Icon by @ThatSpookyAgent. Call me Tir or Julian. 37. He/They. Queer. Twitter: @tirlaeyn. ao3: tirlaeyn. 18+ Only. Star Trek. The X-Files. Sandman. IwtV. OMFD. Definitionless in this Strict Atmosphere.
the airlock door opens onto the promenade. i walk down the steps, taking in everything there is to see, and then i force myself to focus back on what i’m here for. the trip was long and exhausting, and i hope to everything i believe in that it wasn’t all for nothing.
“where do i find quark?” i ask a random background alien.
he points down the promenade and i thank him, the end of my sentence a trail in the air as i hurry to the bar.
the dabo wheel is spinning for a group of enthusiastic gamblers, and a few people are scattered over the room - it’s the middle of the day. i walk straight to the counter, to the ferengi i’ve been told to contact. he’ll have what you need, they said. you’ll see.
“ah, a new face”, quark beams at me as i sit down. the seat is still warm from a previous customer. “what can i get you?”
“i’m not here for drinks”, i say, lowering my voice. “i was told you could help me with something.”
quark hums appreciatively and comes a little closer.
“and, uh… what would that be, exactly?” he asks, a spark in his eyes.
i look around, and then i lean forward.
“they say you serve excellent couscous”, i say, my voice almost a whisper, and my longing laid bare as i speak. “i have to have it.”
quark’s smile widens, and he looks at me a little too long before he leans back and nods to himself, picking up a glass and a towel to clean it with.
“my couscous, huh? well, it’s on the menu, so i suppose it’s only fair.”
he looks at me again and this time his smile is thoughtful, but sincere - as far as i can tell. my mind is clouded with want and need and all i can really think of is couscous.
“hey!” quark yells into the back, where the kitchens are. “one couscous, now!”
27. Kisses exchanged while one person sits on the other’s lap.
Julian knows, from the moment their lips first touch, that they’ll never speak of this even if they both live to see the other side of the war. This is a scrap, a fragment, the gap between train cars, the space between words and breaths and heart beats. They are, the both of them, too used to bending to duty. To becoming what is necessary.
To becoming who and what they need to be to survive.
And this is it, the clock ticking down to a finality that cannot be revoked.
Garak will leave for Cardassia in the morning. He and Kira and Odo will join with Damar’s resistance cell. And Garak will likely not live to see Cardassia free from Dominion rule.
The thing is, Julian is very good at math. And he knows the odds that this all ends with the Alpha Quadrant under foreign rule, and billions of people dead. There’s nothing he can do to change the equations that define their odds–but he can do this. He can let Garak fist his hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, let Garak scrape his teeth along his bottom lip. Let his body go slack, let a shiver run up his spine.
It’s hazy, almost dreamlike. This moment will exist somewhere between reality and the waking nightmare of the war. If they both die in the coming days, weeks, months, no one surviving will know how their bodies collided in Garak’s darkened quarters. No one will know how their breaths grow heavy, their hands chasing soft flesh and warm skin and scales. No one will know that when Julian frames Garak’s face, brushing his thumbs over the ridge of scaling over jaw and down the sides of his neck, Garak shudders and exhales hard, eyes squeezing tightly closed. Or how heavily he lands on the couch, blinking, helpless, as Julian straddles him and settles his weight down into his lap before joining their lips back together, before licking his tongue into his mouth.
No one will know. And if in fifty years they are remembered as separate footnotes in history, two bystanders to war and calamity and destruction, Julian thinks he can live with it. The best of them–the weekly lunches, the literature, the unyielding push and pull of friction and frisson and topics danced around and never directly addressed. Fathers and childhoods that weren’t, not really, and lies that have always been half-formed truths. All that they were before the war, the people they became to fight in it. The best of them–
The best of them is right here, and it belongs only to them.
“You know, Ga– Elim,” Julian says. They’re lying in bed- one of hundreds of trysts, but this was different. This one, or so Elim had been told, portends extensions. Consequences.
“There was an Earth writer, Katheryn Schutlz, who wrote upon meeting her wife that her wholeness, her completeness as a person was what made her fall in love.”
“Is that so? Normally earth writers are so preoccupied with writing love as a completionist exercise.”
Julian chuckles but runs a gentle hand over Elim’s cheek. Elim’s not sure he has ever felt as seen in his life. Open, willing to love the man in his bed. Eager to learn how the kaleidoscope mind next to him viewed the cosmos.
“No, she argues that love is curious. It’s eager to learn how the mind of a beloved partner works. And that love, a real one, isn’t concerned with creating a partner’s mind that fits them but rather focuses on the remarkable ways that they are similar and different to you. The way that mind can keep yours awake.”
"Hmm,” Elim says, dodging a response.
“Yes, and she highlights how important growing, learning, and unlearning the way a person is a mystery to you is, in some part, the definition of love.”
