Anonymous asked:
Schmoopy nonsense ahead.
He looks at the damage. It’s bad. Very bad.
One arm is almost completely severed. Parts of it that were never meant to see the light of day have been exposed to the harsh glare of the station lights, and he winces slightly at the pathos presented to him. The poor thing looks half-dead.
“You were right not to try to move him. Let me have a look.” He bends, peers at the wound; near him, the worried relative paces back and forth, wringing his hands.
“Thank you for coming over on such short notice… I just didn’t know what to do!”
“It’ll be all right. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“I know. I know you do.” A pause, a breath, as if to reassure himself. “You’re a professional, after all.” But the man’s eyes are still somewhat panicked.
“Yes, indeed. Although…” He pauses, looks at the frantic face hanging on his every word, thinks for a moment. “I wonder if I could ask you to assist with the procedure?”
Yes, that was the right thing to say. Suddenly there’s focus on those features. “Absolutely. What do you need?”
“Could you hold his head like so for me, please…?”
His demonstration is met with enthusiasm.
“Just like… will this do?”
“Yes, now… stay still…”
He begins to suture, carefully, each pass of the needle meticulously placed to leave no mark behind.
“Do you…” The voice tries to mask the nervousness behind the words. “Do you think you can repair the damage?”
“Oh, most certainly…” He smiles to himself. “I promise you, when I’m finished, he’ll be good as new.”
“Oh, thank God!” Elation in that voice now; there’s a brief loss of focus, and his little patient jiggles in unsteady hands—
“Hold him still!” He frowns, doesn’t look up, he’s concentrating.
“Sorry. Sorry, I just… it’s such a relief, you know?”
And there’s such emotion in that voice that now he does look up. He sees the way Bashir’s gazing down at his silly stuffed animal, at the depth of feeling in his eyes.
What does this thing mean to him?
“I’m not sure I do, actually.” He lets his voice drift light and easy; from the corner of his eye he sees Bashir glance at him.
“Sorry, it’s silly.”
“Not at all. Human ritual is of endless interest to me.” Another stitch, a loop through soft fur…
“It’s not Human ritual, not really. It’s just… Bashir ritual, I suppose.” A touch of embarrassed laughter in that voice, and he smiles at his hands, working on their own.
“That sounds even better. Do go on.”
And while he works, Bashir talks to him, spins him a story. It more than suffices as payment for his work. When he’s done, Kukalaka (how fascinating!) is indeed as good as new, and the gratitude in Bashir’s eyes is almost embarrassing.
He hands the little creature back to Bashir with a frown. “Do be more careful with him, won’t you?”
“Oh, absolutely. I mean, most things I can fix myself, but this…” There’s a shudder in Bashir’s voice, and Garak nods in understanding.
“It would have left a nasty scar.”
“And he’s got enough of those.” Now Bashir looks up from his bear with a bit of a grin, and Garak tilts his head, smiles.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Although the marks of previous repair are rather obvious. He could do better on his worst day.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Bashir nods, he nods back… but he can’t resist.
“Although I do hope you do better work on your live patients.”
“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
“I can’t see the back of my own skull.”
“Then I suppose you’ll just have to trust me that there’s no seam.”
He rolls his eyes, and Bashir grins.
chequerootlurks
