DS9 Fic: The Care and Keeping of Cardassians (4)

It had been several weeks since Bashir and Garak had started having lunch together and Bashir’s fear had mostly been overcome by his curiosity. Garak was certainly flirtatious but he almost always knew how to take no for an answer, so Bashir had stopped worrying for the most part and was simply enjoying the lively debates and cultural exchanges that came along with such an experimental friendship. And there was still the intriguing possibility that Garak was a spy after all. Bashir always held on to hope that he’d be pulled in to another bit of intrigue.

But for now, it was just lunch meetings and the occasional extra time set aside for sharing cultural activities; like today, which found them in a holosuite re-creation of the tennis courts at Starfleet Academy.

Garak blinked around at the cloudless sky. He squinted at the outlines of the California hills and tall buildings as a breeze ruffled his feathery hair and the collar of the white polo shirt Bashir had insisted he wear. Garak, of course, had insisted on modifying it before wearing.

“Are these really ideal conditions for hitting a ball through the air?”

“Why, does the sun hurt your eyes?”

“Yes, actually, it does,” Garak said, going to pick out a racket. He had opted to go barefoot, and Bashir was secretly fascinated by his feet. The tendons connecting to each short, broad toe were highly visible beneath Garak’s tennis capris. They truly were more like the toes of a scaly paw rather than anything like human feet, and their leathery soles combined with the claws made an interesting sound when Garak loped across the court.

“Computer, change current weather to overcast.”

A blanket of clouds covered the sky and the court dimmed significantly. Garak smiled brightly to compensate.

“Much better! Now, I might actually stand a fair chance against you.”

“Oh I wouldn’t count on it,” Bashir teased. “After all, I was captain of my racquetball team at the academy, and racquetball isn’t all that different from tennis. Shall we take up positions?”

Bashir and Garak went to their stations on opposite sides of the net. Bashir held up the tennis ball.

“Alright, now you remember the basic objective?”

“I’m supposed to aim the ball so that it hits the ground on your side of the net and you can’t hit it back to my side. If you do hit it back, I have to prevent it from hitting the ground on my side.”

“Right, but when it’s served it should hit the ground once on the other side before it’s hit back. It’s only if it hits the ground twice on your side or goes out of the court after hitting the ground once that I get a point.”

“Seems simple enough,” Garak said, crouching slightly and adjusting his grip on the racket. He leaned forward, tail uncurling a little. “Are you serving first?”

“Yes. We’ll see if you can hit it back, and then you can try serving.” Bashir lifted the ball. “Now, form is very important when serving… you want to swing both arms up when you throw the ball, so that when you bring the racket forward it’s one smooth, circular motion, like this.” Bashir turned so Garak could see him from the side. “And you want to of course hit it just above you so that it doesn’t go right back down.” Bashir demonstrated without actually throwing the ball, just guiding it with his left hand. “And don’t forget you can do a backhanded swing too, when you’re receiving the ball.” Bashir demonstrated again, and Garak copied his movement with a powerful flick of his scaly arm.

“Alright, Doctor. Go ahead and serve.”

Bashir took a deep breath, threw the ball up and made it sail smoothly through the air. Garak’s eyes locked onto it and he pounced forward, made a swing at it, and hit, but the ball hit one of the posts holding the net and bounced off. Garak ran after it and managed to catch it.

“Good!” Bashir shouted. “Now you serve it back to me.”

He watched as Garak carefully positioned himself on the edge of the court, legs spread so that one knee jutted toward him and the other aligned with the court boundaries at a perfect right angle. Garak tossed the ball in the air and hit it, but a bit late—it hit the court just before the net and bounced into it. Garak ran after it again, but it was bouncing low. Garak crouched to grab it but couldn’t move nearly as fast in that position—only a sort of shuffle. Still, he managed to trap it with his racket and hurried back to try serving again.

“Garak, would you happen to know what kind of hip-joints you have?” Bashir called, finally unable to contain his curiosity. Somehow he still hadn’t found the time or resources to study Cardassian physiology properly.

“Standard Cardassian Union issue, I believe,” Garak called back. “Unless you’re saying you think they’re special somehow, in which case, I’m flattered, Doctor. I think your hips are nice too.”

“Um… yes, thank you, Garak,” Bashir rolled his eyes. “I was actually asking about Cardassians in general.”

“Ah. I’ve noticed humans comment on each other’s hips quite a bit. I suppose they are much more pronounced in your species.” Garak seemed to consider Bashir’s hips. “There can’t be that much variation in the joint, can there? It functions essentially the same.”

