Chapter Text
“You said I’d already reached equilibrium!” Serot grips the sides of the biobed. His voice is laced with hurt and accusation, but Julian knows better than to take it personally.
“You have,” Julian says in his most calming, most doctorly tone. He taps at the readout screen and analyzes the results of the last battery of tests. As his eyes run over the brain scans, he scours for signs of neural activity in the prefrontal cortex, where the Cardassian brain predominantly retrieves autobiographical memories.
They’ve spent the past two hours methodically going through Serot’s false memories, one after another like they’re pages in the diary Garak purged from the computer banks. Luckily, Julian knew enough about his patient to draft an ad hoc test with ease: all he had to do was bring up a memory from Serot’s fabricated past and test the response. The expression on Serot’s face as he struggled and failed to recount each event was enough to predict the results: most of the scans show no indication of memory retrieval. Childhood and adolescence are gone. Young and middle adulthood are sporadic, the memory recall random. And deteriorating. It’s only a matter of time before they, too, have eroded entirely. It isn’t the news he wants to give his soon-to-be husband.
Behind him, there’s a swish of fabric as Serot slides off the biobed. “Julian?”
“From what I can gather, you’ve lost roughly seventy-four percent of your false memories.” Julian turns around to find Serot staring at the brain scans, wide-eyed. “It was an unavoidable side-effect of the treatment.”
“You knew this would happen?”
Julian presses his lips together. He can’t lie. “It was always a possibility, Serot. With experimental treatments like this, we can only estimate the risks and hope for the best outcome. You knew that. Considering what we were up against, I’d say we were lucky.”
“Oh, yes, I feel very fortunate.”
Julian forges ahead. “I think I’ve pinpointed the reason. Since Cardassian memory is largely eidetic, you couldn’t hold two conflicting memories at once. One pathway had to be weakened. It happened so gradually, and we were so focused on your emergent memories that you never noticed what you were losing.”
“Then,” Serot says, “we can’t reverse it?”
“I’m afraid not. The treatment has run its course. From here, the pathways will continue to degrade until there’s nothing left. I wish I could offer a timeline, but frankly your guess is as good as mine.”
Serot rubs his forehead and takes a shuddering breath. “It hardly seems fair. When our agents were activated with the desegranine, they maintained both their implanted and genuine memories.”
“Which is likely why so many of them had psychotic breaks.”
Serot actually laughs. “Yes, I recall that being more common than I would’ve liked, but I’ve prided myself on having a disciplined mind.” He glances about the empty exam room, as if searching for something, before favoring Julian with a grim smile. “Well, my dear, it was lovely while it lasted.”
“Dammit, you’re making it sound like a death sentence!”
“Isn’t it?”
Julian grasps him by the shoulders and squeezes hard to emphasize his words. “Don’t you see, Serot? When this started, you were terrified that Garak’s memories would destroy you, that you’d become someone neither of us recognized. But you’re still here. What does that tell you?”
“That it will happen soon enough.”
“I rather doubt that. They might’ve been crucial to your identity in the beginning, but you’ve had twelve years to become who you are. That’s not going away just because you’ve lost thirty-some-odd years of false memories. You’re your own person. You did that. Not the Obsidian Order, not Garak. You did.”
Serot stares back, eyes narrowed, as if trying to divine a lie. Then he looks away, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know, Julian.”
“Trust me.” Julian reaches up to smooth strands of blond hair that have come loose in the past two frustrating, anxious hours. “You don’t need them.”
There’s nothing Julian can do now; with the dezothomide discontinued, the trajectory of the treatment is beyond his control. If there are any other unexpected side effects, he’ll treat them as they come.
It’s an odd comfort as they retire to bed for the night. Serot pretends to sleep, but his grip on Julian’s waist is too tight, his breathing too uneven. It gives him away. Whenever Julian drifts awake, startled by an unpleasant dream, he’s still there, silently worrying.
Julian can hardly blame him for being scared.
Days later, a mid-level bureaucrat in Starfleet red arrives on the station. Julian only catches a glimpse of her on his way to the infirmary. It isn’t until lunch at the Replimat that Serot explains, twirling a datarod between his fingers and placing it on the table between them. “She came by my shop this morning and performed the ceremony right there.” Serot looks both amused and profoundly mortified. “In front of everyone.”
