Triangulation

by Muriel_Perun

Summary:

Captured by renegade Klingons, Julian is stranded on a desolate planet with his two best friends. What happens next teaches all three men something profound about themselves and changes their relationships forever.

Notes:

I don't think there are any other stories quite like this one.

The story first appeared in KR's zine "No Holds Barred" # 15.

“How was your camping trip, gentlemen?” Garak asked cordially as he came up behind Bashir and O’Brien, who were seated in the first row of the Bajoran transport. He had rushed to get on this transport as soon as he saw Dr. Bashir boarding, and now he tried to appear casual and unhurried.

“What are you doing here, Garak?” O’Brien groaned, not even trying to hid his displeasure.

“Coming back from a buying expedition,” he answered, smiling at Bashir, who was giving him a welcoming look that made him glad he had taken the trouble to hurry. “I just finished loading ten bolts of hand-woven fabric into the luggage compartment. Now, how was your hike?”

“It was fine, Garak, if you like Miles’s cooking,” the young doctor said with a grin. The shuttle doors closed and the crew prepared for takeoff. Garak had nearly missed the flight.

“Oh? And what does that consist of?” Garak asked, settling himself in a seat just behind Bashir.

“Mainly bangers and mash. Dehydrated mash. And replicated bangers. Washed down with warm ale.”

“I know what ale is, but what, may I ask, are bangers and mash?” Garak looked genuinely interested.

O’Brien slid down in his seat. "I’m going to sleep through this, if you two don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Mr. O’Brien,” Garak said with exaggerated politeness. “Please don’t take offense, but I am fascinated by your culinary preferences.”

“Oh, yeah? Why?” O’Brien asked defensively, opening one eye.

“There’s an old saying on Cardassia: ‘Food makes the man.’”

Bashir guffawed loudly. “You are what you eat, Miles.”

“What does that make you, Garak?” O’Brien asked gruffly.

“As I am an omnivore, I might be anything at all,” said Garak. “Dr. Bashir is all salads and sweets, and, you, Mr. O’Brien are...”

“Bangers and mash,” Bashir and Garak crowed in unison.

“Whatever they may be,” added Garak.

“Well, bangers are little sausages,” Bashir confided. “They’re supposed to be made out of some kind of meat.” Garak leaned forward as if engrossed in Bashir’s words. “And mash is just mashed potatoes.”

“Just mashed potatoes?” O’Brien exclaimed. The transport began to move off its pad. “Two hours of this?” he muttered. “I can’t bear it.”

The ascent was a bit bumpy and things didn’t smooth out until they had passed through the upper stratosphere. By that time O’Brien had given up trying to sleep and was paging through a novel, which started making him drowsy after a few minutes. Garak and Bashir were still chattering away, only now they had moved from O’Brien’s eating habits to the trip itself.

“The view from the top of Rogaklet Peak was really superb. Have you ever climbed it, Garak?” Garak watched Bashir as he spoke. The young man always looked slim and fit in his tight uniform, but he looked especially young and vulnerable in his present outfit of brown hiking pants and jacket with a black t-shirt and dark brown boots. Garak idly wished for him to remove the jacket. The long-sleeved uniforms hid more than they revealed, and Garak had always been curious to see the contours of Bashir’s arms and shoulders. He roused himself to answer Bashir’s question.

“No, not I. I’ve never spent much time on Bajor, to tell you the truth, even during the occupation. I’ve mainly been to the cities looking for interesting fabrics or clothing to buy.”

Bashir’s mouth quirked at the corner. “So, what did you do during the war, Garak?”

Garak smiled and was about to give a teasing, non-committal response, when the transport seemed to hit a very large bump.

O’Brien sat up in alarm, dropping his novel. “That felt like a tractor beam,” he said. The ship twisted about for a minute as the engines strained and then went silent. All the passengers talked at once, their voices loud with alarm. A transporter whine near the door to the pilots’ cabin silenced all speculation when three armed Klingons materialized.

“Stay in your seats!” their leader commanded. “We need the doctor. Which one is the doctor?”

Bashir started to rise, but Garak pushed him back into his seat with a strong hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Doctor,” he whispered urgently. “Who knows what they want with you?”

When no one answered their summons, the leader picked a Bajoran passenger at random and aimed a disruptor between his eyes. The man screamed in terror. Bashir jumped out of his seat, shaking off Garak’s hand. Garak and O’Brien rose with him. Everyone else cowered against the far wall of the passenger cabin.

“Let him go. I’m Dr. Bashir.” He pulled the unfortunate passenger away from his captor and let him go back to his seat. The Klingon took Bashir by one arm and held him as the leader scrutinized the sea of frightened faces. O’Brien and Garak stood helplessly watching Bashir, who was only a few feet away.

“Get his bag of medical supplies,” the Klingon ordered. “Good. Now, the engineer, O’Brien. Where is he?” O’Brien stepped forward. “That depends on what you want with him.”

The Klingon leader laughed rudely and gestured to his subordinate, who pulled O’Brien over to stand next to Bashir. “One more!” the leader said. “You, Cardassian!”

Garak put one hand to his chest and looked around in surprise. “You don’t want me, sir,” he said modestly. “I am only a tailor.”

“A prosperous businessman—perfect! Your government will pay a fine ransom,” the Klingon cried. “Take him!" And in a moment the six had disappeared in a transporter beam.

***

Weeks later, Bashir and O’Brien stood side by side in an icy landscape, hugging their arms tightly to their chests to keep out the cold. Before them, an expanse of frozen lake sparkled in the starlight. Behind them, a cluster of rounded plasticine huts glowed dimly with fires like translucent igloos. Occasionally, bipedal silhouettes could be vaguely discerned moving behind their thin walls. Without the fireplaces, those huts held out little of the cold, and only part of the wind. Some even had holes in the walls and ceiling. At least their floors were insulated enough to keep you from freezing to death. To be fair, the Klingon captors slept in huts that were probably worse than the one they had given their prisoners, but, unlike the Terrans, they seemed to thrive on the harsh environment. The prisoners covered themselves in as many blankets and furs as they could find, all left over from the old Cardassian mining colony, abandoned years before. Beyond the huts lay a dark hulk of the Klingon Bird of Prey, partially covered with snow.

“See that star up there?” O’Brien said, lightly touching Bashir’s shoulder.

Bashir laughed behind his hand, trying not to breathe in the freezing air directly. “Which star, Miles? There are one or two billion out there, and I don’t recognize any of them.”

“That one.” O’Brien’s tone was mildly exasperated. “Look, Julian, can you see the red dwarf? If the peak over there is at twelve o’clock, then follow a line at two o’clock, and....

“Got it. The red one, anyway.”

“Well, this star is just to the right.”

“It’s yellowish and dim?”

“The very one.”

Bashir sighed. “I’m cold, Miles. Dinner is probably ready. What about the star?”

O’Brien patted his shoulder. “Patience, my boy. I think it’s Bajor.”

Bashir looked at him skeptically. “You have no way of knowing that. Yesterday you were speculating we were in the Gamma Quadrant. We don’t know where we are, remember?”

O’Brien looked hurt. “I’m just going on a hunch here. But I think that red star is the clue.”

“There’s no red dwarf near Bajor.” Bashir blew on his hands impatiently.

“I know that,” O’Brien said. “If we’re in the system I think we’re in, then there’s a red star between us and Bajor. So it stands to reason that....”

A stocky figure appeared at the doorway of the nearest hut, silhouetted by firelight. “I called you for dinner quite a while ago,” Garak said peevishly.

“All right, all right,” O’Brien replied without much interest. “So, you see, Julian....”

But Bashir was already moving toward the hut. “Tell me inside,” Miles, he said irritably. “What does it matter if you know where we are? We don’t have any way of getting off this ball of ice anyway.” He entered the hut and sprawled by the fire without removing his furs. His hair had grown past the confines of his Star Fleet haircut, and had been blown into a halo of curls. Weeks of dark beard accentuated the moody cast of his hazel eyes.

“Sure,” O’Brien hissed, “but what if we suddenly got access to a communications device? We need to know where we are to send for help.”

“Dammit, Miles, I want to get out of here as much as you do,” the doctor said with irritation, “but I’m sick to death of arguing every night about where we are. If, by some miracle, the Klingons leave a communications device lying around, it’s either going to have too short a range for our purposes, or it’ll have a computer that will instantly tell us our location. Let’s face facts: we’re hostages, and we’re stuck here until these Klingons collect whatever ransom they’re demanding from the Federation and the Cardassian government. We need to keep our eyes open if an opportunity comes our way, but speculating endlessly about where we are is going to get us nowhere. And that, as they say, is that.”

Garak squatted by the hearth and began to serve out bowls of stew from a small black pot suspended over the fire. “Dr. Bashir is right,” he said. “I couldn’t help noticing that you don’t seem to have much else to talk about these days. It makes for very monotonous conversations in the evenings.” The lamplight glinted off his black hair, which had grown down to his shoulders, and threw his facial markings into high relief.

“Yeah, I know, Garak,” O’Brien said rudely, fastening the crude door and stuffing a blanket securely around it to keep out drafts, “You’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day and you need more appreciation.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin in frustration. It wasn’t filling in as quickly as Bashir’s, and it still itched terribly.

Garak raised his eyebrows. “Well, yes, I would rather like to know my efforts are appreciated. And if that’s how you speak to your wife, it’s no wonder she ran off to Bajor. No offense intended, of course.”

O’Brien reddened and approached the Cardassian with clenched fists. “Would you like to stand up and say that again?” he asked menacingly. “No one talks like that about Keiko.”

Garak laughed and turned back to his food. “Once again, I’m afraid I can’t accept your challenge, Mr. O’Brien, much as I’d like to. Species difference, you know. I’d beat you to a pulp, to put it crudely.”

