A/N: So I have a deep love for Star Trek DS9, and for a few of the shippings from that series, most notably Julian Bashir / Elim Garak. I haven't written much for it because I'm hugely intimidated about capturing the dynamic properly. Then I came across a series of lovely art pieces depicting the pair on deviantART, all named after lyrics from the song Pale by the Birthday Massacre. They fit so well it was actually eerie, and I actually found that all of the songs from the album could be thought of as songs for the pair. So this happened. I'm planning on writing a one shot for each song, and by the end we should have a series with 11 one shots. I'm so sorry.
Series: Pins & Needles; Part I
Inspiration: ladyyatexel on deviantART, tumblr and AO3
Betas: SkyTurtle
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek Deep Space Nine, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
…
In the Dark
Raven Ehtar
…
Julian wondered sometimes, when he allowed himself the indulgence, if he would ever feel like a complete person.
This was not an uncommon sort of concern amongst his species, or even beyond the bound of homo sapiens, especially during those most formative years on the cusp of adulthood. It was a kind of self-check to be sure all was where it was meant to be, and the kind of thing one could expect to experience at least once in their lives.
Dr. Julian Bashir of Deep Space Nine did not consider himself to have the maudlin sort of personality which would lend itself to very much of this sort of reflection. He was an optimist, one who believed the best was most likely to come about because… well. That was how things worked out. It was how things were meant to be.
Except… he didn't, really. Not about everything.
But it wouldn't do to let that show, not at all. Much better to play the optimist. He would smile, the confident young physician who knew his business so well one could overlook his almost careless cheer. And his careless cheer was so distracting that no one really questioned his youth and competency.
After some time playing his role to the hilt, it was almost easy to believe in it himself. He fitted so well behind the mask he wore every day there was hardly any space left where doubt could linger.
The doubts crept in, anyway. They found the edges of his mask and wedged their fingers in, tugging, pulling, testing just how strong it was. Always it was the same two doubts that made themselves known, the two that never left him no matter how many years went by, how many tests he passed.
His genetic modifications, and the very masks he wore to hide them.
In a way, he could think of it as having lived two lives in one.
The first had been that of the creature he was before the modifications. The small boy he had been, Jules, who was so joyful and rambunctious. The world had been so sharply delineated then, into the bright and the dull. The brightness of colors, sounds, smells, of love and experience and fun. All the universe was a fizzing canvas of sensation, and he had loved it, to immerse himself within it all and feel it all play over him.
But experience was not the same as understanding, and it was there, on the threshold between experience and cognizance, where Jules could not cross. A flower was beautiful; its color, scent and texture so intense that would make his eyes water. But to dissect it, to pull it all apart, label and categorize its parts and to understand how it all worked was like a barren planet to him. All color drained away, the words spoken in explanation incomprehensible. Here was where dullness washed over all, and where it was his parents became so… unhappy.
Then he was taken somewhere new, with doctors, and it all began to shift. The dull and colorless began to sharpen, to brighten, even as what had once been fizzing with intensity calmed, as though the life of one was passing into the other, and leaving itself less for the transfer.
He'd had no idea at the time of what was going on, but that was when Jules began to fall away, and Julian came to the fore.
And perhaps that wouldn't have been so bad, really. Oh, there still would have been some resentment, some feeling of betrayal that his parents hadn't thought he was good enough as he was, but if that were all there had been he might have been able to forgive and to forget much more easily.
If Jules had completely disappeared and left the new child Julian in his place, then it might have been alright. Except, he had not. It had not been a clean transference. Jules had been broken apart, the pieces swept away to make room for Julian.
Not all of those pieces had been completely cleared before Julian became himself.
Julian was no fool, and as he was no fool, he knew very well what would happen to himself and to his selfish, loving parents should anyone discover that once he had been completely different person. So he did all he could to hide it. He became Julian completely, as though Jules had never been, as though Julian was the only person who had ever resided in his skin.
Was it any wonder, then, why he gravitated towards the fictions of secret agents and spies so early in life, and clung to them for so long? His entire existence was like living with a secret identity, a past none could know, every friend and colleague held at that slight distance to keep himself - and perhaps them - safe. To read such adventures or to live them out in the holosuites made it all seem so much grander than what he knew was the reality.
