few small bits of food from
the previous evening's meal.  The sight made his stomach lurch.  "What did
he go and EAT that stuff for, if he felt like that?"  The drive for
self-preservation must be strong even if not always beautiful.

Bashir eventually slept, despite the odors in the room and his own
feelings of nausea.  When he was hauled off several hours later for his
once-daily toilet break, Garak still had not returned and he found
himself slightly uneasy about that.  Then he cursed his own weakness and
promptly forgot all about him.  When Bashir was returned to the cell, 
the first thing he noted, with relief, was that the floor had been cleaned,
at least well enough to remove most traces of the mess.  The second thing
he noticed was that Garak was back; he seemed pale and remained bound in
the same uncomfortable position, however.  He looked up as Bashir entered,
then looked down as the Klingon guard laughed harshly and propelled Bashir
against the far wall and practically into Garak's lap.  The gesture took
both men by surprise and they nearly fell onto the floor together, but
Bashir was able to regain his balance and pushed away from Garak with a
snarl.  He was used to cruelty from the guards - this particular act,
however, bothered him more than the other similar incidents he
had so often endured.  Why WAS Garak being kept in this cell, anyway?  Just
what had he done, or not done, to merit it?  There was NOTHING in his
previous behaviour toward the Terran rebels, Bashir believed, that would
cause Garak to be viewed suspiciously by the Regent.  So, if he wasn't here
as a possible collaborator, then the only other answer must be that he was
here for the guards', or the Regent's, amusement.  

Bashir didn't relish the idea that he was helping to provide those animals
with entertainment, no matter how hostile his feelings for the Intendant
and her (evidently former) second-in-command might have been.  Therefore,
he did his best all that day to ignore Garak, and Garak, in turn, dozed
fitfully on his bed and seemed in no mood to provoke the human, either.
But Bashir was all too aware that the uneasy truce couldn't last long.
Garak was too devious and cunning to let an opportunity like this pass by,
an opportunity to strike back at even one of the Terran rebels who had
been making his life with the Intendant difficult.  As for Bashir, all he
had to do was close his eyes to hear and see Garak in all his former glory,
ordering another punishment or whipping or even execution, with that
insidious grin on his face and faint amusement reflected in his cold
Cardassian eyes.  Bashir detested him.

As a result, his bad mood fed on itself until, when the pitiful supper was
again brought in, Bashir was ready to hand Garak another dose of
humiliation as well.  But he restrained himself.  The only thing that
annoyed him more than Garak was the thought of the Klingon guards treating
them *both* like a couple of Terran pigs.  Bashir ate his meal quietly,
glancing now and then at Garak's pitiful attempts to take the food into his
mouth as he leaned over his plate.  Interesting, gratifying sight - too bad
Dax wasn't able to enjoy it, or O'Brien.  Ah, yes, or the Intendant!  No,
that was no good; knowing her, she probably HAD seen that sight before.
Bitch.  Bashir finally spoke up.

"I find it *fascinating*, Mr. Garak, that they don't seem willing to allow
you the use of your arms any more.  Tell me, any idea why that should be?"
he grinned unctuously.  "Granted, it IS amusing, but I was just curious."

Garak swiveled around and glared at him malevolently.  Bashir didn't even
expect him to answer, but he suddenly said, "I suppose, Terran, that
I proved a little too dangerous for them.  My attempt on the Regent's life
was almost a success."  He emphasized the word "life" with a snarl, but
Bashir didn't know whether or not to believe any of it; the improbability
of Garak attacking the Regent was too great.  "I see," he answered
noncommitally.  "So why continue to chain your arms?"

"The Regent was persuaded that this was a safer alternative."

"Alternative to what?"

"To cutting them off.  For some reason, he wants me alive."

So that explained the quick response to Garak's illness the night before.
Bashir again felt a stab of pity for the usually so fearsome Cardassian,
kneeling on the floor now with his head bowed and his own dried blood
staining the front of his tunic.  He suppressed the feeling with a growl of
disgust and turned his attention back to his own barely palatable meal.
The food obviously looked as if it had been scraped off of some other 
plates; best not to worry too much about its origin, however, Bashir mused.
His attention returned to Garak when he noticed him shuffling on his knees
to the water bottle near the door.

