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seikilosTitle: A Talent For Intimacy
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Romance/Introspective
Rating & Warnings: PG (small references to sex, torture)
Words: 1316
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Julian Bashir might be a natural at creating intimacy, but Garak has never learned the trick of it.
Author's Notes: This is the first of another fic mini-series that I have planned but, um, haven't quite finished the other parts to yet. Getting up in Garak's mind requires a great deal of thinking, which I've lately been reserving for other fics instead. So, well, if this seems like it's setting up for something--it is. :D;;
Posted ahead of schedule for Giny, who did me a big favour recently and who is an all-around sweetheart. Thanks, Giny. <3
The only sewing left in Garak's pile was hemming and repairs. He hated when he reached that stage: it gave him time to think.
He much preferred creating, bending his mind to the puzzle of each customer's particular body shape. Or there was enticing someone into making this purchase and not that one. It was a game to play—not the game, of course, because he was never so fortunate, but it served as at least a brief diversion.
It was true, though, that his mind had needed much less diverting in the past two weeks. A little more than fourteen days ago, Julian had taken the completely unforeseen step of asking him out to dinner. The invitation had not been given to a friend, but to a potential partner. He had never expected to be so fortunate, and he had been nothing short of astonished when that dinner had not been an experiment but a beginning. Much of his restlessness had been soothed by the new kind of smile Julian directed his way, the low tones of his voice and his clever, clever physician's hands. But one person could not be a life, and nor should he be.
Garak sighed heavily and reached for the uniform top, the first in the pile. He was unsurprised to see it was in engineer's gold: the only people rougher on their uniforms were security. He changed the thread in his machine (he was running low on the proper shade; he'd need to replicate more) and set to work.
His new relationship was the best thing to happen to him in years, easily, but it, too, was cause for concern. As a former spy with current enemies, it couldn't be otherwise.
And he had very little skill at romantic relationships. He just didn't know the trick of them. Sex was simple, and he liked to think he was rather good at it. They hadn't progressed that far in their relationship yet, he and Julian, but from what he'd seen, Julian seemed to have no complaints.
Intimacy, though. . . . He'd been an instrument of the Order for nearly his whole life. To become intimate with someone was to open oneself to manipulation and one's partner to a deeply unpleasant end. No one had needed to explain those facts to him; observation and common sense had been the only teachers he'd required. It was a lesson he'd obeyed scrupulously, with only one exception prior to now—but as a result of his isolation, he had very little practice at being a good and loving partner.
Julian, by contrast, was a natural. He had to be, the way he created intimacy between them seemingly without a thought. All those little touches—to his elbow, the small of his back, the way he always sat next to him these days so that their shoulders touched. It was as if he was being unknowingly compelled to remain in contact with him, and Garak's thirsty body drank in it all.
And yet despite craving the contact, he was unable to return it. Not in that same spontaneous way. All of his touches were planned and carried out after a careful evaluation of the current situation. It wasn't the same. He knew it wasn't the same. And knowing was not a solution.
He reached the end of the tear and clicked the knot-and-cut button on the machine to finish his repairs. Once the needle had freed itself, he held up the shirt, shook it out, then went over the rest of the fabric. He had been only hired for the one piece of damage, but he was a very good tailor. He would be remiss if he didn't patch up what the ensign had failed to notice.
His problem was that he was in a situation that demanded impulsiveness. Bamarren had ground any flights of fancy deep into him, probably too deep for recovery, and he'd never had the opportunity to express fondness on a whim. It would have been, he thought with the wryest of smiles, the very worst of ideas, given his previous affair of the heart. Pretending only friendship with a married woman would be difficult if one was inclined to give out little pecks on the lips at random intervals, as Julian was. (It always, always made the never-completely-vanquished romantic in him lose his breath for a beat.)
There. The fabric was weakening here, at the elbows. He'd slip a patch inside to reinforce it and point out the extra service he'd performed when the ensign came to collect her top. With any luck, she'd be grateful and in a mood to express her gratitude in the form of additional payment.
He got up from his table and went to storage to retrieve his bolt of Starfleet black, then brought it back to the table. Measuring and cutting took focus and that momentarily stilled his thoughts. Moments were such brief things, though, weren't they?
. . . Regardless of his ignorance of the art of affection, it never could be said that he was a slow learner. Even Toran had been forced to admit he was clever. He'd learn how it was done and carry out his plans when he and Julian were safely in private, before his partner came to the wrong conclusion about his feelings concerning their relationship—and concerning Julian himself.
