Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Cross	By : CyreliaJ Category: Star Trek > Deep Space 9 Views: 1139 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek Deep Space Nine or any of its characters. I'm also not making any money

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Note: I'm still working out the specifics of the end, but I've got a pretty good idea of what's to come as far as schedule, plot, and the like. No real warnings in this part but as for the remainder well, we'll just have to wait and see. Anyway, I want to thank everyone for reading and for joining me with this crazy idea. And of course, C&C is always welcome.
   “Quark, how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t gamble?”
“You don’t drink, you don’t gamble, you won’t even sit down,” comes the complaint from a diminutive man behind a makeshift wooden bar that almost seems too tall for him. He stands on a large wooden beam running the length of the bar, eyes scanning the inside of the bright tent, surveying the spinning dabo wheel. His eyes are calculating, teeth sharp, and he’s garishly clothed in a green silk shirt, a red vest trimmed in gold layered over it smartly. He shoots Julian a sour look. “It unnatural,” he declares.
“Unnatural? Charging five slips of latinum as a seating fee is what ought to be unnatural,” Julian retorts taking a drink of tea.
“A man’s gotta make money around here somehow. I need to offset my costs, doctor.”
“Costs? Really? I thought you made nearly a year’s profit this one week alone.”
“Stick to medicine, doctor, you don’t have the lobes for business. You’re forgetting I need to pay the expenses to keep Quark’s operating while I’m not there. I need to pay Rom. I need to pay someone to watch Rom.”
“You might just consider closing up shop during the festival- the capital’s a ghost town anyway.” There’s a look that passes over Quark’s face, a look of such disdain that Julian is rather impressed with it. Quark shakes his head as he stalks off muttering about “hoo-mans” and their lack of business acumen. Julian, for his part smiles as he takes another sip of his tea looking toward the flap of the tent as it parts open, keeping his back to the solid wood of the bar.
   “Jadzia!” he exclaims when he catches sight of the woman who enters. She’s tall- easily looking him in the eyes, her blue eyes twinkling brilliantly with mischief as she raises her hand. There’s a chainmail gauntlet wrapped around her wrist, and she’s still wearing the mail shirt of the fighters, a splash of tan spots on the sides of her face trailing beneath that shirt. Her hair is pulled back into a long braid, mussed and sweat damp as she walks towards him noisily. The sword at her side hits a seated man in the shoulder though she hardly seems to notice. The man opens his mouth, looking about to protest when he sees the culprit and immediately closes his mouth.
“Julian! I’m so sorry I’m late. I came straight from the training grounds but then I ran into Morn and well… you know how he goes on.”
“Don’t worry about it. Quark was just telling me about the em… what did he call it, the over and under on your victory.” Julian indicates a large wooden board with several names painted on it, Jadzia at the top the largest in a metallic blue script where Quark has her at a +400. “I think that’s because you drew Martok from the Klingon Empire in the first bracket. Minus twelve hundred I think is what they have him at… is that good or bad?”
   Jadzia laughs dragging him towards a table near the open flap.
“It means if Gowron had an army of him, we’d all be eating rahkt and drinking bloodwine right now. It means that Quark’s going to rake in a fortune when I win.” She smiles mischievously as Quark appears, the mention of his name sending him fluttering over- or likely, Julian figures, the fee for the table. Julian’s already reaching into his sleeve for his purse purposely not hearing any offers from Jadzia to pay. He throws down the latinum slips as Quark produces a bottle seemingly out of nowhere.
“Did my darling call for bloodwine?”
“Your darling?” Julian scoffs already counting out the extra for the drinks, seeing Jadzia’s eyes light up. “Weren’t you back there shouting a few minutes ago that only a fool would wager a week’s salary on a female to best a tube grub in a matter of combat let alone the head of the house of Martok?” Julian pays, knowing that Quark wouldn’t offer his own mother a free seat and glass of wine, let alone his... really Julian doesn’t even know what to call Jadzia and Quark; Jadzia as always reminded him to refrain from being so quick to label things.
“You know it’s just business, Julian,” Jadzia answers giving Quark’s lobe a playful rub that makes Julian take a few extra moments in messing with his pocket.
   “Dearest, you’re going to have to stop that,” Quark stammers.
“You know how Ferengi are when it comes to their business.”
“Yes, businessss… Actually I ah… need to see to something…” Julian hears another stuttered excuse before Quark departs in a rush. He can imagine Jadzia sneaking a few slips of latinum from his pockets as he does, but finds himself distracted, anxiously looking out to the bustling tent city at night. The colorful display as the citizens of all six great kingdoms have gathered greets his eyes, a kaleidoscope of fabrics. Those from The Cardassian Union, as far out as the Klingon and Romulan Empires, the Vulcans to the west, and the Andorrans have come as is the custom to meet here at the heart of the Federation of United Kingdoms. The heart being the vast desert stretching out like an endless sea of sand, brilliant white near the capital, shifting with the various mineral deposits, to the rust red where the War Night Festival is held. It was said that Kirk the Brave fought the Mighty Gorn for three nights and three days for the ancient land until the lands were soaked with the bloods of the veritable gods; Julian himself, never having seen any evidence of some other reptilian civilization tended to chalk it up to simple geology.