“Yes, but I can lift my leg up to here,” Bashir said, standing on one leg and hugging his knee to his chest as an example. “You can’t even lift your thigh to a ninety-degree angle.”

“Ah, I see. It’s the scales, I think. They’re very rigid in this general area.” Garak ran a hand down his hip and thigh. “I suppose we can thank evolution for that. After all, if we lose our legs, we can’t run away, and retreat is generally the better option when being hunted.”

“What about your internal organs? You don’t have much defense for those, if your belly is as soft as you claim it is,” Bashir pointed out.

“That wasn’t much of a problem millenia ago when we went along with our bellies to the ground,” Garak replied, adjusting his stance again. “Our backs are quite well protected. We’ve also invented armor for the military with that in mind. I’m sure, as a human, you understand that cleverness is just as much an evolutionary tool of survival. After all, you don’t even have fur to protect you from the cold, let alone any predators.”

Garak served and this time the ball sailed neatly over the net, striking once on Bashir’s side before he returned it. Garak managed to hit it over the net one more time before Bashir sent it out of the court.

“Good!” Bashir cheered. “You’re a quick study.”

Garak was busy chasing the ball again. Bashir wondered if he would ever get tired of watching the way Garak moved. The bottom half of his legs seemed to make up for the limited range of motion in his thighs. He was so focused, too—the way he locked onto the target of the ball suggested some kind of predatory instinct, but that seemed a bit odd in a pescetarian species. He tried to imagine some distant ancestor of Garak’s, snapping up fish in its jaws with lightning speed.

Then again, Bashir reminded himself, apes weren’t exactly known as the greatest hunters in the animal kingdom, and yet humans loved the same sorts of challenges.

“Ready, Doctor?” Garak hit the ball again before Bashir could reply.

For the next half hour, they played and kept score, and Garak developed a wicked backhanded stroke. His form improved drastically right before Bashir’s eyes, a thrilling confirmation that Garak was much more than he seemed to be.

“You’re a natural!” Bashir puffed during a break. Garak had finally pulled even with him in score.

“Beginner’s luck, perhaps,” Garak suggested, also panting but not sweaty as Bashir was.

“Are you sure you’ve never played tennis before? What kind of sports do they have on Cardassia anyway?”

“I’m afraid the concept of games like this is lost on my people,” Garak said, “dribbling” the tennis ball with his racket. “We learn plenty of hand-eye coordination skills during hand to hand combat and weapons training.” He lurched to grab the ball when it escaped his racket, and started again.

“You mean you don’t even have informal games of ball in the street? Everything’s about military strategy or physical combat?”

“No need to look so aghast. Children’s games are one thing, Doctor, but the rules of those games aren’t established anywhere and can change at the whims of the players. I find it equally intriguing that humans are so obsessed with competitive team sports even as adults. The only things remotely like a team sport which survive into Cardassian adulthood are hunting and escape exercises.”

“Hide and seek?” Bashir laughed. “Well, at least some things are universal. I’ve played a few games of capture the flag myself. But are you saying that all Cardassians are given military training, or was that a hint that you used to be in the military?”

“Ahaha.” Garak grinned knowingly at Bashir, his eyes slits of mirth, and twirled his racket in his hand. “It’s not going to work, you know. I’ve told you, I’m not a spy. Trying to trap me into admitting my secret identity is fruitless… because I quite simply don’t have one.”

“I’m just asking questions,” Bashir said playfully, pulling at his collar to let the air cool his sweaty torso. “You’re the one who’s acting defensive.”

“Now that you mention it,” Garak gasped, catching the stray ball with one snap of his hand and then dramatically freezing the pose, “I’m sure having a secret identity would make my dull life as a tailor much more exciting. Perhaps I should develop one. Would you like to join me, Doctor? I’m sure we’d make a great team.”

“And do what, exactly?” Bashir laughed. “Fight criminals with sewing needles and tennis rackets?”

“I’m sure we’d think of something,” Garak said slyly. “The question is, would you be able to handle the double life? You’re already quite busy as the station’s chief medical officer, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Speaking of which, we’ve only got an hour left.”

They played until Bashir was exhausted. He checked the time and realized his appointment with his patient was in less than ten minutes. A good excuse—Garak was still going strong, and his latent competitiveness didn’t like being shown up.

“I’ve got to go soon,” Bashir huffed after calling the time out.

“My dear Doctor, are you alright? Is it normal for a human to expel this much moisture at once?” Garak deposited his racket on the cart and splayed his fingers on Bashir’s chest, where the sweat had soaked through in a damp stain. He pulled his hand away with a shocked look, tasting the air.

