Chapter Text
The summons from Captain Sisko had been unexpected. A Cardassian diplomatic delegation was arriving on Deep Space Nine, and their cultural attaché had specifically requested that at least one Starfleet officer attend their formal reception in traditional Cardassian dress; a gesture of respect that the Federation hoped would smooth over some lingering tensions from the Occupation.
Naturally, they'd chosen Julian Bashir. His facility with languages, his diplomatic skills, and; though no one said it aloud, his friendship with the station's resident Cardassian tailor all made him the logical choice.
Which was how Julian found himself standing in Garak's shop at 1900 hours, watching the tailor's eyes light up with an expression that could only be described as predatory delight.
"My dear Doctor," Garak purred, circling him slowly. "How absolutely delicious. Cardassian formalwear. On you." He clasped his hands together. "I confess, I've imagined this moment more times than I can count."
Julian felt heat rising to his cheeks. "Have you really?"
"Oh yes. You have such an agreeable physique for Cardassian aesthetics; those shoulders, that narrow waist. Though I suspect," Garak added, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "you'll find our formal attire somewhat more... restrictive than your Starfleet uniforms."
"I can handle restrictive," Julian said, perhaps more defensively than he'd intended.
Garak's smile widened. "I'm certain you can. Now, come here. I'll need measurements. Precise ones."
Julian stepped onto the fitting platform as Garak retrieved his measuring tape, and suddenly the shop felt considerably smaller than usual. He'd been measured by Garak before, of course — several times — but there was something different about this. Something in the way Garak's fingers lingered just a fraction too long at his collarbone, the way his breath ghosted across Julian's neck as he murmured numbers to himself.
"Arms up," Garak instructed, and Julian complied, feeling absurdly vulnerable as the measuring tape wound around his chest. Garak's hand pressed against his sternum, ostensibly to keep the tape steady. "You know, the last time I tailored proper Cardassian formal wear was on Cardassia Prime, for a Legate's son. Insufferable boy. Kept fidgeting." His eyes met Julian's. "You're not fidgeting."
"Should I be?" Julian asked, aiming for levity and landing somewhere in the vicinity of breathless.
"Absolutely not. I appreciate a client who can hold still." The tape moved lower, around his waist. "Though I must say, this is far more enjoyable than that particular commission. Better conversation, for one thing."
"And the other things?"
Garak's smile turned mysterious. "Let's just say the view has improved considerably."
Julian's breath caught. Over the past few years, their weekly lunches had evolved into something he couldn't quite name; a friendship, certainly, but one laced with undercurrents of something deeper, something neither of them had dared to name outright. Garak's comments always toed the line between flirtation and plausible deniability, and Julian had learned to dance along that same edge.
But this felt different. More intimate, somehow.
"The collar will be high," Garak continued, his fingers tracing along Julian's neck in a way that had nothing to do with measuring and everything to do with touch. "Up to here. Cardassian formalwear emphasizes the neck ridge — which you lack, of course, but we can create the illusion of structure. The armor plating across the shoulders will need to be lighter than authentic pieces, but I can use a polymer composite that will look identical to the real thing while being actually wearable for your delicate human constitution."
"Delicate," Julian scoffed.
"Well, you are rather breakable compared to Cardassians. No offense intended." Garak moved to measure his inseam, and Julian was suddenly very grateful for his Starfleet training in maintaining composure under pressure.
"None taken. I think."
"The trousers will be fitted; quite fitted, I'm afraid. Cardassian fashion doesn't believe in leaving much to the imagination. And the tunic will have the traditional scale-pattern embroidery across the chest and shoulders." Garak stepped back, regarding him with an artist's critical eye. "Yes, I can see it now. You'll be absolutely striking."
"Will I look ridiculous?" Julian asked, suddenly uncertain. "A human in Cardassian formal wear?"
Garak's expression softened; just a fraction, but enough for Julian to notice. "You could never look ridiculous, my dear Doctor. Unexpected, perhaps. Intriguing, certainly. But never ridiculous." He paused, then added quietly, "I wouldn't allow it."
There was something in his voice — a possessiveness, a protectiveness — that made Julian's heart skip.
"How long will it take?" Julian asked. "The reception is in six days."
"For anyone else, I'd say it was impossible." Garak returned to his workstation, already pulling out fabrics in deep charcoal and midnight blue. "But for you, I'll work through the night if necessary. This is far too important to rush, but I have no intention of letting you down."
Over the next four days, Julian found himself spending an inordinate amount of time in Garak's shop. There were multiple fittings; Garak insisted on at least one per day, and each one felt like a carefully choreographed dance. Garak's hands on his shoulders, adjusting the drape of fabric. Garak's breath on his cheek as he examined the collar's fit. The intensity of Garak's gaze as he stepped back to assess his work.