O’Brien grabbed Garak’s shirt to pull him up, but Bashir interposed himself. “Miles, stop it,” he said angrily. “We’ve all been working hard all day and we’re tired. What are we doing fighting each other when our real enemies are out there?” He detached O’Brien’s hand from Garak’s clothing. “And, frankly, I’m sick of you two being on the verge of violence all the time. There’s plenty to keep us busy around here.”

“There’s plenty to keep you two busy, you mean,” said Garak, handing out seconds of stew, “since you’ve decided to work for the Klingons.”

“We don’t have much choice,” Bashir reminded him, “they enslaved us. But by cooperating we gain a certain small advantage—they have to keep us alive. Without me, their leader will die, and without Miles their ship will never get off the ground. So, in a way, we have a hold over them.”

Garak snorted. “Not when the ransom doesn’t arrive and it comes time to cut our throats, we don’t. Meanwhile, in my humble opinion, we’re just prolonging our miserable lives by helping them move against the Federation and Cardassia while pretending they’re making war on the Founders.”

“So what are we supposed to do, let them kill us without lifting a finger?” O’Brien put his bowl down forcefully and stood to remove the top layer of furs he wore. “Believe me, I’m recrystallizing their dilithium as slowly as I can.” He yawned hard. “I’m turning in,” he said, “despite the fascinating company.”

“Rinse your bowl, please, Mr. O’Brien,” Garak reminded him calmly. “The bucket’s by the hearth.”

“Why should I? You’ll have plenty of time to clean up tomorrow.”

“Miles,” Bashir said warningly.

“Oh, all right,” O’Brien said petulantly, doing as he was told. Stripping to his underwear, he climbed under the mountain of blankets and furs to one side of the hearth. “The worst thing is,” he mumbled, “there’s no privacy, and no peace. I don’t even have me own bed.”

Bashir and Garak sat quietly for a few moments. Soon O’Brien’s soft snores could be heard emanating from the bedclothes. Garak took the two remaining bowls and washed them. Warm at last, Bashir removed the greasy furs and blankets covering his jacket and threw them to one side. “I can’t blame him for being sick of it,” he sighed. “Captain Sisko does seem to be taking his time finding us.”

“I keep telling you, Doctor,” Garak said in a slightly more gentle tone now, “Sisko isn’t going to risk bringing the Defiant in here for a rescue mission. The Klingons would kill us in a moment. The Federation will have to negotiate for us. And I keep wondering what will happen when they decide they don’t want to bother about me.”

“You’re the one they can’t risk, Garak. Star Fleet personnel captured in the line of duty are expendable, but you’re a civilian, captured perhaps because you were the only Cardassian on the transport. They can’t let you get hurt.”

Garak laughed as loudly as he dared without waking O’Brien. “What lovely human logic,” he said with genuine good humor, “except that my government would be grateful if the Klingons ended my existence. You know, Doctor, if it weren’t for you, I think I’d lose my mind on this desolate planet. Or I’d at least have committed murder by now.” He glanced at the sleeping O’Brien. “He complains that he has no bed of his own, but he certainly steals all the blankets every night.”

“He does,” Bashir agreed, “but you shouldn’t bait him. He’s a good man. He worries about his wife. And it drives him crazy not to know anything about our situation. We don’t even know how they breached station security to find out where we were.” Bashir extended his feet and hands towards the fire. “All we know is that their dilithium crystals were damaged, their engineer was killed, and their Captain Wazan was badly hurt when they attacked the station with the rest of the Klingon fleet, so they hid for a few weeks somewhere nearby. Wherever we are, it might not be that far from Bajor.”

“They still had warp speed,” Garak reminded him. “Are you going to start speculating about our location now like Mr. O’Brien?”

Bashir continued, ignoring him. “So we know they needed a doctor for their leader’s wounds and an engineer to recrystallize their dilithium. Aside from that, if they’re trying to hold us ransom for weapons, or whatever they can get out of....”

“We still don’t know why they wanted a tailor,” Garak interrupted. “Maybe Wazan needs some alterations, but he hasn’t gotten around to telling me yet.”

Bashir laughed. “Okay, you’re right, Garak. Speculation is useless. We just have to try to get through each day and keep ourselves alive. They’re leaving us pretty much alone right now and giving us plenty to eat, but who knows how long that might last?” He stretched and yawned. “I’m turning in.”

Garak watched him silently as he took off his furs, then the hiking outfit, which was becoming somewhat worn. Wearing only a t-shirt and black briefs, Bashir slipped in next to O’Brien. Garak waited until Bashir was breathing regularly before he in turn stripped off layers of clothing. But instead of climbing under the bedclothes, he sat on a low stool by the hearth and contemplated the sleepers.

O’Brien lay to one side of the makeshift bed, and Bashir lay next to him, leaving the other side to Garak. By unspoken agreement, Bashir always slept in the middle, keeping Garak and O’Brien apart. That was probably wise, but, on the other hand, it subjected Garak to all the torments of hell.

To lie next to Julian Bashir....

That had once been his fondest wish; now he was forced to lie there night after night and do nothing. Nothing but sleep. He laughed bitterly. That’s where wishes led you—straight to hell. Shouldn’t he know better by now? He’d gotten lazy, depending on that implant to soften the world’s sharp edges for him. When the doctor had removed it and cast the world back into focus—that was when Garak had begun to nurse this futile desire. Now he sat in an agony of longing, watching Bashir sleep.

If only O’Brien weren’t here. Then he could at least try, even if Bashir wouldn’t have him. With his wiles and ways he could probably seduce the young male, if only for a brief time. O’Brien, with his complaints and prejudices, was the stumbling block. In his own way, he was Garak’s chief rival; Garak had known that even back on the station. Not that he really thought O’Brien wanted Bashir for a lover—he wanted more. Racquetball, darts, drinking at Quark’s till all hours—it was all part of a set of rules, a code of ritual behavior that made Bashir and O’Brien feel that they were adult males, accepted by other adult males.

But that code would also limit Bashir’s choice of sexual partners, and even the way he regarded his own body. Garak didn’t quite understand this phenomenon, but he knew it wasn’t an exclusively human folly. Klingons like Worf seemed to go in for it, too, in their own way. It was the cult of the warrior without a war, the bravado of beings who thought their way of being was the only way. Garak had seen too much of that in his life.

Turning towards the fire, he grabbed his erection, eager to get this necessity over with and go to sleep. He pumped hard, trying to form an image in his mind that would make it happen fast. There was little happiness in this for him, just a spasm of relief that allowed him to get through the next day without raping his friend or murdering his friend’s friend.

His hands around O’Brien’s throat....

Ah, that helped. Next, he pictured Bashir kneeling before him with that playful expression on his face, the one that always looked half flirtatious. The picture came together, filling in, and the shadow Bashir took Garak’s cock in his hand and lowered his lips to kiss the tip before letting it slide in, all the way to the back of his throat.

Garak ejaculated into the fire, making the hot coals hiss. He stopped to listen, but a chorus of snores behind him proved that, once again, he had been the soul of discretion. Extinguishing the lamp, he threw another log on the fire and took one long look at Julian Bashir’s sleeping face before lying carefully by his friend’s side, not touching. He felt the warmth of Bashir’s body seep through the blankets. Garak sighed and longed for his implant.

***

The next morning, like every morning, Bashir went to the largest hut where the Klingon leader, Wazan, lay in state on an enormous pile of furs. When O’Brien didn’t need Bashir’s help on the ship, he was usually expected to stay there for most of the day, tending the wounded Klingon and keeping him amused with conversation. Now that they had fallen into a routine, Bashir even felt a wary and grudging liking for his captor, but their first meeting had been difficult.

At first glance, Bashir had seen and smelled that Wazan was suffering from a terrible case of gangrene. His leg was puffed up to an enormous size and his eyes were glazed over.

“You must heal me, Doctor,” Wazan had said, “or you will die.”

“If I don’t heal you, you will certainly die,” Bashir retorted, “and you still might die no matter what I do. You’re very ill.”

“Quiet, human!” shouted Wazan’s second in command, cuffing Bashir on the side of the head and sending him sprawling on the ground.

“Go away, Heret,” Wazan commanded roughly. “We haven’t gone to all this trouble to find a doctor so that you can kill him.” Heret obeyed quickly, and Bashir realized that Wazan must be a powerful leader when he was well.

“I thought Klingons didn’t value the services of doctors,” Bashir said angrily, picking himself up. “I thought there was no honor in healing.”

“You are right, Doctor. But there is less honor in dying of a lingering illness, even if it was caused by a wound honorably received. I wish to lead these warriors to fight another day, perhaps to die in battle. As it is, these men I am cursed with are brainless enough to squabble and fight away their chances for survival if I die. I say it again, Doctor: you must heal me. It is the only way to buy your freedom.”

“So if I do manage to heal you you’ll let us go?” Bashir started to get out his medical instruments and lay them in a gleaming row in the filthy hut.

“You will have my gratitude,” Wazan said evasively.

“How will you express your gratitude?” Bashir asked. “Will you give me your word that you won’t harm me or my companions?”

“You negotiate well, Doctor, by tempting me to hope with your Federation instruments. Yes, all right, I give you my word. And you, in turn, will promise not to give me an injection of some poison and tell my men I died of natural causes.”

Bashir glared at him. “I don’t do things like that. I’m a doctor. I took an oath at the beginning of my career not to do harm.”

Wazan laughed. “So you are already obliged to do the very thing you negotiated for. Very good, doctor. You are a clever and perhaps an honorable young man.”

Bashir gave Wazan an injection of painkiller before using his laser scalpel to slit the pants leg from ankle to thigh. The wound was so dark and clotted it was almost impossible to distinguish fabric from flesh.

“Don’t you people have enough sense to clean out a wound?” he muttered. “I’ll need hot water and rags.”