“Yes, it’s normal. And yes, many of us also think it’s disgusting, but there’s really not much we can do about it. It’s either that or overheat....” Bashir grimaced at Garak. “I hope I don’t smell.”

“Oh, not at all, I find your scent quite interesting.” Garak put a hand on his damp back and patted it slightly. Bashir could feel the hard pointed tips of his fingers drum gently on his shoulder blade. “Why don’t we go down to the bar and I’ll get you a nice ice-cold glass of kava juice?”

Bashir took a swig from his nearly-empty water bottle and shook his head while he swallowed. “No, it’s alright. I’ll be fine. I’ve just got to hurry if I want to take a shower before meeting with my patient.”

“Then by all means, don’t let me keep you. I’d hate for you to be late on my account. Computer, end program!”

The tennis court vanished, with its surrounding breeze and sky and distant sounds of seagulls and motor vehicles. Once again they were in the stark checkered holosuite, floating on a station in Bajoran space. Only the cart and Bashir’s special tennis racket remained.

“I’ll just walk you back to your quarters, shall I?”

Bashir nodded and allowed Garak to steer him out of the holosuite and onto the second level of Quark’s bar. He jumped and actually yelped when Garak ran both hands through his sweaty hair. He could feel it standing on end now, and his scalp tingled from the massaging pressure of Garak’s scaled fingertips.

“What are you doing, Garak?” Bashir whirled, aware he must look absolutely mad now, what with his hair standing on end and sweat dripping from his chin. Garak, of course, looked completely innocent, like a child who’s been snapped at for doing a good deed.

“I thought it would help your head cool off faster. The air should be able to reach your skin better now. That is the purpose of sweating, isn’t it?”

Bashir blinked and waited, sensing. “Alright, maybe it’s working,” he admitted. “But… you really shouldn’t startle me like that!”

“My apologies, doctor,” Garak said, oh so contrite, but with a tiny ghost of a smile which made Bashir quite doubtful of his sincerity. They continued on down the stairs. Bashir reached up to feel his hair and arrange it in a way which would hopefully not look like a clump of something that had just washed up on the beach.

“Oho,” Quark laughed as they passed the bar. “I see you two had a good time.”

“Yes,” Garak said, nodding pleasantly to Quark. “We did. I’m sorry we don’t have time to stay for drinks today.”

“Just glad I could help.” Quark spread his hands and gave a little bow, grinning toothily. Bashir had the feeling there was some joke that had just gone way over his head, but he couldn’t think too hard about it now—he was running out of time to take that shower.

“So, Doctor, now that you’ve shown me the wonders of tennis… do you have time next week for me to share one of my favorite activities with you?”

“That depends,” Bashir said warily, striding quickly along the promenade. “What is it?”

“Swimming. In the hot springs of Soukara. It’s very relaxing.”

“Swimming?” Bashir tried to picture Garak in swimming trunks and found the image oddly entertaining.

“The holosuite program I use is a recreation of a particularly picturesque pool on a small island in the southern hemisphere. Lush plant life all around, occasional song from the local animals….”

“The delicious smell of sulfur,” Bashir joined in sarcastically.

“Well, if you don’t want to go swimming, then you only need to say so! We can do something else. Like a game of hide and seek in the scorching wildernesses of Cardassia Prime, for example!”

“No, no, swimming’s fine!” Bashir slipped into a crowded lift just as the doors began closing. “See you at lunch!”

Garak’s hand flicked out from behind his back and Bashir barely had time to register the bright green ball flying at his face before his hand snapped up and caught it. Then he saw Garak’s broadening smile, his eye ridges high as the lift door closed.

What was that about? Bashir was glad he’d bragged a bit about his athletic accomplishments—otherwise his enhanced reflexes would seem out of place, especially after he’d let Garak gain on him like that. As it was, nobody seemed to have noticed. He looked at the ball and realized he had no idea when Garak had gotten a chance to sneak it out of the holosuite.

Ah, well, he could hang on to it until their next little play-date. Swimming? What Major Kira would say if she knew he was going swimming with Garak! But he hadn’t even told anyone that he was taking Garak into the holosuites. He knew what they would say, and the thought had crossed his mind too. Meeting him in a public place, sharing lunch—that was one thing. Being locked up in a private holosuite for an hour or more at a time, well, that was something else.

It’s just swimming, Bashir thought rebelliously. Friends and coworkers go swimming together all the time. And nothing weird had happened yet. In fact, Garak had only invaded his personal space once they were out of the holosuite.

Besides, it would give him a chance to get a closer look at all those fascinating scales.