   He smiles, seeing two soldiers from the capital escorting a vibrant, raucous older woman through the streets; Lwaxana of the Fifth House of Betazed if he recalls, said to have the gift of the heart’s eye. And a fine knack for getting into mischief even at her age. That familiarity relaxes him, even as he sees a Cardassian hurry past- a man with short black hair neatly slicked back, pushing his spectacles up as he hurries with several bolts of fabric. Julian averts his eyes quickly, nearly jumping when he finds that Jadzia is studying him intently from behind that glass.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“What? Who, Quark? Oh, I’m sure this is all some great gamble no matter who wins your fight tomorrow, though I don’t see how you ever convinced his Majesty that you’d be a more suitable candidate for the Tournament than Worf. Half the ministers still cross to the other side of the street when you walk by muttering curses.”
“Not curses,” she corrects with an unrepentant grin, “Prayers of protection.”
   “They ought to be protecting themselves from the latinum which can’t help but find its way into their pockets when we’ve got so many still without proper food.”
“You’re wondering if it’s him. If the man that Emperor Tain presented as his son this morning at the Gathering ceremony is him.” He remembers it well. Six royal families gathered on the massive dais to pay their respects, and even with his position in the Sultan’s entourage in the front, the height of the ancient stone steps towering to the heavens made it hard to see clearly in the bright sun of the morning as the backdrop. It was deliberate, of course. The most keen of archers couldn’t hit an elephant with that sun’s angle flitting in and out from the East. He’d heard the trumpets, he’d seen the two emerge beneath the green banner, but as hard as he looked he could make out little to cement his father’s claim that the man next to Emperor Tain was the spy, the assassin Elim Garak.
   “You know that’s impossible.” Julian answers automatically. They said that the prince had returned from a long absence in the Bajoran Provinces and given the Union’s activity in the area it was entirely possible. But as far as Julian knew, he hadn’t been part of the coup that had overthrown the Central Command. Then again, little was known to outsiders after the diplomats had been dismissed and Tain had made his move to seize power. There had been worried whispers that Tain had far greater ambitions than even the rule of the Union, but that remained to be seen. And that was what Julian was here to stop.
“I know you, Julian. I bet you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him.” Her flippant manner unnerves him and automatically, Julian looks to see if anyone had heard. He had done as he’d been instructed. He hadn’t told anyone of the meeting with his father, nor his true purpose for seeking out the Prince in the crowds, but he still worries as his father had that he may be watched.
“Jadzia, please, we’re-”
“-not in the Capital, Julian, and even if we were you shouldn’t have to stay celibate for the rest of your life just to please everyone else.”
“That’s easy for a Trill to say.”
“It should be easy for anyone to say.”
“Yes well, it’s the decision I’ve made… just one of many, and besides, I have far too much work to do to worry about that sort of thing anyway.” He reaches into another sleeve pocket suddenly, pulling out a gold timepiece with a deep frown. He’d waited for Jadzia. He’d wanted to see her before the first round of the tournament tomorrow but now it very well may cause him to be late.
   He has a meeting tonight with Kelas Parmak, a respected doctor in Emperor Tain’s newly established court. Julian had met him earlier in the day. He was the Cardassian Union’s representative for the medical team of six tasked solely with overseeing the health of the tournament fighters. The moment Julian saw him, he knew that this too had to be part of the plan. Julian had attended the 5 year festival for the first time five years ago. He’d taken in the crowds, the people and he watched, he observed. He met a lot of Cardassians, studied hundreds more, and yet in that time he’d never seen a Cardassian man who was anything like Kelas Parmak. His hair was what had caught Julian’s attention first. It was long. When Julian caught a glimpse of his back he’d thought surely that in spite of the name Parmak must be female, but as he turned, looking at Julian, it was clear that he was male. Julian couldn’t be certain of how old he was. He didn’t seem old, he didn’t have the softness or stoop of age, but Julian knew that it could be hard to tell with Cardassians, as different as their skin was. He was tall, slender, but never seemed to tower over anyone he spoke with, instead subtly engaging down, a look of warm attentiveness on his face. When he looked at Julian it was with a gentle, engaging smile, and Julian almost tripped over himself as he bowed slightly, not taking the liberty of a human handshake. But again, Parmak had surprised him by taking clasping his right hand between both of his, not a jerky shake, but a light squeeze, that made Julian double blink and drop that eye contact before he made a fool out of himself.
