![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
DS9 - Practically me thinking out loud
Title: Cultural Exchange
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space 9
Genre: Romance/Gen
Rating & Warnings: G
Words: 1337
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space 9.
Summary: The closer Julian and Garak become, the less distinct the borders of their respective cultures grow.
Author's Notes: This is an early piece I wrote, both as a way of laying out for myself how a cultural exchange between Julian and Garak might go, and as a challenge, to see if I could write an interesting fic without dialogue. Whether I've succeeded remains to be seen.
Someday, I may do a follow-up piece with these two involving the less obvious cultural details and how they mesh (or don't), but I have a lot of writing projects I intend to do first, so I'd advise against holding your breath.
The first time at lunch that Julian had ordered red leaf tea and Garak had ordered orange pekoe, Julian had actually hurt his face grinning. Garak had given him that sly, sideways smile that meant he was particularly pleased, and they'd saluted each other with their mugs before settling into a discussion of the treatment of form in Bajoran classical music.
It had hardly been the only instance of unplanned cultural exchange, of course—it had merely been more obvious than most. Instead, it was a continuation of a trend that had started approximately when their friendship had.
Books had been the jumping-off point. It had taken a while for them to navigate two very different literary traditions, but one day, Julian had lost Garak to Tolstoy. For weeks, every time he'd stepped into Garak's shop, the other man had been in the process of setting down a padd that held either a history of Russia or War and Peace.
He, in turn, had found himself switching between one of the few translated books on Cardassian sociology he could locate and Valvac Halev's third, untitled manuscript about the suffering of an innocent Cardassian citizen at the hands of the Obsidian Order. It had been the most fascinating, subversive, and terribly depressing piece of Cardassian literature he'd ever read and he'd been unsurprised to find it had only been published after a copy had been smuggled from the Union to the Federation.
(Garak's sole response when he'd asked after what had been keeping Julian so enthralled had been to remark that of course that would be the work he would enjoy. Julian hadn't bothered to ask if he'd read it, knowing full well there wasn't a chance he'd get a straight answer.)
From books, their exchange had continued into food. Most of the sampling they did from each other's plates had resulted in a test of how well they could suppress expressions of disgust (something Garak was much better at than Julian—but only when he chose to be). From time to time, however, they both encountered something that filled a hole in their diet they hadn't been aware of. Garak turned out to have a fondness for, of all things, lasagna, though by the same token he raised a fuss if Julian so much as let a bottle of ketchup stand on the same table as their meal.
Julian, in turn, found regova eggs delicious, more so than the chicken eggs many people from Earth favoured. And he really couldn't see why Humans almost universally despised yamok sauce—it was surprisingly delicious in small measures, particularly on those sand peas Quark served all the time.
And, speaking of things that were good in small doses, that included kanar. He'd found the taste pleasant once he'd spent enough evenings with Garak to grow accustomed to it, though if he drank too much, his tongue felt as if it had acquired a permanent layer of the stuff. He also, he'd discovered early on, became embarrassingly drunk.
Garak, for his part, was rarely adventurous about his drinks. When he was, however, he generally drank Chambord. Julian had no idea who had introduced him to the stuff, because it certainly hadn't been him. (Maybe it had been in one of the Earth books he'd read.)
Once their friendship had turned into a relationship, they'd started celebrating each other's holidays together. The first time he'd put in for a few personal days during Family Week, he'd received a great deal of teasing from just about everyone. They'd all accused him of looking for an excuse to be lazy twice as often, given he would be celebrating twice the holidays, but honestly, he was really taken with this one. Having a week off work specifically to spend time with your family was a lovely idea, and he'd suggested it to the rest of the senior staff as well. (Because while Garak was his partner now, the others were his family, too—the best he'd ever had.)
He'd particularly thought the Chief would benefit from celebrating the holiday, given the state of his marriage, but Miles had disagreed, and rather vehemently at that. At least Captain Sisko had looked as if he were considering it. As for the others . . . well, maybe next year.
What had surprised Julian had been the holiday Garak had adopted so readily. It wasn't as though he minded his partner enjoying himself. Far from it. But Garak and Christmas just didn't exactly . . . go together in his head.
And yet Garak had consulted Keiko on how best to produce a facsimile of mistletoe, had read A Christmas Carol—though he hadn't much enjoyed it—and had replicated and wrapped his gifts long before Julian had so much as thought of anyone's presents at all.
When he'd seen what an elegant, meticulous job Garak had done with the parcels, he'd ended up handing over everything he'd managed to scrape together for wrapping (save the gifts intended for Garak). Garak's sole condition upon agreeing to do so had been that Julian would go to Captain Sisko, learn how to make eggnog by hand, and keep him well supplied.
