Dear Self

Title: Dear Self.

Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

Pairing: Garak/Bashir

Word count: 614.

Rating: R.

Warnings: Angst and mentions of addiction.

Beta:

tli gave it a once-over. Thank you!Feedback: Yes please.

Disclaimer: I don't own any Cardies or Doctors.

Summary: Garak has a little chat.

Link to this fic on AO3.

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Curses. Curses, Garak, you old idiot. You've spent years doing your very best to become more refined than most, and what do you do? You go and confirm one of the most hacked clichés there ever was. You can't even make yourself say it out loud. It's nauseating. You are a pathetic excuse for a Cardassian. Not that you were ever a specimen worth looking up to, but even the most average of your kind would frown at this sort of soft-hearted blather.

Perhaps it's a test? After all, your exile was the result of your own weakness. Maybe Tain placed this temptation under your nose to see if you've learned anything? Perhaps if you resist, he'll take you back... perhaps... one could pave all the stars and planets back to Cardassia Prime with perhaps and maybe. No. Not even Tain would believe you capable of this low point.

Not that it couldn't be a test. It most definitely could be. But more for the testing of your strength of will than your stupidity. Your exotic tastes are well known, after all. And if anyone knows you better than yourself, it's Tain. However, all the self-examination in the world could never prove you capable of this particular failing.

What does one even call it? Love? The word seems much too flat for this sensation. Ah, Garak. Even your gift for words never prepared you for this. The object of your obsession would no doubt have something to say on the subject. Call it “love at first sight” or something equally simpering. It's disgusting.

Yes, Garak. Have one more glass of Kanar. It won't do you any good and you know it. But at least drowning your sorrows tastes a little better than the sour flavour of your failure to stay one step ahead. The minute you decided to approach Doctor Bashir, you threw away any reputation you might have had for expertise or professionalism. Oh, you can call it strategy all you like, but you know what it really was. Weakness. That strange pull of your heartstrings which you decided was beneath you when you never managed to find anyone who pulled them just so.

But it looks like the joke's on you, Elim. You thought your exile was punishment enough before? Well, throw in a dash of good old heartache and you've got yourself a cocktail I doubt even you can swallow. Speaking of cocktails, let's have one more Kanar, shall we? Oh my, drinking out of the bottle now? Classy. What would your dear Doctor think if he saw you now, hmm? You know exactly what he would think. That you were ill.

If only that tricorder of his could diagnose a broken heart. That would certainly revolutionize the medical profession. Maybe he would make your suffering the theme of his latest thesis. Wouldn't that be fun... and speaking of fun, you might as well go to your desk-drawer now. You've been eyeing the thing for an hour now, considering giving yourself one more jolt from your implant. How high is the setting now? How many more levels do you have left to juice up on?

That's right. Just the one. And when that high fades, then what? When the numbness goes away and you're out of Kanar. Will you give in to temptation or do something even more stupid to keep away your demons? Love has crippled you, Elim. Simple, ridiculous, cloying infatuation. How the mighty have fallen. Go ahead. Push the button and let yourself drift off to that place where nothing hurts and your misery feels galaxies away.

And while you're at it, stop talking to yourself.

End.