One of a few short vignettes I began working on after "The Tears Of The Prophets" that involve Garak and Julian. This one is based partly on a Metallica song that I happen to like. You don't have to like Metallica to read this story. The characters Elim Garak, Julian Bashir, Jadzia Dax, and Worf, are all property of the almighty Paramount. I wouldn't be writing this if I didn't think they were so cool, so chill out. Better that I like them, and make up non-profit stories about these guys than to start watching Babylon 5. And Ron, kiss my southern ass. If a white, heterosexual girl from Mississippi can watch the show and say, "That guy is gay, that's just who he is," I think you can accept it, too. What, were you raised by Nazis? Nothing Else Matters (featuring Elim Garak and Julian Bashir) by Olivia Montieth rated R for language (just in case) The holodeck door slid aside after the first code was keyed in. The spy/tailor/freedom fighter stepped through into a bright summers morning, apparently Earth. The air was cool, pleasant, the grass was wet with droplets of dew that resembled tiny diamonds scattered over a lush green carpet. The general feel of the program was peaceful, and seemed to encourage reflection, and sweet memories. A hauntingly melodious sound catches my attention, and I direct my step toward it. A call that started low and trilled to a higher pitch, dying off gradually, and beginning again. As I turn a corner made in the hedges to my right, I find the source of the sound, and the one I have been looking for. You are standing beside a small building, lined with cages, holding a bird with smooth tan and gray feathers. I can see the birds throat vibrating with the sound of the coos that have drawn me here. I am mesmerized, watching your long brown fingers stroke slowly, lightly over the delicately smooth head and back of the creature. It cocks it's head and blinks it's round eyes rapidly, but seems quite content to stay where it is, unafraid of it's handler. Slowly you reach back into the square compartment, gently placing the bird on a perch, and closing the door behind it. Odd, considering that if you left all of the cages open, it wouldn't matter. These animals are no more than light and fabricated material, should they all fly out of their coops, it wouldn't matter once we left this room. And yet you carefully secure the wire door with the latch. You haven't looked at me, and haven't shown any indication that you even know I am here, but as the latch clicks over the door, you speak very softly, and very slowly. "I used to live here. When I was a child, my parents moved around quite a bit, my father took work all over. We never stayed anywhere for long, but I remember this place more than most." You pause, and for the first time look at me. Your eyes were ghastly, red rimmed and haunted. There are no traces of tears though. It is obvious that you have been fighting them. "We came here when I was six, almost seven. They felt that this would be the best place for me to 'adjust', to learn how to be what they had made me. A picturesque English estate. My father was the grounds keeper. My mother was the housekeeper. Oddly enough, although I felt embarrassed that my parents were servants, I loved this place. There were so many places where you could hide, lose yourself for a time." You placed the palm of your hand against the mesh of the cage door you have just closed, studying the willing captive inside. "I loved the birds. Have you ever seen doves before?" You ask, finally glancing back at me. I shake my head in silent reply. "They are the symbol of peace on Earth. They are so quiet, so gentle, they promote a feeling of serenity in those around them. I always thought of the doves when I was with her. She was so peaceful, so graceful, so much like them. So beautiful. Even after she married Worf, I couldn't help but to love her. She was the first person who ever seemed to be unimpressed by me, who seemed to laugh at me, but did it in a way that I felt wasn't malicious. She was laughing like one might at the antics of a precocious child. I suppose to her, I was a child. After some time, the feelings I had for her changed. I loved her still, but on a deeper level, and as a dear friend. I began to think of her as more of an older sister than a potential lover. She always made me feel that everything would be all right, that no matter what happened, there would be a tomorrow. She made me see how trivial everything was in comparison to all the years ahead, and to all the universe. What did it matter to people in the Delta quadrant if Julian Bashir was enhanced? Did those people in the Gamma quadrant care, when I was there, trying to find a cure? She asked me, why was I so arrogant that I felt that just because I hadn't found a treatment yet, that there just wasn't one. Brought everything right into perspective. She had that way of reminding me that I wasn't the end all and be all of