(Garak hadn't really understood the bit about Father Christmas—deliberately, of course—and so Christmas morning had turned into a scavenger hunt, rather like Easter. Julian had played along, but naturally Garak had found and unwrapped all of his gifts in under half an hour. Julian, by contrast, was still finding his in fiendishly well-concealed locations weeks later.)
About the only part of their lives that hadn't merged was their senses of fashion. Not long after they had moved in together, Garak had opened Julian's closet door to check on all the clothes he had made for him. The resulting expression had been something dangerously close to revulsion. Garak had announced that his wardrobe was going to be renovated and that would be that. When Julian had protested that his clothes weren't that bad, Garak had flapped his favourite beach trousers at him like a detective in a Cardassian enigma tale presenting the most damning of evidence, and, well, that really had been that.
He still thought Garak had been overreacting, but really, with all the second glances he'd started getting in his off-duty clothes since Garak had taken him in hand, he couldn't complain. Garak had a talent for making him look slim instead of lanky, and such was his skill that even those days after Julian had worked a double shift, he could pull on anything Garak had sewn for him and somehow still look attractive. It was nothing short of miraculous.
There was also the benefit that, when it came to taking his measurements, Garak always abandoned his devices and did them by hand. Julian didn't know much about sewing, but he was reasonably certain it wasn't necessary to take someone's measurements every single time you wanted to make something for them. He wasn't about to complain about that, either, and so he kept his mouth shut and let Garak go right ahead.
His clothing had still remained recognisably Federation, though it had acquired a decidedly Cardassian flavour, particularly in terms of necklines and colours. The reverse, however, had not been true. Garak's clothing had remained pointedly Cardassian; he seemed to rank to Human fashion somewhere around that of the Ferengi. (Julian didn't dare ask whether his species was the better . . . or the worse.)
All in all, it was a bit startling to discover all the changes their relationship had caused, a bit bemusing, and a great deal fascinating. He knew the best relationships changed a person and left their mark, but this was the largest mark, the largest series of marks he'd ever experienced. Oftentimes he couldn't pinpoint when, exactly, he'd started changing his behaviour, or his tastes, or even his way of expressing himself. Doubtless Garak was in the same position. But there was one thing impossible to deny: that they were both better people for having come into each other's lives.
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space 9
Genre: Romance/Gen
Rating & Warnings: G
Words: 1337
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space 9.
Summary: The closer Julian and Garak become, the less distinct the borders of their respective cultures grow.
Author's Notes: This is an early piece I wrote, both as a way of laying out for myself how a cultural exchange between Julian and Garak might go, and as a challenge, to see if I could write an interesting fic without dialogue. Whether I've succeeded remains to be seen.
Someday, I may do a follow-up piece with these two involving the less obvious cultural details and how they mesh (or don't), but I have a lot of writing projects I intend to do first, so I'd advise against holding your breath.
The first time at lunch that Julian had ordered red leaf tea and Garak had ordered orange pekoe, Julian had actually hurt his face grinning. Garak had given him that sly, sideways smile that meant he was particularly pleased, and they'd saluted each other with their mugs before settling into a discussion of the treatment of form in Bajoran classical music.
It had hardly been the only instance of unplanned cultural exchange, of course—it had merely been more obvious than most. Instead, it was a continuation of a trend that had started approximately when their friendship had.
Books had been the jumping-off point. It had taken a while for them to navigate two very different literary traditions, but one day, Julian had lost Garak to Tolstoy. For weeks, every time he'd stepped into Garak's shop, the other man had been in the process of setting down a padd that held either a history of Russia or War and Peace.
He, in turn, had found himself switching between one of the few translated books on Cardassian sociology he could locate and Valvac Halev's third, untitled manuscript about the suffering of an innocent Cardassian citizen at the hands of the Obsidian Order. It had been the most fascinating, subversive, and terribly depressing piece of Cardassian literature he'd ever read and he'd been unsurprised to find it had only been published after a copy had been smuggled from the Union to the Federation.
(Garak's sole response when he'd asked after what had been keeping Julian so enthralled had been to remark that of course that would be the work he would enjoy. Julian hadn't bothered to ask if he'd read it, knowing full well there wasn't a chance he'd get a straight answer.)
From books, their exchange had continued into food. Most of the sampling they did from each other's plates had resulted in a test of how well they could suppress expressions of disgust (something Garak was much better at than Julian—but only when he chose to be). From time to time, however, they both encountered something that filled a hole in their diet they hadn't been aware of. Garak turned out to have a fondness for, of all things, lasagna, though by the same token he raised a fuss if Julian so much as let a bottle of ketchup stand on the same table as their meal.