“Go out and tell Heret that I said to order them,” Wazan told him. “But, Doctor, for your own sake, have as little contact with Heret as possible. He might be sorely tempted by a young man like you, and I’m sure you already have troubles of your own.”

“What do you mean?” asked Bashir, rising to go to the door.

Wazan laughed again, louder this time. “I wonder which of your companions will claim you? Or has one already done so?”

Embarrassed, Bashir hadn’t replied.

Bashir thought back on that scene after several weeks of tending the Klingon leader. Now the leg looked almost normal, although there wasn’t much Bashir could do about the appalling scar. Luckily Wazan actually seemed to value it as a battle token. The doctor was nearly done treating Wazan for blood poisoning, but he had realized that the Klingon leader was reluctant to let him go. From what Bashir had seen, the other Klingons weren’t exactly sparkling conversationalists. Unlike other Klingons Bashir had met, Wazan seemed genuinely interested in life on various worlds of the Federation. Bashir spent hours telling him about different customs on various worlds, hoping to leave him with a better impression of other ways of life.

The following day their routine was unexpectedly broken. Two Klingons guards came to the hut in the early morning and informed them that, after Bashir’s morning visit to Wazan, they were all supposed to go up into the hills to hunt and gather firewood. They even took Garak, which was unusual. On all the other days he had been left behind in the hut to do the household chores. He washed clothes and hauled water at the hot spring near the huts and cooked food given to him by the guards. Now it felt good to really stretch his limbs again, although the cold and the brightness made him suffer terribly. Cardassians simply didn’t live at the snowy places on their planet, and Garak had little experience with frozen water except in drinks.

All day long they took dead animals out of traps, which Garak found disgusting work. He already felt continually sickened by the rancid smell of the half-cured pelts he and his companions were forced to wear. He made up his mind to cancel his order of Andorian furs if he ever got back to the station alive.

Towards late afternoon, they were directed to construct several sledges out of trees felled by the Klingons and help their captors pull them back in teams across the frozen lake to the encampment. By some mischance, O’Brien was placed next to Garak in the traces, and their teamwork soon degenerated into a senseless rivalry.

“Not used to working this much, eh, Garak?” O’Brien taunted, trying to pull ahead of him.

“I’ve worked hard in my life,” Garak responded, wondering why he had such a thin skin where O’Brien was concerned. He came up even with his rival.

“Pulling a needle through fabric didn’t prepare you for this, though, did it? Neither did your former life as a spy—excuse me, I mean your desk job.” He grimaced and heaved at the ropes.

“Very commendable, Mr. O’Brien,” Garak murmured.

“What is?”

“That you’re working so hard for the Klingons,” Garak said coldly. “Or is it just that you want to strain a shoulder muscle so that Julian can massage it for you?” Garak’s own vitriol surprised him; he saw by O’Brien’s startled expression that he hadn’t missed the sexual innuendo of the jibe.

“What are you implying?” O’Brien asked angrily. “Just because you—” O’Brien never got to finish his sentence. So much of Garak’s attention had been taken up by O’Brien that he hadn’t realized something was amiss with the other team until the Klingon guard ordered him to drop the ropes and help. His casual stride turned into a run when he saw Bashir’s sleek head bobbing in the water among a half-dozen Klingons. O’Brien ran at his heels.

The Klingons were throwing ropes and pulling the victims out one or two at a time. Of course they were pulling the Klingons out first, while Bashir tried to haul himself out over the ice. Garak lay at the edge of the break in the ice and reached out both arms for Bashir to grab. Luckily it wasn’t above five and a half feet deep here, so Bashir’s head was barely above water. With O’Brien hanging on to his feet, Garak leaned way out into the freezing water and finally pulled Bashir to safety. His drenched furs were holding him down, and it took some time to haul him back up on the ice. He was soaked to the skin, of course, and so was Garak. Together, they stumbled back to the hut where Garak revived the fire from the embers he had carefully buried in the morning. Garak was cold enough, but Bashir was blue. His teeth chattered so furiously he could hardly speak.

“H-h-help me,” he stuttered. “I have to get these clothes off.” His fingers were useless on the stiff fur and cloth that was half-frozen on him already.

Garak dropped to his knees beside Bashir and pulled off his jacket, then his boots. When he grabbed the waistband of Bashir’s pants, O’Brien intervened.

“Here, let me,” he said meaningfully.

Garak cursed himself for his earlier indiscretion. He might despise O’Brien, but the man wasn’t stupid. It would take a long time to get the tenacious engineer off his trail.

“Garak,” Bashir said anxiously, “get your own clothes off. We should both get in bed. Miles, make us some soup. We need to eat something hot.” By this time, Bashir was naked, and Garak couldn’t take his eyes away from the long, slender, unadorned body.

They slipped into bed at the same time, and Garak realized with a shock that Bashir was clinging to him for warmth. He concentrated on rubbing the cold skin, cold feet, cold hands of the body next to him and tried to forget his desire. They sat up in bed to drink the hot soup O’Brien had created from the diluted remains of last night’s stew. And then with Bashir lying close against him, Garak slept.

***

Bashir awoke in darkness, feeling flushed and groggy. His skin must still be coming back to a normal temperature from the icy dunking he had received. He and Garak were both lucky not to have frostbite.

The fire burned low. O’Brien snored beside him, and, on the other side, Garak lay up against him with a leg across his thigh and one arm across his chest, breathing quietly but regularly.

Occasionally Bashir had wondered what it would feel like to be in Garak’s arms. Now he felt relaxed and warm and unsure of what had awakened him. Although he wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, he would have liked to change position, but didn’t, for fear of disturbing Garak or making him move away. This felt comforting and good. He reached down automatically to touch a place where something hard was pressing into his side and suddenly found himself with Garak’s erection in his hand.

For a second he didn’t know what to do and then his own flesh started to respond to the thing he held. Easy, he thought to himself. Take it easy. Maybe it’s just a physiological response. Maybe he doesn’t want you. He’s been staring at you get dressed and undressed for weeks and he hasn’t looked the least bit interested. But, almost involuntarily, Bashir gripped Garak hard and heard a small gasp of wonder in his ear. He had taken Garak by surprise.

That tiny sound flushed his own body with heat. No, he thought, in a panic, what will Miles say if he wakes up? He’ll never be able to look at me again if I do this. But the mute appeal of the thing in his hand was too strong. He pumped once, twice, so that his gesture couldn’t be mistaken for anything but a sexual overture. There was a brief pause during which Bashir decided that Garak was shocked or disgusted, that he didn’t know how to respond to such a personal display—and then Garak’s hand slid across his belly and came to rest wrapped around his cock.

Garak’s lips brushed his hair, searching for his mouth, and Bashir turned to give it. They faced each other now, their lips joined and their hands roaming all over each other.

“Julian, Julian,” Garak cried into his mouth.

Bashir drew back. “O’Brien’s asleep,” he whispered urgently.

“So what? It doesn’t matter what he thinks. It only matters that—”

Bashir pulled his mouth away. “I don’t want him to know.”

“It’s all right,” Garak said soothingly, but much more quietly. “If you don’t want him to find out, I can be very discreet. I’ll do anything you want.” He commenced kissing Bashir’s neck and shoulders and then shushed him ironically when he moaned.

A million confusing things ran though Bashir’s head. He wanted to tell Garak that he had always wanted this, and that it was a complete surprise; that he was delighted, and that he was mortally ashamed. So he said nothing, but looked into Garak’s blue eyes glinting in the subdued firelight and fit his gentle fingers into the depressions at Garak’s temples.

Garak occasionally murmured things, but Bashir didn’t catch most of them except his name repeated over and over. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” Garak whispered once, as he cupped Bashir’s ass in his hands to pull him close.

Once Miles stirred in his sleep and moved closer to Bashir, so that their backsides were touching. By that time, Bashir was too far-gone to care. He came firmly sandwiched between his two friends.

When Garak had finished too they lay mixing their ejaculate and rubbing it intimately over each other’s skin. Bashir fell asleep with Garak’s hand massaging his belly.

In the morning, Bashir awoke to see Miles going out the door to relieve himself. Remembering the night before, he got up quickly and washed his belly, which was caked with semen.

“Are our clothes dry?” he asked.

“Yes. They re laid out for you.” Garak indicated the stool near the hearth. “More’s the pity.” Hearing Miles fumble with the door, Bashir shushed Garak before grabbing his pants and pulling them on quickly, not missing Garak’s appreciative look.

After they had left, Garak washed and dressed before eating a bit of that leftover stew-soup, which was becoming quite disgusting, and beginning his daily routine by washing the bowls and cleaning up the hut as well as he could. He hung the furs and tattered blankets up to air a bit before checking the fire and burying the embers carefully. Bashir had his laser scalpel, which could start a fire in an emergency, but he needed to use it sparingly since he had no recharger.

Going outside to fetch some water, Garak noticed that a light rain was falling instead of the usual snow. Maybe the weather was finally changing; did this place have a warm season, too? Sensing spring, Garak felt lighthearted as he did his chores. His luck was changing with the weather.

When his companions returned that evening, Garak had obtained some fresh meat from the Klingon guards to make another stew. O’Brien ate it without comment and lay down in bed. It was a long time before his loud snoring convinced them that he was really asleep. Sitting on the stool by the hearth, Garak turned to look expectantly at Bashir.

“I suppose you’ll want to turn in, Doctor,” he said meaningfully.

“Yes, Garak. I—I’m tired.” His chest constricted—was Bashir saying he didn’t want to repeat their experiment? A moment later Bashir removed his outer clothing and came over to stand near him by the hearth.

“I don’t know what to say, Garak,” he whispered.

“An inauspicious beginning,” Garak said lightly to hide the pain that shot through his heart. “I’ve noticed that when humans say they don’t know what to say, it usually means they are just about to say something rather unpleasant.”

Bashir shook his head solemnly. “Not unpleasant. Just confusing. What happened last night was...well, it was many things.”