“I have often argued that human romances, especially of the pre-Federation period, were unusually prone to make love a cure or solution. Not for anything patriotic, but rather to fulfill some… neurotic sense of the alleged self. They seemed to wish that somehow a partner could, alone… create a separate context. So, I thank you.”
Julian laughs again, his face splitting into a wide, fond smile. “Yes, you have. But alas, I fear you’ve missed the context of the conversation. What I mean to say is, I guess… What I’m saying is that I am attracted to your wholeness. I don’t know if I ever understood her until now.”
(I love you,” Julian says and Elim finally understands.)
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Julian says, soft and slow. And then finishes with a sweetly erotic whisper of, “I want/ to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees.“
Elim doesn’t know what cherry means, but he gets the impression. His body flushes a vibrant blue when he quotes back. "The blue joy/ of the kana plant blooms for you.”
(Subtext: I love you too.)
Julian’s smile, tender and expansive, spreads across his face.
And, even though they rarely came to the same answers, Elim is reminded of the joy, the love, and the loyalty of asking the same questions.
Inspired by this fic by GraySkiesGayEyes, specifically the bit where Garak pronounces Bashir’s name as “Chulian.” I did end up changing it a bit based on how Garak and Dukat pronounce “Bajor.”
—
“Garak?”
“Yes, doctor?”
“Why do you never call me by my first name?”
Garak sat back with his cup of redleaf tea. “I believe it is a well-documented fact that I rarely call anyone by their given name.”
“Yes, but we’re dating,” Julian said. “It’s a bit different when two people are dating.”
“And yet you call me ‘Gah-rack,’” Garak said, purposefully mispronouncing his name like Julian did.
“I thought you didn’t want anyone to know your first name,” Julian said, the teasing lost on him.
“I don’t.”
“Well, there’s that mystery solved then,” Julian said as he speared a bit of asparagus with his fork.
“Indeed.”
Julian made a face and popped the bit of vegetable into his mouth.
“Does it really mean that much to you, my dear?” Garak asked as Julian stared off into the middle distance.
“Just seems a bit awkward,” Julian said. “Do you even know my first name?”
“Of course I do, doctor,” Garak said, insulted by the implication that he wouldn’t know something was so blatantly obvious.
“Say it then.”
“I’d prefer not to in such a public place,” Garak said, gesturing to the other tables packed with lunchtime diners. “After all, what would the station think if I began calling the chief medical officer by his given name in the middle of the replimat?”
“That we’re dating?” Julian said. He popped a bit more asparagus in his mouth. “Or that you’ve known me for five years. Both of which are true.”
“Nevertheless, I wouldn’t dream of demeaning you in public with such a blatant use of an intimate name,” Garak lied.
“Is that really what it’s like on Cardassia?” Julian asked with a skeptical look.
“More or less,” Garak said. Service class citizens, like Garak, rarely followed that rule of polite society, but that wasn’t something the dear doctor needed to know right now.
Julian narrowed his eyes at Garak. “You’re hiding something,” he said.
“My dear doctor,” Garak said with a smirk, “I’m always hiding something.”
—
Garak gripped the sides of the sink until his knuckles turned grey. He could do this. He was a former member of the Obsidian Order. He spoke Klingon. He looked into the mirror in his refresher, calling to mind Dr. Bashir’s face. “Chulian.”
It still wasn’t right. He knew that the “j” sound was hard for Cardassians to pronounce. There was no “j” sound in their culture. Sometimes Garak wondered if a “j” sound were even possible with Cardassian anatomy.
Yet, he would try anything for his dear doctor.
“Zulian,” he said into the mirror. He frowned and played the audio file he’d surreptitiously recorded of the doctor saying his name.
“– that I’m Julian Ba–,” the doctor’s voice said before he cut the audio.
“Thulian,” Garak said, trying to work out that “j” sound. Somehow, he’d made it worse, despite that being roughly the correct tongue placement from what he’d noted when Julian had said his name. “Dulian. Zhulian.” That was almost it. “Zhulian,” he said again, this time trying to infuse it with a bit more confidence. It still didn’t sound quite right, but it was very close. “My dear Zhulian,” he said, wishing his partner had an easier name to pronounce. He played the audio clip again, cutting it down so it was just one word.
“Julian,” the recording said.
“Zhulian,” Garak repeated.
“Julian.”
“Zhulian.”
—
Garak arranged a dinner date in his quarters as the time to show off his mastery of Julian’s name. He was fairly sure he had gotten it down at this point. He’d certainly practiced enough.
“Is it alright if I call you ‘Elim’ in here,” Julian grouched the moment he entered Garak’s quarters.
“Of course, Zhulian,” Garak said from where he was setting the table.
“What?” Julian asked.
“I said ‘of course,’” Garak said, wondering just how badly he’d butchered the name.
“No, the other bit,” Julian said, a smile creeping over his lips.
“Other bit?” Garak echoed as he set down a fork.
Julian gave Garak a frustrated look. “The part that’s my name.”
“Zhulian?” Garak asked.