Passing by with a tray in one hand, O’Brien slaps him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Federation, Mister Pela. We have no shame.”
For the next two weeks, Julian’s spare time is lost to the minute and excruciating details of wedding planning. One night, Julian watches Serot do nothing more than vacillate for hours between two shades of pale cerulean. Another evening, Julian sets down a hologram of artfully arranged Vulcan hydrangeas and looks his beloved in the eye. “Keiko says this is the last revision, Serot. She’s not a bloody florist, you know. She volunteered to do these centerpieces out of the goodness of her heart.”
Serot stares down at the hologram, lips pursed.
“So help me, Serot, I’ll replicate a dozen roses and stuff them in a pot.”
The threat is a tad cruel, but it has its desired effect: Serot surrenders with raised palms. While Julian can understand the need for perfection, it’s beginning to drive him to insanity. He’s not a fan of weddings-- hell, he once expected to live out his days a free-wheeling bachelor-- and he certainly has no strong opinions on what style of suit he should wear, much less the flavor of the cake. There is only one thing he knows for sure: who will not be invited.
“I don’t understand,” Serot tells him, gently, “they’re your parents. They seem like--”
“They’re not lovely people,” Julian snaps. “And for the last time, they’re not welcome.”
That’s usually the end of it, but this time Serot continues to protest. “Yet you’ve failed to provide a reason why. Julian, my dear, they’re your family. They must care enough to--”
“For someone preaching family solidarity, Serot, I haven’t seen your parents on the guest list.” Julian retrieves the PADD and pointedly taps at its screen. “Shall I send off an invitation to your father? I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to see you married off to a human.”
For a moment, Serot looks at Julian like a kicked puppydog. Then he glances away and inclines his head. “Touché. I have been hypocritical, haven’t I?” His smile takes a brittle quality as he politely excuses himself to the living room.
Julian lowers the PADD and begins to call after him to apologize. But Serot has already opened a book, putting on airs that he’s unaffected. Julian curses himself. It was a stupid, thoughtless comment. For all he knows, Serot might want his parents here, no matter their misdeeds molding him into an assassin and torturer and locking him in closets. They might even be dead, and he’s just twisted the knife by reminding him of that fact.
It isn’t as if Serot doesn’t have a good reason to be curious. He’s right: Julian’s given him no explanation for the icy relationship with his parents. Meanwhile, Serot has shared his worst secrets, and here Julian is, still clutching to his own. It certainly isn’t fair to Serot, or to the future of their relationship.
He’s going to be my husband. He has a right to know.
Julian isn’t afraid of Serot’s reaction. There’s no doubt in his mind that Serot will accept him for the broken mistake against nature that he is. Serot will always love him, no matter his flaws and perfections. Julian stares down at the PADD full of names and flexes his jaw. He works his lips into what he’ll say. He’s rehearsed a dozen permutations of this speech: the many ways to break the news to the man he loves that he isn’t what he seems, either.
Julian looks back to where Serot is quietly reading.
The words don’t come.
He’s a coward. After everything, he’s still a coward. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Julian returns to charting the antigenic drift of the latest virus sweeping the station, disgusted with himself but unable to do anything about it.
To his relief, the subject of Julian’s parents seems good and forgotten when Kira joins them the following evening to go over the Bajoran wedding rite. The process sounds simple enough: while the prylar leads the blessing, the happy couple drinks from a ceremonial bowl and exchanges a few words in the language. All Julian has to do is show up and avoid dribbling wine over himself. He can handle that.
“I can have the bowl specially made on Bajor,” Kira is saying. “I know a potter who does beautiful work with green clay. She can have it done within the week, if we put in the order now.” She twists in her chair to peer across the room, where Serot is pacing. “Pela? What do you think?”
Serot stops and shakes his head, whispering, “I can’t do this. It doesn’t feel right.”
Julian straightens in alarm. “What?”
“It doesn’t feel right,” Serot repeats, tugging at his earring.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Kira says. “What doesn’t feel right?”
For a moment, Serot seems at a loss for words. He crosses the room and takes Kira’s hand. “Nerys, I’m sorry. I know you worked hard on this, but we can’t have a Bajoran ceremony.”