   Parmak was also the only one who hadn’t seen fit to comment on Julian’s age upon meeting him. Unlike the Klingon doctor, Kowag, who felt it necessary to remark that “he may have hair on his face but he surely doesn’t have any on his sac.” At least he was the only one who actually laughed, though Julian would have sworn that the Vulcan, Sela’s mouth twitched just the slightest bit at that insult as well. Parmak had placed a hand on his shoulder and again, Julian was caught off guard by just how tactilely inclined the Cardassian was. But Julian could see him interact in the same manner with everyone who didn’t set any boundaries, and Julian found himself almost irrationally bristling whenever he watched those hands lightly brushing over another’s forearm. Julian’s father had told him that he needed to be on the medical team no matter what and until that moment that Parmak introduced himself, leaving the memory of blue eyes that only rivaled Garak’s, he didn’t understand. But then he understood. His father had said that there would be times when they must use their flaws to serve. He had thought that his father was speaking only of Garak, but watching Parmak carefully, seeming to watch him back, Julian felt a sick roiling in the pit of his stomach. That roil only tied itself into further knots when he looked over Parmak’s slim form covertly from behind one of the scrolls he was reviewing lusting, dreaming of that hair curtaining over some phantom lover. He’d shut his eyes and said a prayer to forgive himself for what he was about to do as he engaged Parmak with a proposition to compare notes to... get to know each other better. He didn’t know whether to scream or sing when Parmak suggested they meet in his tent that night. But it was the in that he needed. And he agreed eagerly
   “More work?” Jadzia asks interrupting that train of thought, and he already sees her silently wave over his head to someone seated behind him- likely several someones. Julian rises with a bow, thankful that he won’t need to field any questions.
“You know the work of a doctor is never done, his commitment to heal, his dedication to his oath, he doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat until he sees to his needy patients. That is his life.” Julian stands rather grandly. “And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“Well I hope I don’t disappoint you tomorrow, Julian, but I don’t plan on requiring your services.” He sees her definitely catch someone’s eye behind him and he wisely moves out of the way. “You’ll have to settle for resetting Martok’s nose when I break that petaQ’s face on my sword!” He sees her slam down the heavy cup and with an indulgent smile bids her goodnight just as a chorus of voices raise up in curses. He nearly runs into a mountain- or rather a mountain trio- as three craggy old Klingons barrel past him and he recognizes them as the troublemakers who usually get into the thick of it with Jadzia. He can only imagine what Kurzon Dax must have been like to inspire such loyalty in an entirely different host, but his mind is awash with far darker thoughts tonight as he starts walking just a little faster.
   Julian’s afraid that he’s going to be late if he doesn’t hurry, but it would be far worse to draw attention to himself. Or would it? It isn’t so late that the makeshift streets, the sparse blanks between the tents aren’t still teeming with a fair amount of people and he does have a legitimate purpose after all. He looks out, as far as he can see; the tent city stretches on for miles, the Cardassian encampment at the far southern edge. He can see where the color whirl begins to morph to grays and greens. First are the soldier’s tents separating the main Cardassian encampment and circling the perimeter. Julian draws his shoulders back, his cloak tonight the black and red of the Royal house of Sisko as he strides purposefully past the large soldiers’ tents. He sees the torches being lit as the sun finalizes its descent and he hears mothers calling their children inside. There won’t be fireworks until tomorrow, until the conclusion of the first day’s round of the tournament. And then the second and third day it will only grow more raucous as the winners and losers return to victory or jeers. Picard had been the one to introduce the tournament as a means of peacefully settling the differences amongst the warring Kingdoms and a victory by Lorgh that first year to cede half of the western fertile crest had cemented the neutrality of the event and thankfully led to the cease of hostilities. And some story of his own parentage that Worf was loathe to discuss with anyone.
   It also had the additional effect of glorifying violence, as far as Julian was concerned, the selection process for the representatives was especially brutal and full of arduous training for children as young as five years old. But then again, they won’t have to grow up knowing the world that you did as a child. They’re born today into a time of peace, they have these games instead of war. Be glad that the Institute is gone and that there won’t be children bred to kill the way that you were. And the tournament isn’t the only reason to be here, after all. We all have the chance to meet people from lands we might otherwise know, to understand each other and... He stops that thought short, a strange image of Kelas Parmak suddenly appearing before him, that clasp of hands, that smile, that crinkle of his eyes as he held back a laugh at something stupid that Julian had said. But that’s still a better distraction than thinking about the true reason he’s seeing Parmak; the reason that he’s even doing this at all. Julian doesn’t want to think about the caterpillars in his stomach that wormed their way into his stomach that night he left his father’s house, only to bloom fully birthed anew butterflies this morning as he first glimpsed the encampment knowing that he’d have to come here and see him.