the known galaxy, that life didn't stop and wait for me. That the future of the Federation and all it's known worlds didn't hinge on whether I won at darts or not. And I still didn't feel insignificant. It was her way. She had a wisdom, a practicality about her. She let you know that while you are important, you're not responsible for all that goes on in your life. She was wrong this time. When it was most important, once again, Jules Bashir stepped to the fore, and managed to not accomplish something. Everything that is important, whenever it is crucial that these enhancements not let me down, that doddering, clumsy, stupid child that I was comes stumbling from my past. He'll haunt me till the day I die, always there, peeking around a corner with those dull lifeless eyes." Your voice is low, and holds a rough, used timbre. Your posture is stooped as if you are holding the weight of an entire universe on your shoulders, and it is finally, slowly crushing you. You turn your back to me and walk a few paces to a crude bench built round the base of a very large tree, where you slump down, looking completely exhausted. I come forward, but not sitting beside you. What should I do? I knew nothing of comfort, I have been trained to seek out pain, and multiply it. To turn a subject's anguish back on themselves, let it feed on their souls, till it ate them from the inside out. You slump forward, placing your elbows on your knees and studying the junction of your fingertips as they press together, and I wait. That is the same, if you wait long enough, the subject will feel compelled to fill up the silence, and say what they are trying so desperately to hide. I hate the part of me that still employs this method, and am still grateful for it. You need to talk, not to listen. You drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and speak so softly that I have to step forward again, just to catch the words. "I'm a waste. My parents wasted their money fixing me, they wasted their lives raising me, and my father is wasting away in a damn prison, all for the sake of my career. And I can't even save the life of one young woman. All of it, everything that went into making Julian Bashir is a rotten waste of time, resources, and life. I wish they had left me as I was. I didn't know day from night, but I didn't have to worry about disappointing anyone, no one relied on me. I wouldn't have been the one to have to tell Worf that his wife was dying, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do." Your voice is angry, gathering speed and pitch, the words shaking as they are ground out between your clamped teeth. You drop your head into your hands, and begin to shake, violently, shuddering out your sorrow. You scream as if your heart is being ripped out of your body. Your fingers twisted in his hair, clawing your scalp, your voice rasps out, "Why?!! I couldn't be the father of her children, but I was going to give her a child. I was the last person to speak to her before this happened, she was so happy! And I failed her!! Why was I given so much, just to watch everything fall to fucking pieces? Of all the people on the God forsaken, spinning piece of garbage, she was the only one who seemed to keep her optimism, and she was the one person to be in that temple when that bastard got there. She had so much hope, so much happiness, I was making someone happy, God damn it! The first thing in months that was going right! The only thing that was working against the damn odds! She was going to have a child, she was going to be happy, and I was going to make it happen. I was going to have a chance to do something other than autopsies, and blood tests, and analyzing data to see which way this fucking war was going! I became a doctor so that I could preserve life, and everywhere I turn there are just rotting corpses and bloodshed, and there's not a damned thing I can do! Do you know how that makes me feel? I'm utterly useless! Everything I have become, all the sacrifices that my parents and I have made, all just a delusion!" By now you are gripping your stomach, and rocking on the bench. Your voice is not even recognizable, it is so hoarse and full of despair. Your head is bowed, but I know you are crying, the tears are falling onto the dirt, creating little puffs that are whisked away in the deceptive breeze. You seem so small, so desperate, filled with pain I would have thought impossible for a sentient being to bear. I have made a life out of pain, causing it, feeling it, living it, and yet the agony you feel at this moment surpasses anything I have known. It will consume you if there is no relief. I watch in panic as you tear your own skin with your fingernails, dragging them cruelly over the flesh of your arms, back up to scrape your scalp, over your cheeks leaving bright red trails, dotted by tiny bubbles of blood that rise up through the surface. Without thinking, analyzing, and weighing consequences, I do