Julian’s eyes lit up and he pressed his lips together in an attempt not to laugh.
Garak glared at him. “My dear doctor, you can hardly blame me for–”
“Wait, is that why you never call me by my first name?” Julian interrupted, somehow looking even more excited. “Because you can’t pronounce it?”
Garak raised his chin, fixing the doctor with an imperious look. “I can pronounce it perfectly well, thank you.”
“C’mon then,” Julian said. “Say it.” He threw his arms wide in response to Garak’s glare. “It’s only fair after you roasted me for not being able to pronounce ‘La-kah-ree-ahn’ correctly.”
“I don’t recall holding you over a fire,” Garak said, despite knowing exactly what the idiom meant. He turned and walked towards the replicator. “Speaking of fires, I was thinking some grilled–”
“No, no, no, no. You’re not getting out of this that easily,” Julian said, walking over to stand by Garak. “Say ‘Julian.’”
“I believe I just did,” Garak said as he typed in the code for some grilled salmon with yamok sauce.
“No, you said ‘Zhulian,’” Julian said. “Like… Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that sound at the front of a word before. Usually it’s in the middle like ‘abrasion,’ ‘incision,’ ‘intrusion…’”
“Yes, that last one seems most apt. If you wouldn’t mind moving, my dear,” Garak said as he took the plates of steaming salmon from the replicator.
Julian ignored the jab. “Just one more time,” he said, walking backwards so Garak could put their plates down. He held up one finger. “Say it one more time and then you can call me ‘doctor’ forever.”
“Are you willing to commit to that arrangement?” Garak asked as he sat down.
“Well, no,” Julian admitted as he sat down across from him. “But I do want to hear you say my name again.”
“And why should I when my saying it produces such ridicule?” Garak asked as he picked up his knife and fork. He speared a bit of his fish with his fork and began cutting it with deadly precision. “Had I known this is what I was getting myself into I never would have bothered to practice.”
Julian’s eyes widened. “You practiced saying my name?” he asked.
Garak rolled his eyes. “The ‘j’ sound is not naturally found in Kardasi,” he began. “So I required some–”
“You practiced saying my name,” Julian repeated, his tone soft and slightly disbelieving. “Just because I wanted you to say it?”
Garak raised an eyebrow ridge at him. “Is it not standard Federation practice to do things for one’s partner?” he said before putting a bite of fish into his mouth.
“Well, I mean… Yes, but…” Julian reached across the table to take Garak’s left hand in his, maneuvering around the knife to do so. “I didn’t know saying it was hard for you,” he explained. “I just thought you…” He looked down at his plate. “I thought you hadn’t bothered,” he said. He squeezed Garak’s hand. “That’s how it generally goes with ‘Bashir.’ People just pronounce it however they like and don’t really try to get it correct. ‘Subatoi’ is the only part of my name people get right, and most people don’t even know that part.”
“I see,” Garak said. He set down his knife and rotated his hand so that he was grasping Julian’s. “And that’s why you wanted me to call you by your given name?”
“Well, no. It just seemed off that you only call me ‘doctor,’” Julian admitted. “But now that I know why–”
“Doctor, please,” Garak said, removing himself from Julian’s grip. He pointed at his plate with his fork. “If we could drop the subject long enough to have dinner, I’d much appreciate it.”
“Right. Of course.”
“But…” Julian said just as Garak was about to take another mouthful of fish. “I could also teach you how to say my name. Probably. I can try at least. And in return, you can teach me how to say something important to you.”
“Garak,” Garak said without missing a beat.
“Sorry?”
“My name. You pronounce it ‘Gah-rack,’” he said. “That’s not how it’s pronounced on Cardassia. Or this station. Or really anywhere in the Alpha Quadrant that I’m aware of.”
Julian flushed crimson. “Right. How long were you going to keep me in the dark about that?”
“I believe I have pronounced my name several times in front of you,” Garak said as he delicately cut his fish. “It’s hardly my fault if you chose not to pay attention.”
Julian rolled his eyes and cut himself a bit of salmon. “Fine. We’ll practice each other’s names after dinner,” he said. “Happy?”
Garak was still recovering from having his implant removed. The tailor was somewhat slower moving and definitely more irritable since the surgery. Julian had sent him an article on spoon theory as a polite suggestion for him to think of his own health and not throw himself into work. Usually, Garak read everything Julian sent him (and some things he didn’t send him) so Julian assumed that Garak had read the article when they sat down for lunch that week.
“How are you doing on spoons today?” Julian asked.
Garak gave him a suspicious look. “I have three of them,” he said, looking like Julian had just asked him what his favorite sexual position was.
Julian ignored the look. He knew talking with Garak about mental health was going to be an uphill battle. “How many did you start with?”
“Two,” Garak said with a nervous glance at the rest of the replimat.
“What?”
“I started with two spoons, as do most Cardassians.”
“Garak, this isn’t a Cardassian thing,” Julian said. “And how do you gain a spoon?”