“For example?” Garak asked quickly.

Bashir looked at him with dark eyes full of feeling. “It was marvelous. And it was terrifying. I felt safe, and I felt completely out of control. I was so happy to find out that you wanted me, but I was ashamed, too.”

“You started it, Doctor,” Garak retorted swiftly, too defensively.

Bashir reddened. “I realize that. When I felt your erection pressed up against me like that I couldn’t resist. I’ve been with men before, Garak,” he said candidly. He wrapped his arms around himself and moved closer to the hearth. “No one on the station knows except Dax. And now you. Gods, Garak, what would Miles say if he found out that we....”

“Come closer,” Garak said, holding out his hands. Bashir took them in his own and knelt at Garak’s feet, almost between his knees. “He’s asleep,” Garak breathed, leaning forward to speak directly into Bashir’s ear. “Don’t worry about him. He doesn’t ever have to know unless you’re ready for him to. I promise, Julian, I promise you....”

Bashir's arms slid around his neck, his body pressing against the swelling place between Garak’s thighs. “I don’t want to stop,” Bashir said in a voice full of emotion. “I want to know you want me.”

“Oh, I want you,” Garak chuckled, wondering at this unexpected fulfillment of his longing. “I only wish we were alone here so I could show you how much. When we leave this place, Julian, I’ll show you how you really want to be loved.” So did Garak cast out his line...

...and set the hook. Bashir squirmed slightly in his arms. “Garak,” he whispered thickly, "how do you think I want to be loved?”

In one quick motion, Garak pulled Bashir’s underwear down to his knees and took his ass in both large hands. “Firmly,” he breathed, squeezing hard. “During the day you want to be in charge in your infirmary—the serious young Dr. Bashir who holds lives in his hands. But at night you want to come to me. You want me on top of you, teasing you, making you wait until you beg me to fuck you. You want to come to me, knowing that you’ll beg, knowing that before long you’ll be spread out on my bed with your ass in the air, taking whatever I choose to give you. And I choose to give you everything, Julian.” Garak had taken a huge risk, and now he waited expectantly, stroking Bashir’s smooth back.

Bashir’s voice was almost a moan. “How did you know?” he asked, his voice rising dangerously high. “What did I do to show you?” Garak stopped his mouth with a kiss. I didn’t know until this moment, my dear, he thought smugly. Now we have yet another reason to get off this inhospitable planet. Maybe O’Brien has a point.

As if hearing his name in Garak’s thoughts, O’Brien stirred and groaned. The effect on Bashir was electric. He sprang out of Garak’s arms, pulling up his underpants. Garak began to speak, but Bashir shushed him with furious motions of his hands. He stared at O’Brien with terror in his eyes, and once again Garak recognized his greatest obstacle. Calmly he rose and stripped to his undergarments before climbing into bed, leaving a space for Bashir in the middle. O’Brien coughed, turned over, and started to snore again. Bashir slid gingerly under the covers.

“That was close,” he whispered. When Garak took Bashir into his arms, he could feel a clammy sheen of sweat coating the smooth skin.

“Why are you so ashamed of what you want, Julian? I realize, of course, that our friend does not have the highest regard for Cardassians.”

“It’s not that.”

“Your wanting to be with a man, then?”

Bashir was silent a moment before replying. “That’s partly it. Miles wouldn’t understand.”

Garak tried a different approach. “I think it’s mainly your desire to be dominated that makes you ashamed,” he said bluntly.

“I’ve never told anyone. I’ve always fantasized about it.”

“With me?” Garak couldn’t resist asking. But he knew he had gone too far by Bashir’s alarmed tone.

“Look here, Garak,” he said, “it’s just a fantasy. A fantasy, no matter how perverse, is harmless as long as it doesn’t cross the line into reality. I mean, yes, to answer your question, I’ve fantasized about you, but that doesn’t mean that I want to do those things in real life. I just like to think about them.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” Garak said, his voice hard with irritation. “But, please tell me, which part of your fantasy is so perverse? Being in bed with me? Letting me control you? Or is it just being with a man in general that sets your teeth on edge? As you say, it certainly doesn’t have any appeal for Mr. O’Brien, so if you have any hopes about him, I would forget them right now.”

Garak felt Bashir’s exasperated sigh against his chest, where it sent a shiver of desire through his belly. “Garak, this is getting too complicated. I think we’d better just forget the whole thing.”

Garak was silent for a moment. He could feel Bashir’s expectations making the air crackle with tension. But what was Bashir waiting for? How would he know what to do? He made a swift decision.

“Yes, let’s forget what we did to each other last night, by all means,” he said smoothly. “It must have been a momentary aberration. Good night, Dr. Bashir.” As he rolled onto his side and settled into the thin mattress, he thought he heard a small sigh behind him.

For several long minutes the room was silent except for Miles’s loud snoring. Garak tried to make his own breathing soft and regular, as if he were falling asleep. He heard Bashir move around, trying to get comfortable, and then emit a low moan. A movement under the covers was his clue that Bashir had decided to take matters into his own hands. He waited until he heard a sharp intake of breath, then turned quickly and took Bashir’s erection and wet hand into his own.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he demanded in a low growl, keeping Bashir’s hand from doing its work.

Bashir squirmed against the mattress. “No. Please.” He moved his other hand down and tried to continue stroking himself, but Garak grabbed both of his wrists and rolled over on top of him, pinning his hands above his head.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered softly. Bashir complied immediately, pushing up against him. “Is this what you want?” Garak whispered in his ear.

“It’s what I want. But don’t wake Miles,” Bashir pleaded.

Garak was not about to ruin this lovely display of desire. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I promise you he won’t know a thing. They moved together gently, holding their lust in check, listening to each fluctuation of Miles’s harsh breath. “One of these nights I’ll fuck you.” Garak’s voice was barely a whisper in his lover’s ear. “I’ll take you right here and he won’t even know. I’ll fuck you so well I’ll have to put my hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming when you come.” Bashir wriggled his hips forcefully, seeking more stimulation.

Garak lifted his head to look at the human under him. His eyes were closed, and the muscles in his arms and neck were cords of tension against Garak’s grip. The firelight accentuated the ruddy glow of his damp skin. Rather than actually struggling, Bashir flexed his muscles just to feel the reassuring presence of Garak’s grip on his wrists. How you crave this, my friend, Garak thought. I can do much more for you when we’re alone. He quickly clamped his mouth over Bashir’s when the young man began to moan uncontrollably. The hot semen flowed between them, coating Garak’s cock in thick, slippery stuff.

“Come here,” he said roughly, determined to seize this chance. Climbing off Bashir, he turned the young man over and prepared to mount him.

But that was when O’Brien woke up.

“Julian,” came his sleep-hoarse voice, “are you okay?” Garak dropped softly back to Bashir’s side under the covers.

“Yeah. I just had a nightmare. Go back to sleep, Miles.”

“Not surprised,” Miles mumbled, “trapped in this hell-hole and sleeping next to a Cardassian. No offense, Garak.”

Garak didn’t bother to answer. He held his slick, throbbing cock in both hands and ached to bury it in Bashir’s ass, a scant inch away. They lay stock still until O’Brien’s breathing became audible and regular again.

“Julian, please,” Garak whispered, not so concerned now with his domination game. Bashir didn’t reply. Could he have fallen asleep so fast, or was he still not convinced that O’Brien was asleep? “I want you now.” He reached around Bashir’s waist and pulled him back so that his body bent in the middle. Bashir resisted and tried to turn over.

“No,” he whispered, “not now. We can’t.”

“Why not?” Garak snarled.

“It’s too risky,” Bashir said quickly, not waiting for Garak to finish. “I’m too tense. I’m afraid I’ll cry out. Please, just rub against me and try not to make too much noise.” So Garak did as he said, stroking himself against Bashir’s velvet ass. Bashir pushed back far enough so that Garak was able to slide up and down through his cleft, although not to enter him. He squirted his hot semen over Bashir’s back and ass. But what would have been a miracle two days before was now a poor substitute for Garak’s imaginings. Garak wanted to possess Bashir—and now, perversely, he was determined to do it by Miles O’Brien’s side.

***

"What are you sleeping naked for?" O’Brien said sharply to Bashir as the doctor emerged groggily from the bedclothes the next morning.

“My underwear was washed yesterday and it hadn’t dried yet,” Bashir lied. “What difference does it make?"

“None, I suppose.” O’Brien looked at Garak and then let his gaze sweep over Bashir’s clothes laid neatly out on the stool by the hearth. “Smells like a zoo in here," he commented, unlatching the door and going out to pee.

Garak squatted by the fire, stirring the pot of leftover stew. “I shall be glad to see a vegetable again someday,” he commented.

“Garak,” Bashir said urgently as he pulled on his clothes, “did you hear that?”

“What do you mean?” Garak asked deliberately. “O’Brien’s morning complaints usually leave me quite unimpressed.”

“He suspects something.”

Garak shrugged, stirring faster as the stew began to bubble. “Let him suspect, then. He knows nothing.”

“But, sooner or later....”

O’Brien came in, rubbing his hands together. “I think it’s spring in this god-forsaken place. The ice on the lake cracked last night. Spring thaw. Must’ve been what woke me up.”

“Must’ve been,” Bashir murmured, turning away to get the bowls.

“What do you think, Garak?” O’Brien insisted. “Did it wake you up?”

“I slept like a baby.” Garak’s smile beamed a bit too much and lasted about a second too long before fading out slowly like the Cheshire Cat’s.

“Aren’t you lucky?” O’Brien commented darkly. Garak broke the eye contact between them to ladle equal portions of stew carefully into the three bowls.

***

The days grew warmer as the snow melted and the plain burst into a thousand wild blooms. Hoards of strange alien birds passed through on their way elsewhere, fishing and mating on the lake. The three prisoners discarded their furs and went back to their lighter clothing. The nights grew warmer, too. Garak enjoyed seeing Bashir in his ragged civilian clothes and lived for the moment when he could strip them off him each night.