the only thing I can. I come to you, and pull your head to my stomach. I am grateful to feel your tears staining my silk shirt, I welcome the feel of your hands rending the seams of my tunic, and absorb gladly the endless shocks and shudders of your body as you continue to release all of the emotion you have been avoiding for so long. I allow my body to sway with your movements, and feel my fingers smoothing your hair, stroking the tortured strands, trailing my fingertips over the dampened flesh at the back of your neck. My beautiful, beautiful boy. How can anyone so fragile looking have withstood so much? I would have gladly taken it all on myself if I could. I have grown accustomed to loss, I have earned the guilt, and I deserve the agony. Gradually, the racking sobs slow, the rocking stops, and the grip on my clothes not so desperate. The tears still flow, but this I can stand. Then I realize, that I too, am crying. For the first time in fifty three years, I have tears in my eyes. Not because of my own life, as bleak as it has been, but because you have passed a milestone in yours. The blessed naivete that you held for so long has fallen away, and in it's wake is a man made stronger by the loss. I am still sorry to see it go, for it was something I was denied. Never was I allowed to believe that someone had only good intentions at heart, or that there was anything totally wonderful in life. Behind the bright shiny packaging, there were the shadows, and me among them. I valued that in you, the fact that you never seemed to see the shadows, because they seemed to flee in the radiance of your youth and optimism. Your innocence lighted your path, your good heart was a beacon. It was something that drew Elim Garak from the darkness, called to me. You respected me, not out of fear, or because of who my father was, but because of who I was. You didn't despise me for being a Cardassian, or a spy, or a bastard. I was, for the first time, an individual, without social stigma, or a past defining me. You still don't know my past, and yet you are allowing me to be here, trusting me while your defenses are down. I can't control my impulses. I drop to my knees in front of you and draw you firmly against me, placing kisses on your head, first in your hair among the damp ruffled curls, then against the smooth skin of your forehead. I find myself tasting your tears on my lips as I kiss your swollen eyelids, your wet, thick lashes. I taste copper in your blood as I press my mouth to the long damaged paths left behind by your nails. Then I lay my head against your shoulder, and feel the weight of your head on my neck ridge. You hair is tickling my skin, my clothes are being ruined by the dirt and your tears. My jacket is torn, but you are here in my arms, and so I don't care. Nothing else matters. I am here to comfort you now, and I do so gladly. I feel as if your sorrow is cleansing my soul, your tears washing away my misdeeds, and your heart making mine pure. I continue to hold you, refraining from kissing you senseless. Only the knowledge that you need my presence more than physical love keeping me from tugging your clothing aside and showing you how I feel. If I could only make you feel good, if only for a little while.... I would do anything. The sun has grown bright overhead, heating your hair to a wonderfully high temperature, and chasing away shadows. You are resting now, finally relaxed, the ragged sobs have stopped. I am waiting for you to withdraw from me. To pull away in disgust, or embarrassment, but you don't. You seem content to lean against me, your fingers trailing idle patterns on my neck and shoulder. Your weight is comforting, wonderful. The scent of you fills my senses, the texture of your hair pleasing to my touch. How much longer will you allow this contact? Finally, and all too soon, you stir. I prepare myself for the emptiness, the loss of your body against mine. I can feel your breath blowing over my ridges as you turn your head. Now you will leave me. Your hands slip from around my back, lightly running over my shoulders as you pull yourself upright, and I know I must let you go. The air on my skin stings as my hands drop from your head, and your back. I am waiting for the moment to end. Closing my eyes, I take a bracing breath, only to have that flow of air stolen from my throat by your lips on mine. A chaste, sweet kiss. A brief press of soft fullness against my mouth, and then it is gone. The feeling remains mercifully as you draw away, and smile at me sadly. "Thank you," you murmur, and all I can do is nod. When you stand, you pull me off my knees, and you grip my hand, leading me through the garden of your memories, pointing out to me the points that mean so much to you. I think I briefly see a small brown child dart behind a hedge, but I'm not sure. The presence is there, whether the child is real or not, and that is all that matters. ~END~ comments to lostinms@network-one.com