Chapter Text
Sometimes Julian wondered if he wasn’t so different from a brown paper parcel, held together with nothing but a ratty piece of string and filled with hollow, empty air. Less than a man, with nothing solid in his life but the steady and painful pounding of his heart against his chest.
I have to be brave.
First - and it seemed like such a long time ago now - came the violation of his safety. Having spent his day on Meezan Four at a conference about all the new and varied methods of treating burns, Julian had wanted nothing more than to collapse into the comfort of his temporary bedroom. The images of burned, charred skin dancing in his mind had made the comfort of the soft sheets against his healthy flesh all the more tempting, and he was more than happy to obey the quiet call of sleep. He slipped into his quarters, stretched out his arms above his head, and then fell immediately forwards as a heavy thud against the back of his head filled his world with stars.
When he awoke, his own eyes were staring back at him. For a moment he thought he’d quite literally lost his mind, that his consciousness was floating outside of his living body, knocked out of him by whoever had attacked him in his room. But then he realised - the colour was wrong, and the Julian staring back at him had blue eyes instead of brown. But then they shifted to that familiar, wooden colour, and Julian knew that he was staring into the eyes of a changeling. A feeling of dread stole over him, and somehow he knew that he would never see his friends again.
I have to be brave.
Internment Camp 371 was where Julian found himself next, a miserable compound of grey and silver sitting snug on the surface of an asteroid. Controlled by the Dominion, the Jem’Hadar guards saw no difference between their prisoners - be they Klingon warriors, Cardassian operatives, or Starfleet doctors. Everyone was fair game for their punishment, their indiscriminate beatings timed at random to illicit the most pleasure for the abusers. The shift from beatings to an organised fighting ring was only a marginal improvement - Julian’s only stint in the ring left him a bruised and bloody heap, and he was dragged back into the barracks by an unexpectedly kind Romulan inmate.
That was where Enabran Tain came in. Julian knew Tain - they’d met briefly in what felt another lifetime, when Julian would’ve braved anything to save the life of the man he loved. Tain had held the answer, the key to saving Garak from the Obsidian Order’s implant, and he’d been kind enough to give it to him without expecting much in return. Or so he’d thought.
Tain was ill, that much was plain. Sweat would bead on his brow after even the slightest of exertions, his breath rattled as if a tiny metal ball was bouncing around in his lungs, and when Julian took his pulse it was faint and fast like the wings of a hummingbird. As a doctor, he was oath-bound to care for him, just as he was bound to care for all his fellow inmates - really, it was his medical expertise that kept him out of trouble with the other detainees. But Tain was living on the thin line between life and death, and so Julian found himself practically chained to his side in order to treat him - an arrangement that, though he did not realise it at the time, would start him on the arduous path to ruin.
“Seems a shame for them to treat a pretty little thing like you so poorly,” he wheezed from his cot, thick, scaly fingers toying with Julian’s damp and bloody hair. “No wonder Garak is so fond of you. He always loved pretty things.”
But Julian’s black eye and split lip weren’t enough to dissuade Tain - he was a dying man, and he wanted to enjoy what little time he had left. When he wasn’t crammed into the tiny enclosure hidden behind the walls and tinkering away at an old life support unit so that it might send a message to his rescuers, Tain did so much more than simply toy with Julian’s hair. He never went so far as to rape him, too ill and too old and too heavy to manoeuvre himself into a position where that was possible. But every night, without fail, he’d hold Julian close and stroke him wherever his hands felt like wandering, and the sticky sensation of his hot breath down the back of his neck was enough to make him feel sick. If he’d been given enough to eat in the first place, his nausea might have materialised into something tangible.
I have to be brave.
Julian had always liked to think of himself as a strong man, someone who could stand up to the horrors of war and the medical profession without so much as a twinge of discomfort. But the grey monotony of his existence, the endless gnawing of hunger and inane scratching of thirst, Tain’s thick hands marking his body as if to prove his ownership - it drove him mad. Or perhaps he lost his mind because he knew his friends would never come for him. They’d welcomed the changeling into their hearts without noticing the difference, and they would no doubt die for it. Either way, when Julian broke, they confined him.
