Star Trek: DS9 - More ridiculous fluff
Mar. 10th, 2013 03:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seikilosTitle: The Death of Dignity
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fluff
Rating & Warnings: PG (for fail!seduction oh Julian)
Words: 1768
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Dr. Bashir and Garak learn that the ideals of masculine beauty are not standard across their species and experience the loss of the illusion of constant attractiveness.
Author's Notes: I've been reading A Stich In Time by Andrew Robinson lately--the post-series book that Garak's actor wrote to tie up his character's loose ends. Seeing that it's as heartbreaking as hell, I've been writing fluff for these two pretty much nonstop.
This is just a bit of silliness flavoured with my fascination with species differences, the way politics affect fashion, and how certain words and expressions hang on long after they're obsolete ("batten down the hatches," anyone?). Someday, I'll actually post one of my serious projects for DS9, but that day is not today.
Additional disclaimer: I am not an artist. I just couldn't get the image of my head (it actually turned up first and the fic came after), so have an illustrated fanfic à la Lady Yate-Xel.
The first few weeks after two people moved in together were always awkward. It didn't matter whether said two people in question were Academy roommates, friends, or lovers—in Julian's experience, there was always a period of adjustment where things went a bit . . . strange.
And that fact was truest of all for lovers. You spent the first stage of your relationship making sure your clothing was flattering, your hair more or less in place, your fingernails free of any intruding dirt, your scent inoffensive, and so on and so forth. When the relationship progressed, it was undeniable that your partner was going to be exposed to your morning breath and bedhead (and vice versa), but as their presence in your lodgings was pleasant but temporary, it was still possible to pretend these were only minor aberrations.
Four days after Garak had moved in with him, all form of illusion that Julian Bashir was always an attractive, well put-together Human being was gone, well, truly, and completely. Within the first day and a half, there had been a collision between two freighters outside of DS9, resulting in Julian pulling an eighteen-hour shift fuelled by most of a sandwich and no less than two hundred lukewarm mugs of Tarkalian tea. He'd collapsed into bed immediately afterwards, risen in foggy desperation five hours later only to be told by Garak that no, he wasn't late for his next shift, that Commander Sisko had reassigned it, and had proceeded to re-collapse into bed for another six hours.
He'd made some token attempt at looking a quarter of the way presentable when he'd awakened at last, but once Garak had teased him about his open-mouthed snoring at afternoon breakfast, he'd given up. His dignity was a thing of the distant past.
(Garak was still in nearly full possession of his, and was likely to remain in that fortunate state for rather a while, Julian had reflected at the time. DS9 was generally short on tailoring emergencies.)
Barely a day later, however, had come his first truly odd experience with Garak—since they had begun sharing living space, at least. His partner had gone in for a sonic shower some time ago (and Julian had lost a handful of minutes in a very lovely fantasy). It had been the first he'd taken while both of them had been together in their quarters. Now, as he left the bathroom, Julian was disappointed to see him already fully dressed, but he gave him a quick smile anyway before returning to his work.
When the state of Garak's hair registered half a second later, he nearly cracked his neck snapping his head up again.
Like everything else about him, Garak's hair was always kept in nigh perfect order. The only exceptions Julian had seen had been when his hands had pulled a few strands out of place during their kisses and, later, lovemaking, and the sight of even that touch of dishevelment to his normally contained partner had been among the most entrancing of his life.
Right now, "dishevelled" barely did justice to the state of Garak's hair.
Instead of being swept back into a typical Cardassian arrangement, Garak's hair plunged forward, around either side of his face. Fine wisps floated away here and there, underscoring the sudden freedom his hair had been allowed and begging to be tucked back into place—but not all the way back. Because to completely restrain something so startling attractive would be a crime.
Julian smiled suddenly. A plain and simple crime.
When Garak caught sight of his expression, he sighed. "You needn't be so polite, my dear. I'm well aware of how foolish I look, but the showers here do a very poor job of cleaning my hair if I don't thoroughly put it into disarray like this."
"'Foolish' isn't the word I would have chosen." Julian's smile began a slow but decided shift in tenor, and he set aside his padd to rise and close the distance between them.
Garak watched him, his head tilted. "Then which word would you choose? Ridiculous? Entertaining?"
Julian lifted his hand to slip a few strands behind Garak's ear. His previous fantasies firmly in mind, he let his fingertips brush its curve as he leaned into murmur, "Captivating."
The flat look of disbelief he received in response was . . . not what he had hoped for. He had expected it to a degree, yes—but not to that much of one.
"You're joking."
"I'm not!" he protested, feeling the moment not slipping past him, but hurtling away at a sprint. "It looks good on you!"
