This Uniquely Portable Magic

In 1726, when William Brown was on trial for attempted sodomy in London, he didn't say "I was born this way", he said, "“I think there is no crime in making what use I please of my own body”.

In the 12th century, Hildegard of Bingen didn't say, "A woman can do anything a man can do!", she said, God created men and women with different humours and having too much of the male elements will throw society out of balance.

In the 1860s, Millicent Garrett Fawcett didn't say, "Women are just as smart as men", she said, Men get to vote no matter how dumb they are.

The thought doesn’t show on Tasoula’s face. The night hums around her, the fairy lights draped over the patio blending in with the fireflies teasing at the edges of the wine bar’s glow. It’s a waste to come here at night. During the day the vineyard stretches out below the hilltop restaurant and the trellis’ hugging the walkway up glow with morning glories.

Technically, the woman she’s waiting for has given Tasoula decades of lifespan already. Is it really a crime for her to waste just one of them?

Tasoula leans back in her garden chair. Her reservation had been for a table inside at noon but, as the hours dragged by, she’d been shuffled outside to make room for guests whose dates actually showed up. She’s not the easy sort to move, so there’s a half-empty bottle of complimentary wine on the wrought iron table. She’s pressed to the edge of the patio, right against the cedar fence separating the seating area from the sudden drop into darkness. They’d been very attentive until the dinner rush came in. Then she’d been forgotten, fading into the shadow until not even the most senior server looked her way any longer.

As usual, it’s not until Tasoula is forgotten that Margot shows up.

Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.

You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.

When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.

A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)

Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)

The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.

Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.

These events are almost always open bar. They're not trying to make their money back on alcohol. They want you to drink and eat and donate generously.

If there are cocktails, there will be at most two on offer, pre-made in large tubs. You cannot order a different version, it is what it is.

There are two types of events: cocktail style or seated. The first includes roaming hors d'oeuvres or a fancy buffet with tiny plates called a grazing station. For a long night, the roaming food will get a little bigger throughout the evening and have a 'main' at some point based around a protein.

A seated event will usually be more structured and may include multiple courses. Silver service is not in vogue anymore. You are likely to get either alternating meals brought to you like at a wedding, or served banquet style. A good caterer can get a plate to everyone in a 300 person event in about three minutes.

Drunk people are the same no matter how expensive their suits. They still laugh too loud, spill their drinks and slip on the dance floor. They are usually less embarrassed about doing coke in the bathrooms.

A full scale event that starts at 6pm will have staff arriving at noon to begin setup. Earlier if there's a light show or pyrotechnics. Typically venues don't just have 30 tables and three hundred chairs lying around, let alone table cloths, chair covers, etc. It's all rented and brought in on the day. Bands and DJs will be running audio tests in the background throughout.

Most heritage buildings that host these things, like museums and manor houses, aren't really designed for them. They might put down mats so you're not walking in stilettos over two hundred year old wooden floors, the kitchens are weirdly far away, and there are not enough taps. There is never anywhere for staff to sit, so if you open the wrong door you might find half a dozen waiters sitting on upturned milk crates in a room full of million dollar paintings, eating the left over bread.

Really old buildings don't have enough bathrooms, which means the staff will be sharing with the guests.

Clean up starts the second the event ends, if not sooner. Unattended glasses will start to disappear first, then table decorations. When the timer ticks over, the lights come back on and exhausted staff strip the tables, pack up dirty glasses and unopened wine bottles and have to Tetris it all into the back of a van. The venue is booked for that day only, so everything has to be gone before anyone can go home. A large event that finishes at midnight might take until 3am to be cleared away.

When Julian shot Garak in the holosuite, he shot him in this scale, and that’s why Garak acts like that and switches gears so quickly. He was high off feel-good lovey-dovey bonding hormones directed at his husband, and what an amazing husband he’s found!! So strong, so capable. The perfect secret agent Garak would happily follow off of a cliff. Not things he was feeling before he was shot. Garak doesn’t begin to understand what’s happened until later, and why he felt so stricken when Julian offered to heal the wound with a dermal regenerator. Why now alone in his quarters he’s feeling bereft. In a normal enjoinment, this would be when he was having sex, but of course, that’s not happening.

At first, he thinks this is just another case of Julian Bashir blue balls, a chronic condition he’s intimately familiar with. But this feels extreme. He can feel tears trying to gather in his eyes. A niggling thought comes, a terrible suspicion.