"And just how do you intend to manage that?"

Garak didn't answer.  Bashir persisted, "You spill that container, Garak,
and I'll smash it over your head."

"Then I suggest you give me a little assistance, Terran."

"You're joking."  Bashir jumped up and grabbed the bottle before Garak
reached it, then took a long, delicious drink from it and held it
enticingly near Garak's face.  "You're thirsty, I'll bet."

Garak sighed.  "You have no idea."

"Now, I could pour this out on the floor for you again, or I could pour it
into your plate and you could lap it up like a dog.  Which do you prefer?"

A pause.  Then Garak looked up into Bashir's face and said evenly, "You
could hold the bottle for me."

Bashir, whether from surprise or compassion, lowered the bottle and tilted
it toward Garak's mouth.  He let him take a long drink, too; he felt frozen
to the spot, as if the moment would stretch out forever and he was too
fascinated to end it.  But when Garak stopped drinking, Bashir retreated
haughtily to his side of the cell, taking the bottle with him.  He raised
it to his lips to finish it off, and then suddenly remembered with shock
that GARAK had just been drinking from that same bottle.  Bashir threw it
against the door.  The bottle wasn't breakable, but it rebounded off of the
door and hit the opposite wall of the cell, spilling the rest of the water
in the process.  Garak looked up angrily.

"You know, I would have been happy to finish that.  I left it for you."

"Well, I decided I didn't want it."

"Obviously."  He paused.  "In the future, Terran, let me know when you plan
to hurl projectiles at me."

"Gladly," Bashir snarled.  "And my name, MISTER Garak, is not 'Terran,' it's
Bashir.  CAPTAIN Bashir."  Garak gave a short bark of laughter, enraging
Bashir, who leaped to his feet and advanced on him.

"Are you mocking me?"

"Certainly not, 'Captain,' whatever would give you that impression?"
Bashir felt a flash of anger toward the infuriatingly grinning Cardassian,
which mixed with his own ambivalent feelings toward him and the plight they
were both in.  But the anger won out.  He reached back and slapped Garak
hard across the mouth, then smirked happily as Garak stared at him in
surprise, dark red blood on his gray lips.

"Oh, I don't know, Garak," he drawled.  "I just seem to feel that way. 
You tell me - was I wrong?"

Garak growled and rushed headlong at Bashir, but in the cramped cell and
with his arms immobilized, he could do very little.  Bashir easily eluded
him and then propelled him into the opposite wall, where he remained,
breathing heavily.  As both men prepared for another move, Bashir heard a
sound in the corridor, a cough or the scrape of a boot on the metal
floor.  He froze.  Here he was, doing the thing he had vowed not to do,
putting on a show for the Klingons like an animal battling a predator.  So
he simply stared at Garak across the tiny cell, and Garak stared back,
comprehension dawning in his blue eyes.  He had evidently heard the sound,
too.  Without a word, the two of them sank down onto their bunks and
warily regarded the door.

Some time later, the remains of the meal were removed and both men were
taken out separately for the toilet break.  As Bashir waited in the
cell, alone, he suddenly grinned with delight at the thought of Garak
attempting that break without being able to use his arms.  How would he
manage that?  Bashir vowed to ask him, then decided he didn't really want
to know, assuming he'd even GET any kind of answer for his trouble except
a kick to the stomach.  He almost laughed out loud.  The stories he
was accumulating to take back to Terok Nor were absolutely incomparable.
For the umpteenth time, he closed his eyes and imagined this scenario being
played out in his days as a slave.  If he had only known then...  It almost
made his capture bearable.

Almost.  The thought made him uneasy, however.  Very little attention was
being paid to him, and though Bashir didn't, deep down, have a very high
opinion of his own importance to the cause, he also knew that the Regent
would undoubtedly welcome the chance to glean information from a rebel
fighter.  So why was he being all but ignored?  Could it be that so many
rebels had already been captured that there was little necessity for
information from just one more?  Or could it be that his usefulness lay in
some other area?  Garak - if the Regent was more angry at HIM, then of
course a grueling period in a cell with one of his former Terran slaves
would be an exquisite punishment.  Bashir again flinched at the thought of
providing this kind of amusement; then again, Garak deserved a lot more
than the petty bickering and inconveniences that had already been dished
out to him by his Terran scourge.  Bashir grinned and drew his knees more
tightly against his chest.  When Garak entered, he turned toward him with
the same grin but said nothing.