“Do you know of another race that has spoons?”
“It’s a metaphor,” Julian said. “It can be applied to any—” At that moment, his attention focused on the teardrop shape on Garak’s forehead. “Oh… You actually mean…” He grimaced. “Do Cardassians call them ‘spoons?’”
“No,” Garak said, “but I am familiar enough with Federation slurs to understand what you meant.”
Julian blushed crimson. “That’s not…! I wasn’t trying to insult you, Garak. I meant spoon theory! I sent you an article.”
Garak took a deep breath and rubbed at his temple. “Forgive me, doctor,” he said. “I haven’t exactly been up to my usual standards with reading the interesting articles you send me.”
Julian decided not to probe what “interesting” meant in this context. “Well, this one’s important. I sent it to you so you could think about not overtaxing yourself as you recover.”
“Given my full confession that I haven’t read the article,” Garak said as he picked up his mug of redleaf tea, “perhaps you can take this opportunity to explain what you do mean by spoons?”
The explanation that followed probably could have been edited to only include the points that were absolutely needed, but Julian felt like including a bit of medical history as well.
“I see,” Garak said. He took a sip of redleaf tea. “That is a fascinating way of calculating one’s potential for the day. I imagine your military uses it quite a lot.”
“Erm,” Julian said. Starfleet rarely used spoon theory outside of its original intent as an aid for the chronically ill.
“I’m joking, doctor,” Garak said with a smirk. “I know you can’t divulge military secrets.”
“Er… yeah. Sorry,” Julian said with a nervous smile.
“No need to apologize! I’m glad to see that you’re still able to suspect me as a possible informant even after that whole… debacle,” Garak said.
“If anything, I’m more suspicious,” Julian assured him. “Who else but a spy has that sort of device put into their brain?”
“Who indeed,” Garak said with a knowing look. He stood up from his chair. “But, I’m afraid I have to leave you to your musings. I have quite a backlog of work to catch up on.”
“Please don’t overwork yourself,” Julian said. “I’m sure your customers will understand if they get their clothing a little late.”
“Ah, so you don’t need that aviator jacket by this Friday,” Garak said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll make a note of it. Do you think Chief O’Brien can also do without his ensemble?”
Julian gave him a frustrated look. “Fine. I’ll talk to him,” he said after a moment. He pointed his fork at Garak. “But I want your word that you’ll actually take some time to rest.”
Garak narrowed his eyes at him. “My word? Really, doctor? Have I taught you nothing?”
“You’ve taught me a lot,” Julian countered. “You’ve taught me that words go a long way. If I have your word that you’ll try to get some rest, you’ll at least think about doing it rather than powering through mindlessly.”
Garak snorted out a little laugh. “While I resent the term ‘mindless’ when applied to myself,” Garak said, “that was very well reasoned. You have my word. I will try not to overtax myself.”
“Try to think about it in terms of spoons,” Julian said as Garak began to leave.
Garak stopped in his tracks. “My dear doctor,” he said, his tone venomous, “the less said about ‘spoons’ and my person, the better.”
Julian swallowed nervously. “Fair enough,” he said, mentally kicking himself for using what he now guessed was an offensive slur on Garak twice in one afternoon. Even if he had meant metaphorical spoons.
Garak groaned and shut his eyes. “Must you look like a beaten riding hound?” he complained. “I know you meant no offense. Those parts of the Cardassian body are simply… significant. Don’t…” he said, holding up a finger as Julian’s eyes lit up. “I will explain to you later. Right now, I have quite the headache and a tremendous amount of work to do. Finish your meal.” With that, he marched his way out of the replimat.
Much later, when Garak had had some time to recover and Julian had nearly forgotten about Cardassian spoons, Garak showed up at Julian’s door with wine and chocolate and explained the cultural and biological significance of the “spoons.” How many on Cardassia treated them almost like human chakras. How the divots were three of the most sensitive parts on the Cardassian body, making touching them intensely intimate. He didn’t say what would happen if they were hit or otherwise harmed, but Julian could guess that the result would be blindingly painful. He also learned that the proper term was “chu’en” to refer to the three spoons. That the forehead one was called the “chufa,” the chest “chula,” and the one near the groin “chuva.”
“Thank you,” Julian said once Garak had finished his lecture. “That was very informative.”
“Yes, I suspect your next medical paper is going to be about the chu’en,” Garak said sourly before popping a chocolate in his mouth.
“Not if you don’t want me to,” Julian said. When Garak gave him a skeptical look, he added, “Garak, I don’t go around publishing things that my patients don’t want other people to know about.” He gestured at Garak’s chufa. “This is fascinating and will help me when treating you, but I won’t go spreading this knowledge without your consent.”
Garak smiled softly and bowed his head at him. “Thank you, doctor,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it,” Julian said. “Although…”
“A catch, doctor? After that perfect declaration of Federation ideals?” Garak said, a glint in his eyes.
