The jars of tablets are lined up like a firing squad.
"These are for the headaches," says Bashir. "You should take one now."
Garak nods, carefully, and complies.
"These are for the nausea, and these are to help you sleep." He frowns, beautifully. "Don't rely on these, Garak. I'm only giving you a few."
"Very well. And what are those?"
"Those... Those are for your mood."
"Of course," Bashir says, "what we really need to do is treat the underlying cause..."
One steady look is enough to stop that. "When can I go back to work?" says Garak.
"Don't know why you didn't just say," O'Brien grumbles. "I mean, it's a moment's job, at most."
Hardly a complex man, O'Brien – yet he still takes the time to look around Garak's quarters, size them up, raise his eyebrows at the damage done.
"I set the temperature to standard across the board when we arrived. To be honest, I had more to worry about than giving you all individual control. But it makes sense when you say it."
His babble is strangely soothing. Garak closes his eyes.
"There. That should warm you up nicely. Shall I do the lights next?"
"The doctor," growls Odo, "said that you wanted to do some work."
The constable is carrying a pile of sewing. Garak, suppressing the first smile he's felt in days, gestures toward the desk. Relieved of this burden, the constable folds his arms to begin questioning. Garak touches his temple.
"I've numerous questions," Odo says, "not least about four open homicides. But perhaps we can start with Enabran Tain."
"Tain?" Garak shakes his head as if he's never heard the name in his life. "Oh, Tain! You'll have to ask the doctor about Tain, constable. I haven't seen him in years."
"So I thought," says Jadzia, "that you might be able to come up with some ideas. Starfleet uniforms can be dull, day after day. I want to brighten up my look a little."
Garak isn't fooled by any of this. He knows that Bashir will have been talking. Bashir, he thinks, couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it.
Still, she is a very beautiful woman. And there's precious little beauty in his life these days, and less than nothing for him to do.
"Very well," he says, with a sigh. "Stand there. Let me find my tape."
Quark dumps the bottle of kanar on the counter without ceremony. "Here. You may as well have it. Nobody else is drinking it."
"I suppose not." Garak keeps a wary distance. "Shall I expect to see it appear on my bar bill?"
"Consider it payment for services not rendered." Quark bares his teeth slightly. "Classified biotech? You've got some nerve, Garak."
"I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about."
"And there was I thinking we were friends."
They stare at each other over the counter.
"Get well soon," Quark says. "There's a lot more where that came from."