Title:   Something More than Friendship
Author:  Kathryn Ramage
Series:  DS9
Codes:   G/B, O'B/B 
Rating:  PG  
Summary: After Garak and O'Brien rescue Bashir from a Romulan 
prison, the doctor's close brush with death (and an overheard
conversation) cause him to look at both men in a new light.

Paramount owns Star Trek, DS9, and the characters even if 
they never really knew what to do with them.  This story was 
written purely for entertainment purposes.

Special thanks to Invicta, for her beta-reading.

Copyright December 2000

~~~
i

The door of his cell slid open, and the dark shape of a humanoid
figure came in, crouched, and reached for him.  This was it.  The 
end... No.  It wasn't a Romulan.  There was a Starfleet commbadge 
affixed to the wrist, metal glinting as it caught the thin strip
of light from the corridor outside.

Garak's voice: "Chief, lock on to my coordinates. I have him." 

This nightmare was over.

A painful spasm ran through his body as he was lifted--he 
whimpered--and then they were dissolving in the glimmer of a 
transporter beam.

Another reassuring voice: "I was starting to worry you'd never 
find him.  You were down there nearly an hour.  Jesus, what did 
they _do_ to him?"

"I didn't wait to examine him.  There is a lot of blood." 

"Let's get him into the aft compartment."  A sharp jostle as 
Garak stepped off the transporter platform forced another cry 
from him.  "Julian?  He's not conscious?"

"He is awake, although he doesn't seem to be aware of very 
much."  They were moving now, Garak bearing him carefully to 
avoid jarring him again.  

But he _was_ aware.  He heard every word they said.  When he 
opened his eyes, he could see the red brocade of Garak's tunic 
against his cheek and, over Garak's shoulder, the anxious frown 
on Miles' face as he followed them into the aft compartment 
of the runabout and Garak set him down on the long bench at 
the back. 

He drifted out.  The next time he opened his eyes, Garak was 
gone and Miles sat with an arm around him, murmuring soothing 
nonsense as he wielded a medical scanner.  He let himself go on
drifting, lulled by the low whirr of the scanner, and only came 
back when he heard Garak's voice again.

"We are past the last sentry point, Chief, and I don't believe 
we are being followed.  I've set our course for DS9.  How is 
he?"  

"He's a bloody mess," O'Brien answered bluntly, but Bashir 
could hear the plain fear beneath the gruff tone.  "I don't 
know what to make of some of the readings I'm getting."  Miles 
handed the tricorder to Garak.  "I'd like to clean him up so 
we can get a better look at his injuries.  Will you help me 
get him out of these filthy things?"

"Yes, of course.  What can I do?"

"Hold him."  There was a shift--O'Brien's arm was no longer 
around his chest.  "He hasn't made a sound, but I know he's in 
there.  Just let him know that he's safe now, that we're here 
and we're taking care of him."

*I know that.*  Nevertheless, it was comforting to lay his cheek
against the rough, woolen fabric of Garak's suit and breathe in 
that familiar, faintly spicy scent that he associated with the 
Cardassian.  Garak's hand closed gently around his, careful of 
the torn and bleeding fingertips.  Through half-open eyes, he 
watched as O'Brien sorted through the contents of the emergency 
medkit.

"We should've brought a medic with us."

"You already have enough to answer for to Commander Sisko, Chief.  
After all, _you_ came with me without his permission."

"Well, what else was I going to do--let you take a runabout 
and go off on your own?"  Miles found a box full of compressed 
antiseptic towelettes and unzipped the seal on one packet, 
activating the chemical reactants within.  

They must have given him something for the pain, for he lay in 
a peaceful, dreamlike state while the steamy-warm, moistened  
square washed his face.  He was thousands of kilometers away 
from the horrors he had suffered and just as removed from his 
battered body.  The injuries Garak cataloged with clinical 
detachment and cool, Cardassian precision might have had 
nothing to do with him:

"Minor bruises at both temples--they've scanned him with a 
neural probe.  Contusion behind the left ear...no evidence of 
a skull fracture.  More bruising around the throat.  Severe
cuts and abrasions on the palms and fingers of both hands..."

Together, they eased his upper body out of the shreds of his 
uniform--and hissed at the lacerations revealed beneath.  The 
warm, damp cloth swept up from fingers to shoulder, then up 
the other arm with an admonition--"Careful! There's a broken 
bone in that wrist."  A second freshly activated towelette 
washed his chest and, with some cautious shifting to turn him 
on his side, his back down to the waist.

Miles tugged at the tattered material bunched at the small of 
his back.  "You're holding him?"

"I have him."  The arms about him tightened.

O'Brien drew the trousers carefully down his legs.  A bolt 
of unexpected pain shot through his comfortable haze; he 
whimpered as his feet were lifted and the last of his uniform 
pulled off.

"Jesus Christ." 

Garak hissed, "Tsfala!"

Miles wore a horrified, outraged expression.  "What did those 
bastards _do_?"  Then, realizing that Julian's eyes were on 
him, he forced himself to look less alarmed.  "Ah- Julian? I'm 
going to wash this blood off.  It'll hurt a bit, but I'm not 
_trying_ to hurt you--you understand?  It's just to clean you 
up so we can take a better look and see how bad this really 
is."

*Yes, of course I understand,* Julian thought as Miles unzipped 
another towelette and gingerly parted his thighs.  *I'm not a 
child.  I've examined people in worse condition.  I know-*

"Aaah!"

"Ssh," Garak tried to quiet him, "Ssh, Doctor."  He bucked in 
the tailor's arms, but was firmly restrained while the blood 
was washed away.  "It's almost finished." 

"There," said Miles.  "All done.  How're you doing?"  When he 
didn't respond, O'Brien repeated the question to Garak, "How is 
he?"

The tailor rubbed his temple in little circles.  "I think we 
weathered that well--didn't we, Doctor?  It's not still in him?"

"_In_ him?"  

"Tsfalen are designed to burrow into the flesh."

"Jesus," Miles said again.  

"The device is named after a desert-dwelling insect, famous for 
its burrowing propensity.  I understand that they once used live 
tsfalen for interrogations--but living creatures are impossible 
to control."  

"'They'.  It's Romulan then, not Cardassian?"

"It's Romulan, although we are, of course, familiar with it."  
The medical scanner whirred again.  "Is it-?"

"I'm getting a reading... A small, metallic object."  There 
was a long silence.  "So how do we get it out?"

"There is a remote trigger that retracts the spikes.  If we 
can activate that, it should be relatively easy to remove."

"Okay."  Miles took a deep breath.  "Maybe you should do this
--you know what it is you're looking for."  There was a great 
deal of activity around him as towels were replicated and more 
cartridges and instruments taken out of the medkit.  Garak 
used a fresh towelette to wash his hands and moved to sit at 
the foot of the bench.

The last words he heard were O'Brien's:  "I didn't want to
put him out, but he's better off not being awake for this."

And then a hypospray hissed just behind his ear.