Julian blushed. “Erm… Well, I was just wondering if maybe you might be willing to give me a more… in-depth lesson?”
“I thought the information I gave you was already quite thorough,” Garak said, a smirk climbing up the side of his mouth. “The only other things I could teach you would involve… hands-on demonstrations.”
“Yeah, erm. That’s kind of my… I mean… I do understand things best when I… erm…”
Garak chuckled darkly. “Your proposition has been noted, doctor,” he said. “And, perhaps when I have more ‘spoons’ to my name, I’ll take you up on that particular experiment.” He touched Julian lightly in the middle of his forehead with his middle and index fingers, something the doctor had just learned was a gesture of affection on Cardassia. When Julian’s breath hitched, his smile grew broader. He got up and headed for the door. “Until then, doctor.”
Anonymous:
For the fic ask:
That thing on your desk--remind me what it's called?
“That thing on your desk–remind me what it’s called?” Julian asks. If he was less sleepy, his tone would do more than just verge on being sardonic.
But instead, it’s close to four in the morning, and it’s the second night in a row he’s found his husband not lying in bed next to him but instead down the hall in his study. He knows how tired Garak must be as well, if he was able to linger in the doorway for a full minute before he sensed his presence.
“Our… children?” Garak asks, eyes squinting in exhaustion at the framed holoimage of their family.
Our children. Never the girls or the kids. Sometimes our daughters, usually with one of the honorifics that Cardassians like to attach to their young–a good Cardassian daughter is always highly-favored or most honorable or noted for her service to her family. If she’s cheeky or brash or independent she might be a little mistress. If she’s one of their daughters, she’s more likely to respond to madam or one of the ladies of the house.
“Yes, our children,” Julian says, rounding the large, stately desk to wrap himself around Garak’s shoulders.
It’s an older portrait, taken not long after Lunara came to them. There are newer ones, hanging in other rooms in the house. But this was the first family portrait of the five of them. In it, four year old Sibel stands patiently next to a seated Julian, wearing the same solemn expression she’s worn since Julian first met her, a medically fragile, nameless, half-human half-Cardassian foundling in the neonatal ward. In Julian’s lap is a squirming Lunara, maybe two years old–the daughter they discovered wandering alone in the street during an outbreak of a novel influenza virus. They’d gotten as far as the front stoop of the overwhelmed children’s home before finding themselves unable to leave her there. Garak, standing behind Julian, has an eight month old Alyona in his arms. In the holoimage she’s drowsy, half-awake, occasionally waving at the camera before burrowing her face into her Papa’s jacket.
“They will be fine if you have to shut yourself in here while they’re awake,” Julian says, pressing a kiss to Garak’s temple. “Their father deserves to sleep if he’s going to keep trying to singlehandedly negotiate, author, and champion the Cardassian Bill of Rights.”
“I’m not trying to do it singlehandedly,” Garak protests.
Julian is aware that objectively, there are many other dedicated members of the party who are also working towards passing the Bill of Rights. He is not entirely certain that his husband trusts them enough to rely on their efforts.
“Hmm…”
With a sigh, Garak allows himself to slump backwards into Julian’s embrace. “I am simply trying to ensure that the Cardassia we leave behind for them is the best Cardassia we can promise.”
“And on such little sleep. How many nights in a row has it been now?”
“You only know of two.”
“Yes, but I know it’s been more,” Julian says. Spread out in front of him, on Garak’s desk, are at least a few dozen pieces of paper containing multiple drafts of the legislation. The margins are packed with notes written in Garak’s dense, cramped script. “You’ve been tired for weeks, Elim.”
“My dear, I’ve been tired for the last fifty years,” he says with a dry laugh.
But Julian’s unwilling to allow Garak to evade and equivocate at this small hour. Not when he needs another two hours of decent sleep before he reports for his shift at the hospital. Instead, he must be one of Garak’s least favorite things–direct.
“It won’t hurt them if they learn a little something of governance and duty to the State at your knee. You’re not Tain,” he reminds him lowly.
“I see we’re not even attempting subtlety tonight.”
Julian kisses him again. “I have surgery in three hours, I can’t afford it.”
Silent for a long moment, Garak allows the fingers on one hand to trail up and down Julian’s arm where it rests on his chest while he assembles his thoughts. “You will be shocked to hear that the worst of it I didn’t learn at Tain’s knee. He wasn’t on the planet very often, when I was Sibel’s age. But… yes, there weren’t many pleasant experiences associated with being summoned to Tain’s study, when I was a child.”
“Many?” Julian asks, voice flat.
“None.” Garak snorts, turning his head to allow himself a moment to nuzzle in Julian’s warmth. “For the most part, Mila did what she could to keep me out of the big house when Tain was home. All attention was negative attention, until I proved myself to be a useful asset. And by that time I was no longer a child.”
Physically or emotionally, Julian wants to ask. But he knows better by now than to ask Garak for more information than he’s willing to give when it comes to his parents. Close to seven years married and eight years together, and he’s still not sure whether Mila was his biological mother or the woman who Tain handed Garak off to after he was born.
