Julian slept surprisingly well in Garak's bed, albeit mostly on top of Garak than on top of Garak's Cardassian mattress, which was hard and very stiff – Cardassians enjoyed soft surfaces for short periods of time, but lying or sitting on them for ages would put uncomfortable pressure on or make their ridges bend strangely.
Garak slept on his belly, and Julian had sprawled over his back, his face mashed into the space between the ridges on his upper back, one of his legs tangled in between Garak's. It had been warm, very warm, between the heated humidity of the room itself and the warmth of Garal's own body, but it had made him doze like a cat.
In the morning, he'd woken up to find that Garak had somehow managed to crawl out from underneath him, and was sitting, wearing a light robe, in one of the hard chairs beside the replicator, already a few chapters into the copy of The Never-Ending Sacrifice Julian had brought him. The skin on his neck and his face had been glistening slightly with moisturiser.
"Good morning, my dear," he'd said, even though Julian had only opened his eyes and hadn't yet moved a muscle.
"How do you do that?" he'd asked.
"A good question," Garak said.
It had been all the answer he'd received as he'd stood to his feet and washed his face. He felt good, ached all over – his thighs hurt from being spread so wide, and there was a wonderful nebula of bruises from his hips down across his arse, a few nipped bruises on the side of his jaw and the lower part of his neck. His belly felt strange, too – he still felt open, as though he'd been cored, and the skin of his stomach felt stretched and peculiarly light.
"There's a depilator under the sink for you," called Garak just as Julian turned his head to peer at his stubbled jaw in his reflection, and Julian furrowed his brow, searching the mirror until he saw the part in the lower corner where there was a glint of a reflection in the other room. It was the curved side of the table leg, and he could only just make Garak out, the grey of his face and chest, the dark green of his robe, sitting back in his chair.
"Should I expect you to start moving my furniture around so you can keep this routine up in my quarters?" asked Julian, meeting the rough approximation of where Garak's gaze was in the reflection. "Wouldn't want me to think you're no longer omniscient."
"It's very kind of you to offer, Doctor, but I don't need the reflections to observe you."
"Very cryptic," said Julian, pulling out the depilator. "Not foreboding at all. Certainly not something you'd make up just to keep me on edge."
Garak's answering laugh was as sweet as burnt caramel, and Julian shaved his face clean and brushed his teeth, and then went into the other room again. He didn't know how to feel, exactly, about Garak.
He didn't feel panicked, like he had last night. He didn't even feel anxious, he was amazed to find, or frightened: he felt incredibly, impossibly light, almost like he was floating on air, and while he wasn't going to let the relief of confession lull him into a false sense of security, he didn't want to worry unrealistically either.
He'd poured out his soul last night, over food, over drinks, over more sex, in the bath they took together, where Garak showed Julian how to run a flint-like implement, somewhere between a scraper and a pumice stone, over his arm to help draw back the shedding skin without it flaking or coming apart. It had felt tremendously intimate, somehow, more so than giving someone a massage or washing their hair felt, but it wasn't disgusting at all – Julian had been fascinated by the peel of top skin that had come away, had pulled it between his fingers and traced the texture of the scales.
Garak had called him a xenophile, which Julian had remarked was the pot calling the kettle black, and then Julian had sat back in the bath to keep looking at the skin, even as he compared its texture to the fresh scale they'd bared, Garak had very seriously remarked that it was a traditional betrothal ritual for each partner to eat the shed from over the other one's central crest.
He'd said this in a way that made Julian fairly certain he was joking, but it was never easy to tell, which was how Garak liked it.
Julian hadn't told Garak what planet he'd been modified on, hadn't told him how exactly his genes were resequenced, hadn't even told him specific details of what it had felt like, what the process had been – he'd told him how it felt when he was fifteen, finding out, how it felt, holding himself back, all those years.
Garak had listened.
Interrupted now and then, to ask for clarification on why he felt a particular way, why someone reacted another way; once or twice, he'd sniffed, and remarked how unfair it was, that Julian was forced to hide his own potential and therefore offer less value to whatever institution he was serving.
"Are you for gene modification, then?" asked Julian. This was much later, when they were in the bath together, Garak sunk down in the water, his fingers curiously tracing the hair on Julian's legs, distantly fascinated by it.
"For children? No. As you've said, my dear, there was no reason to intervene at your age – you likely would have developed given time into your own strengths, and for all the benefits we see in you, the evenness of your temper, your personality, you are a very rare case indeed. There are few augments like yourself that aren't halfway or wholly mad, unstable, dangerous, in one way or other – and this is assuming they aren't physically sickened or disabled by the process."
"Ah," said Julian. "It's not a question of ethics, then, but practicality."
"That's always the question, my dear."
"What's your name?"
Garak blinked: the movement was slow, sunk as he was in the water, and his gaze had slowly turned to Julian. "You know my name."
"Your first name," said Julian. "You call me Julian, now and then. We're intimate enough. What, your forename is classified? I'm not worthy of saying it?"