Bashir and O’Brien were no longer forced to work for the Klingons each day. Wazan was well again, and the ship was as space-worthy as it would ever be. To keep busy, the three prisoners spent more time repairing their hut and their clothing and searching for more varied things to eat. With Bashir’s medical tricorder, they had found a few spring vegetables and roots to supplement their diet. At the doctor’s insistence, they spent a large amount of each day finding and preparing these plants—he claimed they needed the nutrition, but mainly he wanted to keep Garak and O’Brien from tearing out each other’s throats.

One afternoon when Bashir and O’Brien returned from a trip to the fields, they noticed a distinct change in the atmosphere of the camp. The Klingons were happy. Except for a couple of disappointed-looking guards, they were all celebrating in the largest hut. Bashir patted O’Brien firmly on the back and handed him the bag of roots. “Take these home, Miles. I’ll try to find out what’s going on here. Maybe the Federation paid our ransom.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Miles said indignantly. “They’d never give weapons to terrorists.”

“Maybe they gave them something else. An exchange of prisoners, maybe?”

“Well, if that’s the case, I want to know, too.” O’Brien brushed off Bashir’s concerned touch.

“Look, Miles, I’ve had a better rapport with them since I patched up Wazan.”

“I’m coming with you,” O’Brien insisted stubbornly. “I fixed their ship. And, anyway, I’m not a pansy.”

“Suit yourself.” Bashir plunged ahead through the tall grass, and O’Brien had to drop the roots and run to catch up with him.

“What’s the matter, Julian?” O’Brien asked, panting. “Did I say something wrong?”

Bashir spared him a brief glance. “Where’d you get that word?”

“What word?”

“Pansy. What does it mean?” Bashir s voice grew quieter as they approached the Klingons.

“It means a weakling. I think it used to be an insulting word for a homosexual.”

“As you well know,” Bashir said pedantically, “in many species, same-sex relationships are so common that procreation has to be mandated by the state.”

“Right.” O’Brien looked puzzled.

They reached the largest hut and slowed down. Hoots of appreciative laughter came from inside. Someone was telling a story. The guard, who was listening avidly, motioned them to wait until it was over.

“I’m sick of these archaic words popping up in your conversation,” Bashir said angrily. “Someday you’ll say one at the wrong time and offend somebody.”

“I’m careful,” O’Brien said stubbornly.

“I wouldn’t say any of those old words that refer to dark skin color in front of Captain Sisko,” Bashir said pointedly, “or around me.”

O’Brien winced. “Say, what’s got into you today? It was just a little remark made between friends. Of course,” he went on confidentially, “you’ve given me a scare on several mornings climbing out of bed stark naked with that Cardassian beside you all night. Who knows what he might have done to you?”

Bashir glared at him. “Shut up, Miles.”

“I’m sorry I mentioned it. Julian, I was just making a little joke.”

“Stop your jabbering!” the Klingon guard roared at them. “Do you want to go in or not? My chief will see you now.”

They expected to see Wazan, but instead Heret, his second, sat in state on the usual pile of furs. The hut was smoky and close, with a fire burning even on this warm spring day, and the smell of spilled wine and roasted meat combined with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies to make breathing nearly impossible for the two Terrans. At first Heret ignored them, laughing with a couple of his warriors. Bashir and O’Brien stood waiting, trying to pretend that the open scrutiny of the other Klingons didn’t bother them. Bashir had often noticed one or another of the warriors looking at him hungrily. Although Klingons didn’t often indulge in lasting same-sex relationships, male prisoners were raped as often as females.

Finally Heret deigned to notice them. “Why are you here, Terrans?” he asked lazily. “I did not send for you.”

Bashir stepped forward and said, “We wondered if there was any news.”

“News? Yes, there is news. Your Federation has decided to give us what we asked for in order to save your worthless hides. The Federation has no honor.” He spat at the fire and missed.

“Wait a minute,” Miles said impatiently, “do you mean that the Federation agreed to give you weapons? Because I won’t believe that.”

“Impertinent humans,” Heret said, glaring at O’Brien. “It’s none of your business what we received. All I know is that my leader made a bargain, and that he does not want me to kill you. I would have enjoyed killing you.” He rose from his seat and approached Bashir. “But maybe there is something else I can enjoy.” Realizing what was going on a moment before Bashir did, O’Brien threw his full weight into the Klingon’s midsection. “Run, Julian!” he yelled.

But the other warriors had already grabbed Bashir and thrown him down on the pile of furs. Two Klingons held O’Brien by the arms and another pulled his head back by his long, curly hair and held a knife to his throat.

“Enough of this resistance,” snarled Heret, dusting himself off. “Your friend will watch as I enjoy myself with you.”

Bashir’s hands were bound together and tied to a hook in the ceiling—the same kind of hook that the prisoners used to hang up blankets or dry herbs in their own hut. While Bashir stood stretched out with aching wrists, Heret opened the doctor’s pants and let them fall to the floor. All the Klingons seemed to think this sight the funniest thing they had ever seen. Heret himself lay on the pile of furs and laughed his fill. Bashir breathed deeply and waited for what was coming next. He thought he might pass out from pain and fear when Heret got up and went behind him.

“No!” shouted O’Brien, “Leave him alone.”

A pair of strong hands gripped Bashir’s waist. “Why shouldn’t I take him, Engineer? Is he yours?” Heret sneered.

Bashir watched O’Brien’s face contort with rage and anxiety. “Yes, dammit, he...he’s mine,” O’Brien choked. “Let him go.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t get even more pleasure out of taking him if he was yours?” Heret asked tauntingly. “When I’m done with him you can take him in front of us. Would you like that?” Bashir felt Heret’s erection bump against his ass.

“Your captain made an agreement,” O’Brien went on, trying to speak rationally with a sharp knife at his throat. “We worked for you. We did what you wanted. Now don’t torment us.”

“He’s right.” A deep voice in the doorway made everyone turn around. Wazan stood there, hands on hips.

“You have no honor, Heret. I leave you for an hour to check my ship, and look at what you do. The doctor gave me back my life when he could have killed me, and you treat him like a slave. Let them go. Now,” he growled when Heret hesitated.

Bashir’s arms were released, but his muscles were so weak that O’Brien had to help him pull up his pants. They moved quickly towards the doorway, eager to escape, but Wazan stopped them.

“We leave in a few hours. Your people have been told approximately where you are, and they should be able find you in a few days, unless they’re stupider than I think. We will leave you rations. Go back to your hut and don’t come here again. These warriors have been too long out of battle.” Wazan waved them off.

At the doorway, Bashir stopped while O’Brien tried to pull him away. “What did the Federation give you?” the doctor asked.

“Safe passage,” said Wazan. “It will be enough.”

O’Brien fairly dragged Bashir back to the hut where Garak was waiting with the bag of roots they had dropped.

“Why did you go to the Klingons?” Garak asked with concern. “Are you insane? I was about to go after you.”

“Julian’s the one who’s insane,” O’Brien puffed, laying Bashir on the bed and dropping down next to him. “He nearly got himself raped.”

“How did it happen?” Garak asked quietly, glancing out the door.

As Bashir and O’Brien told the story, Garak stood still, watching the Klingons. When the story was finished, he didn’t say a word.

“I suppose it was stupid,” Bashir said, “but I knew Wazan wouldn’t let them hurt me. Somehow I just didn’t stop to think he might not be there.”

Garak finally turned away from the door. “Tell me, Mr. O’Brien. What would you have done if Heret had asked you to prove that Julian was yours?”

“Nothing, of course,” O’Brien answered indignantly. “It was just a bluff.”

“They would have killed you.”

“Then they just would have had to kill me,” O’Brien answered angrily. “What are you suggesting?”

“Drop it, all right?” Bashir said with annoyance. “I’m an idiot. Now just let it drop.”

“All right, Doctor,” Garak said calmly, “looking out the door again.” If either one of them had touched you, Julian, he thought, I’d be killing them now.

***

The Klingons left during the night. Afterwards the three Terrans foraged through the huts, looking for food, hoping to find their comm badges. They found a pile of Klingon ration packs and several sealed bottles of wine.

“Better than nothing,” O’Brien muttered. No one suggested moving into one of the other huts, where, despite the holes in the roof, the stench was even more oppressive than in their own.

“We can last eight or nine days on these rations alone if we’re careful,” Bashir said encouragingly. “With the vegetables, maybe even longer.”

“Not as if we’ll be tempted to eat these too fast,” O’Brien added. “I hate Klingon rations.” They each took a packet and sat outside the hut to watch the sun go down over the lake. A couple of stilt-legged birds with electric blue plumage fished in the shallows.

“I wonder if they’re good to eat?” O’Brien mused.

“Miles!” Bashir admonished. They’re beautiful. Would you really kill them if you didn’t have to?”

“I might if they’d save me from eating these Klingon rations,” he answered. “Don’t worry, Julian,” he added at the sight of Bashir’s face, “I don’t have anything to shoot them with, do I?”

The birds took off suddenly with raucous cries that sounded almost like human screams. Bashir shivered. The sun dropped below the surface of the lake and was gone, leaving a faint breath of pink in the sky that faded as they watched. The grasslands gradually came to life, and a thousand timid living things found their voices in the dark.

“I hate this fucking place,” O’Brien muttered.

His companions turned to look at him. “I was just thinking it was rather beautiful,” Bashir replied. “Not that I don’t want to leave as soon as possible. But now that it seems we’re about to be rescued I can appreciate it.”

“This warm late spring weather reminds me of Cardassia,” Garak commented.

“I’ve never vacationed on Cardassia,” O’Brien sneered.

“Then you should,” Garak said ingenuously. “It’s a delightful world.”