~~~
ii

The smell of antiseptics.  The high-pitched hum of a dermal 
regenerator.  A strange, heavy pressure on his belly that 
wouldn't go away.  He didn't know how much time had passed
--it might be days--but the one thing he remained sure of 
through it all was that he was never alone.  Whenever a fresh 
wave of pain washed through him, he had only to make the 
softest sound, and there were whispered words of comfort and 
the hiss of more hyposprays to restore him to that peaceful 
haze.  

And what was that singing?

"His cheeks was of the roses and his hair was of the brown
 And hung in ringlets heavy to his shoulders hanging down
His teeth was of an ivory white, his eyes was black as sloes;
 He'd charm the heart of any fair girl, no matter where he 
goes.

So I'll pack all my clothing and in search of him I'll go,
 I'll cross the wide, wide ocean through stormy winds and 
  snow.
And write upon my tombstone to the children passing by,
 That I died broken-hearted for my bonny young Irish boy."

He knew those words; they were part of a lullaby O'Brien some-
times sang for his daughter.  Miles O'Brien singing for him... 
Who would ever have imagined _that_?  The Chief was usually 
so brusque, as if he hated to admit that he enjoyed having 
Julian Bashir around.  But Miles must like him after all, and 
only showed it when he thought that _he_ didn't know.  This 
was so sweet, so unexpected.  What would Miles do next, he 
wondered--pick him up and rock him to sleep just as he rocked 
Molly?  

Or rub his temple in delicate little circles?  No, that wasn't
Miles.  Garak was sitting at his bedside now.  Oh, yes, of 
course; Cardassians had a nerve cluster just behind the temple 
ridge.  This was just as natural a way for Garak to comfort 
him as Miles' lullabies. 

"Hush, nera'li.  Try to sleep."  And Garak sang to him too, 
though if that was a lullaby, it was an oddly atonal piece 
without melody.  But it soothed him... 

Then they were both there, talking together--not bickering, 
for once, but solemnly discussing his condition.  He was not 
out of danger yet.  He was running a high fever, and Miles 
was worried that the antibiotics they were giving him weren't 
enough to combat the infection.  What would they do if his
wounds became septic?  And what if he began bleeding again? 

Neither said it out loud, but he knew they were afraid he might 
die before they reached DS9.  Maybe that was why they were being 
so nice.  

They'd been speaking softly, but now Garak sounded much louder, 
and very near:

"I'm curious, Chief O'Brien--Why _did_ you insist on coming 
with me?  Commander Sisko would have undoubtedly arranged a 
rescue mission of his own in time."   

"In time, yeah, but it might've been too late."  O'Brien was 
farther away; Bashir heard the thump of pacing footsteps on 
the carpet.  "D'you think I could stand by any longer'n I had 
to while those bastard Romulans were doing god-knows-what to 
Julian?  Besides, I knew you'd take off to find him the first 
chance you had--and I was right, wasn't I?" 

"You were following me."  Garak seemed almost pleased about it.

"I saw you sneaking around the docking ring.  I figured you 
knew where you were going."

"I had an idea where they might have taken Dr. Bashir."

"You took us straight to the detention camp on Kharseris IV.
Know a thing or two about the Romulan prison system, hm?"

"Oh, I've had a few...unpleasant encounters with the TalShiar.  
Some difficulties arose when I worked as a gardener at the 
Senatorial Assembly grounds.  Romulans are an extremely xeno-
phobic race, suspicious of even the most innocuous outsiders.  
The Kharseris IV facility is their primary base for the inter-
rogation of suspected alien agents.  It seemed the most obvious 
place to begin our search."
 
Miles snorted skeptically.  "Anyway, I knew you'd do whatever 
you could to get Julian back."  

Garak's reply was deliberately casual.  "I'd be very sorry to 
lose his companionship.  There are so few people on the station 
capable of interesting conversation.  If it weren't for Dr. 
Bashir, who would I have lunch with?  Odo?  Quark?  Morn?  It 
just wouldn't be the same."  

"'Lunch companion'? Is that all?"

"What else could he be?"

"A friend.  The only one you've got."

Garak did not answer for a long while.  When he did, he spoke
reluctantly, "You're quite right.  The doctor's friendship has 
been the one thing that's made my life endurable on your Feder-
ation-run station."  Julian felt the backs of curled fingers 
press gently on his throat, then his face.  When O'Brien did 
not respond, the tailor asked, "Surely you're not surprised by 
that?"

"Surprised to hear you _admit_ it.  You really do care what 
happens to him, don't you?  No matter what else I think about 
you, Garak, I can't deny _that's_ true."

Cool, moist cloth patted on his warm cheeks and forehead.  The
blanket was tugged away from his shoulders, and there were more 
refreshingly cool pats in the hollows of his collar.  "You must 
care very much for Dr. Bashir yourself, Chief, to endanger your 
career--even your life--this way."  

"What's it to you if I do?" Miles shot back.  Then, grudgingly, 
"All right, yes.  Julian's a nuisance, but all the same, I 
wouldn't want to see anything happen to him any more than you 
do.  He's _my_ friend too."

"Yes, I realize that."

And then:

"Do you mind if I ask a personal question?"

"What is it?"

"You, and him.  Did you-?"

"No."  A pause.  "I don't suppose _you_-?"

"Me?  No."

If he'd had the strength, Julian would have been mortified.  

*Did you-?/No. I don't suppose _you_-?/Me? No.*--The astonish-
ing exchange turned over and over in his head afterwards.  That 
not-quite asked question.  The disappointment he had heard in 
those blunt No's.  But he couldn't be mortified for very long. 

They cared!  Underneath O'Brien's gruffness, in spite of Garak's 
ironic detachment, they really did care about him.  Look at 
everything they had done for his sake: They'd taken such enormous 
risks to rescue him, braving Romulan space, infiltrating the 
prison, stealing him right out of his cell with no thought of 
the danger they were placing themselves in.  They'd done their 
best to treat his injuries, then sat at his bedside, watching 
over him for who-knew how many hours.  They'd even sung him to 
sleep.  How could he not be touched by that? 