He'd just finished the second patch when the doors to his shop hissed open. Garak lifted his head, and this smile didn't need placing on his face.
"Lunchtime already, Julian?"
"Yes, it's shaping up to be a busy afternoon for me, so I thought we might go a little early," Julian said, and oh, that answering smile.
Garak immediately powered down his machine and stood. "An excellent idea."
And then, as the always-alert part of his mind scanned location and circumstances and searched for threats, he lifted his hand, palm facing Julian.
His lover was quite obviously puzzled, for all he raised his hand in an echo, and was he truly so terrible at intimacy that he had neglected to teach Julian even this much?
"Elim?"
He reached across to press his palm against the softer, resilient skin of Julian's. He felt his features relax. Self-recriminations could wait until after he'd had this moment.
"It's a Cardassian gesture," he explained, watching fondness warm the confusion still present on Julian's face. (Really, his besottedness must have been embarrassingly obvious for Julian to react so.) "Roughly equivalent to. . . ah. Hm. An embrace between very dear friends, perhaps, but with more romantic overtones."
Now it was Julian's turn to look plainly besotted. He took a step forward without breaking the contact of their hands and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Like this?"
"Yes, exactly." Garak's smile widened as that piece of cultural difference was settled.
Julian's eyes remained on their still joined hands. This was turning into a very long kiss. "I have to say—I like it. You'll have to show me more."
"Gladly. But" —he reluctantly let his hand drop— "perhaps after lunch?"
Julian laughed as he withdrew his hand to his side. "All right, yes, I suppose that would be a good idea. Shall we?"
"After you, my dear."
As they departed his shop, Garak couldn't quite change the nuance of his smile, no matter how much he made the attempt. He could at least avoid any openly romantic gestures in public and thereby protect Julian, but it seemed the urge to betray himself was too strong to submerge fully.
His gesture couldn't in any way have been called "spontaneous," but if Julian's reaction was any guide, it seemed he had achieved a sort of planned intimacy. He'd learn to do better with time. He had taken the first step and had thereby ensured he would be granted the time to learn. From here, he could only improve.
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Romance/Introspective
Rating & Warnings: PG (small references to sex, torture)
Words: 1316
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Julian Bashir might be a natural at creating intimacy, but Garak has never learned the trick of it.
Author's Notes: This is the first of another fic mini-series that I have planned but, um, haven't quite finished the other parts to yet. Getting up in Garak's mind requires a great deal of thinking, which I've lately been reserving for other fics instead. So, well, if this seems like it's setting up for something--it is. :D;;
Posted ahead of schedule for Giny, who did me a big favour recently and who is an all-around sweetheart. Thanks, Giny. <3
The only sewing left in Garak's pile was hemming and repairs. He hated when he reached that stage: it gave him time to think.
He much preferred creating, bending his mind to the puzzle of each customer's particular body shape. Or there was enticing someone into making this purchase and not that one. It was a game to play—not the game, of course, because he was never so fortunate, but it served as at least a brief diversion.
It was true, though, that his mind had needed much less diverting in the past two weeks. A little more than fourteen days ago, Julian had taken the completely unforeseen step of asking him out to dinner. The invitation had not been given to a friend, but to a potential partner. He had never expected to be so fortunate, and he had been nothing short of astonished when that dinner had not been an experiment but a beginning. Much of his restlessness had been soothed by the new kind of smile Julian directed his way, the low tones of his voice and his clever, clever physician's hands. But one person could not be a life, and nor should he be.
Garak sighed heavily and reached for the uniform top, the first in the pile. He was unsurprised to see it was in engineer's gold: the only people rougher on their uniforms were security. He changed the thread in his machine (he was running low on the proper shade; he'd need to replicate more) and set to work.
His new relationship was the best thing to happen to him in years, easily, but it, too, was cause for concern. As a former spy with current enemies, it couldn't be otherwise.
And he had very little skill at romantic relationships. He just didn't know the trick of them. Sex was simple, and he liked to think he was rather good at it. They hadn't progressed that far in their relationship yet, he and Julian, but from what he'd seen, Julian seemed to have no complaints.