“Why not?”
He tilts his head. “We both know the answer to that.”
Kira looks down at their joined hands, and Julian fears an explosion is imminent. Instead, she nods once. “All right. We can talk about it later.” The corners of her mouth twitch into a small smile. “You not thinking about having one of those Cardassian enjoinments, are you?”
“I’m afraid the thought has crossed my mind.”
She rolls her eyes. “Then I’ll tell Quark to replicate all the raktajino he can.” Her attention flicks to Julian. “You’re going to need it.”
When she’s gone, they look at each other over the expanse of the table.
“I hope you’re not upset with me,” Serot says, sitting down.
“Of course not. Why would I be?”
“Surely you’ve noticed that I’ve been changing my mind a great deal lately.”
“Once or twice.” Smiling, Julian crosses over to climb into Serot’s lap. “A wise man once taught me the virtue of patience. Besides, I want you to be happy.” He buries his face in the spot between Serot’s neck and shoulder and bestows a lingering kiss to the skin there. “Now, what’s a Cardassian enjoinment like, and how many bowls shall I order?”
There are no bowls, but a single pillar of steel and carved sandstone featuring the Cardassian emblem and the Oath to the State. The enjoinment requires each party to recite the sanctioned pledge to the Union and Family, an hour-long affair whose only embellishments account for the rank and class of the participants. “It has more in common with Cardassian funerary rites than a celebration,” Serot says, covering Julian’s yawn with a hand. “Of course, as neither of us are Cardassian citizens, perhaps a Hebitian ceremony would be more appropriate. I’ll have to do some research, but it should fit nicely with your human traditions. From what I remember, there’s dancing and dressing up-- things that may appeal to your sense of . . .”
“Fun?” Julian supplies with a grin. A Cardassian ceremony it is, then, but without the trappings and baggage of Garak’s Cardassia. “I think I’d like that,” he says.
Serot smiles fondly at him. “I was hoping you would.”
Days later, they’ve only begun to assemble the requisite masks and commission the shrine when a battered rescue buoy emerges from the wormhole. Jadzia decodes and analyzes the distress signal. It’s Bajoran, originating from a planet in the Gamma Quadrant where Julian and Kira once helped set up a hospital. New Bajor, the settlement the Dominion recently obliterated, massacring the colonists in a brutal attempt to send the Alpha Quadrant a message: keep out.
Sisko is quick to point out that the colonists may have launched the beacon during the attack. Worse, it may be part of a Dominion trap. But there’s also a chance for survivors, and Sisko immediately convenes a rescue mission. With casualties likely, Julian packs his away bag. The USS Defiant’s sickbay is still woefully undermanned and poorly stocked, but he’s made progress since their previous journey into the Gamma Quadrant.
As Julian strides to the docking ring, bag slung over his shoulder, Serot follows at his heels. “Be careful,” he insists. “Last time--”
“I know,” Julian says. Turning, he takes Serot’s hand and brings it to his cheek. “I’ll be quite all right. Really.” Once again, he’s going to be the last to board, but he doesn’t care. “Commander Sisko doesn’t expect to run into the Dominion out there, and either way I’ll be in sickbay the whole time. It’s the safest spot on the ship.”
Serot isn’t nearly as amused. “I think you’re using this as an excuse to squirm your way out of the wedding planning.”
Julian laughs. “You’ve caught me. I fabricated that rescue beacon all by myself.”
Serot gives him an odd look.
“What’s wrong?” Julian says.
“Noth--” He winces. “I’ve brought nothing for you, my dear.”
“How about a kiss?”
Leaning forward, Serot obliges, and Julian can’t ask for a better parting gift.
He promises to return within a few days, well aware that he’ll be in serious trouble should the mission be delayed by a single minute. Once the Defiant has crossed through the wormhole, Julian settles before a terminal and prepares a message. Just in case. If he misses the wedding due to his untimely death, the least he can do is apologize in advance.
As the Defiant creeps into the Kotha Tremali star system, passing the remnants of New Bajor on the way, Jadzia performs a long-range scan. Standing at the edge of the bridge, Julian gapes at the sight on the viewscreen. The planet is decimated, blanketed by craters. The colony is nothing more than the charred ruins of a budding city, with no signs of life beyond green patches of forest.