In the end, those kinds of details don’t matter.
Garak only has a vested interest in recent truths, and Julian won’t quibble with that. Even in death, Tain casts a long shadow. He knows his husband is doing his best to step out of it, for himself, for his family, and for Cardassia.
“You’re not going to solve the Union’s problems overnight,” Julian says, pressing their foreheads together. “No matter how many nights you slip out of bed after I fall asleep and try it.”
Garak frowns, petulant. “I might. You don’t know.”
“Elim.”
“Julian.”
Sighing dramatically, Julian unfolds himself from Garak’s embrace. Taking a step backwards, he holds out his hand. “Come back to bed. Get a few more hours of sleep before the girls have more energy than you know what to do with, because I won’t be around to help get anyone ready for school today.”
Not with a scheduled pediatric open-heart aortic valve replacement at 0700 hours.
“Fine,” Garak grumbles. “Fine, I’m getting up.”
Waving off Julian’s hand, he extracts himself from his desk chair, wincing as the tendons in his neck and back and knees protest. Lifting a single eyebrow, Julian offers his hand again. This time, Garak takes it. Quietly, they make their way down the hallway back to their bedroom. Julian says nothing as Garak stops and checks on each of their daughters in their bedrooms, satisfying himself with the depth and sounds of their breathing before progressing onto the next.
“They already know you helped write the Constitution,” Julian whispers, once Garak returns to the hallway from tucking Alyona back in under her blankets. “They won’t be shocked to learn that you continue to create a fair and equitable new form of government that represents billions of people, and that it takes a lot of hard work to do so.”
Garak gives him an expression that took Julian many years to understand. His husband thrives on praise, but it’s a recent phenomena that it is given to him without the silent, underwritten threat that should he stop pleasing the praise-giver, then his life may be forfeit. Garak trusts nothing that calls itself unconditional, except death and taxes.
That’s fine. Julian doesn’t mind spending the rest of his life in the pursuit of making Elim understand that there’s very little he could do that he wouldn’t forgive him for.
“Flatterer,” Garak eventually says.
Rolling his eyes, Julian opens the door to their bedroom with a theatrical flourish, waving Garak inside. “Historically, it’s been a successful method for getting you into bed with me.”
I’m sorry, all I see is Julian looking after some baby Cardassians who decided that he is their dad now, and keep escaping their cot for warm cuddles.
Ask and yee shall recieve.
–
Julian had given up on keeping the Cardassian infants in the incubated crate that O'Brien had designed for them. Garak had approved of it and assured Julian that it was perfectly normal in this modern day and age to use a similar device for premature children even on Cardassia, but it seemed the babies didn’t care about that. Instead of being woken up in the middle of the night by one of them jumping on his chest, Julian surrendered to the fact that he would now be cuddling what were, essentially, small lizards every night.
“Now this is something right out of a romance novel.” Garak chuckled, causing Julian to jump awake.
“What?” Julian said, rubbing his eyes as the babies readjusted themselves now that he was in a different position.
“Single fathers come with a family, which is what’s most important on Cardassia.” Garak explained. “And the man almost only gets to keep his children if his wife dies, so there’s no issue of disgraceful divorce. Seeing a single young man being so doting to his children would have half of Cardassia swooning.”
“That…” Julian shook his head, processing everything. “That’s not what I was asking.”
“Then what was, doctor?”
“What are you doing in my quarters!?” Julian huffed. One of the infants hissed at Garak when Julian showed annoyance toward him, the babies had grown rather protective of Julian. Julian gave each of the three a soothing pat on the head so they’d calm down. Garak’s smile only grew wider.
“I wanted to see if you needed anything.” Garak said innocently. “And if it was unnecessary, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Then why did you?” Grumbled Julian.
“I’ll admit, when I saw you snuggling your children, I couldn’t help but comment aloud.” Garak sighed. Julian rolled his eyes but then looked at the babies that had now moved to his lap.
“Were you ever this small?” Julian smiled.
“Those three were born prematurely, doctor.” Garak answered. “A full term pregnancy produces much larger children.” Garak sat down on the bed and looked at the babies. “I’m actually surprised they survived at all.”
“You and me both.” Julian exhaled. “It didn’t look like they would at first.” Julian frowned and looked sad. “I just wish I could have done something for Nakeli.” Garak placed his hand gently on Julian’s.
“Their mother knew she had no chance.” Garak soothed. “Saving her children is more than anything else you could have given her.” Garak looked thoughtful again. “Are you going to do something about their tails when they’re a bit older?”
“I was actually meaning to ask you about that.” Julian said. “We don’t know much about Cardassian infants.” Julian picked one of the children up with a smile. “Did you have your tail removed or does it fall off?”
“I wasn’t born with one.” Garak said, obviously amused. “We evolved past them long ago. We only have them in the womb, but after five months, it should be gone.”