The next two days were uneventful.  Tiredness and ever-present hunger were
taking their toll, even on the stronger Cardassian, and Bashir found that
his eagerness to bait and annoy Garak was beginning to take second place to
his eagerness to somehow resolve the fact of his imprisonment.  He
unsuccessfully questioned the guards, even asked to see the Regent himself,
but was ignored.  To fight off the feeling of depression that was
threatening to take him over, he began planning another escape.  But now
with two or more ever-watchful guards always accompanying him on his daily 
forays down the hall, disruptors trained on him, and extra guards
stationed outside the cell every time food was brought in, it seemed
virtually impossible to ever take one by surprise again.  His irritation
began to re-focus itself onto his cellmate.  He had been continuing to help
Garak with the water bottle; why, he wasn't sure.  But it was most likely
because the thought of standing idly by and watching another living
creature, even a Cardassian, even *Garak*, die of thirst, was too much for
Bashir to take.

Still, having to hold the bottle while Garak drank from it like a Terran
calf was beginning to get on Bashir's nerves.  It also gave him an idea for
a new torment, however, and he welcomed the distraction.  The next
mealtime, Garak was again crouched down on the floor while drinking from
the bottle that Bashir held with one hand.  He idly laid the other on
Garak's back, on the scales that ran down from just under his black hair.
Garak seemingly took no notice, so Bashir began lightly massaging several
of the gray scales with his fingertips, gently pressing them in a circular
motion even while trying to control his own feelings of revulsion.  All the
while, he waited eagerly for Garak's outraged cry of humiliation. 
Smiling to himself in anticipation as he stared dreamily at the opposite
wall, he suddenly noticed that the Cardassian was pushing the
bottle away but remained crouched at his feet, his head bent forward.

"Oh my GOD!" Bashir screamed inwardly.  "He LIKES that!!  The damned
Cardassian bastard LIKES that!"  He groaned in disgust and brought one knee
up hard to Garak's chest, knocking him off balance.  Then he threw himself
onto his own bunk and glared suspiciously at Garak, who was slowly
settling back against the opposite wall.  "What a fool!  WHAT a FOOL!"
Bashir berated himself.  "That is a CARDASSIAN, you stupid, ignorant fool."
The sexual appetites of the Cardassian overseers were legendary; Bashir
himself had been the victim of more than one casual expression of
"affection" when he worked in the mines.  But he had somehow imagined that
Garak's shame at being forced to submit to a human, a "Terran," would
outweigh his natural inclinations.  Instead, he now feared that his
miscalculation could cost him the upper hand in his little power game with
Garak, and cost him dearly, too.

Garak, however, gave him no evidence of that, but the smirk he wore
the rest of that evening was enough to make Bashir almost scream with anger
and frustration.  He knew he couldn't let Garak go on thinking that he,
Bashir, had been the one humiliated, but at the same time he didn't relish
the thought of having to replay the water bottle scene over and over again.
The following evening, he refused to help him drink, then relented and let
him take a few swallows of water before pulling the bottle away.  But even
the very short period of physical proximity unnerved him; Bashir knew he'd
have to assert himself or risk becoming Garak's own little object of
amusement.  As Garak lay uncomfortably on his bed in his usual sleeping
position, his face pressed into the angle formed by the bench and the wall,
his arms resting against his back, Bashir stood up and approached him.

"Mister Garak."

Garak stirred and turned to look at him.  Bashir dropped down and sat back
on his heels.  "I just wanted you to know - I'm very glad you're here."

"Are you?"

"Yes.  I would never admit this to anyone, not even to myself, but it
wasn't the Intendant I had wanted the rebels to capture - it was you."