No one had said the word 'love' yet; it lay behind all their 
feints at each other, but they'd been careful not to speak it 
aloud.  Neither man would admit to his true feelings--certainly 
not to the other, and not to _him_--but their actions declared 
so much more than they dared to say.  

*I've been so alone,* he realized, *and these wonderful men 
have been right there, all the time.  Would they have loved me, 
if I had let them?  I never let them.  I never let anybody in, 
do I?  I tease.  I play games.  I end the relationship if it 
gets too intense.  But I don't _want_ to be that way.  I don't 
want to be alone.  If only I'd known sooner...*  

*Why didn't I see it before, when I might've done something 
about it?  If I die now, I'll never have the chance to tell 
them that I know how they feel.  I understand.*  

*Is it too late?  I must tell them--I can be loved.*

*I don't want to die without being loved.*

~~~

"What's wrong?" asked Miles.  "Why is he crying?"

"I don't know.  He just began a moment ago."

"Here, Julian." The Chief sat down and took him from Garak 
to blot the tears from his face.  "Ssh.  Hush now.  It's 
going to be all right.  We'll get you home."

~~~
iii

The next time he awoke, he was connected again.  No longer
lost in a muddle of sounds and sensations that occasionally
broke through the haze--he was _here_.  

They were still on the runabout.  A silvery thermal blanket 
covered him and a large, plush, absorbent towel was spread 
on the cushions beneath.  A well-wrapped splint encased his 
left wrist, and something heavy lay on his lower abdomen--
so, _that_ hadn't been part of a fever-dream.  His fingers 
reached down to examine it.  It was a thick pad of cloth, 
wadded into the hollow of his hip just to the left of his 
groin.  A pressure bandage?

O'Brien was seated nearby, reading from a datapadd; at the 
rustle of movement, he looked up.  

"Hullo, Miles."  The dry rasp of his own voice startled him.
 
"Julian!"  His friend beamed.  "How're you feeling?"

"Warm.  Weak as a newborn kitten.  Very thirsty."

Preferring a more direct means of assessment to using the 
medical tricorder, O'Brien rose to place a hand on his brow.  
"You still feel pretty hot, but your fever's definitely gone 
down," he announced.  "Let me get you something to drink."  
And he went to the replicator.

When Miles returned with a glass of water, Julian leaned up 
on one elbow to take it--and suddenly conscious that he was 
naked, clutched the blanket to his chest with uncharacteristic 
modesty.  "I don't suppose you could get me a set of pajamas 
too?"

Miles' face flushed pink.  "We thought it'd be easier to take 
care of you if we didn't have to get you in and out of clothes,"
he explained sheepishly.  "Didn't want to move you around 
more'n necessary."

"What about a hospital gown?"

His friend hastened to replicate one, then sat down beside him 
to help him into it.  As Julian sat up, the blanket fell to 
his waist; the upper edge of the bandage was visible.  "What's 
this?" he asked as he examined it again.

"Where that thing went into you."  Miles briskly shook out the 
replicated gown and located the sleeves.  "Garak called it a 
'tsfala'--that's a kind of little metal ball with spikes.  He 
says he's had some experience with them before."

Julian held out his arms so that Miles could slip the sleeves 
up over them, over his shoulders.  He remembered:

*They opened the door to his cell and tossed it in at him
without saying a word.  He couldn't see what it was, but he
felt land in his lap, felt it clinging to the fabric of his 
uniform.  When he tried to pluck it off, the sharp edges of 
the spikes--like tiny, curved claws--sliced into his fingers.  
Then it began to dig through the cloth...*

He shoved the memory away.   "But you got it out?" 

"It's out."  Instead of moving to sit behind him, Miles pulled 
him closer to reach around and tie the cloth strips at his back.  

"Then why hasn't the wound been sealed?"

"That thing'd dug itself in pretty far.  Garak got the spikes 
to retract using some sub-harmonic frequency, but it was close 
to that big artery that goes down into the leg."

"The iliac," he murmured and leaned into the embrace.  Feeling 
light-headed, he lay his cheek against his friend's shoulder 
while Miles worked on the ties.  

"I was afraid we might jar it if we tried to move it.  There 
wasn't any better way to get the damned thing out without making 
matters worse, so in the end, we wound up beaming it out.  I've 
got it in a sample container if you want to see it."

"Not just now, thank you."

"The wound was already scabbed over, and it went in too deep 
to take care of with the dermal regenerator," Miles went on.  
"We did what we could--bandaged you up and hoped for the best 
`til we could get you back to the Infirmary.  You had us good 
and scared for awhile, you know."

"You were worried I might hemorrhage." 

"You heard us talking about that?"

"I heard...a few things."  He snuggled closer, and Miles drew 
away quickly and stared at him with surprise and bewilderment.

That was when Garak came in.  "I thought I heard your voice, 
Doctor.  I'm pleased to see you awake."  His eyes swept over 
them both; O'Brien had turned so that Julian couldn't see his 
face, but something that Garak saw in the Chief's expression
seemed to puzzle him. 

O'Brien got up; Garak continued to watch him, but Miles
deliberately avoided that questioning gaze and pretended to 
look for the tricorder.

As he settled down and sipped his water, Bashir looked from 
one man to the other.  While he'd always been aware of a 
certain antagonism between the two  he thought he understood 
the reasons for it better now.

He wondered if he could tell them what he had overheard.  
He thought they ought to talk about it--but how to bring 
the subject up, and when?  What to say?  And how would they
respond when he did?  Would they be embarrassed?  Happy?  
Would they deny it?  And was _he_ prepared for whatever 
might happen?

"How long has it been since I was imprisoned?" he asked.  
"I've lost track of the days."

Miles abandoned his search to answer, "It's been more than a 
week since you left for that medical conference on Romulus.  
Part of 'our new cooperative alliance against the Dominion.'"  
This last was said with heavy sarcasm.  "We should've known 
they were up to something."

"They did invite me to share information."  He handed Garak 
the empty glass.  "I'm the only Federation doctor who's had 
contact with the Founders and, except for Dr. Mora, I'm the 
closest there is to an expert on Changeling physiology."

"They were looking for biological weaknesses to exploit?" 
asked Garak.

"I think so.  As soon as I arrived at the conference, they 
started asking questions--general information at first, and 
then the questions became more specific.  They wanted to know 
about Odo.  I refused to answer."  He sighed.  "Actually, I 
didn't have the information they wanted, but they refused to 
believe that.  It was all very civilized up to that point, 
purely in the interests of science--until two officers of the 
TalShiar came to my room, and the next thing I knew, I was 
in a cell somewhere..."  No, he wasn't ready to talk about 
_that_ yet; he didn't even want to think about it.     