Garak started smoothing his hair down, still giving him that look. "It's a mess."
"That's the whole point!" Now Julian was the one to sigh and he turned away. "Never mind."
Well, that seduction had only been a complete failure. The sooner he forgot about it, the better.
"Julian."
. . . It was the thoughtful tone of Garak's voice that, in spite of his warm face, made him turn back. Maybe this was only a partial disaster. "Yes?"
"I believe we're having another thermostat moment."
It was a bit of personal code they'd developed, and though they hadn't been living together even a week, it had already become a solid part of both their vocabularies. It stemmed from one of their very first challenges as a couple living together: setting the environmental controls of their quarters. Being of two species with markedly different ideas of what constituted a comfortable living temperature, this had posed a challenge.
Prior to now, the unarticulated rule had been whoever played host set the controls to suit the guest. Once neither of them could accurately be termed host or guest, the rules had similarly changed. Their first evening had been spent adjusting the controls up and down until they had reached a temperature both could tolerate. It wasn't ideal for either of them, but it would do. Julian had replicated a few more short-sleeved and sleeveless shirts for when he was off duty (and had been flattered by the low-lidded look Garak had directed his way when he'd changed into one), and Garak was already well stocked with warm clothes from living on DS9. The compromise had worked rather well, Julian thought.
Now, it seemed, there needed to be another such discussion.
"Oh?" he responded to Garak's declaration. "In what way?"
"Tell me," Garak began as he started to comb his fingers through his hair in the absence of a brush. (It was really rather distracting.) "Have you ever seen a Cardassian man with less than perfectly arranged hair?"
Julian thought about it. His personal exposure to Cardassians other than Garak was unfortunately limited—it made it that much more difficult to predict these moments of culture- and species-clash—but he had seen at least enough to answer the question. "No, I can't say that I have."
"And nor will you. We Cardassians value our grooming. To go out with hair in this state" —he removed his hand from his hair to gesture at it— "would be unthinkable." He lowered his chin. "I've noticed, however, that doesn't appear to be the case with Humans."
"Well . . . no, it isn't. A lack of control—to a point—is considered attractive. There have been a few times and places in Human history where a Cardassian hairstyle has been popular, but. . . ." He shrugged. "That fell out of fashion years ago."
Most recently at the start of the Federation-Cardassian Wars, he didn't say. From what he'd heard, the hairstyle had disappeared all but overnight.
Abruptly, Garak left off fussing with his hair to give him the kind of narrow look that tended to feature very prominently in his imagination (and that made him warm for a reason completely other than embarrassment).
"Really now. What a pity it's still out of favour. It would look extremely appealing on you."
Julian's eyebrows rose. "Now you're the one who's joking."
"Not at all." Clearly warming to the idea, Garak leaned in. His expression was alight as he must have been picturing the same thing as Julian . . . only somehow he was finding it worth getting excited over. "As a professional—and, of course, on a personal level—I can assure you the results of adopting a Cardassian hairstyle would only be positive."
"Not with my hair," Julian argued. "I'd get it halfway and look ridiculous to both Humans and Cardassians. If you could get it to lie down and behave, it'd be more than I've ever managed."
Garak leaned in farther. When they had first met, Julian would have found the shrinking distance between himself and "the spy" simultaneously thrilling and nerve-wracking. Now, with Garak looking the way he did, it was only the former—even in the middle of a disagreement. (How did he do that?)
"Will you let me try?" He lifted a hand to comb his fingers through Julian's hair with nearly the same touch with which he might evaluate a new type of fabric . . . nearly. It was only with effort that Julian kept his eyes from falling shut at the touch. "Trust me—you won't regret it."
He gave up. "All right, but only if you keep your hair the way it is. That's my one condition."
"Then my condition is this: that while this little experiment in cross-cultural hairstyling is ongoing. . . ." Garak widened his eyes for emphasis. "We don't leave our quarters."
And just like that, he was grinning, all incredulity banished. It was incredible the effect Garak had on him at times.
He leaned in to press a quick kiss to his lips, then stepped away. "Agreed. I can only imagine what the Chief might have to say if he saw us like this."
"Or Lieutenant Dax," Garak added, looking pleased with himself.
"She'd never let us live it down." Knowing her, she'd be telling stories about how silly they looked for as long as the Dax symbiont lived. If the two of them wanted to preserve their illusions of dignity with everyone but each other, the very last thing they should do was allow Jadzia to witness this bit of strangeness.
In the end, while Garak seem to think him very attractive with his new hairstyle (aside from the bits springing into the air here, there, and everywhere) and of course he thought a less controlled image for Garak was nothing short of fascinating, they both agreed that this was one piece of culture best not exchanged. . . . Except, perhaps, on special, private occasions.