   Julian still doesn’t know how he’s going to make contact with Garak. As the sultan’s personal physician he has some leeway but as for any sort of plausible excuse... Julian sighs, watching the angle of his shadow shift slightly, seeing the tents turn from modest to opulent, careful to recall Parmak’s directions. Two removed from Tain himself. Which could very well put him right near Garak- if he truly is that close to Garak’s tent. Julian has no delusions about the guard though, and the thought of sneaking in like a common criminal only makes him nervous again. Of course he can do it. Thanks to his father he can do a lot of things, can survive a lot of things no normal man ever should be able to but- But it will be quick, You know how to do it. Cardassians aren’t so different beneath the scales, beneath the ridges. You know that you’ll need to drive it extra hard, secure the angle just right because of that differential in the skull, but it will go in smoothly, quietly, and he won’t even be able to cry out. It... it won’t hurt. He deserves it... some even wish that the assassin who murdered Picard might be burned alive or stoned, but you won’t let it hurt, right, Julian? You know how to show mercy... even to him.
   Julian swallows, his steps slowing in spite of his need for haste as he draws closer to what he presumes is Parmak’s tent. He passes a large infirmary, seeing the painted symbol, reminding him of the oath he took to heal. He took an oath to save lives. And how many lives will be saved with just this one, Julian? How many would’ve been saved from the fire if you knew then what you know now? The fire. The inferno that raged through the capital ten years ago that by all rights should have claimed his life as well- if he was human, if he was a man and not a monster. If he hadn’t woken from that drug induced slumber and made him way from his bed to the Sultan’s chambers, an unseen specter, watching dumbly, deafly, as Garak, as his lover drew the blade across Picard’s throat. He can still see the blood when he thinks about it too long. he can feel that warmth gushing over his hands as if it were him and it makes him cold, shake, dry heave. Julian thinks perhaps that trauma was the only thing that stopped the migraines. Watching the palace burn, the fire spreading so fast that it engulfed a quarter of the city before it was contained, was almost too much to bear after Garak had fled. But not Garak’s shop. No, the shop was untouched, ransacked, three men caught perfectly in the act of the murder by the guards as they evacuated the quarter. And they just let the body burn, never questioning never stopping to think.
   Julian stops. He hadn’t realized that his hands were balled tight to fists until he begins to feel the tingle, the nails digging in. He still dreams of that night, of those nightmare images. He dreams of being torched in that conflagration, but worst of all he dreams of Garak still. Julian forces himself to breathe deeply as he stops in front of Parmak’s tent- at least he guesses that’s where he is. He’s surprised not to see guards but he knows well from the tales that he’s heard of the Obsidian Order that it doesn’t mean there aren’t any. But tonight he doesn’t need to worry. He knows that he has to wait until the final night. Tomorrow will start the tournament, and he knows that any interruption before a disruption before a victor is chosen could itself spell doom for the alliance between The Federation and Bajor. It will have to be the third night- after the victory, after the speeches, the night that they rejoice and all accords are signed. The main guard will be with those signing, and he’s confirmed a thousand subtle ways in speaking with the prince, that only the elders will be in attendance. Which means Garak will be far less guarded. Which means you’ve three days to get as close to him as you possibly can and then-
   “Doctor Bashir!” Julian nearly jumps as the tent flap parts and Kelas Parmak is a mere inches from his face all at once. “I was afraid that I might have scared you off.” He smiles, though it’s with the self conscious awareness of one who’s done just that same thing on more than one occasion. But as Julian smiles and begs to please be called just Julian, he takes one look at what Parmak is wearing and wonders how anyone could possibly be scared off by anything this man might do. It’s obscene. That’s Julian’s first thought, but he reminds himself it’s nearly identical to the clothes that Ambassador Kira had worn when she’d first come to the capital. It’s unusual. Julian has long accustomed himself to seeing Cardassian males, Garak included, in more modest dress. And seeing Parmak now blinking at him owlishly wearing that loose black shirt that more resembles an undergarment than proper clothing with its thick straps in lieu of sleeves, he’s not certain where he should even be directing his attention. That hollow of his collarbone, those ridges bared so blatantly seems almost scandalous. Julian looks further down quickly, but he still cannot help but see that shirt tucked into a belt, tucked into pants that he supposes by the standards of the north wouldn’t be terribly indecent. But Julian isn’t a Northerner and the hint of Parmak’s slender hips is just so-
   “Julian?” He hears Parmak’s voice and exhales sharply with a nervous laugh fixated on bare gray feet, on long toes that he irrationally wants to take in his mouth.
“I... I’m sorry is this a bad time?”
“A bad time?” He hears the confusion and realizes that no, Parmak clearly does not consider himself indisposed but seems quite at ease with his current state of dress. Julian shuts his eyes tightly, briefly, and reminds himself that this is okay. That this is fine. That’s he’s over thirty years old and hasn’t remained celibate for some ignorant belief in eternal damnation but for something far more personal. And that something is two damn seductions away.