Then Jadzia locates it-- a distress call, one system over. It’s faint, but it’s enough. When the Defiant reaches the fourth planet, Jadzia twists in her seat and grins. Six lifesigns and one crashed Bajoran scout ship, clearly the recipient of some heavy fire. “It’s them, sir,” she says.
The planet is habitable, but barely, with a thin atmosphere and a low partial pressure of oxygen. The magnesite dust storms are interfering with the transporters, leaving Julian with no choice but to take a shuttle down to the surface with Jadzia and a nurse in tow.
Once the shuttle touches down, Julian tracks the survivors to a shallow cave where they’re huddled together, shivering and gaunt. Each one is suffering from hypoxia, the seventh colonist (an elderly woman, now buried a hundred meters to the south) already having succumbed. He’s herding them into the shuttle to begin treatment when Jadzia stoops down to shut off the signal beacon. “You’re lucky we found you,” she says, “and not the Jem’Hadar.”
“That was a risk we were willing to take,” says one of the survivors, his voice muffled by the oxygen concentrator.
Julian glances up into the yellow, dusty sky. He hopes Jadzia didn’t just tempt fate.
With the survivors stabilized, Jadzia brings the shuttle into the planet’s orbit. They’re halfway to the Defiant’s shuttle bay, open and waiting, when the Jem’Hadar fighters decloak around them. Dropping his tricorder, Julian vaults into the seat beside her at once.
Sisko’s voice bursts over the comm. “Hurry up, Old Man!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” she shouts.
Come on, come on, Julian repeats, holding his breath as the Defiant’s bay grows larger in the viewport. He can almost feel the scarab-shaped Jem’Hadar warships powering their phased polaron beams. Moments later, the shuttle lands, much harder than Julian would’ve liked, just in time for the Jem’Hadar to fire their first round. The Defiant rocks starboard as the polaron beams punch straight through their worthless shields.
Then he senses the subtle flare of the engines as the ship goes into warp, leaving the planet and the Jem’Hadar behind. He exchanges a smile with Jadzia and comms O’Brien for a site-to-site transport into sickbay.
The colonists are settled into their biobeds when he feels the Defiant stutter around him, a hiccup that goes unnoticed by everyone else. They’ve dropped out of warp. Why?
Julian waits for the explanation. Later, as he stands on the bridge watching Sisko and O’Brien argue, he gets it. The warp core is down, along with main impulse. Meanwhile, the cloaking device works only intermittently before randomly cutting out. O’Brien suspects the damage from the polaron beams must’ve thrown a bug or two in the ship’s systems, but he won’t know for sure until the diagnostics come back. “That’s what you get for running a prototype into battle,” O’Brien says.
Sisko gives him a sidelong look and sets his arms akimbo. “I need that cloak up now, Chief. We’re still in Dominion territory. Sitting dead in the water is one thing. I won’t be a sitting duck.”
“Aye, sir,” O’Brien says.
Julian follows him down to engineering. “Is there anything I can do to help, Chief?”
His shake of the head is definitive. “Not unless you can run a few million calculations in your head at one time.”
Julian’s good, but not that good.
The colonists are understandably nervous. After Julian releases them from sickbay with clean bills of health, they gather around the viewports, on the lookout for Jem’Hadar warships. By the middle of the second day, O’Brien has the cloak running again, to everyone’s relief. It’s another day of troubleshooting before he’s identified the source of the trouble.
O’Brien estimates the fix will take at least a week.
There’s a temptation, tugging at the back of Julian’s mind, to head to engineering and assist O’Brien, regardless of whether the chief thinks he’s capable. It’s an urge he’s had to fight for most of his life. Julian might not have O’Brien’s expertise, but with careful observation and some on-the-job training, together they’ll be able to knock out the repairs in a fraction of the time. He’s sure of it. But this isn’t a life or death situation, and even if it were, Julian knows better than to risk discovery.
So he stays put, checking in with his patients and engaging them in smalltalk-- all to the relentless, mocking tick of his inner clock.
Serot is going to be furious.