"Commander Sisko was told you'd been arrested for espionage," 
Miles informed him.  "I knew right off it was a pack of filthy 
lies." 

Julian gave him a small smile.  "And so you came and rescued 
me?"

"Well..." his friend admitted, "it was mostly Garak's doing."

"While your Federation was lodging its formal protests with 
the Romulan government, demanding your release, I decided it 
would be more expedient if I took matters into my own hands," 
Garak explained.  "I meant to travel alone, but Mr. O'Brien 
insisted on coming with me." 

"He was going to steal this runabout and take off without 
telling anyone," Miles added.

Garak didn't refute this.  "Security was on the way," he 
continued smoothly, "I had no choice but to bring him along."

"It turned out you needed me, didn't it?  You couldn't've 
beamed through the shields around that detention facility  
without my help.  Even if you got in, you'd never've got 
back out."

It was almost a relief to see them quarreling; it told him 
they weren't afraid for him anymore.  But he couldn't let
them go on.  "It was wonderful of you to do this, both of 
you," he said with such heart-felt appreciation that they 
were taken aback.  "You won't be in trouble for it, will 
you?" 

"Nothing for you to worry about," Miles shrugged it off.  
"Commander Sisko'll probably give us hell for going off 
without permission, but we'll have brought you back, alive 
and well--more or less.  That makes up for a lot." 

"How far are we from DS9?"

"Not very far," said Garak, "but I'm afraid it may be awhile 
before we get there."

Through the window of the runabout that curved above the 
bench, he could see stationary stars through wisps of a
pinkish mist.  "We're not moving." 

"We're in the Tregastyn Nebula," Garak explained.  "It seems 
we were being followed after all."  

"They haven't seen us?" 

"Not yet-"  But a series of warning beeps from the runabout 
sensors immediately contradicted this.  "We'll have to continue 
this conversation later," the tailor said, and returned to the 
cockpit.

"Hadn't you better go too?" Julian asked Miles.

"Garak can manage--that Cardassian could dodge anything that 
comes at him," O'Brien answered, but without the rancor he 
usually reserved for Garak.  "Besides, someone's got to stay 
here and keep an eye on you."

"I'll be fine, Miles.  And Garak's not the only one who has 
a few technical tricks up his sleeve," he spoke teasingly, 
almost flirtatiously.  "I'll be able to rest much more easily 
knowing that you're up there, doing what you do best."  Miles 
was beginning to regard him with confusion again, and Julian 
reassured him in more serious tones, "I'll shout if I need 
anything." 

Reluctantly, O'Brien left him to join Garak in the cockpit.  
The stars outside the window drifted from sight as the run-
about moved slowly, more deeply, into the nebula and the pink 
mist grew thicker and more murky.  For several long, anxious 
minutes, he lay silently holding his breath and waiting for 
some indication of whether or not the Romulans had found them
--an increase in speed, evasive maneuvers, a disruptor blast
--but nothing happened.  