“Yeah? What’s so delightful about it? I’ve heard you’ll be killed if you ever set foot there again.”

Garak watched O’Brien steadily as he spoke. “The climate, the scenery, the cultural artifacts. And the current government is quite welcoming to Federation guests. I should go soon, if I were you. Before the climate changes.” O’Brien got up quickly, swearing under his breath.

“Where are you going, Miles?” Bashir asked.

“To get some of that wine,” O’Brien said angrily. “Want some?”

“All right.” Bashir obviously didn’t care if he had any or not, but he wanted to somehow cajole Miles out of his bad mood. O’Brien came back with two bottles and handed one to Bashir.

“What about cups?” Bashir asked. “Can’t we share some with Garak?”

“I don’t want to bother pouring over and over again. And there’s a couple more bottles in there if he wants them. Come on, Julian.” O’Brien pulled Bashir to his feet.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere out there.” He gestured towards the dim landscape. “And away from here.”

With a helpless shrug for Garak, Bashir stumbled out into the plain with O’Brien. Garak sat watching them recede until his eyes could no longer make out their forms in the darkness. With all his strength he fought the impulse to get up and race after them, to wrench Julian Bashir away from O’Brien and bring him back to keep him safe in the hut. There was more than nocturnal danger on his mind. This planet had a few small predators, about the size of dogs. Once a few of them had come nosing around when Garak and Bashir had tried sleeping outside to get away from O’Brien, but they seemed wary of attacking larger animals, especially with game as plentiful as it was in this warm season. What Garak really feared was O’Brien’s hatred, the poison that would make Julian turn away from him in shame once they were rescued.

Rescued...

It didn’t have much appeal for him, he realized. Yes, he would like to return to the comfort of his room on the station, to his shop, to easy lunches at the replimat instead of these malodorous rations. But would Julian return to racquetball, to darts and drinks at Quark’s instead of his secret sexual sparring with Garak? Once Bashir had access to women again, would their embraces seem like an embarrassingly bad idea?

Garak rose only because he decided that a drink of that wine might ease his anxiety. He took off his outer clothing and sat on the greasy furs piled by the cold hearth to wait for them. When they came, he would slip quickly into bed so that they wouldn’t know he had waited.

***

Garak dozed uneasily on the furs when he heard O’Brien’s slurred singing.

Oh, my, thought Garak, not that song about the drum again. How humans do shamelessly romanticize their bloodiest wars. He decided not to even bother getting into bed, since O’Brien sounded too drunk to notice where he was, especially in the dark. It might be better to lie still by the hearth. The two staggered in, Bashir stumbling under O’Brien’s weight. He laid him down, still singing, but in a moment, the song became a murmur and then a snore. Bashir threw a cover over him and felt around for the medikit by the bed. He went to the doorway and filled a hypospray by starlight before pressing it to O’Brien’s neck. After feeling his patient’s pulse, he stood and peered around the dark room.

“Garak?” the doctor asked tentatively.

“By the hearth,” Garak answered. Bashir felt his way over and sat down. “You’re not as drunk as he is,” Garak commented.

“No. I poured most of my bottle into the dirt,” Bashir admitted. “He drank a whole one alone.”

“Of Klingon wine? He’ll sleep for a week.” Garak’s temples started pounding as excitement flooded his body. O’Brien wouldn’t awaken tonight no matter what they did. No matter what they did....

“I drank my share,” Bashir was saying, “but not too much to realize that I had to get him back here as soon as I could and give him an antidote.”

“And how are you feeling?” Garak asked, raising his voice above O’Brien’s snores. He lit the lamp and placed it on the hearth, then took Bashir gently by the waist. Bashir bent to him, his hands seeking out and stroking Garak’s temples.

“It’s been two nights,” he murmured. “How do you think I feel?” They pressed their lips together hungrily, opening their mouths to hot, exploring tongues. Garak stripped off Bashir’s clothing with a few deft movements. His own sex had already grown large enough to escape from his underwear by itself. Bashir teased it, trying to pull Garak down on top of him.

“Just a moment, Julian,” Garak said firmly, resisting. “We’re going to do something else tonight. Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. He reached for the medikit.”

***

“Garak, stop torturing me.” The whispered words hung in the air.

O’Brien wasn’t sure he was awake, but he was sure what he’d overheard. Torturing? Torturing Bashir? Bloody Cardassian butcher. His eyes shot open and he saw the last thing he ever expected to see.

The lamp shone dimly on the hearth, casting a warm, liquid-honey glow over the two bodies that lay on the loose pile of furs. Bashir lay on his back with his legs in the air, his calves resting on Garak’s shoulders, his hands caressing Garak’s face as he looked up imploringly. The Cardassian lay over him, supporting himself on his elbows and knees. They stared intently into each other’s eyes.

“Garak, you know I want it,” Bashir coaxed. His face was flushed with desire; his words still slurred a bit from the alcohol. “I want you,” he insisted. “What are you waiting for?” O’Brien didn’t dare to move. This can’t be happening, he thought madly. Bashir would never, would never....

“You haven’t asked prettily enough,” Garak said softly. “Say it, Julian. Beg me. I’m all slippery and ready for you. If you can’t beg me, maybe you don’t want me enough.” Garak’s underwear was pulled down to his thighs to reveal his thick grey erection, glistening with some lubricant that must have come from the medikit. O’Brien could see the Cardassian’s muscles trembling with tension, trying to hold him poised just over Bashir’s entrance.

“I can’t beg, but I can at least do this for you,” Bashir teased, pulling down Garak’s face for a long kiss.

O’Brien couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes off them. The room spun around him, and his own alcoholic breath made him feel giddy and sick. As if hypnotized, he stared at Garak’s muscular ass, hovering above Bashir’s slim body, getting ready to clench and drive him deep inside. O’Brien was fascinated, revolted, paralyzed.

They broke their kiss. “I want to hear you say it,” Garak said again. “How long do I have to make you wait?”

“How long do I have to make you wait?” Bashir retorted coyly. They kissed again, and when Garak tore his mouth away, he planted it on Julian’s chest, biting and nuzzling at his nipples.

“Garak, oh, Garak, please!” Bashir cried.

And they expected me to sleep through this? O’Brien thought crazily. Aren’t they wondering what I’ll think? He closed his eyes and the room spun wildly and went dark. He must have passed out for a few seconds.

“Fuck me, please! Garak!” Bashir was softly pleading.

“Oh, no, not yet,” Garak answered, pulling back. “You haven't waited long enough.”

“I need you. Please. All right, you want me to beg? I’m begging you, Garak.” Bashir squirmed under his lover, out of control. “I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you, all right? I was ashamed to say it before, but it’s true. I’ve been embarrassed to admit it with Miles here, but want it. I do! Please, Garak, come into me now!”

“All right, all right. You’ve earned it. Hold still, Julian.” Garak guided himself in with a hand. “Will you open for me? Tell me if I hurt you. Oh. Oh, my dear, dear Doctor....” Garak’s voice was hoarse and tender, overwhelmed with emotion.

O’Brien watched in fascination as their bodies slowly joined, seeming to melt together. Gasping and panting, they held each other desperately.

“Finally, finally!” Bashir cried, wiggling his hips and wrapping his legs around Garak’s muscled back.

Garak pulled out and pushed in again. Bashir made small animal whimpers; Garak’s breath rasped hard in his throat. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” he growled. Grabbing Bashir’s wrists, he pushed them up over the young man’s head and pinned them to the floor. “That makes me jealous,” he said angrily. “Who’s been here before me?”

“Oh, hardly anyone,” Bashir giggled drunkenly. “No Klingons.”

Garak relaxed his hold slightly on Bashir’s wrists, letting the arms bend and taking the tapered hands lovingly into his. “You’re here with me, now, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You’re mine now.”

Their mouths joined as their bodies started moving together slowly, then faster and faster as their passion took hold. Bashir moaned through the kiss, mouthing Garak madly as if trying to eat him alive. Garak’s hard, muscular ass moved steadily up and down. O’Brien watched in fascination until Bashir cried out repeatedly, triumphantly, and Garak’s deep groan followed soon after. They lay entwined for a few moments until O’Brien thought they were asleep. His thoughts spun as madly as his head. How long have they been doing this? Is it the first time? Have they only been so loud because they know I’m drunk?

Garak stirred, lifting himself gently off Bashir. “Oh, no, stay!” Bashir cried.

“I’ll be here. I’m crushing you.”

"No, you’re not. I....”

“Shhh....” Garak took Bashir into his arms as they lay side by side. A few minutes passed.

“All right, Garak,” Bashir said suddenly. “I begged you. I told you how I felt. Now I want to know how you feel.”

“How I feel?"

"Yes, how you feel. What did this mean to you? Was it just sex?”

“I think you know the answer to that. I’ve told you....”

“You’ve told me that you have trouble expressing your feelings,” Bashir said gently. “But I still want to know. Tell me now.”

Garak sighed. “I thought I told you with my body,” he said.

“No excuses,” Bashir replied sternly. “You need to hear me beg you.”

“And you need to beg,” Garak interjected quickly.

“And I need to hear this,” Bashir countered.

“All right.” Garak was silent for a few moments. “Zaradak, one of Cardassia’s greatest poets, once said: ‘I am bold when I walk through the world, but when my beloved walks alone, a million dangers reach out to destroy him. With him at my side, the world is full of terrors.’”

“Garak, what does that mean?” Bashir asked a bit drunkenly.

Garak kissed him deeply. “What I am trying to say in my own way, Doctor, is that, for me, the universe has suddenly become a very dangerous place.”

***

O’Brien lay still until he was sure that they were asleep, then he quietly slipped out of bed and crawled through the door. His head still spun so much he couldn’t stand up to walk, but he crawled as far as he could away from the hut, almost reaching the marshy shore before he collapsed. At least he was out in the open, away from the sounds and smells and sight of his companions screwing like rabbits right in front of his nose.