And it was in that chamber, that tiny little broom cupboard filled with black, where madness truly lay. Julian’s only reminder that he hadn’t been forced into the abyss was the crudely carved hole in the corner of the room, only there so that he could relieve himself and not be condemned to live in his own squalor. But there was no room to move, no room to breathe - he could only curl in on himself and try not to throw up as the stench beyond the hole clogged the stagnant air.
He didn’t know how much time he lost to that room. Occasionally a guard would open the little hatch at the top of the door and throw in a bar of something Julian assumed was meant to be edible. He’d eat it because he had nothing better to do, not because he liked it - it was chewy like toffee if it could rot, and it glued his mouth shut and stuck to his teeth in claggy, tasteless clumps. When he wasn’t struggling through his meagre meal, he turned to the comfort of distraction to drown out the pain of his cramped muscles and aching heart, reciting his medical school textbooks from cover to cover and taking care not to miss a single syllable. For once, he felt he ought to thank his father.
When freedom came it blinded him, and Julian could barely stand on his atrophied legs as the Jem’Hadar guards dragged him back to his barrack. Where the prison had once been dull grey and silver, now it was blinding white - but anything would look bright after spending so long in the dark. When he looked down at himself, at his pitiful efforts to support himself on legs withered with disuse, he realised his Starfleet uniform had grown one size too large.
I have to be brave.
And then there was Garak, standing in the barrack and looking quite out of place, bright blue eyes wide with surprise at the sight of him. Julian supposed he should’ve been happy to see him - this was the man he loved, and he should’ve raced forward and held him tight and never let him go. And yet he felt nothing.
The rest went by in a blur - Tain dead, Worf broken, Martok courageous, Garak terrified, Julian numb. He did what he had to. He spoke when he was spoken to, played his part in their completion of Tain’s posthumous escape plan, tended to his friends when they were hurt or ill or both. But in his mind, all he could do was recall the sensation of seeing his changeling doppelganger for the first time, when he thought he’d come to exist outside of his own body. Nothing felt real anymore, not after Tain had ruined his body and his stint in solitary confinement had ruined his mind. Even the hidden and tender brushes of Garak’s hand against his own could not bring him solace anymore.
At the climax of their escape, with Julian staring down the barrel of a Jem’Hadar phaser, Worf in the ring pushing himself to his absolute limits, and Garak trapped that little alcove of claustrophobic panic, he knew he was going to die. They all were, and their trip to hell would be short because they were already there.
But then, in rapid motions, they won. The next five minutes of Julian’s life raced past him in a flurry of fear and violence and death, the Romulans and the Breen and himself taking down the Jem’Hadar that flooded their barracks out of sheer desperation for survival. Julian fought for his life because he knew he had to, not because he wanted to, a gut instinct to carry on living even though he had very little to live for. He had his friends on the station, but he didn’t even know if they were alive. He’d been in the internment camp for well over a month now - plenty of time for his changeling replacement to do his dirty work. For all he knew, he’d return to find DS9 just a floating mass of wreckage and ruin, or find it intact but littered with corpses and reeking with the stench of rotting flesh and old blood. And all of this - this pain, this sorrow, this suffering - would’ve been for nothing.
Still, they escaped. Where Tain had been manipulating the old life support system to send a message of rescue, Garak had instead converted it into a transporter, and he’d connected it to the runabout he and Worf arrived in. When the transporter beam closed around him and his molecules scattered across the cosmos, Julian relished in the temporary extinction of his existence, light and airy and empty. But then came the metal floor of the runabout underneath his feet, and Worf lay slumped and bleeding by his side. He could spare no passing thought to the freedom he’d once thought impossible for there was so much to do - he had to tend to Worf, he had to send a message to Sisko, he had to help Garak pilot the runabout away from the Dominion patrol. So he closed off his mind and thought only of action.
I have to be brave .
The return to DS9 felt as numb as his escape from Internment Camp 371. There was no death, no destruction, just life going on as it always did. Nobody had noticed he’d been replaced, the changeling slipping seamlessly into station life and robbing Julian of a month’s worth of moments. The birth of Miles and Keiko’s second child, Odo’s return to changeling form, even the excitement that followed a change of uniform - moments that should have been Julian’s, but were given to the changeling instead. Julian got the impression that, because his friends had thought he’d been there all along, the relief of his return didn’t signify. After all, how could they miss something they didn’t know they’d lost in the first place?