Then he began to feel extremely tired; this short period of 
wakefulness had taken a lot out of him.  He shut his eyes and 
slept again, knowing that he would be safe.

~~~
iv

For the first time, he woke up alone.  A dull rose-tinted fog 
pressed to the windows--they were deep inside the nebula now.  
His friends must be occupied with their pursuers, to leave him 
unattended this long. 

He had to urinate.  Should he call for someone to help him?  
No, he didn't want to be a bother if they were in the middle 
of a crisis and, besides, the bathroom door was barely three 
meters away.  Surely he could walk that far by himself?

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bench to 
gingerly place his feet on the floor.  When he stood, his
head whirled and his legs felt somewhat unsteady beneath him, 
but he refused to sink back down.  The wound in his belly 
throbbed at every step, but he clenched his jaw stubbornly 
and hobbled his way across the room.

No blood in the urine, he was relieved to observe.  But that 
throb in his belly concerned him--Miles was probably right; 
he was developing an infection.  He have to take a fresh 
medical scan.  He wanted to look over the scans taken since 
his rescue too, to find out exactly what his injuries had 
been, and what his friends had done to treat them. 

As he washed up, he caught his reflection in the mirror above 
the sink: Face startlingly pale, gaunt, covered by a week's 
worth of stubble.  Faint, purple discolorations where the 
worst bruises had been.  That fever-bright, glassy look in 
his eyes.

*Such a gloriously beautiful creature,* he thought wryly. No 
wonder Miles had drawn away from him: he looked like Death 
warmed over.

Garak found him wandering around the aft compartment shortly 
afterwards.  "Doctor, you shouldn't be up."

"I want to check on my condition.  Where's the tricorder?"

"I will find it for you.  Now, no more arguments--you're 
getting back into bed, young man, if I have to carry you."

This parental tone was so unexpected that Julian had to laugh.  
"You sound just like my mother."  But Garak was frowning at 
him so implacably that he didn't dare argue.  Surrendering 
before that stern Cardassian scowl, he turned to go back to 
bed--when his legs suddenly refused to support him.

Garak caught him before he hit the floor; an arm went around
his back, another swept up behind his knees, and the next 
thing he knew, he was cradled against the tailor's chest with 
his feet in the air.

"I did warn you, Doctor."

"I'm fine."  He rested his head on Garak's shoulder; his heart 
was pounding hard.  "Just a bit dizzy."  

"If I'd come in a minute later, I would have found you lying
on the floor," Garak continued to scold him, with affection, 
as he carried him back to the bench.  "You've already caused 
enough anxiety, nera'li.  I won't put up with any more from 
you." 

Julian found himself seated on one solid Cardassian thigh, and 
one arm remained firmly around him while Garak sat at the edge 
of the bench to shake out the blanket and smooth the rumpled 
towel.  He felt shyly, strangely awkward, at being held so 
closely--perhaps more closely than was necessary?  This wasn't 
the first time Garak had held him, but he hadn't been embarrassed 
by it before.  And both of his friends had been over every inch 
of his body when they'd bathed him and tended his injuries, and 
that had not been embarrassing either.  But now he was aware of 
a sexual aspect to it, and _that_ made an enormous difference.

*"Did you-?/"No. I don't suppose _you_-?"/"Me?  No."*

Garak lay him down on the straightened bedding and spread the 
blanket over him.  As the tailor leaned down to tuck him in, 
their faces were very close.

*I could kiss him,* thought Julian.  *If I lifted my head just 
a little, just enough to reach his mouth--I wouldn't even have 
to explain...*  But he didn't dare.
 
Garak moved away; Julian shut his eyes.  "Tricorder."

"Doctor?"

"You said you were going to find it for me."

While Garak went in search of the tricorder, Julian turned to 
lie on his side and, head resting in the crook of his arm, 
considered his friend.

There was not much he could do where Miles was concerned.  It 
wouldn't be fair to go after a married man.  But with Garak?  
Here, there were opportunities, if they wanted to explore them.  
An astonishing tenderness had been revealed in the way Garak 
was caring for him; it was a side to the enigmatic Cardassian 
that Julian had never seen before, but he thought he would 
like to see more of.

"What was that name you called me?" he asked.

"Name, Doctor?" Garak replied absently as he sorted through 
the empty coffee mugs and datapadds scattered on the small 
table at the center of the room. 

"It sounded like 'Nearilly'."  And, now that he thought about 
it, hadn't he heard Garak use the same word before?  Yes--
murmured as a prelude to that toneless hum the tailor had 
used to comfort him.

"Nera'li," came the correction.  "It's a sentimental Kardasi 
term."  

Julian thought this was a rather evasive answer.  "Like 
'dear'?" he pressed, half-teasing, half-eager to learn the 
truth.  "Or 'darling'? 'Sweetheart'?" 

Garak had found the tricorder under the chair where O'Brien 
had been sitting earlier.  He crouched to pick it up but, 
at these playful words, straightened again to stare at the 
doctor.  "'Darling', I suppose, is the nearest Federation-
standard equivalent," he answered carefully.  "It's the 
diminutive form of a common endearment--used primarily when 
one is addressing a child."

"A child!" 

At his indignant yelp, Garak burst into a full smile.  "Now, 
Doctor, didn't you just say that I reminded you of your mother?"  

As he stepped around the chair to give Bashir the tricorder,
Miles came in from the cockpit. 

"Your _mother_?" the Chief echoed, catching this last remark.  
"No offense to her, Julian, but if _that's_ true, you must've 
gotten your looks from your father's side of the family."

Garak's smile tightened into a thin line.  Julian hastily
changed the subject.  "I assume that things have quieted
down, since you've both come back to visit me?  No sign of 
the Romulans?" 

"They're out there somewhere," O'Brien answered, "but we've 
managed to stay out of their way. There's enough fluorine gas 
in this cloud to confuse their sensors.  It's confusing _our_ 
sensors too--but as long as we can't see them, they can't 
see us either.  We're safe enough for the time being.  It's 
just a matter of waiting `em out."  He crossed the room to 
Julian's bedside.  "How're you feeling?"

Still woozy, and those pulsing throbs in his abdomen had not
subsided; nevertheless, he answered optimistically, "I was 
just going to scan myself and see, but I expect to find my 
condition's improved. I've even been up and about, haven't I, 
Garak?"  

O'Brien whirled on the Cardassian.  "You didn't let him get 
up?  As sick as he is?"

Julian set down the tricorder and struggled to sit up.  No, 
not an argument; he hadn't meant to start them off...
 
But before he could tell Miles that Garak wasn't to blame, 
the tailor replied in tones of injured innocence:  "My dear 
Chief, I couldn't stop him.  You know how stubborn our doctor 
can be.  When I found him up, it was all I could do to drag 
him back to bed."  

They stared at each other, and then Miles turned back to him 
with one eyebrow archly upraised.  "Julian, is that true?"

"Yes, it's true," he confessed meekly.  

"I knew we shouldn't've left you alone," Miles huffed.  "You 
were easier to take care of when you were unconscious.  The
minute I turn my back, you're out of bed and running all over 
the place!"

"I was not 'all over the place'," Julian protested, more 
amused than contrite.  More scolding?  He was grateful that 
Garak hadn't said anything about his dizzy spell; O'Brien 
would probably hit the ceiling if he knew about that.  "I 
only got up to use the 'fresher-"

"Well, no more of _that_.  If you want something, you yell,
and one of us'll come and help you.  From here on, Julian,
you're to stay put.  That's an order."

"You can't give me orders!  I outrank you."

"Well, I'm doing it anyway."  Miles folded his arms and looked 
uncompromising.

"That's mutiny."  He appealed to Garak, "You'll let him get 
away with that?"

"Doctor, I will help him enforce it."  And the tailor frowned 
at him from under lowered eye-ridges with exaggerated severity. 

Julian grinned; they were ganging up on him! "You big bullies," 
he said without resentment.  This was too funny, and really 
too sweet.  "All right, I'll be good.  But I want you to do 
something for me--Listen.  I've got something important to tell 
you."  Now.  It was the right time.  "You've been so wonderful 
through all of this."

"It was nothing."  Miles tried to retreat into gruffness, but 
Julian was not going to let him.

"No--it _is_ something," he insisted.  "Please, don't pretend 
it isn't.  You wouldn't have gone to this kind of trouble if 
I didn't mean something to you.  I've been so stupid not to 
realize it before-" 

He stopped then as those little pulses turned into a sharp 
spasm of pain.  A warm, wet gush spread over his lap.  

He put his hand down beneath the blanket to the now-soggy 
pressure bandage, then came back up with his fingers smeared 
in blood.  "Oh, god..." 

Garak immediately took him by the wrist.  "Keep calm, Doctor."  

O'Brien was already at the foot of the bed, bringing equipment 
out of the medkit.  "Where's that blasted tricorder?"

They fumbled through the bedding until they located it, then 
turned him to lie flat on his back.  O'Brien pulled aside 
the blankets and hospital gown, and removed the dressing to 
clean the wound; he tossed a second towelette packet to Garak, 
who set the tricorder down on Julian's chest and wiped the 
blood off his fingers.

"There is an abscess 1.6 cm beneath the wound surface that 
appears to have ruptured..." as Garak read the tricorder
readings, he stroked Julian's temple with the backs of his 
fingers; Bashir shut his eyes, comforted by the touch.  He 
was given a hypospray injection and the pain diminished.

Calmer now, he said, "Miles? The first thing you have to do 
is drain the abscess.  Is there an aspirator in the medkit?  
That's an instrument that looks like a flux coupler with a 
long, thin tube at the end."

"I've got it.  Now you just relax--You're the patient here, 
not the doctor."  

Julian would have protested, but he was forced to admit that
his friends were handling this remarkably well.  They weren't 
medics.  Neither had any medical knowledge beyond the standard 
first-aid.  But this was the emergency they had prepared for: 
they'd studied the information on the datapadd in the medkit, 
coordinated their efforts.  They knew what they were doing.  

He focused on their words--Miles' reports on his progress, 
Garak's tricorder readings--and tried to think of it as a 
clinical abstraction.  The disinfection and repair of an 
ulcerated, seeping wound.  Not _his_ body.  Not him that this 
was happening to.  But, just beneath the surface, terrified 
thoughts were whirling:   

*I'm going to die.  But I can't!  Not here, not like this.  It's 
too soon.  It's so pointless!  And I haven't had the chance to 
tell them yet.  I can't die before I've let them know.*

*I don't want to die.  Don't want to die...*

"You won't die," Garak said soothingly.  Julian was startled; 
how much had he spoken out loud?  "We wouldn't dream of letting 
you."

"Nearly done," O'Brien added.  "I just need to clean this up 
and put a fresh bandage over it."

He sobbed.  

"Julian, you're going to be all right!  Garak, what readings 
are you getting?" 

"The damage has been repaired.  No sign of internal bleeding."

"There, see?  You'll be fine."  

But everything he'd been suppressing was bursting forth: 
Memories of his arrest and interrogation.  The dark little 
cell they'd locked him in between the rounds of questioning.  
The sharp-clawed, metal insect burrowing into his flesh.  The 
blood oozing from between his fingers.  The hours of drugged 
and feverish limbo.  More blood on his fingers.  His life 
flowing out.  He'd come too close to the edge of the abyss 
too many times, and that dark pit of emptiness was more than 
he could bear.
  
With a cry of panic, he twisted to get up, get away.

"Julian!" O'Brien gripped both his thighs.  "Stop thrashing 
around!  I just got that wound closed--D'ye want to open it 
up again?"

The restraint only made him struggle more frantically.  The 
tricorder flew to the floor as he sat bolt upright.  Garak 
captured his splinted arm before he could club anyone with 
it.  "Doctor, stop it!  Be still!"  Miles' grip on his legs 
tightened.  He kicked and bucked against the hands that 
pinned him, but he was too ill, too weak, to go very long.  
They might as well be holding him iron bands for all he 
could break free.  He stopped struggling and, helplessly, 
began to cry.

Garak continued to hold him while Miles quickly rebandaged 
the wound and tugged the blood-stained gown back down to cover 
him.  When they finally let go, he pulled free and turned away, 
sobbing harder.

"What is it, Doctor?  Are you in pain?"  

He shook his head, face buried against the pillow.  "Oh god, 
I'm so sorry." 

"Sorry?" Miles echoed. "What've you got to be sorry for?"

"I've ruined it all.  I should've done something when I had 
the chance.  Why didn't I?  'S too late now."  He took a 
deep breath, and tried to tell them:  "I never had anyone.  
You don't know what that's like.  So empty--no matter what 
you accomplish, it's pointless if there's no one who loves 
you.  All of it, a waste.  I don't want to die alone."

"You're not alone--and you're not going to die!" Miles
insisted fiercely.  

"I don't want to be lonely anymore."  He lifted his head.  
"You won't let me be alone, Miles?  You won't pull away 
again?"

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"_You_ love me, don't you?"

"Er-" Miles hesitated at the question.  "Don't you know by 
now?  You're gonna make me _say_ it?" 

Julian knew that tone--the one people used when humoring a 
sick child.  He twisted to look over his shoulder at Garak.  
"What about you?"

"Yes, of course, Doctor.  You're very dear to me too," Garak
replied.  He threw a quizzical glance in O'Brien's direction, 
but Miles was regarding Julian with a worried frown.

Then Miles told Garak, "Stay with him," and got up.

"What are you going to do, Chief?"

"I'm getting us out of here.  If we go through to the far 
side of the nebula, we can slip out 'n' around that Romulan 
ship and be half-way to DS9 before they know we've gone."

"I thought we were going to wait this out?"

"We can't wait anymore--not when Julian's in _this_ much 
trouble.  We have to get him home as soon as possible."