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fluff
Rating & Warnings: PG (for fail!seduction oh Julian)
Words: 1768
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Dr. Bashir and Garak learn that the ideals of masculine beauty are not standard across their species and experience the loss of the illusion of constant attractiveness.
Author's Notes: I've been reading A Stich In Time by Andrew Robinson lately--the post-series book that Garak's actor wrote to tie up his character's loose ends. Seeing that it's as heartbreaking as hell, I've been writing fluff for these two pretty much nonstop.
This is just a bit of silliness flavoured with my fascination with species differences, the way politics affect fashion, and how certain words and expressions hang on long after they're obsolete ("batten down the hatches," anyone?). Someday, I'll actually post one of my serious projects for DS9, but that day is not today.
Additional disclaimer: I am not an artist. I just couldn't get the image of my head (it actually turned up first and the fic came after), so have an illustrated fanfic à la Lady Yate-Xel.
The first few weeks after two people moved in together were always awkward. It didn't matter whether said two people in question were Academy roommates, friends, or lovers—in Julian's experience, there was always a period of adjustment where things went a bit . . . strange.
And that fact was truest of all for lovers. You spent the first stage of your relationship making sure your clothing was flattering, your hair more or less in place, your fingernails free of any intruding dirt, your scent inoffensive, and so on and so forth. When the relationship progressed, it was undeniable that your partner was going to be exposed to your morning breath and bedhead (and vice versa), but as their presence in your lodgings was pleasant but temporary, it was still possible to pretend these were only minor aberrations.
Four days after Garak had moved in with him, all form of illusion that Julian Bashir was always an attractive, well put-together Human being was gone, well, truly, and completely. Within the first day and a half, there had been a collision between two freighters outside of DS9, resulting in Julian pulling an eighteen-hour shift fuelled by most of a sandwich and no less than two hundred lukewarm mugs of Tarkalian tea. He'd collapsed into bed immediately afterwards, risen in foggy desperation five hours later only to be told by Garak that no, he wasn't late for his next shift, that Commander Sisko had reassigned it, and had proceeded to re-collapse into bed for another six hours.
He'd made some token attempt at looking a quarter of the way presentable when he'd awakened at last, but once Garak had teased him about his open-mouthed snoring at afternoon breakfast, he'd given up. His dignity was a thing of the distant past.
(Garak was still in nearly full possession of his, and was likely to remain in that fortunate state for rather a while, Julian had reflected at the time. DS9 was generally short on tailoring emergencies.)
Barely a day later, however, had come his first truly odd experience with Garak—since they had begun sharing living space, at least. His partner had gone in for a sonic shower some time ago (and Julian had lost a handful of minutes in a very lovely fantasy). It had been the first he'd taken while both of them had been together in their quarters. Now, as he left the bathroom, Julian was disappointed to see him already fully dressed, but he gave him a quick smile anyway before returning to his work.
When the state of Garak's hair registered half a second later, he nearly cracked his neck snapping his head up again.
Like everything else about him, Garak's hair was always kept in nigh perfect order. The only exceptions Julian had seen had been when his hands had pulled a few strands out of place during their kisses and, later, lovemaking, and the sight of even that touch of dishevelment to his normally contained partner had been among the most entrancing of his life.
Right now, "dishevelled" barely did justice to the state of Garak's hair.
Instead of being swept back into a typical Cardassian arrangement, Garak's hair plunged forward, around either side of his face. Fine wisps floated away here and there, underscoring the sudden freedom his hair had been allowed and begging to be tucked back into place—but not all the way back. Because to completely restrain something so startling attractive would be a crime.
Julian smiled suddenly. A plain and simple crime.
When Garak caught sight of his expression, he sighed. "You needn't be so polite, my dear. I'm well aware of how foolish I look, but the showers here do a very poor job of cleaning my hair if I don't thoroughly put it into disarray like this."
"'Foolish' isn't the word I would have chosen." Julian's smile began a slow but decided shift in tenor, and he set aside his padd to rise and close the distance between them.
Garak watched him, his head tilted. "Then which word would you choose? Ridiculous? Entertaining?"
Julian lifted his hand to slip a few strands behind Garak's ear. His previous fantasies firmly in mind, he let his fingertips brush its curve as he leaned into murmur, "Captivating."
The flat look of disbelief he received in response was . . . not what he had hoped for. He had expected it to a degree, yes—but not to that much of one.
"You're joking."
"I'm not!" he protested, feeling the moment not slipping past him, but hurtling away at a sprint. "It looks good on you!"
Garak started smoothing his hair down, still giving him that look. "It's a mess."