The first thing Sisko demanded of him was a report - how long was he in prison, what were the conditions, what weapons did the Jem’Hadar use to subdue their prisoners, was there a Vorta present, who were his fellow inmates. Julian wrote it all with a tremor in his hands he was more than happy to ignore.
Miles claimed that the changeling was less irritating. He was pleased he could beat the changeling at darts, and that the changeling had helped look after his newborn baby - Kirayoshi, whose birth he’d been so excited to share with his changeling friend. Julian wondered if he might prefer it if the changeling had survived.
Jadzia was pleased that Worf was safe and well looked after, and she thanked him for his services before turning her attentions to her Klingon lover. She only had eyes for him, and she lived alongside him in the infirmary while they discussed Klingon operas and fighting techniques and the proud return of General Martok. Julian kept his distance, not wanting to disturb them.
Kira clapped him on the back and reassured him that he was lucky. One month in an internment camp was nothing compared to what she’d faced during the occupation, and he ought to be glad that he hadn’t been held under the watchful eyes and iron vice grips of the Cardassians. Julian wasn’t so sure if she was right.
Odo was only ashamed that he hadn’t been able to identify the changeling sooner. He spent his time watching him, identifying the slightest things that could differentiate the human original from the changeling replacement. Apparently, there was very little in the way of difference, and it was with sorrow that Julian realised how easy he was to replace.
Jake wanted to know about the internment camp so he could write a story about it. He wanted to tell a grand tale of noble Starfleet officers, braving the harsh world of a Dominion labour camp and staging a valiant escape so that they might return a vital piece of intel to the Federation. Julian told him to ask Martok about it instead - he was a much better storyteller.
Quark was simply happy that he hadn’t lost another paying customer. Strangely enough, he was the only one of Julian’s friends who actually made him feel like he was wanted, even if it was only because he could line his pockets with latinum.
And then there was Garak. But Garak looked like Tain, and that was the end of that.
I have to be brave .
The arrival of Doctor Zimmerman was a welcome change of pace, and he offered a project that could distract Julian from his ever-darkening thoughts. He was going to create a holographic version of him that would be used in sickbays and infirmaries all across the galaxy, a version of Julian Bashir that would live on and help people long after the original was dead and in the ground. When he first saw the projected version of himself, Julian was impressed by its realism, its attention to detail - it looked exactly like him, right down to the dead look behind the eyes. Brown eyes. Unlike the changeling, it had got that detail right on the first try.
The hologram was a lot like a changeling, wasn’t it? And everyone loved the hologram, just like they’d loved the changeling. The real Julian Bashir grew more and more obsolete every day, and then his parents drove the final nail into his coffin when they arrived at the station and let slip that he was an illegally genetically augmented freak. On top of everything else, he now had no choice but to confront that, at the tender age of six, his parents had carted their stunted little son off to Adigeon Prime and had his genetic makeup tampered with so that he might stand a chance of being loved. They made him stronger, faster, smarter, and they loved him once he became something he could never have managed on his own. No, Richard and Amsha Bashir did not love their son, did not love little Jules. They loved Julian, that clever boy who took his place, and they were not ashamed of it.
Julian had kept himself sane by suppressing those memories, by desperately hiding the fact that he was an Augment so that he might pretend he was something close to normal. But everything was so hard now. The stress of it all paralysed him, and it was as if his skull was filled with concrete that trapped his thoughts and kept them buzzing in place. He was not real, he never had been. He was as fake as the changeling and the hologram, if not more so. The real Jules Bashir had died on Adigeon Prime when he was six years old, and the boy who stole his name was nothing but a fraud.
Nevertheless, Julian thought the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Because whether he resigned from Starfleet or went to prison, at least his friends would still have his hologram, and that would be enough for them.