"You're enjoying this," Julian observed during the third fitting, watching Garak pin the hem of the tunic with meticulous care.
"I enjoy all my work," Garak replied primly. "But yes, I'll admit this commission holds particular... satisfaction."
"Because it's challenging?"
"Because it's you." Garak looked up at him, and for once there was no deflection in his eyes. "I've clothed you in Starfleet uniforms, casual wear, even that dreadful suit you wore to the Bajoran temple ceremony. But this; this is mine. My culture, my expertise, my aesthetic sensibilities, all crafted specifically for you." His fingers smoothed down the fabric. "It's rather more personal than I'd anticipated."
Julian's mouth went dry. "Garak—"
"Don't move," Garak interrupted, though his voice was gentle. "I'm not finished yet. With the tailoring, I mean." But his eyes said something else entirely.
On the fifth day, Julian arrived for the final fitting. The outfit hung on a mannequin, and he stopped short at the sight of it.
It was magnificent.
The charcoal grey tunic featured intricate scale-pattern embroidery in deep blue thread that seemed to shimmer in the light. The shoulder pieces; lighter than authentic Cardassian armor, as promised, nevertheless had a weight and presence that spoke of authority. The high collar was both elegant and severe, and the trousers were indeed fitted in a way that would leave very little to the imagination.
"Well?" Garak asked, and for the first time Julian could remember, he actually sounded uncertain. "Do you approve?"
"It's incredible," Julian breathed. "Garak, this is... this is art."
Something in Garak's expression eased. "Get changed, then. Let's see how art looks in motion."
Julian changed in the back room, marveling at how the fabric felt against his skin; sturdy but not uncomfortable, despite Garak's warnings about restrictiveness. When he emerged, Garak was waiting with an expression Julian couldn't quite read.
"Oh," Garak said softly. "Oh, my dear Doctor."
Julian stepped back onto the fitting platform, feeling oddly self-conscious. "That bad?"
"That extraordinary." Garak circled him slowly, making minute adjustments to the drape of the shoulders, the fall of the tunic. "I knew it would suit you, but this..." He trailed off, his hand lingering at the small of Julian's back. "You wear it like you were born to it."
"I'm hardly Cardassian."
"No," Garak agreed. "You're something far more interesting; a human who understands that clothing is armor, identity, and art all at once. You wear this with respect, not costume." He met Julian's eyes in the mirror. "That matters more than you know."
Julian turned to face him, suddenly very aware of how close they were standing. "Thank you, Garak. Not just for the clothes, but for—" He gestured helplessly. "For all of this."
"It's my pleasure." Garak's hand came up to adjust the collar, his fingers brushing Julian's jaw. "Though I confess, I'm almost jealous of this diplomatic delegation. They'll have your attention all evening."
"You could attend," Julian suggested. "I'm sure I could arrange it."
"A simple tailor at a formal Cardassian reception? I think not." But Garak's smile was warm. "Besides, I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you'll be the most well-dressed person in the room, and that I'm responsible for it. That's a different kind of pleasure."
Julian caught Garak's wrist gently. "What if I'd rather have your company than your satisfaction?"
The air between them seemed to crystallize, charged with possibility.
"My dear Doctor," Garak said quietly, "are you propositioning me while wearing Cardassian formalwear? Because if so, your timing is rather impeccable."
Julian laughed, the tension breaking like a dam. "Not propositioning. Just... acknowledging. What's been between us for a while now."
"Ah. That." Garak's thumb brushed across Julian's knuckles. "I wondered if you'd noticed."
"How could I not?"
"Humans can be remarkably oblivious about matters of the heart. It's almost endearing." But Garak's expression was tender. "For the record, I've been quite deliberately obvious."
"After the reception," Julian said, "would you join me for dinner? Not at the replimat. Somewhere private."
"Your quarters or mine?"
"Yours. I like being surrounded by your things."
Garak's smile could have lit up the entire Promenade. "Then I'll prepare something special. Cardassian cuisine, naturally; since you'll already be dressed for it." He stepped back reluctantly. "But for now, you should return to your quarters and rest. You have a diplomatic function to survive first."
Julian changed back into his uniform reluctantly, and as Garak carefully packed the formal wear into a garment bag, he found himself already looking forward to the end of the reception; not for its own sake, but for what came after.
"Julian," Garak said as he handed over the garment bag. It was the first time he'd used Julian's given name without the honorific. "I hope you know that I don't do this for just anyone."
"The tailoring?"
"Everything."
Julian smiled. "I know." He paused at the door. "See you tomorrow evening, then?"
"I'll be counting the hours," Garak replied, and for once, there wasn't a trace of irony in his voice.
As Julian walked back to his quarters, the garment bag slung over his shoulder, he couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, some diplomatic assignments were more rewarding than others.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.