"Dramatics again, my dear," Garak said. Then, he said, "Elim. My name is Elim."
Julian almost hadn't expected an answer at all: he had no idea if this was his real name or not, but he liked how it tasted in his mouth, and when he repeated it, he liked the way Garak smiled, his eyes crinkling up at their edges beneath the ridges of his eyes.
If Garak was going to immediately betray him, the last thing that Garak would want to do was tell him immediately so that he could prewarn the Federation, ensure he didn't get the full benefit of it, ensure Julian didn't get the full punishment, and yet part of Julian did believe him. Not the bit that ordinarily wanted to trust Garak, funnily enough, the bit that wanted to believe Garak wasn't really so bad as he wanted to make out, but the part of him that made Garak – made everyone – into a puzzle to be figured out, a simulator program where if he thought enough about his inputs, he could predict the outputs. It was the part of Julian that thought up scripts for certain stressful conversations, worked out what he'd say in advance – the part of him that had memorised about 20 small talk routines for fifty different cultures.
He could write a guide book, someday. It was already pre-programmed in his head.
"It's not going to happen," said Julian, by way of morning greeting as he went to the replicator.
"It is going to happen," replied Garak, sipping at his morning gelat. When Julian looked at it, Garak held out his mug, and Julian sniffed it, took a sip, wrinkled his nose, and passed it back. "Prefer your raktajino?"
"Not if I'm not working today," replied Julian, and ordered himself some tea and a plate of eggs and a piece of phulka. He didn't much feel like sitting on the hard chair across from Garak, and instead settled cross-legged on the floor at his feet, his shoulders resting against Garak's knees, even as he reached up for the PADD on the table to read the morning news.
"Julian Bashir," hissed Garak, sounding scandalised. "Do you think yourself my catamite?"
The word made Julian laugh, and he leaned back against the warmth of Garak's legs, tipping his head back into Garak's thighs as he looked to meet his eyes. "What's that word in Kardasi? The UT gave me a very archaic translation."
Garak's ridges had darkened slightly, his eyes wide, his lips parted.
"A grown man does not sit at the feet of another," said Garak coldly.
"Yes, he does," replied Julian. "Very nice feet they are too, very comfortable." He ducked his head when Garak tried to smack him, but he did notice that for all Garak tried to hit him upside the head, he didn't push him forward or try to kick him away. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Your ridges are black with blood, Garak."
"If you want me to send you to your Ops meeting ripe as a rokassa berry, young man, you need only ask," Garak rumbled sternly, and Julian looked back to his breakfast, laughing to himself as he scrolled through the PADD.
It was—
It was the sort of morning he hadn't had in a long, long time. He didn't ordinarily let the people he went home with from Quark's stay in his own quarters: either he went with them to their own, especially if they had temporary quarters on the station, or he'd have them stay overnight and usher them out as soon as they'd eaten breakfast.
They read in the quiet for two hours or so, Garak paging through The Never-Ending Sacrifice, Julian scrolling through the PADD – Garak offered him, twice, an extra robe to wear, but Julian contentedly said he was quite happy being naked in the heat. Garak found it scandalising and delightful each time, judging by the expressions he made.
Garak's robe went down to his ankles and his wrists, and it didn't fold over at the centre of his chest, but at the side, to make sure it didn't accidentally fall open: the collar was scooped to show off some of his chest, but otherwise it covered all of him but for his hands, his feet, and his head. Cardassian modesty, even when it was just the two of them.
"Your quarters look like mine," said Julian.
"What a cruel thing to say," said Garak idly, turning a page. "You can be very unkind."
"Not many personal possessions on display, I mean," said Julian, trying not to laugh, and to look vaguely irritated instead, but he didn't have much luck. "I didn't know you liked real books so much – I'd have bought you more, if I knew."
He traced the spines of the books Garak had on his shelves: a few Vulcan texts, writings by Surak, Lyras, T'Plana Hath, some dramas and histories; some Bajoran poetry and fiction collections; a smattering of texts from other species… And a veritable swathe of Romulan texts.
"Do you really like Romulan literature that much?"
"It's something of an exaggeration to call it literature," said Garak. "But Romulans do have a talent for entertainment."
"You expect me to believe these are comedies?"
"Not from their perspective, I'm sure," said Garak. "I am interested by war and the flawed minds of warriors, Doctor, does that really surprise you?"
"What did you think of Axioms?"
"Commander Amarcan's philosophies are, regrettably, somewhat simplistic for the most part – he had the Romulan talent for treachery, but no especial expertise in the subtlety of its execution. You condemn everything about him, I suppose?"
"I found him refreshing, actually," said Julian, and Garak looked to him interestedly, seeming surprised. "We compared Amarcan's work against some other prominent philosophers… He didn't say anything hugely different to anyone else, you're not wrong, but I liked how specific his phrasing was, how clearly he delineated degrees of success and failure, specificities of action. Distinguishing between conquering and extermination, between retreat out of cowardice, out of necessity, and out of sheer exhaustion… He understood nothing was ever a binary."