Prison. When Starfleet found out he was augmented, they’d send him to prison. He didn’t want to go back there. Inside of him, a childish, feral cry broke out, Jules Bashir calling from the grave - don’t send me away, I’m scared! But he beat it down, just like he’d been doing since he returned from the internment camp. He’d put on a brave face and do the noble thing and resign before Starfleet could punish him, and then everything would be alright again. His family would maintain their reputation, nobody would have to know he was a fraud and a liar and a freak, and Sisko could hire his replacement without a single scrap of guilt. Yes, it was the right thing to do, and Julian told himself that he was not afraid.
I have to be brave .
“I’m going to prison.”
“What?”
“Two years. It’s a minimum-security penal colony in New Zealand.”
He hadn’t told his parents about the internment camp, so how could his father have known that his going to prison would send a shock of pure, unbridled terror down Julian’s spine? Once, he might have wished such a fate on his father, the father who murdered his son and replaced him without shame. But now he’d been to prison, and he knew just how easy it was to lose one’s humanity within the confines of its walls. That his father’s prison was a minimum-security facility didn’t signify - his father was going to lose his humanity too, and he’d had so little to begin with. Julian did not want him to go. As he watched his parents vanish onto the runabout, he wanted to scream and cry and run to them like the dull, stupid little child he’d once been, clinging to their legs and loving them and begging for them not to go.
But he had to be brave. They’d paid such good money for him to be brave. As he walked back to the infirmary, he tried to move on like he always did. He would smile his perky smile, and he would forget. Adigeon Prime, Internment Camp 371, Enabran Tain, his friends who did not need him, his parents who did not love him - they were all in the past now, and he didn’t need to be frightened of them anymore. And yet terror stole over him like a dark, heavy blanket, smothering him and shoving its soft folds down his throat and pinning him down where he stood.
The world span around him at a dizzying rate, and he tried to steady himself against the walls - only they slipped from his grasp, for it felt like he was clutching at waterfalls. He desperately tried to fill his lungs with air, but all he could do was gulp in the freezing cold waters of terror and suffocate underneath them. Nausea rose in his stomach, acid and bile burning him from the inside out - hot and cold all at once, and if only he could breathe or see straight or be loved or feel anything.
His knees buckled, and the world fell out from underneath him. He hit the ground with a thud, cracking his skull against the metal floor of the corridor, and his consciousness flickered out as quickly as a candle in a hurricane.
I cannot be brave anymore.
***
“Julian? Dearest, can you hear me?”
When he woke, it was to the shine of Garak’s bright blue eyes gazing intently into his own, brow ridges furrowed with concern. In his haze, he could see the features shifting, ageing, growing - and there he was. “Tain…?”
“No, not Tain. Just Garak.” His voice was soft, lacking its usual bravado. It was a voice he saved for only their most intimate of moments, but he couldn’t figure out why he was using it now. In fact, there wasn’t much he could figure out at the moment. When Garak gently laid his cool hand on Julian’s warm and hollow cheek, it barely registered. “You gave us quite a fright.”
Julian hummed and rolled onto his side - he was lying down, apparently. Somewhere warm, and he was wrapped up in something soft. A dull ache thrummed through his head, and a new voice entered the fray.
“Hey, it’s good to have you with us.” It was Jadzia, her voice cool and smooth as it always was. “How are you feeling?”
It was a good question, one that Julian wasn’t sure he was equipped to answer. He knew his head hurt, and he knew he was exhausted, but there was such a dense fog in his brain that deciphering his emotions felt impossible. He settled to tell her the one thing he knew for certain. “I’m tired.”
“I bet you are,” she said, quietly, sympathetically. It was as if she cared.
“Did I… What happened?” he murmured, slowly opening and closing his eyes as if time had ground to a standstill. What time was it, anyway?
There was Garak’s hand again, now laid on his upper forearm. “You were found unconscious just outside the airlock.”
“We think you might have suffered a severe panic attack, which explains why you fainted,” Jadzia elaborated. “And you hit your head on the way down, but you’ve only sustained a mild skull fracture.”