~~~
v

After Miles had gone, Garak tried to coax more coherent 
information out of him, but Julian was not up to answering 
questions and could only respond in fitful sobs.  Finally, 
the tailor gave up and sat patting him lightly between the 
shoulderblades until he cried himself out and slept.

A sudden, sharp bank of the runabout jolted him awake again
and might have tossed him out of bed if Garak, still at his 
back, had not put up a steadying hand to catch him.

"What is it?" he asked.  "What's happening?"

"Why don't I go and find out?" Garak suggested, and left him 
briefly to visit the cockpit.  When he returned, he announced 
cheerfully, "A minor, if abrupt, course correction.  Mr. 
O'Brien says he's sorry he woke you."

Unobstructed stars were streaking past the windows: they were 
traveling at warp speed.  "We've left the nebula?"

"Some time ago.  We are now crossing the Neutral Zone, and
should be past the last outposts and in Federation space
very soon."  

Julian had the impression that Garak wasn't telling him 
everything.  "We're not being pursued, are we?"

"There's no reason to worry.  Rest assured, Chief O'Brien has 
the situation well in hand."  Which really wasn't an answer.  

Garak got a glass of water from the replicator before he 
returned to the bedside.  "Are you feeling better, Doctor?"
he asked as he helped Julian sit up to take a sip. 

"Yes, better, thank you."  

"Are you ready to tell me what brought about that outburst?  
Poor Chief O'Brien has been in terror for your life, and I 
must admit that I can't blame him."  

"It was nothing.  A fit of hysterics.  When I saw all that 
blood, I knew-" he swallowed hard, "I knew how serious the 
damage was.  I was certain I was about to die."

"We are only a few hours from DS9," Garak said gently.  "Mr. 
O'Brien has spoken to Commander Sisko--your medical staff 
is prepared to receive you in the Infirmary as soon as we 
arrive.  You're going to be fine."

"I know.  But when you've been that close to death, it makes 
you- ah- think about your life.  Everything that's been left
unfinished."  He could see that now; beyond the plain fear of 
death lay a greater terror: the fear of living unloved and 
alone.  "Do you know the old saying, Garak--the things you 
wind up regretting are the things you haven't done?"

"No, and I can't say that I agree.  I've done so many things 
I wish I hadn't."  He gave Bashir a small smile.  "What is 
it you regret not doing?"

"This-" And, this time, he dared.

At the light touch of his lips, Garak pulled back and regarded 
him with open surprise.  Then he recovered sufficiently to say, 
"Why, Doctor, what brought _this_ on?"