It was his own fault, dammit. That damn liquor had loosened up Bashir enough to give into Garak’s demands, he just knew it. But how could Bashir do it no matter how drunk he was? How could he let that filthy Cardassian touch him, kiss him, make him beg to be fucked? How humiliating! How could Bashir let a man touch him? Is that what their friendship was all about? Did Bashir want him, too?

He thought back on all the friendly touches and pats and hugs they had exchanged, but he couldn’t make anything out of it. He was too drunk to think straight, anyway.

Dammit, dammit, he missed Keiko....

Closing his eyes, trying to ignore the spinning, he conjured up an image of her face. Beautiful Keiko, his lovely wife. That’s what was wrong with Bashir. He got too used to getting his rocks off with every bimbo on the station. He needed a wife, someone to help him find himself. Bashir.... Why was his face supplanting Keiko’s? Bring her back. It had been so damn long....

Almost without knowing it, O’Brien began to stroke himself, slowly at first, and then with more urgency. Gods, it had been a long time. He needed this. Oh, Keiko! But Bashir’s face was there again, and again. At the moment of his climax, the image before his inner eye was of Garak and Bashir, their mouths fused, taking their pleasure with no thought of him. As his seed gushed from his body, he let out a drunken wail of rage and frustration. Roused by his desperate cry, the wild birds in the wetlands stirred in their sleep. For some time afterwards they twittered nervously, echoing him faintly with their hollow voices.

Somehow O’Brien managed to crawl back into bed. In the morning, he was too sick to even speak to his companions. He retained the vague impression of what he had seen, but preferred to think of it as a dream, or as a drunken hallucination, although he knew that at least part of it had been real. But when Bashir tended him, giving him injections to try to stop his continual retching, the doctor seemed so much like his normal self that O’Brien couldn’t imagine him as the stranger he had seemed the night before: lying under Garak, begging to be impaled.

***

After two days of rest, O’Brien felt fine again. He threw the last two bottles of Klingon wine far out into the desolate area between the huts.

“It’s too bad the Klingons don’t make ale like the Romulans do,” O’Brien commented. “These Klingon rations need a bit of liquor to wash them down, but I won’t chance that rotgut again. I suppose in a way we’re lucky there aren’t too many rations left.”

“Romulan ale, oh, yes, that’s just what you need, Miles,” Bashir commented caustically. “You’re lucky you survived that bottle of Klingon wine.”

Referring to that night was not calculated to improve Miles’s disposition. “Yeah, well, you drank your share, too,” he shot back.

“I poured most of mine on the ground, if you must know,” Bashir admitted.

O’Brien paused and looked at him for a moment. “So you weren’t very drunk, then?”

Bashir shrugged. “Drunk, yes, but not as drunk as you.”

Garak got up and tossed the rest of his ration out after the bottles. “You were both sufficiently drunk. Humans are not known the galaxy over for their ability to hold their liquor.”

Still seated on the ground, Bashir looked up to flash a secret smile at Garak, and when he turned, was astonished to find O’Brien standing facing Garak with clenched fists and a furious look on his face. Bashir scrambled to his feet and took his friend by the arm. “Let it pass, Miles. He didn’t mean anything by it. You’ve said plenty of things about Cardassians without Garak going after you.”

O’Brien pushed him away. He leaned in angrily toward Garak, who didn’t give a bit of ground. “Look, Garak, I don’t want to hear anything more about it. So, you saw me drunk. I hope you got enough amusement out of it. Sharing this undersized hut with you hasn’t exactly been the most pleasant experience. For me or Dr. Bashir.”

“Does Dr. Bashir get to speak for himself, or are you speaking for him?” Garak asked with a venomous smile.

“Miles....” O’Brien shook Bashir’s hand off his wrist.

“Shut up, Julian. I’m doing what’s best for both of us.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Garak’s for an instant. “I think it’s time for us to part ways. It should be only a few days until the Defiant gets here. Until then, let’s stay in separate huts. You can choose any one you like. Just leave us alone.”

“Wouldn’t you enjoy that,” Garak said dangerously, “if I left you all alone with Dr. Bashir?” Bashir sucked his breath in sharply and stared incredulously at Garak; the gauntlet had been thrown down.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” O’Brien asked evenly.

Suddenly Garak stepped back and laughed. “It means whatever you think it means. What do you think it means, Mr. O’Brien?” Miles’s arm shot out so quickly Bashir hardly saw it, and Garak reeled back, holding his chin. “Ah, yes," he said, feeling the injured area carefully, "I imagine that would have felled a human. Would you care to try again?”

O’Brien approached warily, both fists at ready, Bashir jumped between them. “Stop it!” he shouted. “This is absurd, and I won’t have it.”

“You don’t have anything to say about it,” O’Brien said curtly, without taking his eyes off his opponent. “Someone has to put this arrogant bastard in his place.”

“I have to defend myself, Julian,” Garak said quietly. “Please get out of the way.”

“You were taunting him, Garak,” Bashir insisted angrily.

“He’s taunting me, Julian, or should I say ‘us’? You see, I think Mr. O’Brien has a few words to say about something he’s seen, but he’s too shy to tell us, aren’t you, Mr. O’Brien?”

“Damn you,” O’Brien snarled, lashing out with one fist and missing.

Bashir put one hand on each of his friends and tried to push them apart. Garak pulled him away by the shoulders and set him gently to one side. “Stay out of it, Julian,” he warned. The effect on O’Brien was electric. “Keep your hands off him,” he shouted. “You’ve corrupted him, and it’s going to end here. I should have come between you a long time ago.” Bashir pushed back between them.

“No, Miles,” Bashir said into O’Brien’s face, holding his shoulders, “it’s never been like that. You never needed to protect me. Garak and I are friends.”

“Is that all you are?” O’Brien asked hotly. “Friends? Lunch companions? Or what, exactly?” Bashir turned pale and swallowed. “What are you?” O’Brien asked in triumph.

Bashir turned helplessly to Garak, but he saw no comfort in the Cardassian’s stony look. Garak was waiting—waiting to be rejected. Bashir turned back to face O’Brien’s victorious smile. “Lovers,” he said simply. “We’re lovers, Miles.” Garak’s face relaxed into a wary smile. He was still watching O’Brien carefully.

O’Brien had frozen where he stood, fists partly raised, face flushed red. “I saw you,” he said, lowering his hands and turning away. “I tried to believe it only happened because of the wine. How could you do such a thing, Julian?” He turned and walked towards the Klingons’ abandoned huts without waiting for an answer. “If the Defiant happens to come, I’ll be over here,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t bother dropping by for conversation. You won’t get much of a welcome.”

“Miles!” Bashir called. “Come back, Miles.” The figure continued to recede. “You’ll need your share of the rations,” he yelled.

“You’ll need them more if you’re going to fuck yourselves silly until Sisko arrives,” Miles yelled back.

Bashir turned back to Garak. “Stay here. I’ll go talk some sense into him.” The strength of the hand that wrapped around his arm made him gasp in surprise.

“Don’t bother,” Garak ordered. “He’s made his choice.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Bashir said, trying unsuccessfully to wrench his arm away. “Without the rations he could starve. And he’ll need the water purification tablets.”

Garak smiled broadly. “It will only be a few days. Don’t exaggerate.” Bashir slapped Garak’s face hard with his free hand. The smile lingered for a moment, paralyzed and grotesque, before fading into a scowl of rage.

“Don’t you ever do that again.” Garak’s hands were at Bashir’s throat, holding him firmly but without much pressure.

Bashir stared him down, seemingly unaware of the powerful thumbs that trembled over his windpipe. “You can order me around in bed, Garak, but when it comes to things like this, I have to make my own decisions. I’m the Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space Nine—did you think I was going to let you tell me what to do?” Garak’s grip loosened just a bit, but he didn’t speak. “O’Brien is my responsibility. He’s being a fool, and I have to talk him out of it. We all need each other to survive.”

Garak let his hands drop to his sides. “If he keeps taunting me, he’s not likely to be around to greet the Defiant."

Bashir breathed out hard in irritation. “Don’t hurt him, Garak.”

“I seem to recall that he struck the first blow.”

“That’s beside the point. All right, I obviously can’t appeal to you with reason, so I’ll try something else. Garak, he’s my friend. If you love me, you won’t hurt him no matter what he does.”

Garak looked astonished. “Who ever said I loved you?”

“You did,” Bashir said softly. “Don’t you remember?”

“I never said that,” Garak retorted firmly, taking Bashir by the shoulders.

“Yes, you did,” Bashir whispered. “You said it with your body.”

***

Soon after, Bashir took some rations and water purification tablets over to the hut where O’Brien sat sullenly in the doorway. The stench from inside was still rather terrible, and there was a large hole in the roof. O’Brien had found another bottle of Klingon wine and was drinking it in long swigs.

“Come on, Miles,” Bashir coaxed, “come back with me.”

“Not on your life,” Miles snapped. “I’m not going back as long as he thinks he owns you.”

“He doesn’t own me, Miles,” Bashir said, reddening.

“He thinks he does.” O’Brien took another long pull of the foul wine.

“I’m not going to argue with you. Either come back or don’t, but take care, all right? And stop drinking that stuff. It’ll rot your insides.”

“Yeah, right,” O’Brien grumbled. “You take care, too.” O’Brien watched Bashir go back to the other hut with a sinking feeling in his chest. That bloody bastard has him hypnotized, he thought angrily. I’ve never seen anything like it.

As Miles watched the sun go down and saw the light go on in the hut, he wondered if Garak had tampered with the hypospray to find some drug that made Bashir pliant to his will. He couldn’t deny that Julian had defied Garak to bring him the rations, though. Maybe there was some other explanation. He tossed the bottle aside. It was almost empty, and he was sick of the taste.