Again, Julian could only manage a small hum to show he’d understood. Memories trickled in slowly - leaving his parents at the runabout, trying to get back to the infirmary, the paralysing terror that had overtaken him along the way. And then, far more forcefully, came memories of Tain’s hot hands all over him, the stifling stickiness of the prison food, the pain of his limbs forced to contort in the tight confinement cell, the loneliness that had ached within him ever since he’d looked into the eyes of the changeling. Then he thought of his father in that position, and he could feel it starting all over again.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Julian let out a shuddering whimper and gripped onto the blanket that surrounded him, squeezing it and pulling it closer. Garak’s hold tightened then. “It’s alright, my dear, it’s alright…”
He shook his head, although the motion only exacerbated the now sharp pain just above his right ear. It was all a great big muddle - he hated his father so much, and yet he was frightened for him. Julian and Jules fought for dominance over his thoughts, but all the body could do was tremble. “It isn’t… Nothing’s alright, it’s all wrong… I’m all wrong…”
“Julian,” Garak murmured, tutting so gently.
“I don’t want him to go…” He pressed his face against the white pillow below him, and he brought his hands up to his head and took his hair in his fists, tugging so it would hurt. Tears came next, and they came so pitifully. “Don’t make him go… Please…”
Quite tenderly, Garak took Julian’s hands in his own and untangled his fingers from his hair. When Julian looked up into his eyes, he saw something he’d never seen in them before - fear and sadness and sympathy and apprehension all rolled into one. “Are you upset about your father?”
Father. The word on Garak’s lips cast him back to the prison barrack, with Garak sitting hunched over Tain as he died.
“You wouldn’t deny an old man his revenge, would you?”
“I'll do as you ask on one condition. That you don't ask me this favour as a mentor, or a superior officer, but as a father asking his son.”
“You’re not my son.”
“Father, father, you’re dying. For once in your life, speak the truth.”
Tain was Garak’s father. They looked so alike - alike enough for them to meld into one, the man who loved him and the man who wanted to own him becoming one and the same in Julian’s stress addled mind. When he looked up at Garak, he could feel himself falling backwards through time, and then he was lying on the barrack floor, Tain looking down on him, hungry eyes exploring his body and deciding which part of him he’d next like to claim for his own. So Julian looked at Garak, and the name tumbled from his lips again. “Tain… It’s you…”
“Commander, I think he’s delirious.”
Jadzia shifted him onto his back again. “Julian? Can you look at me for a second?”
He did as he was told. Tain liked it when he did as he was told.
She smiled down at him, but there was something fake about it, like she was forcing it. “Hey. I’m just going to give you a hypospray, alright? It’s going to wake you up a bit.”
There was a slight pressure at the base of his neck, and then a short spark that made him shiver. “Ow.”
“There. You should start to feel more alert in a few minutes,” Jadzia said. She then turned her gaze to Garak. “Do you want me to leave you two alone for a while?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be very much appreciated.”
Jadzia nodded and, after sending Julian one last smile, she slipped out of his sight. Julian carried on staring at the empty space where she’d once been, willing himself not to look behind him - nothing but horror awaited him there. After a while, the fog in his mind began to clear, just as Jadzia promised, and the bed underneath him began to feel solid. So too did his sensibilities, and he turned his head to look at Tain again - only it was Garak now. It was always Garak. Perhaps he really had lost his mind.
“Julian?” Garak asked, almost fearful. It was strange, seeing him like this - so scared, so worried, and it was worse than before now that Jadzia was gone and they were alone together. He’d seen fear in Garak’s eyes before, back in the barrack, when their only means of escape forced him into a situation that exacerbated his claustrophobia. But it was different this time. Back then, there had been frenzy, panic, and a depth that Julian couldn’t possibly imagine. But this fear spoke to a trait he’d never seen in Garak before - vulnerability, a novelty if there ever was one.
“You’re scared,” Julian murmured, unsettled by the unfamiliar emotion etched onto his lover’s face. “Why?”
Gently, Garak took his hand in his own. “Because of you. I’ve missed you.”
“But you had the changeling. Wasn’t that enough?”
“It most certainly was not. I knew you’d been replaced the second you got back from that conference - it was good, but not so good it could get past me.” A look of pride cut through his concern, and Julian felt the tiniest twinge of warmth in his chest now that he knew that at least someone had missed him. “The only reason I didn’t do anything about it was because I didn’t know how many others had been replaced, or if revealing the truth would put the real you in any sort of danger. And I don’t mean to sound cruel, but you’d never believe how relieved I was to see you in that prison camp.”