Intimacy, though. . . . He'd been an instrument of the Order for nearly his whole life. To become intimate with someone was to open oneself to manipulation and one's partner to a deeply unpleasant end. No one had needed to explain those facts to him; observation and common sense had been the only teachers he'd required. It was a lesson he'd obeyed scrupulously, with only one exception prior to now—but as a result of his isolation, he had very little practice at being a good and loving partner.
Julian, by contrast, was a natural. He had to be, the way he created intimacy between them seemingly without a thought. All those little touches—to his elbow, the small of his back, the way he always sat next to him these days so that their shoulders touched. It was as if he was being unknowingly compelled to remain in contact with him, and Garak's thirsty body drank in it all.
And yet despite craving the contact, he was unable to return it. Not in that same spontaneous way. All of his touches were planned and carried out after a careful evaluation of the current situation. It wasn't the same. He knew it wasn't the same. And knowing was not a solution.
He reached the end of the tear and clicked the knot-and-cut button on the machine to finish his repairs. Once the needle had freed itself, he held up the shirt, shook it out, then went over the rest of the fabric. He had been only hired for the one piece of damage, but he was a very good tailor. He would be remiss if he didn't patch up what the ensign had failed to notice.
His problem was that he was in a situation that demanded impulsiveness. Bamarren had ground any flights of fancy deep into him, probably too deep for recovery, and he'd never had the opportunity to express fondness on a whim. It would have been, he thought with the wryest of smiles, the very worst of ideas, given his previous affair of the heart. Pretending only friendship with a married woman would be difficult if one was inclined to give out little pecks on the lips at random intervals, as Julian was. (It always, always made the never-completely-vanquished romantic in him lose his breath for a beat.)
There. The fabric was weakening here, at the elbows. He'd slip a patch inside to reinforce it and point out the extra service he'd performed when the ensign came to collect her top. With any luck, she'd be grateful and in a mood to express her gratitude in the form of additional payment.
He got up from his table and went to storage to retrieve his bolt of Starfleet black, then brought it back to the table. Measuring and cutting took focus and that momentarily stilled his thoughts. Moments were such brief things, though, weren't they?
. . . Regardless of his ignorance of the art of affection, it never could be said that he was a slow learner. Even Toran had been forced to admit he was clever. He'd learn how it was done and carry out his plans when he and Julian were safely in private, before his partner came to the wrong conclusion about his feelings concerning their relationship—and concerning Julian himself.
He'd just finished the second patch when the doors to his shop hissed open. Garak lifted his head, and this smile didn't need placing on his face.
"Lunchtime already, Julian?"
"Yes, it's shaping up to be a busy afternoon for me, so I thought we might go a little early," Julian said, and oh, that answering smile.
Garak immediately powered down his machine and stood. "An excellent idea."
And then, as the always-alert part of his mind scanned location and circumstances and searched for threats, he lifted his hand, palm facing Julian.
His lover was quite obviously puzzled, for all he raised his hand in an echo, and was he truly so terrible at intimacy that he had neglected to teach Julian even this much?
"Elim?"
He reached across to press his palm against the softer, resilient skin of Julian's. He felt his features relax. Self-recriminations could wait until after he'd had this moment.
"It's a Cardassian gesture," he explained, watching fondness warm the confusion still present on Julian's face. (Really, his besottedness must have been embarrassingly obvious for Julian to react so.) "Roughly equivalent to. . . ah. Hm. An embrace between very dear friends, perhaps, but with more romantic overtones."
Now it was Julian's turn to look plainly besotted. He took a step forward without breaking the contact of their hands and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Like this?"
"Yes, exactly." Garak's smile widened as that piece of cultural difference was settled.
Julian's eyes remained on their still joined hands. This was turning into a very long kiss. "I have to say—I like it. You'll have to show me more."
"Gladly. But" —he reluctantly let his hand drop— "perhaps after lunch?"
Julian laughed as he withdrew his hand to his side. "All right, yes, I suppose that would be a good idea. Shall we?"
"After you, my dear."
As they departed his shop, Garak couldn't quite change the nuance of his smile, no matter how much he made the attempt. He could at least avoid any openly romantic gestures in public and thereby protect Julian, but it seemed the urge to betray himself was too strong to submerge fully.
His gesture couldn't in any way have been called "spontaneous," but if Julian's reaction was any guide, it seemed he had achieved a sort of planned intimacy. He'd learn to do better with time. He had taken the first step and had thereby ensured he would be granted the time to learn. From here, he could only improve.