Julian was nonplussed by this carefully casual response.  "I 
thought you'd be pleased."  

"Flattered, certainly, if somewhat...concerned about your 
motivations."

"I heard you and Miles talking," he explained.  "You said 'No'
--You told him that you'd never- ah- had me."

Garak smiled again, more broadly this time. "But, Doctor, that 
was the truth.  Would you rather I had lied about it?"  He was 
using the same indulgent tone Miles had, Julian realized with 
dismay.  They were determined to treat him like a sick child,
and not take anything he said seriously.  "Chief O'Brien told 
me _he_ had never touched you either.  I assume he was also 
telling the truth?" 

"I wish it _was_ true," Julian pushed on.  "I wish we'd made
love, just once.  Elim, I'm so sorry.  I never understood-"

Three fingers suddenly pressed to his lips, silencing him.  

"No more of this nonsense," Garak insisted with a vehemence
that left Julian more startled than the fingers over his 
mouth.  "You are not yourself, and when you are well again, 
you'll wish you had never said these things to me." 

The runabout rocked as disruptor shots hit their shields.  
Garak looked relieved at the interruption.  "If you'll 
excuse me, dear Doctor," he said as he let Julian go.  "I 
suspect I'm needed up front."  

Only a few minutes later, Julian sat up and wrapped the 
blanket around his shoulders.  He was tired of being treated 
like a child; he refused to be disregarded any longer.  They 
were going to listen to him if it was the last thing he did.

When he stood up, he felt more unsteady than before, but 
the throbbing pain in his abdomen had subsided.  Carefully, 
quietly, he left the aft compartment.  As he headed forward, 
he could hear their voices from the cockpit:

"They've recloaked.  Can you track from their last position 
and figure out where they've gone?"

"No, I've lost them."

"How far are we from the Federation border?"

"Another 500,000 kilometers."

"We'll just have to make a run for it... How's he doing?"

"He is not out of danger yet.  In fact, I think he may be 
delirious." 

"He has been acting kind of- well- peculiar since he first
woke up," Miles agreed.  "He didn't say anything about what
set him off like that, did he?"

"No, Chief.  Nothing intelligible."

"Mphm," said Miles.  "After all the poor kid's been through, 
I don't suppose he knows _what_ he's saying."

Julian stood at the back of the cockpit, stunned.  Had he mis-
understood?  All this time, had he been seeing an ordinary, 
friendly affection and concern for his well-being, and mis-
reading it as...something more? 

And what about that conversation?  What had he heard in those 
No's?  Was it disappointment, or merely blunt honesty in 
response to a very personal question from someone each man 
disliked intensely?

He looked at it from that perspective: If nothing more than 
friendship had brought them after him, then his behavior must 
seem baffling.  He'd cuddled to Miles, even kissed Garak! 
They were kind enough to attribute his unusual behavior to 
his illness--but that last hysterical outburst had alarmed 
them enough to leave the relative safety of the nebula and 
speed home in spite of the risks.  There was a Romulan ship 
out there, cloaked, waiting to strike.  They were in danger 
right now because of him.

As the runabout accelerated, the jolt knocked him off his 
feet.  The sound of his falling made them turn around.

"Julian, what're you doing?  Get back to bed!" Miles shouted.

Garak left his chair and would have taken him back to the aft 
compartment, but the Romulan ship decloaked to fire on them 
again and forced his attention to their defense.  "Doctor," he 
ordered as he resumed his seat, "stay where you are.  I will
come for you as soon as I can." 

Julian sat on edge of transporter platform with his legs drawn 
up and his knees hugged to his chest as fresh waves of dizzi-
ness overcame him.  He regretted everything.  He should have 
kept his mouth shut.  He shouldn't have flirted.  He should 
have stayed where he was, safely in the back; hadn't he caused 
enough problems already without providing a distraction while 
his friends were fighting for their lives?

"There's another ship decloaking directly ahead," Garak 
reported with a note of dread.

Julian shut his eyes and braced himself for the final blast. 
"All of this is my fault," he murmured, too softly to be heard.  