The repairs complete, the Defiant docks with the station in the middle of the night, two days ahead of O’Brien’s predicted schedule. But it’s still too late. Julian’s broken his promise. A man on a mission, he jogs to his quarters and bursts through the doors.
He’s surprised to find Serot awake at such a late hour-- hunched over, squinting at his console. At Julian’s entrance, Serot’s eyes go wide and he jumps to his feet. He steps back as Julian closes the distance. Not about to let Serot avoid him, Julian grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him. “I’m sorry,” Julian whispers against his lips. He strokes Serot’s cheek, easing the tension out of him. “You have every right to be cross with me.”
When Julian lets go, Serot still looks alarmed. “Cross?”
“I’m really sorry, Serot. You must’ve been worried sick.”
Serot’s eyes flick rapidly over Julian’s face. Then, tentatively, he smiles. “All is forgiven.”
“No, it isn’t. You don’t have to lie, you know. Please, love, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” He takes Serot’s hand, then sighs. “After I have myself a long nap. I’ve hardly slept this past week.”
“Of course, dear.”
Julian bats his lashes and leans in for another kiss. “Coming?”
This time, Serot meets him halfway. “Soon enough.”
Julian knows he’s still in trouble, but at least Serot isn’t angry. That’s a comfort.
He tries to wait for Serot to join him in bed, but before he knows it, he’s drifting off. In his dreams, legions of Jem’Hadar chase him through a maze of hallways. Each soldier wears his face, blue-white and scaled, outlined in horned ridges, but Julian can recognize himself in the blazing, mad eyes. He doesn’t need Troi’s expertise to grasp the meaning behind that. Julian runs up a staircase and glances down.
Nobody follows. He’s lost them. Relieved, he turns and--
--a Jem’Hadar plunges an ancient spear through his chest.
Julian wakes up gasping. This has got to stop. It isn’t like him. He hasn’t been plagued by nightmares for years. Not since he was a teenager. He blinks and feels around the bed. Before Julian left for the Gamma Quadrant, Serot had been at his side for every nightmare, ready to soothe him back to sleep with a whispered word, strong fingers massaging the knots out of Julian’s neck. Now the other side of the bed is empty.
He falls back against his pillow and calls into the dark, “Serot.”
He waits, but there’s no answer. Julian is about to shout again when he thinks better of it. He isn’t a child in need of a warm glass of milk. Besides, he’s much too tired.
Dread settles on the edges of his consciousness, seeping in.
“Sorry, Doctor Bashir,” Quark is saying, head bowed in a gesture of remorse, and he must be dreaming again because it’s sincere. “But it looks like my idiot brother double-booked the bar for some Klingon’s Rite of Ascension.”
“What? Quark, I’m getting married today!” Julian pulls at the front of his suit for emphasis, nearly ripping the fabric. “You can’t do this to me! You tell those Klingons they can have their silly ritual in the goddamn holosuites!”
Quark begins stammering out excuses, bowing and bowing again for forgiveness, but Julian is no longer listening. He’s shouting back at Quark that this won’t stand, that he’ll have the bar shut down. In his periphery, he notices Morn fiddling with the controls of a painstick.
The alien’s eyes glint with mischief. Around them, the bar shifts. The dabo tables melt into the floor and the room goes dark, reconfiguring into a long aisle with blood red lights.
Flanking the aisle like disapproving pillars are Julian’s parents. Behind them, his colleagues: Jadzia, O’Brien, Kira, Odo, his nurses and medical techs. Further along stands Commander Sisko and Jake, followed by countless people from his childhood and the Academy. Acquaintances, lovers. He catches glimpses of former patients, and the sight of them is chilling. Theirs are the faces that will forever haunt him-- people he’d let die rather than risk revealing his illegal enhancements. His most heinous, unforgivable crimes.
The line seems to continue on forever.
Quark appears, painstick in hand. “Walk!” he shouts and throws his arms up to encourage the others. Richard swiftly joins in, smiling wide. “Walk!”
Soon they’re all chanting, “Walk! Walk!”