“I’m sorry, can we do that again?” Julian steels himself, looking up giving his best smile as he sees Parmak’s face framed in the setting sun, definitely seeming far closer to Garak in age but no less easy to look at. Julian sees that ponytail loose, haphazard and he nearly groans. But Julian keeps that to himself, following as Parmak turns around wordlessly and ushers him inside. He still wonders what he’s even doing here but he knows that the intelligence that the Maquis have right now is far better than his own. This is the way to Garak, and this is the way that he’s going to go.
   Julian doesn’t even sense Elim Garak watching the two of them from a distance, with eyes, that few would recognize are ablaze with fury.
   “Are you Garak?” Julian asked as he took a final step into the shop. “Garak’s Clothier’s”, as the hand painted wooden sign outside had advertised it to be, was a modest sized shop, spaced carefully to the aesthetic of displaying certain pieces that he could tell were the man’s signature works. There were a few women’s kaftans along the far wall, gowns, beautiful wide pants and scarves along with a few northern inspired pieces framed with beading on the walls to accent the designs. He could see belted dresses with lower necklines, some sewn with a modest layered lining, a display of caps neatly separating the women’s clothing from the men’s robes and long shirts. A bright red fabric caught his eyes, the cloth spilling down like a crimson waterfall, certain to make a statement at court. He was sure that the elder members of the council would frown upon such ostentation but as far as he was concerned it would be a welcome departure from the worn homespun blue tunic he wore now. He could certainly afford it. His new position at the palace left him with far more money than he really even knew what to properly do with and while he could imagine his mother telling him the trouble that an abundance of wealth would cause, a change of clothes seemed to be the lesser of such evils. Which was how he found himself here when word spread of a Cardassian man making a nuisance of himself around the palace entreating any member of the court who passed by to stop in for a measurement and a complimentary consultation.
   His Majesty’s Chief engineer, a ruddy faced northern man named Miles O’Brien had told him he ought to stop in and get a good look at the Cardie spy. That suggestion intrigued him and Julian had asked the Chief, as Julian had taken to calling him with the rest of the court, wanted to tag along. The frosty response spoke volumes; Julian had the impression that the man didn’t care much for him though he couldn’t quite understand why. He’d been careful not to be too friendly, too familiar in a way that could be misconstrued with any immoral intent. Julian was careful to avoid any eye contact or unwarranted touching, and he made sure not to smile wantonly. He’d long understood that the expressions he gave, the way that he spoke, were inappropriate and he’d worked hard to correct that defect. He wondered perhaps if he still hadn’t somehow given offense when trying to speak with the man, if somehow he still was too familiar, too strange. But he’d often see the Chief laughing and smiling with the nurses at court, with Worf, the head of the palace Guard, with the Bajoran Ambarassador Kira even. But then, she was cool to him too and Julian supposed in the end that there was still that off putting something that people could sense about him, no matter how hard he tried to conceal it.
   Perhaps that was why Julian was excited at the prospect of meeting the Cardassian. He’d never met a Cardassian before. He’d overheard O’Brien’s stories from the War of Five to the crown Prince Wesley but he was certain they had to be exaggerated with the intent to entertain the young prince. Julian didn’t properly remember the war. His parents said it was because he was so young, but Julian had learned long ago not to question the long swaths of missing memories from his childhood. He’d also learned that his parents couldn’t be trusted to tell him the truth. When he laid out the timeline of events, when he consulted that careful catalogue, he could see the conflicted visits to relatives, the dates that didn’t match, the duplicate birthdays. But thinking about it too long always started to make his head hurt. The flashes of memory that he did have… of a pale man named Sloan, of pain, of isolation in the dark… they made the pain almost unbearable. And that had only grown worse in the last few months. He’d skipped breakfast that morning in fact because the pain of that migraine was too great to eat.
   He’d spoken with Doctor Crusher about it but she didn’t have any answers even after a thorough examination. He didn’t appear in danger of the blood hemorrhage, of the palsy. He was in perfect physical condition as far as she could see and while that should have reassured him, it only worried him further. He was having difficulty concentrating, thinking clearly, and that was troubling. He asked if she thought it might be the carcinoma of the head and her hesitance worried him. They both knew that prognosis and what would happen if anyone should suspect he was ill. Julian had shaken that thought off but still it lingered, it festered in the back of his head just like the carcinoma. But it was also that fear of death, of that unknown that spurred him to take this chance today. Jadzia Dax, the trill soldier, scientist, completely insane woman who was his only friend at court, had told him that he needed to seize this. That there was no point in dying with regrets, and as he finally let his attention fully turn back to the Cardassian man, that question still hanging in the air, he swallowed down doubt along with any contrivance of sin.