“And all exceptions have surgery?” Julian asked.
“The government provides it.” Garak nodded.
“Is it normal for babies to be born bald?” Julian was smiling as the baby in his hands gave him a lick on the cheek.
“It’s rather common. Hair will grow in time.” Garak reassured. “I must admit, I’m a bit out of my depth here though.”
“So you weren’t ever a nanny?” Julian laughed. Garak shook his head. “Want to try?”
“I could try to help you watch over the little ones.” Garak nodded. “Especially since you’ll need to return to work soon enough.”
“I warn you, if they ever spend the night, they will demand to sleep with you.” Julian grinned.
“Well, they’re drawn to your mammalian heat.” Garak waved a hand. “It’s probably as close to the womb as they can get.”
“The incubator is warmer.” Julian frowned. “And yet they insist on coming into my bed.”
“Who wouldn’t, given the option?” Garak said with a sly smile. Julian blinked, not sure what to say and Garak quickly changed the subject. “What are their names by the way?”
“I…” Julian blushed. “I haven’t actually named them.”
“Oh?” Garak said in surprise. “Don’t you think you should?”
“Well, I want to give them Cardassian names,” Julian explained, “but when we locate Nakeli’s husband, it should really be his decision.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.” Garak nodded. “But it would hardly hurt to give them something temporary to keep them straight.”
“Well, why don’t you name them?” Julian suggested. “You’re really more qualified than I am.” Garak looked like he might protest but Julian pushed the baby he was holding into Garak’s hands. “Come on, start with this one. What’s her name?” Garak looked into the eyes of the infant for some time before he softly whispered:
Hey lol sorry for taking so long to write this, my mind has been weird again which means me going ooooh an ask and then not reacting to it in any way
8: squeezing hand for comfort and encouragement
***
Julian grunted. It had not been a pleasant day; a stray migraine had struck him sometime after lunchtime and he’d retreated into the bedroom, keeping the lights at 0% and the temperature low. Julian was lucky to still be on leave - his mental health had not improved yet, not after the mess Julian’s parents had created.
The pain was finally abating. Julian actually managed to open one eye and not feel like his stomach tried to empty itself of everything. No, whatever was left in it was only the acid that dissolved the foods that entered Julian’s stomach.
Well, that certainly was a win.
Slowly, much slower than he usually moved, Julian managed to sit up. He made his way into the living room where he kept the warm quilt and snacks.
Julian all but collapsed on the couch right before the door slid open. Garak entered but did not turn on the lights.
“My dearest?”
“I’m ‘ere”, Julian croaked, “got a migraine. Head still hurts.”
The sofa dipped, and the warm quilt was draped over Julian. Garak’s hand was pressed on Julian’s forehead, and Garak sighed.
“Water?” Garak asked softly.
“Please”, Julian breathed.
Garak got up and was soon back with a cup of cold water which Julian emptied faster than he’d imagined possible. He had not eaten anything for hours and it showed.
“Anything to eat?”
Julian shook his head even though Garak couldn’t possible see it. “I don’t think I can eat anything yet.” After a moment, Julian asked, “hold my hand?”
Garak found Julian’s hand and squeezed his fingers. It was comforting to have someone so close to him even if he couldn’t see Garak at that moment.
And, well, if Garak began to draw little patterns on Julian’s palm with his finger and making Julian giggle because it tickled, well, that was not such a bad thing to happen either.
You are the weakest member of a famous superheros family. Villains kidnapped you for a ransom, unfortunately hostage situations don’t work when your family is already neglecting you…
“They won’t come.”
Dr. Nefarious glances over at the ten-year-old girl he has kidnapped. She sits tied against a column in the abandoned parking garage, a look of quiet sorrow on her face. Hardly what he had been expecting from the daughter of one of the most powerful super-families in the city. Now that he thinks about it, it was a little surprising that she didn’t use her powers to stop him when he pulled her into his van.
He rubs at his eyes. Clearly, she knows something he doesn’t. Probably that she has a tracker on her or that the police are on their way or that he’s already been injected with something from a tac in the bottom of her shoe or some other such nonsense. “Why,” he asks, trying to keep his tone as even as possible, “will your family not come for you?”
“Because,” she says, looking down at her shoes, “I’m not special like them. I bet they don’t even know I’m gone.”
Dr. Nefarious furrows his brow at the girl. “You mean to tell me,” he says, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea, “that the eldest daughter of one of the most well-known super-families in the city would just be forgotten by her family?” He chuckles darkly. “You must be joking.”
“Call them,” she says. She looks up at him. Her brown eyes are infinitely sad in the cold light of the parking lot. “You’ll see.”
Dr. Nefarious is not in the habit of doing what his captives want him to do. However, this request is just too much for his curiosity. “Peter Smith,” Bionicman says into the phone after two rings.
“Mr. Smith, or should I say Bionicman,” Dr. Nefarious says, “I have your daughter with me.”
“You do?” Bionicman says.