And then Miles shouted: "It's the Defiant!"

~~~
vi

Once the Romulan ship was forced to retreat, they beamed him 
directly to the Defiant's sickbay, where the medical staff was 
prepared to receive him.  The necessary abdominal surgery was
swiftly performed, and his broken wrist repaired.  He slept 
through most of the journey home, and did not see his friends 
at all. 

Back at DS9, he was transferred to the Infirmary.  Dax came 
to fuss over him every day during his recovery, and Sisko 
stopped by to ask him about his arrest and interrogation, but, 
after seeing that he wasn't ready to talk about this ordeal, 
deferred a full debriefing until a later date.  The commander 
also assured him that Garak and O'Brien would not be repri-
manded for their unauthorized rescue mission.

The first time O'Brien came to visit him, he tried to say
how sorry he was for all the trouble he'd caused.

"Miles, I want to apologize-"  

"Now don't start _that_ up again!" his friend cut him off
immediately.  "You scared the hell out of me the last time you 
started apologizing for god-only-knows what.  You're not about 
to burst out screaming and crying, are you?"  He was only half-
joking; beneath the feigned alarm, Bashir could see that the
Chief was really anxious about another emotional outburst. 

"I won't scream," he promised.  "But I wanted to talk about 
that, to try and explain some of the things I said."

"You don't need to explain.  Garak's already told me--you were 
afraid you were going to bleed to death and you panicked.  It 
was only natural."
 
"Yes, I know," Julian persisted, "I was hysterical, and probably 
not very lucid to begin with.  I nearly got us all killed, but 
I did have reasons for the way I was acting--reasons that made 
sense to me at the time.  I don't know if they still do."  But 
he needed to find out.  He had to know the truth.  Had he mis-
understood?  "You see, after you and Garak found me, I slipped 
in and out of consciousness.  Sometimes, when you thought I was 
sleeping, I wasn't.  I heard- well- I heard a lot more than you 
think I did."

Miles began to look embarrassed.  "You heard me singing, didn't 
you?"

Julian nodded.  He was ready to tell his friend what else he
had overheard, when Miles went on:

"I suppose now you'll never let me hear the end of it."

"I won't tease you--all right," with a hint of a wicked grin, 
"maybe just a little.  But that doesn't mean I'm not sincerely 
touched by it.  You were doing your best to help me, to give 
me a lifeline to hold onto so I could find my way back out of 
the dark.  That's nothing to be ashamed of."   

"You really feel like that about it?"  And, when Bashir nodded 
again, he admitted, "I'll tell you, Julian--it's been on my 
mind.  A lot of odd things got said when you were sick, and 
I wouldn't want you to take anything _I_ said the wrong way."
 
Miles didn't care about _his_ aberrant behavior, Julian realized; 
he was more worried about what his own words might have revealed 
during those hours of crisis: in his singing of lullabies, in his 
conversations with Garak, and especially during that hysterical 
scene when Julian had turned to him and demanded to be loved.
"I never actually made you say it, did I?"

O'Brien turned red around the ears.  "No," he answered, "but 
that's just as well, isn't it?"

He dropped by a few more times after that, but Julian didn't try 
to force the issue.  It wouldn't be fair to make his friend un-
comfortable by pressuring him to talk.  Whatever Miles felt for 
him, in friendship or otherwise, he was obviously reluctant to 
acknowledge it.  Perhaps even to himself.

Julian hoped that he would be able to discuss things more freely
with Garak, but the tailor did not come to the Infirmary until 
the end of the week. 

"I'm pleased to see you looking so much better, Doctor," Garak 
began, smiling at the sight of Bashir sitting up in his biobed.  
"You'll be able to leave here soon?"

"Tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact," Julian told him.  "I've 
finally convinced my staff to let me finish my recuperation in 
my quarters, but they told Commander Sisko it'll be at least 
another two weeks before I can return to duty.  I think they 
enjoy bullying me as much as you and Miles did when I was _your_ 
patient."

"Oh, I think everyone enjoys seeing a doctor on the other side 
of strict medical supervision," Garak agreed pleasantly as he 
took a seat.  "I ought to have visited you earlier, but I'm 
afraid I've been kept busy since our return."

"You're assisting the science staff in their research on the 
tsfala."  Miles had told him about this.

"I tried to tell them that I'm no expert on Romulan interro-
gation equipment, but Chief O'Brien had already informed 
Commander Sisko that I knew enough to extract the device..."  
the glib sentence trailed away unfinished as Julian drew his 
knees defensively up toward his chest.  "I'm sorry," Garak 
said softly.  "I didn't mean to remind you."
 
"You didn't remind me.  How can I forget?"

He'd asked to see the tsfala when Dax's science team had brought 
it into the Infirmary to be scanned, but had shuddered at his 
first glimpse of it--A metallic, egg-shaped sphere, captured 
within the narrow tube of a sample container, deactivated, claws 
withdrawn and harmless, but there were still dark smears of his 
blood on the shining surface. He'd made them take it away again 
quickly.

"I was really alarmed for you, Doctor," Garak confessed.  "It 
seems Mr. O'Brien and I arrived just in time to retrieve you 
before your final interrogation.  The Romulans only use the 
tsfala as a last resort.  The subject is not expected to sur-
vive.  You were very lucky."

"I had very good friends to look out for me," Julian responded. 
He studied the man seated beside him, watching him with concern, 
and made one last effort to learn the truth.  "Garak, I wanted 
to talk to you, about what- er- happened on the runabout."

"I don't know what you mean."

"When I- well- when I kissed you."

"Oh, that," the tailor said dismissively.  "Think no more 
of it, Doctor.  You were very ill.  We agreed you weren't 
yourself."

"I never 'agreed' to any such thing!" Julian protested. "Elim, 
please, I have to know-"

"You were ill," Garak repeated firmly.  "You nearly died--
you said yourself that that kind of experience has a way of 
affecting one's perceptions.  You said and did things you 
never would have dreamed of otherwise.  It's better if you 
forget them.  I intend to."
 
Julian shut his mouth.  So, this was the answer: no answer.  
If Garak did feel anything more than friendship for him, he 
would not admit it any more than Miles would--though for very
different and less explicable reasons.  

But what did the reasons matter?  All it meant was that he was 
going to be alone after all.

He felt tears welling up and he began to blink rapidly, hating 
himself for being so foolishly, overly sensitive.  This was 
the most humiliating part of being ill.  "All right, Garak.  
I won't talk about it anymore.  I understand--You don't care 
that way for me."

"Doctor, please don't-" Garak began urgently, disturbed by 
the tears spilling from his eyes. "My dear-"  Then, with more 
gentleness, "Nera'li. Don't be silly."  And he reached out to 
brush Bashir's temple with the pad of his thumb. 

At the caress, Julian stopped and gaped at him.

The tailor rose from his chair.  "I can see you're not ready 
for a long conversation yet.  I'll leave you to rest now, but 
I hope we'll be able to meet for lunch again one day soon."

"In my quarters?" he asked hopefully.

"Certainly," Garak replied with caution, "if you're sure I 
won't tire you."

"You won't tire me.  I'll send you an invitation as soon as I 
feel up to it."

"I look forward to it." Garak turned to leave, but stopped at 
the doorway.  "Tell me, Doctor--you haven't flung yourself at 
Chief O'Brien this same way, have you?"

"No," said Julian, puzzled even further. 

"I suggest you not try it."

"I wasn't going to.  It would only embarrass him."

"I'm so glad we agree on that."  And Garak went out.  

Julian sat staring at the empty doorway long after the Car-
dassian was out of sight.  Was he mistaken?  Did Garak have 
feelings for him, or not?

He knew he was not completely well yet; he was still emotion-
ally hyper-sensitive, still too vulnerable.  Still too eager 
to jump to the wrong conclusions.  But what had Garak meant by 
that little caress?  And what was he to make of the tailor's 
parting remark?  Was it simple advice not to repeat his mistake 
with his other friend?  Or was Garak jealous because he had 
turned to Miles as well?

Was Garak holding himself back so cautiously _not_ because he 
didn't care, but because he saw this sudden interest in both 
of them as a delusion born of trauma?  If Garak doubted _his_ 
sincerity, he would not want to reveal anything of his own 
feelings, and risk being rejected when he, Julian, was well 
again. 

Well, perhaps Garak was right: He had endured a horrific 
experience, and come to the heart of his worst fears.  It 
was only natural that he should want to cling all the more 
desperately to the men who had carried him out of that hell. 
Maybe, once he had fully recovered, this need would fade. 
Maybe he would be grateful that his friends had tried so hard 
to keep him from making a fool of himself.

He would wait. If Garak was right and all of this was the 
product of a fevered imagination, then nothing was lost. But 
if Garak was wrong...

He lay down on the biobed, smiling softly as he anticipated 
that lunch in his quarters. If he still wanted to pursue this 
when he was well, they would have that 'long conversation'.  
He would find out what Garak really felt, and he would make 
sure that Garak believed _him_! 

~end~