"That's the whole point!" Now Julian was the one to sigh and he turned away. "Never mind."
Well, that seduction had only been a complete failure. The sooner he forgot about it, the better.
"Julian."
. . . It was the thoughtful tone of Garak's voice that, in spite of his warm face, made him turn back. Maybe this was only a partial disaster. "Yes?"
"I believe we're having another thermostat moment."
It was a bit of personal code they'd developed, and though they hadn't been living together even a week, it had already become a solid part of both their vocabularies. It stemmed from one of their very first challenges as a couple living together: setting the environmental controls of their quarters. Being of two species with markedly different ideas of what constituted a comfortable living temperature, this had posed a challenge.
Prior to now, the unarticulated rule had been whoever played host set the controls to suit the guest. Once neither of them could accurately be termed host or guest, the rules had similarly changed. Their first evening had been spent adjusting the controls up and down until they had reached a temperature both could tolerate. It wasn't ideal for either of them, but it would do. Julian had replicated a few more short-sleeved and sleeveless shirts for when he was off duty (and had been flattered by the low-lidded look Garak had directed his way when he'd changed into one), and Garak was already well stocked with warm clothes from living on DS9. The compromise had worked rather well, Julian thought.
Now, it seemed, there needed to be another such discussion.
"Oh?" he responded to Garak's declaration. "In what way?"
"Tell me," Garak began as he started to comb his fingers through his hair in the absence of a brush. (It was really rather distracting.) "Have you ever seen a Cardassian man with less than perfectly arranged hair?"
Julian thought about it. His personal exposure to Cardassians other than Garak was unfortunately limited—it made it that much more difficult to predict these moments of culture- and species-clash—but he had seen at least enough to answer the question. "No, I can't say that I have."
"And nor will you. We Cardassians value our grooming. To go out with hair in this state" —he removed his hand from his hair to gesture at it— "would be unthinkable." He lowered his chin. "I've noticed, however, that doesn't appear to be the case with Humans."
"Well . . . no, it isn't. A lack of control—to a point—is considered attractive. There have been a few times and places in Human history where a Cardassian hairstyle has been popular, but. . . ." He shrugged. "That fell out of fashion years ago."
Most recently at the start of the Federation-Cardassian Wars, he didn't say. From what he'd heard, the hairstyle had disappeared all but overnight.
Abruptly, Garak left off fussing with his hair to give him the kind of narrow look that tended to feature very prominently in his imagination (and that made him warm for a reason completely other than embarrassment).
"Really now. What a pity it's still out of favour. It would look extremely appealing on you."
Julian's eyebrows rose. "Now you're the one who's joking."
"Not at all." Clearly warming to the idea, Garak leaned in. His expression was alight as he must have been picturing the same thing as Julian . . . only somehow he was finding it worth getting excited over. "As a professional—and, of course, on a personal level—I can assure you the results of adopting a Cardassian hairstyle would only be positive."
"Not with my hair," Julian argued. "I'd get it halfway and look ridiculous to both Humans and Cardassians. If you could get it to lie down and behave, it'd be more than I've ever managed."
Garak leaned in farther. When they had first met, Julian would have found the shrinking distance between himself and "the spy" simultaneously thrilling and nerve-wracking. Now, with Garak looking the way he did, it was only the former—even in the middle of a disagreement. (How did he do that?)
"Will you let me try?" He lifted a hand to comb his fingers through Julian's hair with nearly the same touch with which he might evaluate a new type of fabric . . . nearly. It was only with effort that Julian kept his eyes from falling shut at the touch. "Trust me—you won't regret it."
He gave up. "All right, but only if you keep your hair the way it is. That's my one condition."
"Then my condition is this: that while this little experiment in cross-cultural hairstyling is ongoing. . . ." Garak widened his eyes for emphasis. "We don't leave our quarters."
And just like that, he was grinning, all incredulity banished. It was incredible the effect Garak had on him at times.
He leaned in to press a quick kiss to his lips, then stepped away. "Agreed. I can only imagine what the Chief might have to say if he saw us like this."
"Or Lieutenant Dax," Garak added, looking pleased with himself.
"She'd never let us live it down." Knowing her, she'd be telling stories about how silly they looked for as long as the Dax symbiont lived. If the two of them wanted to preserve their illusions of dignity with everyone but each other, the very last thing they should do was allow Jadzia to witness this bit of strangeness.
In the end, while Garak seem to think him very attractive with his new hairstyle (aside from the bits springing into the air here, there, and everywhere) and of course he thought a less controlled image for Garak was nothing short of fascinating, they both agreed that this was one piece of culture best not exchanged. . . . Except, perhaps, on special, private occasions.