It grew darker, and the distant hut glowed like a beacon. O’Brien entered his hut to get the lamp he had seen there earlier. No use sitting in the dark. After a few moments he found it, but the damn thing wouldn’t light. Maybe he could borrow Bashir’s laser scalpel or something. Or maybe he could just go to bed. It was late enough, and he was drunk enough, and the sun would awaken him plenty early. But the glowing hut seemed to call to him, and suddenly he just couldn’t resist. Halfway there he realized he d forgotten the lamp, but he didn’t care. This wine is doing something to me, he thought, something strange. I’m not acting like myself. But he kept on going. When he had nearly reached his goal, he went stealthily, sneaking around the side of the open doorway, which was covered only by a blanket that flapped in the evening breeze. I came to get the lamp lit, he thought, feeling tense and panicky, but I haven't got the lamp, so what am I doing here?

He lay down out of sight of the doorway and listened to the murmurings he could hear from inside. After a moment he could make them out distinctly.

“Tell me about your first time,” Garak ordered.

“You don’t really want to know,” Bashir countered. “It was a long time ago.”

“Yes, I do,” Garak insisted. “Was it the Academy? Another cadet?” Bashir groaned as if he’d been stimulated or teased. Faintly: “What did he do? Did he make you beg?”

“Actually I made him beg,” Bashir said with a laugh. “He followed me around for weeks before I finally gave in.” The sibilant sounds of kissing wafted out to O’Brien’s ears. He rolled onto his back and loosened his pants. Above his head the alien stars whirled madly. He imagined he felt the planet rotating with him stuck to its skin like some insignificant insect. He felt as if he were flipping end over end, traveling ever further out into the galaxy. His erection felt huge and hot in his hand. The wine roared in his ears.

“Was it good?” Garak asked. “Was it good because you’d waited for so long?”

“Not really,” Bashir exclaimed, laughing. “It was pretty terrible, actually. We didn’t know what we were doing. It hurt like hell.”

“Ah, well,” Garak said, “you can think of that while I fuck you exquisitely now."

“It’s about time you got around to that,” Bashir said. “What have you been waiting for?” His voice was muffled, and O’Brien imagined him lying with his face in a pile of furs.

“Ah, getting sure of ourselves, are we?” Garak asked sarcastically. “Well, I can’t resist you tonight. I hope you appreciate that.” O’Brien heard Bashir’s muffled sigh. “All the way in,” he said breathlessly. “I can take it.”

“I know you can, my little slut. Take it.” They sighed together.

O’Brien stroked himself in time with their moans, imagining that he was somehow connected to their motion. He rose slowly to his pleasure as the universe spun like a monstrous carousel. Inside the hut, Garak and Bashir cried out their ecstasy, and still O’Brien climbed slowly to his peak. He heard small cries such as birds make, and imagined that the creatures in the swamp were rustling in their sleep, disturbed by some predator. A moment later, as he began to pump out his seed, a heavy shape threw itself on him and he embraced it, arching his back as if to push into it with his throbbing cock. Then he realized that his own voice had cried out, and that the shape with its hands around his throat was Garak.

Unable to resist, he felt his head thumping against the ground, but Bashir was there, shouting and forcing himself between them, trying to shove Garak away. When he finally succeeded, O’Brien sat up and staggered to his feet. Garak went for him, but Bashir came between them again, and O’Brien groaned to feel Bashir’s naked flesh against him, searing him like a flame. Erect again. It must be the Klingon wine. He embraced Bashir and they fell together, with Garak trying to pull them apart.

Suddenly he was alone, wondering where they had gone, reaching out his arms towards the still spinning stars. Bashir shouted something at Garak, and they disappeared into the hut. A few minutes later a hypospray was hissing against O’Brien’s throat, and Bashir’s face, hovering above him, came into sharp focus at the same time as his words made sense.

“Miles, do you understand me?” The arms that held O’Brien’s head were covered in cloth; Bashir had gotten dressed.

“Yes, Julian.” Julian, I held you in my arms....

“Miles, don’t drift off on me.” Bashir slapped his cheeks lightly. “I’ve given you all the stimulant I dare, and a hefty shot of antidote, which in the case of Klingon wine is more dangerous than the poison. You’ve got to pull yourself together, Miles. There’s a shuttlecraft up there. It’ll land in just a few minutes.”

“Hmmm, yeah, I understand.” To his own ears his voice sounded thick and slow.

“Miles, come on. You have to pull up your pants." So that was it. That’s right. How could he forget?  He moved his hands down and found his softened cock, stuffed it in his pants, then searched for the zipper.

"Let me help you," Bashir said impatiently. He zipped and buttoned Miles’s pants with difficulty, trying to close the material over a growing erection, stimulated by his touch.

“I told you,” Garak said hotly. “He wants you.”

“Quiet, Garak. Help me get him up.” They pulled O’Brien to his feet and held him until he could stand. He went behind the hut and threw up, and when he returned they stood together and waited silently, looking up instead of at each another.

It’s finally over, was all O’Brien could think. Thank God.

***

When Sisko stepped out of the shuttle, they all smiled spontaneously and said the things one says when one is unexpectedly rescued. O’Brien knew from the look in Sisko’s eyes that he noticed something amiss and would question them about it later, but now they were bound for the Defiant with its rock-hard bunks that for once would feel heavenly.

“Is everything all right, Dr. Bashir?” Sisko asked, just as they docked in the Defiant’s shuttle bay.

“We’re a bit undernourished, sir, and very tired,” Bashir answered professionally. “Aside from that, we’re very lucky.”

“I see. Well, I’m glad to have you back,” Sisko said kindly.

They adjourned to their quarters, and O’Brien saw little of his companions for the two-day journey home. But he was tormented by the thought that Garak had followed Bashir down the corridor instead of turning into his assigned quarters. Finally, after a sleepless night, O’Brien was too exhausted to think about it anymore.

***

Leaving the Defiant to set foot on Deep Space Nine, Bashir walked through the breezeway and into the corridor beyond. O’Brien had stopped to let him catch up.

“It’s good to be back,” O’Brien muttered.

“I’m glad we made it,” Bashir agreed.

They stood together uncomfortably for a moment as Sisko and the other officers passed. Garak came out of the breezeway just behind them and nodded politely. “Gentlemen,” he said formally. O’Brien and Bashir watched until he was out of sight.

“There he is, calm as if nothing ever happened,” O’Brien exclaimed.

Bashir nodded. “He hides his feelings well.” There was an awkward pause.

“So, Julian,” O’Brien began with false heartiness, “if you’re feeling up to it, we could meet at Quark’s for a game of darts tonight.”

“Isn’t Keiko here?” Bashir asked in surprise.

“It takes her a day to get to the nearest spaceport from that valley they’re surveying. She arrives tomorrow, and she’s got a whole week off.”

“Good. Look, Miles, I’m sorry, but tonight doesn’t work for me.” Bashir’s cheekbones were flushed with emotion.

“Another time, then?” O’Brien’s tone was dejected, almost desperate.

“Yes, another time,” Bashir agreed. “It’s just that, tonight....” He paused, his blush deepening, and glanced at O’Brien.

Miles caught his eye and looked away. “Julian,” he said quickly, “you know that I’ll never tell anyone...I mean about what happened between you and Garak. So if you’re worried about that, forget it.”

Bashir was silent, staring at his feet. He looked up suddenly with tears in his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Garak’s coming to my quarters tonight. I’m not ashamed of wanting to be with him. In fact, I don’t care who knows about it. I’ve already told Sisko.”

“And what did he say?” O’Brien asked automatically.

“He wished me luck,” Bashir said, smiling faintly. “I wish you’d do the same. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Miles.”

“Oh, sure,” O’Brien said sarcastically, “when Keiko gets back we’ll be sure to have you over for supper. Just two happy couples enjoying an evening together.” He laughed with a strangled sound. “Don’t you see how crazy this is, Julian? Don’t throw your reputation away on him.”

“My reputation? You mean your prejudices. So you don’t want to be my friend unless I find a nice woman—not Cardassian, of course—suitable for polite dinner parties?” Bashir asked bitterly. “I’m sorry, Miles, but this is the way things are. I never said you had to like Garak, anyway. After what happened on the planet I think that’s a little too much to hope for. I just wish you could accept it. Accept that I’m more attracted to men than women, and that Garak is my choice.”

“Nonsense,” O’Brien exclaimed, “you never felt that way before. It’s just that being alone on that planet has screwed up your responses somehow, and...”

“I was always this way,” Bashir said flatly. “I hid it from you because I knew you’d disapprove. Look, let’s drop it for now. I’m tired.” He began to walk away.

“Julian?”

O’Brien’s plaintive tone made him turn around. “Yes, Miles?”

“Take care of yourself, won’t you?” he said tentatively.

Bashir smiled. “Always. And if you want to go to Quark’s in a week or so...after Keiko leaves....”

O’Brien’s voice failed him for a moment. “I'll be there,” he whispered.

Bashir's hazel eyes were solemn. “That’s all I can ask.”

As he watched Bashir disappear down the corridor, Miles felt worn out, shattered, tired down to his bones. He wished Keiko were home now, so he could put aside all his troubles and make passionate love to her. She could help him remember what it meant to be a man.

At first O’Brien hadn’t liked Bashir, but the young man had grown on him, and they’d spent so much time together that they were closer than he’d ever been to any woman. Well, except for the physical part, of course. And now Garak had changed everything by corrupting his only friend. What had happened to the three of them on the planet was a mistake, an aberration due to the wine and the solitude—that’s all it meant. He hoped that soon it would all blow over.

Tonight he could either go home and make do with replicated booze, or he could go to Quark’s. Somehow the former didn’t have much appeal. He decided to see if Worf was free for a game of darts. He could pay Quark a few extra credits for some real whiskey. Synthale just wouldn’t cut it tonight. If he could help it he never wanted to think about any of this ever again.

 

Notes:

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