Garak made an expression of disgust.  Bashir sidled a little closer, till
he could almost feel Garak's breath against his face.  He tried to compose
his thoughts, steeled himself, and then leaned over Garak and put his hands
on the ridges on either side of his neck.  Drawing himself all the way down
to Garak's face, he breathed, "I've always been - interested - in you," and
then brought his lips closer to the Cardassian's.  The eyes that stared
back at him were suspicious and cruel, but Garak didn't flinch.  Neither 
did Bashir, who smiled, pulled back slightly, and spit a shower of saliva
into Garak's face.

Garak screamed in outrage and lunged forward against Bashir, slamming him
backward off his feet.  "DON'T TOUCH ME!" he roared.  "DON'T COME NEAR ME!"

"You're hardly in a position to dictate that," Bashir interrupted, panting,
but Garak was livid.  He cursed volubly in Kardasi, then managed to
choke out, "I have been tolerant of you, Terran.  I have done nothing,
NOTHING, to hurt you."

It was true; he *had* done nothing.  Bashir felt a faint, almost
imperceptible trickle of remorse.  Why would Elim Garak not seek to take
advantage of this situation, this imprisonment, and assert his power in
some way?  Even with his arms bound, he could still be a formidable
presence.  Could it be that he, even better than Bashir, understood the
value of uniting against a common enemy?  Bashir pushed the thought away
and concentrated instead on Garak's saliva-spattered face.  "You, Garak,
haven't STOPPED hurting me since you BECAME First Officer.  Anything I can
do to you here is just a pitiful imitation of what should REALLY be done to
you - I'm acting on behalf of all Terrans."

"Then I bow to the nobility of your cause," Garak sneered, inclining his
head slightly and trying to wipe his face on his sleeve.  His words only
served to enrage Bashir further; he was about to say something more when he
noticed Garak's glance dart to the cell door.  He looked up as well and saw
a pair of Klingon eyes at the tiny opening.  Great.  Wonderful.  With a
loud, disgusted sigh, he retreated again to his narrow bunk and collapsed
onto it.

He never thought he'd sleep, not in his present, irritated mood, but awoke
several hours later, lying on his side, his arm completely numb.  As he sat
up and began massaging the arm, his gaze drifted to Garak, sound asleep
just a few feet away.  He was lying on his stomach, as usual, the offending
scales silhouetted in the dim overhead lighting.  Bashir found himself
focusing on them, fascinated.  He felt like a fool for his pompous words to
Garak earlier - "I'm acting on behalf of all Terrans," indeed.  He was
nothing more than a fly, buzzing around Garak's face, just waiting to be
swatted - and the amused expression in the guard's eyes probably meant that
he WOULD be, eventually.  Oh well - there was nothing he could do about it
now except salvage what little dignity he had left, carry on, and maybe try
to act like an officer this time.  He studied the scales across the back of
Garak's neck again.  Strange things, really, not as repugnant as it would
appear at first, but rather soft and pliable to the touch.  Not like
crocodile hide at all, more like -

Bashir closed his eyes.  "Yes, fine, Captain, keep thinking about his
damned body.  Maybe, if you ask nicely, he'll show you his scars, too."  He
winced.  "I ought to be thinking instead about ripping the damned scales 
OFF, one by one, with my fingers."  Physically impossible as that plan
undoubtedly was, contemplating it gave Bashir a kind of guilty pleasure.
He'd hook Garak around the neck from behind with one arm, then pull him
closer till he could feel his strong Cardassian body struggling against
him.  Then he'd run his fingers slowly, gently, tantalizingly along the
edge of a scale, finally gouging his nails under it and beginning to
pull...  Or maybe he WOULDN'T pull, not right away, maybe he'd run his
tongue along the edge first...  Garak would never dream what was going to
happen next...

"STOP!"  He jumped up and began running his fingers through his straggly
beard.  Damn - he wished they'd let him shave.  He smelled terrible, too
- the stench, in fact, was getting so overpowering that even he was
becoming disgusted by it.  No telling how it was affecting Garak - not that
it mattered anyway, he reminded himself.  Garak was welcome to smell the
lovely perfume of a rebel fighter or go rot in hell, as far as Bashir was
concerned.  Still, with their smooth, hairless skin and low body
temperature, Cardassians seemed much better able to retain their dignity in
a long imprisonment.  Garak, in fact, looked no different than he had when
he had first been dragged into the cell, except of course that the pallor
in his already gray skin had increased.  In fact, it seemed to Bashir that 
it had increased dramatically in the last day or two.  As he stood, glaring
down at him, Garak coughed and opened his eyes.