   He could see the look of concentration as the man looked down to whatever page was on the counter in front of him. The man was beautiful. That was Julian’s first thought when he finally allowed himself a good look. There was some self recrimination, some sense of horror, some guilt that he was certain should be spilling over any moment, but he was far too busy staring into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen in his life when that head finally lifted and looked back at him. Those eyes blinked at him a few times almost expectantly. Julian knew that he was staring. He was sure that perhaps his jaw was even stupidly slack as he felt his pulse increase in some blend of nerves and excitement. He’d never seen gray skin before, not in person anyway. Of course there were the textbooks that illustrated the clear biological differences. He’d studied all races to make sure that he could treat anyone who’d come to visit the palace, even working on a thesis on the effect of recessive ancestral traits in the efficacy of certain painkillers.
   But seeing a figure on a page where the author noted the majority of Cardassians possessed blue eyes was far different than that deep blue that drowned him with that look. A recessive traits in humans that’s somehow dominant in Cardassians. That hardly seems possible. And are they all so piercing, so endless? He realized as he was staring so ridiculously that the man he presumed to be Garak was saying something as Julian was mapping the ridges of his face, the way the ridges raised around his eyes, the faint scales around his nose, and that dramatic line to the dip in the center of his forehead. His eyes trailed back down from the slicked back black hair to the man’s mouth. And there was that sin, roaring, raging to the forefront of his mind from that pit where he’d buried such wicked things deep to die. He could feel his throat close, feel that tightness, that pulse of blood to his face as he said a silent prayer in the face of that man looking at him and he could feel a hand raise to see if he could feel his heart pounding subconsciously through his chest.
“I… I’m sorry,” He croaked out at last mentally slapping himself to duck his head down, mortified at his behavior.
“I don’t know… I… I mean I know I was staring it’s just that your… your face is so… ah…” Julian was terrified of the prospect of someone coming behind him as he leaned back against the door nearly falling back against it.
   The Cardassian who had yet to confirm whether or not he was in fact the proprietor Garak, looked faintly amused as Julian continued to flounder.
“You know, it is quite the coincidence but I believe you may very well be no less than the tenth person today to remark on my visage, tell me, is there a something that I’m presenting incorrectly?” He stepped out from around the counter and Julian realized that he absolutely had to stop staring at him, instead focusing on those feet, black boots peering out from long tan trousers. They were baggy, but Julian could see as his eyes trailed back up that there was a cloth belt at his waist, a loose white shirt billowing, thin, and he could see it open to show the dip at the hollow of his throat, show those dark ridges of his neck and again Julian swallowed. “Ah no, not at all in fact I really should be apologizing for being so rude for staring I just… you know from a em… professional standpoint just that there are certain physiological differences that are absolutely amazing...” He looked at some arrangement of scarves clearing his throat again, wishing desperately that his palms would stop sweating. He wiped them on his shirt, finally forcing himself to take a step away from the door. “You are Garak, right”
   “For now,” he answered in an enigmatic way that nearly made Julian shiver. “And I assure you, Doctor Bashir, I take no offense. If a few awkward stares is all that I must contend with today then I shall consider myself quite a fortunate man indeed. ” Julian realized just how close the two of them were standing as Garak tilted his head curiously, holding out a hand. He looked at it almost dumbly. “This is the standard greeting for humans, is it not? I haven’t had much opportunity to practice, I’m afraid. Business has been rather slow and for some unfathomable reason-”
“No it’s fine,” Julian blurted out, thinking that if he had to hold Garak’s hand for any length of time he might very well melt into the floor. He wiped his hand again on his tunic hoping it wasn’t going to stain the cloth, wasn’t too unpleasant as he clasped Garak’s hand firmly, arm locking awkwardly as it seemed that Garak didn’t quite understand the routine. Julian’s hand shook and he noted the callouses of Garak’s fingers, his warm, broad palm. Julian’s thumb absently rubbed the soft skin, a little smoother than his own on the back, but almost soft and scaly like a lizard’s. He stared at those two hands clasped and forgot how to breathe.
   “You can…” Wait… how did he know my name? Julian’s head shot up suddenly looking Garak full in the face once more. “How did you know my name?” He asked that in lieu of letting Garak know that he could let go. Julian licked his lips, his mouth dry, and he really thought he must have been going mad to feel his heart beat so wildly so suddenly. That question was a soft quivering whisper as he held onto that hand like a lifeline. Garak maintained that smile evenly, his eyes dancing with mischief and the portrait of the dark spy immediately came to the forefront of Julian’s mind. “How… How did you know my name?” He repeated his right leg shaking, aching to take just one step forward and-
“Your reputation precedes you, doctor,” Garak answered with a look that passed so briefly across his face that Julian would’ve sworn that he’d only imagined it. No, you don’t know. You can’t possibly know. No one here does, I’ve been far too careful. Julian pulled his hand back quickly, seeing a brief look of surprise pass over Garak’s face.