With calm, measured steps, he walks to a mirror and inspects his neck. Blood has caked around the scales and formed a kind of chrysalis, so he takes a handkerchief from the inner coat of his jacket and wipes it away to reveal… yes. Yes. That would be the correct scale, ripped clean open. It’ll scar beautifully, a clear signal of his husband’s enthusiasm in choosing him.

If his husband had been aware that’s what he’d been doing.

Garak stares at it. It stares back.

His legs have weakened, and before long, he finds himself grappling behind himself in a stagger. He hits a chair and settles there inelegantly, jittery, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right then. The handkerchief is still in his hand, so he folds it. Folds it again. And again. And again.

He can’t sleep, so he goes to his shop. It’s not too late yet, he can get some work done.

By morning, he’s gotten no work done, but he has exhausted his delavian chocolate stash, three glasses of kanar, and a bottle of excellent spring wine. He’d been saving the wine for a special occasion. Now, it sits stale on his tongue like a joke. It’s an hour past when his shop would be open, but it’s irrelevant. A Bajoran comes banging for her appointment. They were meant to discuss the details of her wedding dress. She leaves after ten minutes, distraught.

Not long after, banging comes again, this time more insistent. “Garak!” a voice demands. Major Kira. Annoying, but irrelevant.

She tries asking the computer to locate him. Of course, it doesn’t tell her he’s inside, or anywhere, but she forces her way into the space he pays rent on and comes surging through like a sandstorm anyway. Incredibly rude, but irrelevant. She’ll leave soon.

She doesn’t. She scans the space for heat signatures and finds his weak emittance slumped behind the counter. “Garak,” she huffs. Evidently the Bajoran woman from before is a friend of hers and she’s come to investigate on her behalf. When she sees the state he’s in, she stops, though, and opens her mouth to ask what’s happened, and stops again. She’s noticed the blood on his neck. 

The poor woman has shocked herself into silence now, but she’s come all this way to harass answers out of him, so he gives them to her in as pleasant a voice as he can muster. Of course, it’s a simple story, so being cordial is no trouble. He fell on his scissors. Very unfortunate, but naturally, as an “agent of the Obsidian Order”, he speaks the allegation with all due severity, his bonding scale had to be made inert, so no harm done. 

He doesn’t tell her Tain administered the serum himself, nor any of the implications of his having administered a fake. How dangerous it was for a field agent, how easy it made exploitation. How neatly he could have been killed in an altercation, when a moment of hesitation - a second of hormone-induced compliance - would have made all the difference. All more irrelevant little details.

She tells him she knows he’s lying. A ridiculous statement. Of course he’s lying, but the truth is none of her business. She expresses as much then, surprising him. “I won’t ask what happened,” she says gently, just as he notices the empty bottle of spring wine is still next to him, the vintage label visible. Ah. “I just want to ask… are you okay?”

That would be the question, wouldn’t it? Is he okay? Is it okay that he is - in every way culturally significant - bound to Doctor Bashir? Through biology, no less? How fitting! Bashir would have a field day with his neurochemistry right now. It’s been hours and still his thoughts keep circling back to where his husband is. He’s not his husband, but he is, even though he’s not, and he’s always wanted him but this is a new kind of hell. Where is he? What is he doing? Why isn’t he here? Didn’t he choose him, and so decisively, with such remarkable precision?

He didn’t, but it’s irrelevant.

“I have lunch plans,” he says. He doesn’t know why. He didn’t mean to, but it’s out of his mouth now.

“Okay,” the Major says. “Do you need a way out of them?”

Does he?

He sits with it for a minute, and she waits patiently. Finally, he looks at her with resolve. “No.”

He gives Kira his sketches for her friend to look over and promises to set up another appointment soon before he leaves for his quarters. He naps off the hangover, eats, showers. The last hours tick by in peaceful sewing until it’s time for him to don that unfortunate outfit again and go to lunch.

Julian’s eyes settle on the bandage on his neck shortly after his arrival, but he doesn’t ask. Garak takes note of that. It is interesting how the man has been distancing himself, losing himself in an imagined world of mystery and mystique without a single friendly soul as witness. Of course, Garak had no intention of allowing him to do so and every intention of bridging the gap between them with rose petals and duranium, but they have skipped several steps now, haven’t they? More even than Garak expected.

Another scantily clad young lady with an impressive resume serves them their meals and they eat, drink, and chat. It’s wonderful. He has missed this so. Julian’s pretty voice fills his ear with Earth history and the novels of one Ian Fleming and Garak is more than happy to sit back and listen well past the lunch hour, the terror and tension of the past night falling to the side, just out of sight. 