He attempted to raise himself to a sitting position but was forced to make
several attempts, his chained arms providing very little leverage.  Then he
stared hazily at the figure in front of him.

"Are you all right?" Bashir asked him, puzzled.

"I'm getting tired of your constant attention, 'Captain,'" he muttered.

"You don't look too good."

"Neither do you, 'Captain.'"

"Fine," Bashir thought.  Arrogant Cardassian bastard - I try to show a
little concern for him, a little kindness...  Of course, the fact that he
had spit in Garak's face just a few hours earlier dulled his resentment
toward the ingratitude somewhat.  He began to pace restlessly around the
cell, three steps in each direction.  Garak slumped forward and tried to
rest his head on his knees, his bound arms pulling his shoulders back too
far for comfort. 

As the day wore on, he withdrew even further, curling up on his side and
facing the wall.  When food arrived, he made no move to touch it,
completely ignoring the guards who had brought it in.  Bashir, occupied
with his own meal, watched him intently.  He finally called over to him,
his mouth full of food, "Garak!  Aren't you going to eat anything?"

Garak didn't turn around or answer.  Bashir repeated, "You'd better eat
something.  When they take it away, that's all you're going to get all
day."  Garak just shook his head slightly.

"Fine.  If you can't eat, you can't eat.  Maybe you ought to tell them
you're sick."  Garak shook his head again, a little more vehemently.
Bashir struggled to suppress another of the by-now-familiar stabs of pity.
He set his plate down and approached the Cardassian.

"Listen, I'LL tell them.  If you're sick, I don't want you in here.  I
don't want you puking all over me like you did last time."  He paused for a
few seconds and his expression changed.  "What's wrong, anyway?  Do you
know?"  No answer.  "Do you want anything to drink?"  Garak shook his head.

"Ah... you REALLY don't look so good."  From his closer vantage point, he
could see that Garak was shivering, trembling almost imperceptibly all
throughout his body.  The cell temperature was slightly cool to Bashir but
not uncomfortable.  But to a Cardassian, especially a sick Cardassian, it
was most likely freezing.  Bashir continued to watch him.  When the guards
returned, he called out, "That man is ill."

One of them grunted as he gathered up the plates.  "I said, that man is
ill.  You're so concerned about keeping him alive- "

The guard stepped over to Garak and pulled his head back roughly by the
hair, then studied him for a second or two.

"He'll live."

"Fine, doctor," Bashir muttered under his breath.  The guards left; Garak
curled up again and began to shiver more noticeably.  Bashir tried not to
look at him - he HAD been told not to interfere, after all.  And, damn it,
he wouldn't interfere - let the mighty First Officer of Terok Nor suffer.
It was probably just a little food poisoning anyway, or some Klingon virus.
Nothing that Garak couldn't handle, and certainly nothing like the
punishments he had been so fond of meting out.

And yet - Bashir was finding it increasingly difficult to isolate himself.
Emotions he couldn't reconcile warred within him, ranging from pity to
hatred, fear to compassion.  His fellow captive had begun to disturb him
profoundly, in some way he couldn't even quite identify.  But Garak had
always been a skillful manipulator - was this new situation any different?
It would be wisest not to fall into one of his many humiliating traps.
Make a fool of yourself now, Captain, Bashir told himself, and Garak will
be only too happy to personally take over the job later.  So he turned
toward the wall and buried his head in his arms.

He awoke to the sounds of labored breathing - Garak was now shaking almost
uncontrollably and was leaning against the wall.  Bashir instinctively
rushed over to him.  

"I'm calling the guard."

"No, no- " he gasped.  "I'm just cold."

"Garak, you're ill.  Maybe VERY ill."

"I said leave me alone!"  He tried ineffectively to push Bashir away.  "I
don't want them near me."

Bashir perched on the edge of the bunk and tentatively extended a hand
toward Garak's shoulder, then quickly withdrew it.  "Garak- " he faltered,
then began again, "Garak, please - I mean, it could be something serious."