Garak cleared his throat, sitting back in his chair. His book had been laid against his chest, one grey finger keeping his page. "And when he said, Complete victory or utter destruction, for a warrior there can be no other path?"
Julian tutted. "Don't be so literal, you know he was talking about a warrior's sense of self, not about individual situations."
"Oh, do forgive me," said Garak dryly. "When you said he understood nothing was ever a binary, I thought that perhaps you meant, my dear, that—"
"If I put three kilos on one side of the scale and two kilos on the other, Garak, the scale tilts – one side is heavier than the other, but that doesn't mean there can't be a gradient of value between the two sides. More than weight factors into what's there."
"A gradient of value," repeated Garak in quiet disbelief. "Is there no end to the things you can say, my dear, seeming so close to understanding and yet so far from touching it?"
"Oh, please, teacher," retorted Julian, looking up from where he'd been about to look through the boardgames Garak had aside. "Won't you open my eyes?"
"My dear, I am no proponent of Amarcan, but what he understood was that everything is binary – and simultaneously, nothing is. It's one of the few things a Romulan can be relied on to understand."
"Have you spent a lot of time with Romulans?"
"More than I would like. They're a very severe people – I suppose you like that, don't you?"
"Mr Garak, as I'm sure you've noticed, I have an insatiable appetite for severity," said Julian, and Garak hummed his amusement. "Want to play something?"
"If you like. Kotra?"
"Not kotra," said Julian. "I don't know how to play, and I've had enough lectures from you to go along with for the time being." He said it because it would get a reaction, and he got it: Garak frowned at him, and Julian grinned.
"Delinquent and obstreperous," he commented. "And churlish, at that."
"You've got a latrunculo board," said Julian. "As we're on the subject of Romulan war strategy…"
Garak nodded his head, and sat forward at the table.
They played, and after Julian had won twice ("I'm sorry, Elim, do you want me to go easy on you?" "My dear Julian, if you even consider it, I will do things to you from which you will never recover." "Is that meant to be encouragement or a deterrent?"), Garak dragged him back into bed.
He had a spare uniform for Julian in his quarters.
When Julian had asked him about it, he'd demurred and said he was only keeping it because he'd only just finished rehemming the trousers, as if that was a reason for him to have an undershirt and jacket handy as well, let alone socks and underwear.
"There's a dermal regenerator in my—"
"I don't need it," said Julian.
"My dear, as much as your exhibitionist qualities enchant me," said Garak in mildly amused tones as he fastened his trousers over his undershirt, "I imagine people on this station will comment if they see you wandering the halls with the mark of my teeth on your neck."
"You're right," said Julian, crossing his arms over his chest. He was already steeling himself for the embarrassment. "You're not the only one with a sense of strategy, though. If I go out there without obviously showing that I enjoyed last night, you're going to get Odo knocking on your door for a statement. Probably before he talks to me."
Garak turned away, whether to hide his mouth or his embarrassment, Julian didn't know.
"Given that someone," said Julian pointedly as he adjusted the collar of his shirt, "was so overcome with desire at the gift of a book and a tin of cream that he didn't do much short of bending me over in front of the Promenade and—"
Garak was kissing him, and Julian laughed into his mouth.
Odo was waiting for him when he came up to Ops.
"I suppose you're about to tell me you got reports about me and Garak yesterday," said Julian. Odo, quite unashamedly, was leaning back to examine the marks of Garak's teeth grazing his neck, where the skin was dark with the bruising.
A lot of people had looked at him as he'd walked by on the Promenade, and he'd heard people gossiping, heard snatches of "… the chief Starfleet doctor and the tailor…" and "… by the throat in the middle of the Replimat like he was about to…" and "… said he was smiling like a maniac, cheeks all dark, nearly ran to keep up…" and, of course, "… still wearing the marks!"
He'd made sure to keep the smug look on his face he often wore after he'd brought someone back to his quarters from Quark's, the slight skip in his step, and at the very least, no one had sounded concerned.
Irritated, some of them – a Vedek had given him a particularly foul look – but not worried about him.
"Several," said Odo as they went into Sisko's office. "Three different people quietly advised me that it seemed the tailor had taken you prisoner."
"That he did," said Julian, and Odo made a noise of wry humour, gesturing for Julian to go ahead of him to sit down. "Afternoon, Chief."
O'Brien was also staring at Julian's neck, but rather than with Odo's amused interest, he looked disgusted.
"What, did you think we were just going to eat lunch together forever?" asked Julian. "Maybe hold hands?"
"I'd rather you'd broken it off altogether," muttered O'Brien, twisting his mouth, and Julian tried not to sigh too obviously, sitting back in his seat. He'd just been feeling he was starting to settle into a routine with the Chief, get him to soften a little, but judging by the way he was completely stiff now, that was at an end.
Major Kira wouldn't even look at him.
When Sisko came over from his desk, his gaze fell on Julian, down to his neck. His lips shifted into a small smile, almost a chuckle, and then he looked back to the agenda.