Escapism is what it was, but escapism with a masochistic bite. He played games with the very 'plot points' which might one day spell doom for his family. His method of getting away only reminded him at every turn that this was how he lived his life.
He was the protagonist in the flightiest of his holo-programs, which was actually his reality. A man living outside the law, having to hide who and what he really was from everyone, even his closest friends. He became a respected professional, one of the best in his field - though not the best, no, it would be no good to let on how good he could be. And then he joined Starfleet, joined Starfleet and in fact vied for one of the remotest out postings available. Somewhere he was less likely to be scrutinized, and yet a place where political tensions gave opportunities for the most exciting of developments.
An occupation dissembled, a war so fresh and recent the smoldering shrapnel had not cooled, two sides that still circled and snapped where they could, and Starfleet stuck square between them. Was there anything more a young man seeking adventure outside of himself could ask for?
Well, yes. Every protagonist needs his antagonist, after all.
Had Julian expected to find someone like that when he came? Perhaps not. Had he hoped? Very likely, yes. The chance to drag some of the color of his fantasies into his drab reality, his dulled reality, was too great a temptation when it came time to accept or reject his posting on DS9.
And he had found him. One who he had not really expected, or was even fully aware he hoped to find.
Garak, the Cardassian spy.
Julian would be telling lies if he said that the day that strange Cardassian approached him - such bright colors! such an open manner! - wasn't one he looked back on with a faint wash of remembered adrenaline and excitement. Everyone knew about Garak, of course, the last Cardassian left on Deep Space Nine, what had once been Terok Nor, a Cardassian ore refinery. He had either stayed behind of his own volition or been left when the Bajorans had taken the station, and in either case no one was in the slightest doubt as to why he was there. A spy, set to watch the Bajorans and Starfleet and report anything important or of a sensitive nature back to the Union.
And of all the people he could have chosen to cozy up with, Garak had picked Julian.
It made a certain amount of sense. No Barjoran would give him more than disdain, and more likely a good kick if he attempted friendly overtures with them. Anyone very high on the Starfleet hierarchal ladder would instantly be on alert if they were approached by a Cardassian, no matter how hard he tried to appear un-Cardassian in garb or manners, and much the same could be said of any who held a relatively low but important position in the machine, say, Security or Engineering.
But a doctor, well…
A doctor was without argument a vital position aboard any station or ship. It was not an exaggeration to say that one could not function in the long term without some sort of medical team, nor would Starfleet ever attempt to do so. But vital as they were, even a CMO wouldn't be first on a spy's list of sources of valuable information. A doctor was not necessarily privy to the inner workings of command, to the intricacies of the diplomatic work being done between the Federation and Bajor, or to any little useful tidbits of exploitable knowledge dealing with Security or Engineering.
Not necessarily privy, but it was possible. After all, everyone talked to their doctor.
Julian didn't think he flattered himself too much. If Garak intended to use him as a font of information, he knew one of the leading factors in his choice would be his comparative youth and supposed naiveté. They were traits of his that everyone picked up on, ones that he cultivated quite deliberately.
Look at me, he said with every awkward social grace, every unrestrained smile and sentence. Look at what a young, silly fool I am. A good doctor to be sure, but too ridiculous to take seriously. Pay me no mind, I am as threatening as a common Terran caterpillar.
He was unthreatening, farcical, even, and no one thought much more of him than that. The little pieces of Jules that remained - his unrestrained way of looking at the world, his almost total lack of social skills, Julian took those shards and incorporated them into the mask he wore. A mask he wore, ironically, to hide that Jules had ever existed.
And it worked! It had worked on a Cardassian, a race that was practically defined by the masks they wore, and not only that, but a Cardassian spy.
Julian was no fool. He knew the risks of engaging such an adversary - Cardassian, an intelligence agent of the State, many years his elder and having lived through some of the worst years Cardassia Prime had gone through in living memory. The imbalance between them was nearly insurmountable. Garak was guaranteed to be his superior in experience, in the practical skills of intelligence gathering, and very likely in raw cunning as well.