“What reputation? What are you taking about?”
“Merely that the Sultan’s personal physician is a charming young man who never lacks for female company. I couldn’t help but notice the crowd outside before you’d come in.”
   Julian hadn’t given much thought at the time; a little boy had scraped his knee in the street and Julian had given him nothing but a cursory examination and a brief calming talk before his mother had arrived. He’d spoken with her politely, seeing a few other women curious about his work at the palace but then again, that was hardly uncommon. Ah. Right. Reputation. His face felt hot, flush with embarrassment and he rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. Of course that’s what Garak was referring to. It wasn’t as if he could somehow see into Julian’s head, see those dark lustful thoughts that attacked his resolve.
“Yes well, you know, people always want to hear all the dramatic stories of surgeries, saving lives, it’s all very exciting. Do you know that I actually scored the highest marks of anyone at the Academy?” Garak shook his head politely, as Julian stepped in more comfortably forcing himself to relax. “Yes, well I mean not to brag, of course it was a lot of hard work. I was neck and neck with a Vulcan classmate until that last exam when I… I’m really going on. You don’t care about any of this, do you?” He laughed a little self consciously. Garak smiled at him, politely, he imagined.
   “Not at all, Doctor, although my interests tend to fall more to the literary, to the philosophical if you will. And occasionally to my trade as you can see from this humble little corner of the capital.”
“Yes,” Julian brightened, looking at the red fabric again. “I was hoping to get something a little more ah… contemporary.” He indicated his clothes. Garak took that time to give a dramatic sweep of his eyes that Julian found terribly intimate. His own eyes quickly made a study of Garak’s hands, deeming that to be the safest course of action.
“Yes, I can see that I have my work cut out for me but fear not, I’ve dealt with far more hopeless causes in my line of work.” Julian didn’t know why he felt a pinprick to the back of his neck at that statement. It was something in the tone, in the delivery that made him murmur a teasing retort with a small smile quirking the side of his mouth. Perhaps it was that culmination of nerves, bunching, binding so taut that there was no other recourse but to explode in a fit of irreverence.
   “And what line of work might that be?” Asked in a tone that clearly said he didn’t believe for one moment that the Cardassian was just a simple tailor. Julian looked up almost hesitantly, hoping as he did that he hadn’t offended Garak but instead found an amusement, some dark engagement there passing over his face that was achingly attractive. Garak’s smile moved from mere pleasantry to something else entirely as he reached out, passing the fabric of Julian’s robe through his fingers, feeling the material. It suddenly felt terribly hot as he did so.
“I’m not sure what you could possibly be alluding to. Mmm… yes, we’ll definitely need to do something about this. I am going to need to take your measurements if you have the time.”
“My… measurements?” Yes, of course, Julian, he is a tailor after all. “I ah…”
“Of course if you’re pressed for time you can always come back when you’re not so… occupied.” It seemed as if Garak was teasing him back now, and aside from the fact that he wasn’t certain he’d have the nerve to return at this point.
“No, no, I have the time now, I’m not expected back until after dinner when I have a few appointments.”
   He walked past Garak, feeling his heart start to race when he watched the heavy drapes being drawn closed, the door locked. It was then he realized just how much light streamed in from the small opening of the roof, small pieces of glass set in to keep out any debris.
“I’m afraid that I don’t have the space I’d like but I imagine in time I’ll have a much better set up.” He motioned Julian towards the back corner near two neat stalls with the curtains drawn. “I’ve had to make a few adjustments since the women’s area in the back is far more private. In fact, I find I may need an assistant if you know any women with even a modicum of sewing skill. As you can see business has been somewhat slow and I suspect that may be due to some of your customs here.” Julian decided it was best not to point out that it was also likely to his being a Cardassian. He stopped in front of a full length mirror on the wall, glimpsing absently at the metal worked around it like the ivy that grew in the north, accented with a few petals of shimmering green paint.
“So do you just start anywhere?” He asked watching Garak come back with a tape measure and look at him expectantly. He didn’t know why his head was so foggy, the pieces tumbling together like the clay skeleton models at the academy, shattering to the ground after being bumped.
   Garak raised an eye ridge at him as he realized yes, that was exactly why the shop was shuttered for the measurement.
“I… ah… it’s not… it’s not necessary is it? I mean surely you can make adjustments or… guess?” He cleared his throat as it rose an octave higher.
“If there’s some impairment or anything you feel embarrassed about I assure you I am a professional, doctor.”
“No, no it’s not that at all it’s just…” he tried to find any way to explain that he was quite certain with Garak’s hands on him, professional or not that he could hardly be assured of his reaction to the proximity, that touch, those eyes, that every damn thing he’d been so desperately praying away.