Julian tensed, Tain’s voice undercutting Garak’s. “Isn’t it a miracle that you’ve been sent here to join me? I’m so relieved, Julian, to have someone so pretty in a place so ugly. Come here, you sweet little thing.”
“I’d spent that whole time wondering what had happened to you, whether or not you were alive,” Garak continued, unaware that Julian was living with one foot in the past. “I kept the changeling close in case it gave me some sort of clue to your whereabouts, but I had the most dreadful feeling that you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”
I may as well have been , Julian thought, but he didn’t feel like talking now. Jadzia’s hypospray had done its job and woken him up, but it had also brought his memories into a greater clarity than he cared for. He knew that if he opened his mouth he’d only go on sobbing.
“I’ve never been more glad to be proved wrong.” Garak squeezed Julian’s hand, and a warm smile spread across his grey lips. It was a smile, however, that faded almost as soon as it appeared. “Although I must confess, it does feel as though I haven’t quite got you back just yet.”
Julian swallowed, and he used every ounce of strength to speak without tears. “Does it?”
“Have you been avoiding me, Julian?”
Yes. He had been avoiding him. But not because of anything he’d done - because he looked like Tain, and it frightened him. He was frightened enough already, for all his show of bravery. And he was so tired of it.
“I…” he began. Just as he predicted, a tear slipped down his cheek, and he gave up on the endeavour of hiding how he felt. Underneath the blankets, his tremors rose to a crescendo. “Garak… You look so much like your father, do you know that?”
Garak raised his eyebrow ridges. Julian suspected that it wasn’t just the statement itself that surprised him, but the voice that delivered it - shaking, damp, weak. “Pardon?”
Julian snapped again, shuddering, shivering sobs wracking his whole body. He hated this, but it seemed his body had become a slave to his emotions. “You talk like him, you walk like him, your- your faces, your eyes, your hands…”
Breath came too quickly now - he had to slow down, he had to. But he was scared out of his wits, his lungs heaving with the effort of hyperventilation while his perfect, augmented brain processed his memories all too clearly. His visions of the past were constructed crisply down to the last detail, and he could see the alien doctors looming over him, feel Tain’s hands all over his body, smell the stagnant, rancid air of the solitary confinement cell.
And then there were the memories of days long past, the memories that held no relevance to his current crisis but hit him anyway with unimaginable force. Almost losing Garak to the Obsidian Order’s implant, he and Major Kira trapped in an alternate universe, Captain Sisko protecting him from the harshest occupants of the twenty-first century, hallucinating in a telepathic coma, heart pounding as he talked Miles down from a suicide attempt, standing guilty in a sea of blighted corpses, losing Jake in the middle of a warzone. He didn’t know why he thought of these things now, but each recollection worked in unison to strangle him, culminating in a burst of pain in his head that no words could ever describe. He could not hold it back any longer - Julian screamed out in primal, animalistic terror.
But then there was pressure - Garak, climbing onto the bed, pulling him into his lap and holding him tight, oh so very tight. He rocked Julian back and forth, letting him cry and scream and wail into his chest, letting him grieve for all he’d lost and all that had been taken from him. Because it was more than just what Tain had done to him that made him break down - his whole life had been leading up to this moment, weak and quivering and helpless in his lover’s arms.
He mourned for his parents who’d only wanted a son they could love. He mourned for his friendships that would never recover now that they all knew what he truly was. He mourned for Tain who’d only wanted some comfort in his dying hours. He mourned for Garak who he’d left in the cold. He mourned for little Jules Bashir, whose withered and broken soul lived on inside of him and who had never truly understood why the world had gone dark.
One of Garak’s hands found a home in Julian’s hair, and he slowly stroked his fingers through his curls, dampened with sweat. Just like Tain. “Julian, come here… That’s it, my boy, relax… You have nothing to fear from me…”
“Oh, my dear…” Garak cooed, still rocking Julian back and forth. “There’s still so much you haven’t told me, isn’t there?”
Julian went on sobbing. Garak went on rocking. Finally, the former stopped.
“Julian?” Garak asked. A good quarter of an hour must have passed since Julian had stopped crying, but still, Garak held him tight. “Are you awake?”