It ought to be enough that he has been permitted. Fantasies are a common defense against the cruel realities of life–a coping strategy Garak has seen many a colleague fall into, himself included. His extensive library is not one Garak has amassed by any accident, but by necessity. He understands. Whatever stressors Julian has found himself requiring an escape from, it should be enough that Garak is no longer one of those things. 

And yet, his neck is throbbing, and it is not out of tune with his heart. Whether by good fortune or not, the facts remain. 

Julian has been spending every moment away from his work playing this little game, but luckily, Garak knows how to play games, too, and while Julian is across the room draping his jacket and bow tie over a couch, Garak lets a drop of his blood fall from a small container into his drink.

Julian throws it back without a thought, and Garak smiles blandly. A clinical bastardization of an otherwise beautiful ritual dating back thousands of years, but beggars and choosers.

“Doctor,” Garak begins, and Julian draws a deep breath and meets his eyes. Garak’s mouth hangs open. “I…” No. “Forgive me, but I have to wonder again. Why… this particular program? What is it about it that captivates you so?”

The eye contact breaks. “Does it matter?”

“Well, it is only that-”

“Garak, why are you interrogating me?”

Garak’s mouth snaps shut.

Julian stares at him, and looks away. “Oh, Garak. I apologize. It’s only that…” he takes an agitated sip of his coffee, “you do love to needle me. No one else quite presses my buttons the way you do, do you know that?”

Oh. Oh. Garak beams. “Why, thank you, Doctor. I find you uniquely capable of vexing me as well.”

Julian rolls his eyes to himself. “I’m sure you do.” Before Garak can dissect that particular statement to ribbons, the man interrupts him with a sigh. The mood shifts suddenly to something morose. “Garak, you said yourself that I just wanted to play the hero. Kiss the girl. It’s very simple. Can we not just… leave it there?”

If only. “Do you know what I think?”

“I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”

“This is more than a mere fantasy for you, Doctor. In fact, I believe there are secrets - breadcrumbs, as you say, to your inner world sprinkled between the text - hidden within the very code of these holoprojections. If only someone would care to look hard enough. If only someone would see… Oh,” he says, as Julian glares at him, “but you didn’t want anyone to see, did you?”

“As a matter of fact, Elim,” Julian says with padded steel, “no.”

Garak sits back in his chair. 

Julian is out of his seat and across the room the next moment. “I do have my shift in another hour, so I should be leaving soon, but there is one last thing I thought you might get a kick out of. If you’ll join me by the windows here, Mr. Garak?” Garak does so wearily, and Julian gives a strange command to the computer. It’s as Garak is fiddling with his bandage that the first plume of color lights up the night sky, and Garak startles into stone, watching with equal parts concern and awe.

Julian sounds pleased. “Fireworks. Controlled explosions colored with different minerals. An old Earth custom.”

“How wondrously strange,” Garak breathes.

“I thought you might think so.”

The doctor’s shoulder bumps his and Garak can’t help it, won’t even blame himself. He falls into it. Leaned against the human, shoulder to unlovable shoulder, they watch these fire-works, and it is almost like what Garak had hoped for when he’d first started entertaining the notion of barging his way into Julian’s daydreams. What was the first time? A year ago? More than? An enigma tale, an exercise program. Oh, to accompany beautiful Julian into the holosuites, so frequently ravaged with unchaste revelry, and have things change. His own juvenile fantasy made flesh amidst the figments. 

But of course, he never was invited, this is the most they’ve ever touched, and things are never going to change. Even after everything has. Whatever secrets Julian’s crude romanticization of his old profession hold, they are not his to understand. The man continues to hide, and while the luxury of hide-and-seek is no longer Garak’s to enjoy, he will not force his dearest companion into the light when his own eyes are still burning from the exposure.

“Doctor…” Garak tries one last time, hopeless.

“Shhh,” is the response.

Hello and of course, here are a few we like!

Apple Pie Order by paceprompting [Explicit, 18k words]

Castiel Novak spends his life the same way, every day, as sheriff of a small town in the old west. Until, of course, a certain green-eyed criminal named Dean Winchester starts showing up in his life...over and over.

Church of the Country Wild by Amazonia_8 [Explicit, 52k words]

Sheriff Dean Winchester has been sent to Boston to collect the new preacher for his town of Lawrence. What he finds is a man nothing like what he expected and suddenly the long journey back to Kansas seems a lot more dangerous than he'd previously thought.