Garak turned and regarded him suspiciously.  "Why should you care?"  His
voice was ragged as the spasms shook him.

"Well - I don't, not really."  They sat in comparative silence for a few
minutes, with only the sound of Garak's shallow breathing filling the cell.
He was still shivering, unable even to wrap his arms around his body.
Bashir shifted closer to him, but Garak was oblivious to the movement, his
eyes closed and his teeth almost chattering.  Bashir took a deep breath and
then placed one hand on Garak's shoulder.  The Cardassian flinched at the
touch but didn't pull away, so Bashir hesitantly circled Garak's broad
shoulders with the arm, keeping the pressure feather-light.  Even so, he
felt Garak's muscles tense under him.  His expression remained passive,
however, easing a little of Bashir's uncertainty.  He remained in that
position for a long while, not daring to move again or say a word.

Eventually, he became too tired to sit up any longer; Garak had been
resting against the wall, but Bashir was reluctant to lean, in turn,
against Garak.  So he crossed the cell to his own bunk and curled up to
sleep.  Garak's condition was little changed the next day.  He seemed
tortured by the cold, though, and a sheen of clammy perspiration clung to
his face and neck.  When the guards again brought food, Bashir didn't
bother to speak but secretly hoped they'd take notice of their prisoner and
show some concern, as they had done in the beginning.  Nothing happened,
however; it was as if Garak had been taken off the Regent's list of
priorities.

Garak again refused to eat, or even to look at the miserable offering.
Bashir couldn't blame him.  He decided, though, that he somehow had to
persuade him to drink a little water or he'd very soon be staring across
the cell at a corpse.  So he picked up the bottle and stood in the center
of the room, hesitating to approach the shivering form.  Garak was once
more sitting partially upright, leaning against the wall.  Bashir gingerly
sat down next to him and, with somewhat more confidence than he had felt
the previous evening, he put one hand on his shoulder.  With the other, he
brought the bottle up close to Garak's mouth.

"Here.  Drink."

Garak shook his head.  "Come on - DRINK," Bashir pleaded, a note of
desperation creeping into his voice.  "Just a little.  What do you want to
do, DIE here among these miserable Klingons?  Come on - just a little."  He
put the neck of the bottle against Garak's gray lips - still no response.

"PLEASE, Garak."  I'm begging you now, he thought.  Don't you see that I'm
begging you?  Isn't that what you like?  Doesn't that count for anything
with you?  Garak's phrase came back to him, unbidden.  'Why should you
care?'  Why did he, after all?  Bashir had no answer for that - he only
knew that he suddenly DID.  He tipped the bottle very slightly and was
gratified to see Garak beginning to drink from it; he had been afraid he 
was simply going to let the water dribble down his chin.  Afterward, Bashir
took a long drink from the bottle himself, placed it on the floor, and then
swung one leg up onto the bunk so that he was sitting lengthwise.  He took
Garak's shoulders in both hands and gently attempted to ease him backward
against him.  Garak resisted, but Bashir, emboldened now, kept pulling
until the Cardassian was leaning back against his chest.  Wrapping both
arms around Garak's body, Bashir turned him slightly so his bound arms
wouldn't be squeezed too uncomfortably between them.  The force of the
shivering was amazing; it was as if every muscle in the powerful torso was
tensing.  Even through the layers of clothing, Bashir could feel the cold
of Garak's skin - if he was feverish, it was hard to tell.

Garak began to struggle and attempted to shift forward, so Bashir tightened
his hold slightly and murmured, "No, don't - I'll help you keep warm."  He
was going to 'help keep First Officer Garak warm'?  He idly wondered what
O'Brien would say to that.  'Tuck him in for me, then, will you, Julian?
Nighty-night.'  Well, O'Brien could go to hell - they all could.  What was
he supposed to do, just let him suffer like that?  He began to remonstrate
with his imaginary accusers.  Garak was no longer fighting his grasp; in
fact, his shivering seemed to have lessened a little under the influence of
Bashir's warmer human body temperature.