His voice came out hoarse. “Unfortunately.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
“If there’s anything I’ve done to make things worse for you-”
Although it pained him, Julian shook his head, and he burrowed further into Garak’s chest. “You’re alright.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive.”
Garak gave a small hum, and he adjusted the blankets so that Julian might be more comfortable. “Everyone’s been worried about you, you know.”
“Have they?”
“And they all come to me for answers, like I’m some sort of ‘Julian whisperer’,” Garak said, a sad and tender laugh in his voice. “Young master Sisko comes by my shop every day to ask after you. I think they’re worried it’ll upset you if they ask you directly. And, forgive me if I sound insensitive, but if your behaviour today is any indication, they were right to suspect so.”
Shame curdled inside of him. “Sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologise,” Garak said, hard and quick but so filled with care. “You’ve done nothing wrong, absolutely nothing.
“Oh…” Julian glanced up at Garak, and he willed himself to keep his features in focus. He would not lose himself again. “Have they really been worried? I didn’t think any of them cared.”
“Believe me, my dear, there’s nothing they care about more. They all feel terrible that they didn’t notice you’d been replaced, and we’ve all noticed how off you’ve been acting lately.”
“Off?”
“You’ve been… Sullen. Withdrawn. We’ve all been wondering where your bright and shining sense of optimism ran off to.”
Julian let out a low sigh. “I think you know where it’s gone.”
“The prison?”
“Mhm.”
Garak let the confirmation roll over him for a while before speaking. “Do you think we’ll be able to find it again?”
“I don’t know. I feel wretched.”
“Well then, you focus on getting better, and I’ll go look for your optimism. Perhaps I’ll ask Odo to help me - he tends to be quite good at finding lost things.”
Despite it all, Julian gave a weak laugh. “Good luck to you both.”
“Seriously speaking…” Garak trailed off, as if what he was going to say required preparation. “I do so adore how bright you are, Julian. You’ve got all this hope and joy and light inside of you, and I could never adequately put into words just how special that is. I know I’ve seemed somewhat derisive about your idealism in the past, but really I treasure it. Even with this war on the horizon, I always thought you’d be the last of us to break, that you’d be the one who kept us all going. But the Dominion’s taken all that away from you, and I’ll never forgive them for robbing you of something so precious. I’ll fight them for as long as I have to if it means you’ll be able to smile again.”
And with that, Julian knew that Garak would never be like his father. “Oh, Garak… You’ll make me cry again, carrying on like that.”
“Happy tears, I hope?”
“Maybe. But thank you. I’ll… I’ll try and be happy again. For you.”
“Don’t force it, my dear. There’s no shame in feeling sad for a while.”
It felt nice, to be cared about again. Or perhaps he always had been, and he was just too blind to see it. Too lost in the past to realise what was happening in the present. But even if Garak was the only one who cared, that was enough for him. Because when Garak truly cared, a sentiment reserved for Julian and only Julian, there was nothing more powerful nor more tender in the universe.
“Elim.”
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
Garak pressed a featherlight kiss to Julian’s forehead. “And I love you.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you.”
A small, humourless smile graced his grey lips. “I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“I did, actually.”
Lightly raising his eyebrow ridges, Garak turned to look down at him. “Are you going to tell me?”
Julian swallowed. Wrapped up in blankets and held safe in Garak’s arms, he knew the past couldn’t hurt him anymore. At least, that’s what he’d tell himself until it came true. “If you want to hear it.”
“You’ve mastered the art of suspense, my dear. Yes, I would like to hear it.”
“It’s just that… Sometimes you look a lot like Tain, like your father. And he… In the camp, he… He did things to me. Sexual things. That I didn’t want him to do.”
Immediately, Garak’s grip tightened, his fingers digging down hard into Julian’s shoulder. In some ways, he didn’t like telling Garak when he’d been hurt - it always made him so angry, so fiercely protective. But for now, after everything he’d gone through, perhaps hiding behind that fierce protection was the only thing he could do.
When he spoke, Garak’s voice was low and grim. “Well, the bastard’s dead now. He won’t be able to hurt either of us anymore.”
Yes, he was dead, wasn’t he? But he’d taken a piece of Julian with him to the grave.