Julian’s feet disobey him, moving him forward down the aisle. His parents are the first to jab him with their painsticks. He cries out but keeps going, staggering on past the gleeful, chanting faces, pausing only to receive his punishment. The excruciating pain radiates throughout his body. Kira hits him with all her strength and he screams. Sisko digs the tip of his painstick between his ribs. He doubles over, sobbing now, and the crowd closes in. They prod him, over and over, as he begs them to stop.
Then they’re back in the bar. White flowers form a graceful arch behind a raised platform, while the cerulean banners hanging from the walls add a welcome splash of color. Guests file in, patting his arm and congratulating him as they take their seats. Julian smiles. It’s just as lovely as he imagined.
“Why didn’t you invite us?” Richard snaps from behind him. “I love weddings!”
“We’re your parents,” Amsha adds.
Before Julian can call security to escort them out, Richard shoots him a petulant look and shoves a floral setting. It crashes to the floor, exploding in thousands of white shards. In an instant, the guests erupt from their seats, ripping down banners and overturning chairs. Palis, his thick brows drawn together in a frown, throws fistfuls of cake in Julian’s direction while Jake and Nog smash the shrine. His parents take an axe to the wedding arch, and it topples with a groan like a massive tree.
Julian holds his head between his hands, looking on as a Klingon targ charges down the aisle. “Stop, stop it! You’re ruining everything!” He looks around frantically and calls Serot’s name. There’s no answer. He’s nowhere to be found.
“He left you.” Kira laughs from behind a Hebitian mask as red as her uniform. She runs in circles around him, wrapping his arms and legs in gold streamers, binding them together until he’s locked in place. “He left you,” she sneers, sing-song, “he left you, you cockamamie idiot. He left you!”
No, he didn’t. No, he wouldn’t.
“He wouldn’t,” Julian slurs. A hand taps his cheek, so sharply that he gasps.
“That’s a good boy,” a voice says. “Wake up now.”
With a shuddering breath, Julian opens his eyes and, blearily, finds himself staring into the darkened ceiling of his quarters. Still the middle of the night, then. He tries to lift his head to identify the source of the voice, but his neck doesn’t respond to the command. With a grunt of effort, he tries to sit up, to move his arms, his legs, to no avail. He’s frozen in place. Complete muscle atonia, he diagnoses absently.
It’s been years since he’s suffered sleep paralysis, but considering his recent bout of nightmares, it seems his sleep hygiene is in need of a complete overhaul. That would at least explain the hallucination of an intruder in the room. Julian tries to steady his breathing and keep calm. It’s difficult with the nightmare still in the forefront of his mind. This will pass, he urges himself.
“Ah,” the voice pipes up again, “that would be the paralyzing compound. A lovely neuromuscular-blocking drug-- one of the few I’ve found that doesn’t depress the respiratory system. At least in most humanoids.”
It’s Serot’s voice, but the cadence is off, his pronunciation of Federation Standard cumbersome, as if the words are unfamiliar on his tongue. Julian rolls his eyes to the corner of the bed and spots the shadow of a figure. His heart stutters in his chest.
No. Please, no.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of using your medical override to synthesize the compound. I admit,” the figure continues, drifting to the other side of the bed like an apparition, “You metabolized it much faster than I’d calculated. I had to nearly double the dosage to keep you in your current state. Are you fully human, or some variety of hybrid?”
Wake up, wake up, Julian begs his disobedient body. His heart hammers as he tries to will his fingers into moving, twitching, anything. But he remains as immobile as a ragdoll.
“Don’t worry, Doctor Bashir, the effects are only temporary.”
The figure slinks closer until Julian can make out the shadow of his features. He’s smiling amiably, but that only manages to terrify Julian more. Then the figure shifts, drawing Julian’s eyes to the black dagger in his hand. A strangled whimper curdles in the back of Julian’s throat.
The smile widens just a little. “Feel free to speak, Doctor. There would be little point to this exercise if I left you incapable, don’t you agree?”
Julian’s tongue feels swollen in his mouth. He runs it over his lips, testing it out. After a few quick, shallow breaths, he croaks, “Garak.”
Garak’s eyes light up. “Very good, Doctor. I’m pleased to see you’re leaving behind any pretense of not knowing me. That will save us considerable time. Now, if you don’t mind the directness of my question--” He leans in, his eyes sharp with unconcealed anger. “Who are you?”