“Of course I’m aware of the taboo between members of the opposite sex but I hadn’t realized that also extended to other races. If I’ve committed some cultural offense that wasn’t my intention.” Garak looked about to put the long length of rope away.
“No!” Julian cleared his throat again still at a loss for any reasonable explanation to what was slowly becoming a completely unreasonable situation. “No,” he said more softly. “There’s no issue, not… not between two men it’s…”
   Julian didn’t let himself continue as he pulled the tunic over his head. He was careful to fold it and place it on a chair before his shaking hands went to the string of his loose white pants.
“Is this enough?” He hesitated, daring to look at Garak’s face, wishing so terribly that he hadn’t when their eyes met and he could swear that there was some heat from that returned look. But it passed just as quickly as he’d imagined it.
“If they were more fitted, perhaps, but it is called taking a measurement for a reason, Doctor,” Garak clicked his tongue making him feel terribly chastised. “Though I can see by the cut of that cloth that proper measurements haven’t been a priority, ah, but that is the sacrifice one must make for saving the world one patient at a time.” It almost seemed that Garak were mocking him and he found that tinge of irritation just enough to calm his hands steady.
“Well, it certainly can’t compete with the glamorous world of sewing,” Julian answered tartly. He remembered then to remove his sandals and then took off his pants, folding them as well.
   “Few things can, doctor, few things can.” He circled around Julian almost critically, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. Julian had never learned to be comfortable with a stranger at his back. He had a flash of images, just briefly. A flicker of a man in a long black cloak at his back with a dagger and he had the sense that the man was testing him. He blinked and it was gone, and Julian watched Garak in the mirror until he came full circle. “But I would imagine that it’s parallel in some ways, you know,” Garak said suddenly as he motioned for Julian to lift his arms.
“What?”
“Oh I was just thinking that in ways our respective occupations aren’t so dissimilar. Take this for example. One might say that in both professions it’s essential to size up a man, to observe, to measure his body until you’re absolutely certain that you’ve made an accurate assessment of his issue.” Julian tensed, feeling a tickle beneath his other arm as Garak measured and wrote down the numbers.
   “And what might my issue be then?” he challenged, feeling suddenly bold as Garak’s arms were around his chest.
“I’m afraid, my dear doctor,” Garak replied dramatically, “that you’ve no sense of fashion whatsoever.” Julian snorted.
“Well I can certainly think of more egregious character flaws than that.”
“And that,” Garak moved on to his waist. “Is why you’d never make it as a tailor.”
“Well you, would make a rather poor doctor, handing out a diagnosis without asking your patient a single question…” Garak smiled at him and Julian continued. “And anyway that’s why I’m here, doctor Garak. So that you can mold me into something suitable.” He caught Garak jotting down his waist at 87 centimeters and he decided that he might need to stop taking so many lunches in the palace and get more fresh air. He wondered absently about Garak’s measurements, hardly having a tailor’s eye, seeing those broad shoulders drop down as Garak knelt in front of him to measure his inseam. That good humor stuck somewhere in his stomach as he felt the slow tickling crawl up his leg. Julian hoped that Garak would move quickly, babbling to keep himself suitably distracted from that touch. “But anyway, I was looking at that red fabric that I saw on the wall and it might be a bit gaudy but I thought that I could use a change. Maybe even a different style I mean I appreciate my mother’s sewing but I’ve already had to mend these a few times on my own and I…I…”
   It was warm, and he felt that touch linger as Garak’s hands moved higher, knuckles brushing the inside of his thigh tickling, torturing until he could feel that warmth spreading back to front, causing that ember to smolder until he thought his entire body might catch fire. At least until he felt that left knee buckle as tightly as he’d been wound up. Julian caught himself on Garak’s shoulder before he fell and he saw that tape measure hit the ground when his thumb closed over the ridges trailing down the side of Garak’s neck. He heard a long drawn in hiss, afraid that he might have caused pain.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry I don’t know what I-” Julian dropped to both knees, already examining that spot, his hands lightly moving. “Does it hurt? I don’t recall reading anywhere that there was a pressure point or-“
“Doctor…” Garak’s voiced sounded strained, and looked at Garak concerned, only to find that concern ebb, a skip of his heart, an immediate widening of his eyes as he saw Garak breathing a noticeable amount harder in what certainly appeared not to be pain. Julian immediately jerked his hand back, falling as his entire body decided to follow suit. He just caught himself on his palm, right wrist jarring as he did. Julian winced feeling like a complete fool as he sat there legs splayed. He could see Garak’s eyes on him, not amused, but clinical, assessing, rather-
“No, the red certainly will clash awfully with your skin tone.” He made that chiding click again. “Yes I can see those unfortunate mends as well... But... No... No... come back in two weeks doctor, and I believe I’ll have just what you need.”
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Cross