Bashir closed his eyes and leaned further back so he could rest against the
opposite wall.  That put him in a more comfortable position in case he
dozed off, but he was also supporting more of Garak's heavy weight.  The
cell door slid open and the guards re-entered; opening his eyes, Bashir saw
them grinning and leering down at him and his burden.  He stared back
defiantly, and spat out, "Go to hell."  Ugly Klingon bastards.  Ugly,
sadistic Klingon bastards.  Let them go amuse themselves somewhere else.
Bashir was too preoccupied to fight; Garak's presence this close to him was
unnerving, and he couldn't call up the necessary fury to battle the guards
as well.  To his relief, they departed after gathering up the remains of the
"meal" and indulging themselves in a few other obviously lewd comments
aimed at him.  He ignored them, then tried to focus on anything other
than Garak's ragged breathing and the nearness of his cool reptilian skin.
It seemed that Garak had drifted off into a light sleep; several moments
later, Bashir did too, and dreamed that he was back on Terok Nor, eating a
dinner that was not much better than the ones he was currently being
served.

The odd thing, though, was that when he turned his attention from his plate
to the companion sitting opposite him at the small table, the hazy image
shimmered and re-formed and finally resolved itself into - Garak.  Garak,
eating dinner with a Terran, and Bashir felt no more fear than if he had
been dining with Jadzia Dax, or even Ben Sisko before his death.  It seemed
so utterly natural to be sharing a meal with First Officer Garak.  More
than natural, it felt almost pleasant.  As Cardassians go, he's not what
you'd call unattractive, Bashir mused.  That smile behind his eyes is very
- appealing.  Why would it have irritated me before?  And the eyes - not
frightening and cruel at all.  Those dark blue eyes are really very gentle;
why did I never notice that?  I like it when he gives me all his attention
that way, those eyes focused on me, his head inclined toward me as he
carefully considers everything I'm saying...

Bashir awoke with a start - Garak's body was being roughly pulled up by a
guard, who then slung the Cardassian over his shoulder and edged through
the narrow doorway.  Bashir expected the other guard to follow, then his
heart began to pound as he noticed he was making no move to leave.  Please,
no, I'm not ready for this, Bashir pleaded silently.  I'm exhausted, I
can't fight you, Garak's dead and I can't even begin to grieve, I can NOT
go on like this - the guard approached him and put a large, rough hand on
his neck, his fingers tightening around the lower part of Bashir's face,
tilting his chin up.  Bashir stared fearlessly into his eyes while the
blood roared in his ears.  So that's how Garak managed to catch his
"Klingon disease," he thought.  No wonder he always tried to keep the
guards away from him - no wonder he didn't want to provoke them by fighting 
ME.  My God, it takes me a long time to catch on.  TOO long.  He began to
struggle against the Klingon, but he was no match for him and spat blood as
his face was smashed against the wall.  There was a disturbance in the
corridor outside, through the open doorway, but Bashir couldn't turn his
head to look, as he felt himself again being slammed forward.

-----

Captain Bashir made his way down the corridor with long, decisive strides.
He was very, very glad to be back - he had bathed, and shaved, and had even
managed, with help, to give himself a pretty fair haircut.  More important
to him, though, was the welcome he had received from his comrades in the
Rebellion.  They had seemed geniunely pleased to see him, not just because
he was a returning fighter but because he was a friend.  He'd have to
remember that, the next time he was tempted to vent his frustrations with
the Alliance at everyone around him.  For now, though, he had more
immediate concerns.  Balancing the tray of food with one hand, he
approached the entrance to the brig.  Jadzia Dax and a young Terran whose 
name Bashir couldn't remember were sitting outside the entrance, talking.

"Julian!" Dax said, brightening.  "You look great today.  How do you feel?"

"Fantastic."

"I still can't believe you're back.  I mean, to actually be able to do a
prisoner exchange - we all told O'Brien he was out of his mind.  But it
worked, it really worked."

"Either I'm not as important to the Alliance as I had hoped I was, or they
wanted someone else a lot more."

"Yes, the Intendant made a wonderful bargaining chip, after we managed to
recapture her."  She smiled, then hesitated.  "Although - I don't know if
our new prisoner is going to be any easier to work with."