Julian, in turn, found regova eggs delicious, more so than the chicken eggs many people from Earth favoured. And he really couldn't see why Humans almost universally despised yamok sauce—it was surprisingly delicious in small measures, particularly on those sand peas Quark served all the time.
And, speaking of things that were good in small doses, that included kanar. He'd found the taste pleasant once he'd spent enough evenings with Garak to grow accustomed to it, though if he drank too much, his tongue felt as if it had acquired a permanent layer of the stuff. He also, he'd discovered early on, became embarrassingly drunk.
Garak, for his part, was rarely adventurous about his drinks. When he was, however, he generally drank Chambord. Julian had no idea who had introduced him to the stuff, because it certainly hadn't been him. (Maybe it had been in one of the Earth books he'd read.)
Once their friendship had turned into a relationship, they'd started celebrating each other's holidays together. The first time he'd put in for a few personal days during Family Week, he'd received a great deal of teasing from just about everyone. They'd all accused him of looking for an excuse to be lazy twice as often, given he would be celebrating twice the holidays, but honestly, he was really taken with this one. Having a week off work specifically to spend time with your family was a lovely idea, and he'd suggested it to the rest of the senior staff as well. (Because while Garak was his partner now, the others were his family, too—the best he'd ever had.)
He'd particularly thought the Chief would benefit from celebrating the holiday, given the state of his marriage, but Miles had disagreed, and rather vehemently at that. At least Captain Sisko had looked as if he were considering it. As for the others . . . well, maybe next year.
What had surprised Julian had been the holiday Garak had adopted so readily. It wasn't as though he minded his partner enjoying himself. Far from it. But Garak and Christmas just didn't exactly . . . go together in his head.
And yet Garak had consulted Keiko on how best to produce a facsimile of mistletoe, had read A Christmas Carol—though he hadn't much enjoyed it—and had replicated and wrapped his gifts long before Julian had so much as thought of anyone's presents at all.
When he'd seen what an elegant, meticulous job Garak had done with the parcels, he'd ended up handing over everything he'd managed to scrape together for wrapping (save the gifts intended for Garak). Garak's sole condition upon agreeing to do so had been that Julian would go to Captain Sisko, learn how to make eggnog by hand, and keep him well supplied.
(Garak hadn't really understood the bit about Father Christmas—deliberately, of course—and so Christmas morning had turned into a scavenger hunt, rather like Easter. Julian had played along, but naturally Garak had found and unwrapped all of his gifts in under half an hour. Julian, by contrast, was still finding his in fiendishly well-concealed locations weeks later.)
About the only part of their lives that hadn't merged was their senses of fashion. Not long after they had moved in together, Garak had opened Julian's closet door to check on all the clothes he had made for him. The resulting expression had been something dangerously close to revulsion. Garak had announced that his wardrobe was going to be renovated and that would be that. When Julian had protested that his clothes weren't that bad, Garak had flapped his favourite beach trousers at him like a detective in a Cardassian enigma tale presenting the most damning of evidence, and, well, that really had been that.
He still thought Garak had been overreacting, but really, with all the second glances he'd started getting in his off-duty clothes since Garak had taken him in hand, he couldn't complain. Garak had a talent for making him look slim instead of lanky, and such was his skill that even those days after Julian had worked a double shift, he could pull on anything Garak had sewn for him and somehow still look attractive. It was nothing short of miraculous.
There was also the benefit that, when it came to taking his measurements, Garak always abandoned his devices and did them by hand. Julian didn't know much about sewing, but he was reasonably certain it wasn't necessary to take someone's measurements every single time you wanted to make something for them. He wasn't about to complain about that, either, and so he kept his mouth shut and let Garak go right ahead.
His clothing had still remained recognisably Federation, though it had acquired a decidedly Cardassian flavour, particularly in terms of necklines and colours. The reverse, however, had not been true. Garak's clothing had remained pointedly Cardassian; he seemed to rank to Human fashion somewhere around that of the Ferengi. (Julian didn't dare ask whether his species was the better . . . or the worse.)
All in all, it was a bit startling to discover all the changes their relationship had caused, a bit bemusing, and a great deal fascinating. He knew the best relationships changed a person and left their mark, but this was the largest mark, the largest series of marks he'd ever experienced. Oftentimes he couldn't pinpoint when, exactly, he'd started changing his behaviour, or his tastes, or even his way of expressing himself. Doubtless Garak was in the same position. But there was one thing impossible to deny: that they were both better people for having come into each other's lives.