Dr. Nefarious’ mouth hangs open for a second before he gets it together. “Yes! Your daughter! Brown hair, brown eyes, goes by Kaitlin?”
“Oh, well, don’t keep her out too late. She needs to take Becca to school in the morning,” Bionicman says before hanging up the phone.
“Told ya,” Kaitlin says.
Dr. Nefarious holds up a finger at her as he redials Bionicman.
“Hello?” Bionicman says.
“Look, I don’t think you understand here. I’ve kidnapped your daughter. I am going to kill her if you don’t do what I say.”
“Nice try, but Katie knows not to get caught by villains,” Bionicman says. “Actually, can I speak to her for a second? She’s been leaving her window open and I think Becca caught a cold because of it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dr. Nefarious mutters as he hangs up the phone. He glances over at Katie. Tears are falling down her cheeks. “Hey, hey, no,” he says, getting down on one knee next to her. He pulls out a mini packet of tissues and shoves one into her hands. “I’m sure they’re just… I’ll… I’ll get my money!”
“Good luck,” she says sourly before blowing her nose. “If you’d captured Becca, maybe, but me?”
“They just think you can handle yourself!” Dr. Nefarious says, inwardly cringing. How often had he heard that growing up?
“They don’t care,” she says. She somehow manages to curl up even more tightly despite being tied to a post. “It’s fine. I don’t need them anyway.”
Dr. Nefarious purses his lips, then walks around the post and unties the ropes. “C’mon,” he says, offering her a hand up. “Let’s get some ice cream.”
Oof. Poor baby needs a hug. Also, does Dr. Nefarious realize that he’s a dad now?
Short answer: No.
Long answer:
“You can be my dad!” Kaitlin said.
“What?” Dr. Nefarious exclaimed, nearly dropping his raspberry chip ice cream in his surprise. He had been looking after Kaitlin for two months now, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to be a dad.
Besides, she already had a very powerful father. A super-powered father.
“Yeah!” Kaitlin said, completely undeterred. She waved her chocolate chip ice cream cone at him. “You can adopt me. I’m pretty sure my parents wouldn’t mind.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dr. Nefarious said, waving his hands in front of him as if he were trying to stop an oncoming car. “Katie, you don’t want a villain for a dad.”
Katie grimaced at him. “Why not?”
“Because… Well, who’s going to teach you about right and wrong? Make sure you get into a good school? Go to parent-teacher conferences?”
“You think my parents were doing any of that?” she said archly before taking a lick of her chocolate chip ice cream.
Well, shit. She had him there. “You don’t even know where I live!” he exclaimed.
“224 Park Street,” she said. She picked at the paper wrapper on her cone. “I snuck it off the sheet you filled out to be my emergency contact for swim club.”
“But you haven’t been there,” he said. “Also, don’t go around stealing people’s information. That’s rude.”
“See! You’re already doing better than Dad,” she said proudly (and a little smugly). “You can show me your place once we’re done with ice cream.”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Your father would kill me.”
“Dad doesn’t care. Neither does Mom. Becca might care, but I think she’ll like being an only child more.”
Dr. Nefarious furrowed his brow. “Listen, Katie,” he said after a moment. “I have a criminal record. I don’t think I can adopt you.”
“But!” he said, holding up a finger as her eyes filled with tears. “I think I know a couple who might be willing to try.”
On the screen, Jeff Goldblum lounged in sweaty, shirtless glory.
Then the scientist said: “You know I worked on one of these, right?”
“What, one of the Jurassic Park movies?”
“No, like an actual Jurassic Park. Real ‘man destroys god, man creates dinosaurs’ stuff. We were going to open an actual theme park with actual dinosaurs.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m dead serious.” Ice cubes clinked together as she flourished the glass. “Some billionaire saw the movie in the nineties and immediately started privately developing his own dinosaur theme park. It actually got pretty far into development.”
She looked into the depths of the drink. “Didn’t end well.”
On the screen, Bob Peck was talking about lysine.
“Was it velociraptors?”
She looked up, blinking away the vision she saw in the glass. “Hm?”
“Did it go bad because velociraptors?”
“Oh, no, the velociraptors actually turned out to be very sweet. If you can imagine a penguin mixed with a hawk, that’s a velociraptor. And all the tyrannosaurus wanted to do was sleep and seduce her handler.
“The problem was the brachiosaurus.”
On the screen, Samuel L. Jackson was talking about butts.
The ice cubes clinked together as she tipped her head back and finished the drink too quickly. She stared at the ice cubes as they rattled against each other.
“Did you know that cows kill an average of twenty people a year?” she asked.
“Deliberately, too. A predator will kill for food, or if it thinks you’re a threat, but mostly they don’t care about people.
“But a cow? A cow will trample you because it’s a big, dumb, territorial thing and it’s genetically designed to protect itself from predators.
“Imagine a cow filled with the wrath of God.”
This is the exact energy I aim for in all my writing thank you.