But Julian was not without his own advantages. He was no stranger to subterfuge, nor to the game of playing spy, he was certainly not lacking in intelligence.
Inexperienced or not, Julian felt he could be a match for Garak. He rose to the challenge, to pit his enhanced mind against that of a Cardassian agent.
He hadn't expected to actually come to like Garak.
Julian had an easygoing, open sort of nature and made friends easily - at least with those who he didn't immediately drive away with that open, easygoing nature. It came naturally to him and he cultivated the tendency along with the others that were a part of his mask. He knew it as a part of himself, and knew that anyone he spoke to would naturally feel it as Julian went through the overtures of friendship.
He knew it would happen with Garak. He even expected Garak to pick up those overtures and return them. Any other Cardassian would have turned away such an offer, but Garak was unlike any Cardassian Julian had ever heard of.
Garak was expressive, garrulous, courteous and inquisitive in a way that was not immediately suspicious. He was flamboyant in some ways, which Julian would be willing to swear was the antithesis of the rest of his race. He smiled warmly and encouraged questions from Julian. He even laughed and played at being the exiled spy teaching the young Human how to think like a Cardassian. Not that he ever admitted it, and Julian doubted he ever would. But he never doubted that piece of Garak's past, and Garak knew he never doubted. And he smiled.
He really hadn't expected to become as fond of the Cardassian as he had. He was a product of his time and as forward thinking as any of his peers, but to truly care for a Cardassian, given their very recent past? Could anyone have seen that coming?
And yet, despite all of that, it was obvious to Julian that the Garak he was coming to know, who chatted so amiably over lunches with him about literature, fashions, comparative psychology and any number of other things, was not the genuine Garak.
Just as he was hiding behind a mask, determined to peek beneath the one Garak himself wore, so too was his companion doing just the same with him.
It was a strange sensation, to realize that as the two of them became so intimate, they were actually about as far apart as it was possible to be. Neither of them showed their true selves. In a way, Julian was as alone on his lunches as though the entire Promenade were abandoned.
Julian's one real advantage was that Garak was unaware of just how much of a mask he wore. Garak thought he only wore one to protect the secrets of Starfleet, and that any deflection was in direct relation to that. He had no idea of the many personal layers his mask included, or of the kind of mental acuity it was meant to conceal. Garak had no idea of the true incisiveness of which Julian was capable.
His greatest disadvantage was that Garak knew there was a mask at all. He may have been unaware of its depth or dimensions, but Garak was no fool either. He knew that there was something there, and so he was at it, gently pulling, prodding, exploring, testing to find out for himself all about it.
It was a new experience for Julian, to have anyone actively sounding him out in such a way - in such a dangerous way. He had no practical guide on what to do, only his own common sense and agility in the face of a man who had likely only been the premiere agent in extracting information for the Obsidian Order.
Oh, yes, the Obsidian Order. Julian had learned much of Garak, tailor extraordinaire aboard DS9 in their time together. In fact he had learned a surprising amount for how very little he actually knew of his Cardassian friend.
The thing was, Julian was fairly certain that Garak didn't lie nearly as much as others assumed he did, at least not outright. To simply lie about one's past out of whole cloth, as it were, offered much less challenge than to bend the truth into new, sometimes unrecognizable shapes. And there was certainly a certain quirk of amusement in Garak that said he was enjoying that challenge.
Julian believed him when he said he had once been a gardener, just as he was now a very good tailor, and in the past might have been any number of things. But it was never the whole truth. It was just broken pieces, fitted together to form a new face that Garak wore.
Julian wore the broken remains of Jules in his mask, like puzzle pieces fitted to a picture that didn't quite fit. Garak's mask was like a fine mosaic of past lives, broken apart and glued back together into delicate, intricate patterns. Watching him speak, or smile, or roll his eyes, Julian could not help but be fascinated by the delicate play of scales that covered his face, and wonder just how many past lives made up his present.
The Garak that Julian knew was not the genuine Garak, but a genuine Garak, more truth than falsehood all rearranged to his whim.
There was hiding in plain sight, and then there was Garak. Garak did not hide at all. He made himself noticed, he made sure others remembered him. Compared to other Cardassians, who were far from being a subdued race, Garak practically cavorted, using that as a sort of armor.