Bashir recognized her unspoken question.  He had refused to leave the
Alliance cell without a pledge from the rebels that they'd find a way to
include another prisoner in the trade.  They had looked at him in
amazement, as if the captivity had affected his sanity somehow.  "What are
we going to do with him, Bashir?" O'Brien had pleaded.  "We *won't* get any
help or information out of him if he lives, that's certain - we'll have to
watch our backs every second he's around.  Why do you suppose we're
agreeing to give the Intendant back to them?"

Bashir had been adamant; more than adamant, he was almost fanatical in his
refusal to leave the cell.  So the trade was accomplished, the rebels were
allowed to depart, the Intendant was returned to the Klingon Regent's
loving embrace, and all Bashir had to do now was manage to walk the thin
line between his true emotions and his public facade.  Not an easy task.
He cancelled the forcefield around the doorway and quickly entered, 
hearing the power shimmer again behind him.

"Hello, Garak."

Garak looked up, defiant.  He was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed
in some obviously civilian Cardassian clothing from the station's supply.
His mood seemed guarded, but his eyes were hostile.

"How are you feeling?"

"As well as can be expected, 'Captain.'"

"I... I hope you're comfortable."  Bashir cleared his throat; he felt
awkward, at a loss for words, with Garak's blue hawk-like stare fixed upon
him.  "I'm glad they were able to help you... some Klingon disease, they
said it was.  They said you might have died..."  His voice trailed off.  He
felt guilty - this was the first time he had seen Garak since the rescue,
and he wondered how compassionate it had been of him to leave Garak
completely in the care of other people for five days.  But he hadn't been
able to summon up the courage to face him until now.  And, after all, he
told himself, the cell was a far cry from the Alliance accomodations; the
bed had a mattress, the food was palatable, there were even bathroom
facilities.  There was no reason to feel guilty about anything at all.  But
something was making him uncomfortable... maybe it was the fact that he was
free now, delivering Garak's food to the cell, chatting with the prisoner's
guards, in a perfect imitation of the Klingons he had been subject to just
days ago.  Garak was undoubtedly noting and bitterly resenting the change
in roles, too; Bashir found it difficult to concentrate on his task.

"I brought you some breakfast."

Garak sighed.  "More Terran so-called food, I see.  You're too kind."

Bashir felt a flash of resentment.  "You'd prefer the kind of meals the
Klingons gave us?  Fine - I can arrange that."  His eyes met Garak's and an
unaccustomed tremor passed through him.  'Us' - that word sounded so
strange to his ears, but so appropriate, too.  He and Garak had *shared*
that experience; nothing could change that ever again.  "My God," he
breathed.  He couldn't resent this man - this was his friend.  There was a
link between them that must not be broken.  Garak might not know it, might
fight it if he DID know it, but there was a link.  Bashir approached the
bunk; as he did so, Garak stood up and advanced on him till both men were
standing almost eye to eye.

"What do you want with me, 'Captain'?  Why am I here?"

I want YOU, Bashir thought miserably.  But I can't have you, not like this,
not like a Klingon.  You have to want me, too.  He answered, almost
inaudibly, "I wanted to help you.  I couldn't let them keep you there.  And
besides... I thought that you might agree to join us someday."

"Join you?  In what?"  Garak smiled, but his voice held more than a trace
of annoyance.

"In the Rebellion," Bashir faltered, and licked his own dry lips.  Garak 
stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Do you mean to say that I, a Cardassian, am supposed to join you in a
Terran rebellion against Cardassia?"  He began to laugh.  "You may want to
return me to the Regent's ship, 'Captain.'"

"Not against Cardassia - against the Alliance.  Against oppression.
Against slavery."  Please listen to me, Garak, he pleaded silently.  Don't 
cut me off like this.  We have a link.  I was willing to sacrifice myself
for you - give me some way to get through to you.

Garak stood motionless.  His lips had begun to form a cruel reply, but in
his eyes Bashir thought he detected a different answer, buried far inside
his soul.  He gasped.  Was he only imagining it?  Why had he never seen it?
Why had he refused to see it?  'He could be ours - and now we've got him.
Now I'VE got him.'  He stepped closer to Garak, reached up, and wrapped
both arms around his neck.



THE END