It wasn't so different from what Julian did.
Look at me...
Would he ever feel like a complete person? Even if it were possible to allow those he cared about near enough to really know him, to not hold them at arm's length, would that sense of completeness ever be his?
Jules was still a part of him, but not really him anymore. The edges where he ended and Julian began were sharp, jagged. He could never forget that one life had in essence ended, and another begun with the earliest years of childhood belonging to someone else.
No, Julian would never feel complete, not if 'complete' meant a sense of continuity from the beginning of one's life to the end. He would never have that, and a certain part of himself grieved for it.
Except for when he had his lunches with Garak.
Garak; tailor, possibly former Cardassian spy and interrogator, and urbane older man who took such pains to educate Julian in the ways of all that was Cardassian and sartorial.
A charming Cardassian. Who would have credited it?
Julian ought to have felt even more disconnected, more distant from his fellow beings than ever when he was with Garak. If for no other reason, then simply as a matter of caution. Who knew what sort of secrets he could divine from a single misplaced word or look?
Garak was dangerous, and all the more so because he seemed not to be.
But even with caution thrown to the wind, neither of them were their true selves. Their masks, constructed of the detritus of past lives, separated them, kept them at a distance from each other while they sat so near their knees could brush. Both of them present, and neither of them truly there. Julian had memorized every angle and shadow of Garak's brow, his eyes, chin and every ridge and scale, but he had never seen his true face. The closest he had come was when the old spy had been dying, flipping frantically through lies, one mask after another and still managing to cast them all to the side.
There should have been distance, and there was, and yet... it didn't matter, somehow.
It was so easy to forget the game that they played, the spy versus amateur spy, the feint and counter feint. They teased on occasion, just to remind each other of what was really going on. Julian would hint at the suspiciously agent-like skills possessed by a tailor, Garak would protest with some small show of being insulted, and they would move on. Move on to subjects so innocent and engaging that Julian could forget the circumstances of their friendship.
And it was friendship, Julian was certain, whatever Garak might have to say about it. Despite all the reasons for distance, Julian felt closer to Garak in some ways than anyone else, even his own colleagues.
They both wore masks, were both aware of this in each other, circled each other incessantly, searching for those little clues that could lead them to the men behind the masks. Neither of them were willing to give those clues, or to concede that the masks even existed.
Feint and counter feint, pretense and obfuscation.
And somehow, through some strange alchemy of personality and constant testing, Julian felt as though Garak knew him better than anyone on the station. Not his past or the secret hidden in his altered genetics, perhaps, but in ways few others bothered to learn. Garak could read him, body and tone, could sometimes predict how he would reply to a query, how he would feel on a topic before it was broached.
He felt closer to this strange Cardassian than anyone in recent, or even long memory. They fitted together in a way he would never be able to describe to his colleagues, but…
It was like being alone in a dark room, and slowly coming aware that there was, in fact, someone else with you. You couldn't see them, but you could, perhaps, hear them. Carefully, you approached them and began to find out whatever you could about this second person in the dark. You learned what their breath sounded like, their footfalls, the rustling of their clothes. You caught their scent, you learned their moods by their movements. It was all intuitive, this knowledge of the other person, until you discovered that, without having to try, you knew where this other person was in the dark. You moved around each other in an intricate dance of shadows, never once knowing what the other even looked like. You knew each other on that level without having ever touched on what most people never moved beyond.
That was what being Garak's friend was like. So achingly intimate in some ways, and near strangers in others. Their breaths as one even as they sparred with secrets and hidden pasts.
At least, that was how Julian felt about it. In truth he had no real idea if Garak viewed their relationship in the same way, if he took as much comfort in a fellow being whose circumstances mirrored his own as Julian did, if he felt the same sort of dance of shadows.
He hoped he did. Behind that complex mask of gray scales and interlocking secrets, Julian hoped that Garak could look on their intimacy with whatever passed for contentment in a Cardassian heart, or at the very least a little satisfaction.
They were each made up of broken pieces, but with Garak near, Julian felt closer to complete than he ever had before.