Hunter's Caress by Ltleflrt [Explicit, 161k words]

Castiel Jameson won't rest until the outlaw who murdered his brother faces justice, and Dean Winchester is the only man alive who can help him track the villain down. Some say Winchester is a cold-blooded killer himself; others say he'd been wronged his whole life. All Castiel knows is that the desire glinting in Dean's green eyes is even more dangerous than he is. Castiel fights to keep his mind on business, but during the long nights on the trail with the dangerously handsome hunter he finds himself dreaming of yielding to Dean's illicit kisses and losing himself in lawless passion. Dean Winchester is about to hang when Castiel saves his neck with his crazy plan. But dying might be better than spending day and night playing nursemaid to such an infuriating city slicker. He appreciates the stubborn detective's desire for justice, but he'd appreciate Cas a lot more if he'd stop being a lawman long enough to just be a man. He certainly has all the right equipment. Dean aches to run his fingers through Castiel's dark hair, yearns to know how Castiel's golden skin will feel against him. And before the coming of the next dawn, Dean vows to teach him the pleasures and sweet rewards of a Hunter's Caress.

ride, cowboy, ride by UniversalSatan [Explicit, 12k words]

There's a stranger in town, and Castiel has the sense there's something dangerous about him — yet he's drawn to the man like a magnet, unable to resist his enticement.

The Shawnee Trail by emmbrancsxx0 [Explicit, 166k words]

In 1887, Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak lead a peaceful life in Lawrence, Kansas. Dean and Sam are stagecoach messengers for Wells, Fargo and Castiel is the town doctor. When Castiel's patient, Kelly Kline, knocks on their door one night about to give birth, she asks for the Winchesters and Castiel's help in protecting her son against one of the west's most notorious outlaws. To fulfill that promise, the men set out on a journey full of shootouts, trouble with the law, gambling, and an important discovery: Dean and Castiel really need to define the nature of their relationship.

Vagabonds by chevrolangels [Explicit, 89k words]

Dean is a sheriff in a tiny town in Colorado, restless and unsatisfied with his life. It's not like what he's read about in the dime novels since he was little, capturing dangerous outlaws and being the last word of the law. More like tossing the town drunk in a cell to sober up when they get a little too rowdy. But Dean's chance comes when a thief rolls through their town. He pursues the thief, which puts him right into the path of Emmanuel, a notorious outlaw. When he is captured by the outlaw and his gang to be held for ransom, Dean starts off on a journey he could have never envisioned, and learns that perhaps there's more to Emmanuel than meets the eye.

Whisper My Name by PetraAmia [Explicit, 29k words]

Castiel was an alpha with a few secrets up his sleeve, and had distanced himself from his family in New York City. Castiel was better off in the West than he was in the City, and they weren’t wrong. When Castiel first roamed he made a name for himself in the trick pony shows of the time and finally settled down in a small town called Angel, Wyoming. Here, he gave into some of his Alpha instincts by taking care of the townsfolk as sheriff, but that wasn’t to say that he was not a dutiful son. Twice his family back home had sent him an Omega to keep the families honor and both times, the Omega in question had not survived the sometimes harsh climate his new home provided. When a letter came from his eldest brother Michael to alert him to yet a third Omega coming to meet him from New York, he expected nothing but more of the same. He was totally unprepared for the Omega who came with his favorite brother Gabriel, and the new pup he was to take into his life. However, the events of the town have kept them apart, his duties to the town came before his new mate, and their relationship suffers. Can they recover, and be what they were always meant to be, or will they continue to dance around each other until they wither?

Wicked Game by expectingtofly [Explcit, 104k words]

The year is 1889 and for the past year and a half, Dean has traveled alone from town to town, drinking to ignore his guilt and gambling to make a living. Today, he’s especially down on his luck. He’s broke, was just thrown out of a saloon for cheating at poker, and has now been woken by a blue-eyed man trying to rob him. When he learns that the thief, Castiel, is just as broke as he is, they strike a tenuous deal to help each other rob a stagecoach, share the spoils, and split up. Turns out splitting up is the most difficult task. While Castiel is cold and cruel, Dean refuses to back down from a fight. The two are at odds more often than not, but their relationship only grows more complicated the longer they travel together. They may have more in common than they thought.

There's also this fic we've reviewed a while ago with cowboy!Dean, though he lives on a farm and it's set in the 90s instead of the old wild west:

spirit of the west by teendean [Mature, 141k words]

Dean grew up on a horse farm and can’t imagine any other life. There are drawbacks to working for his father, but they’re worth it if it means remaining with his beloved horses. Besides, between his broken arm and his lack of prospects, he hasn’t got much else. Something of an outsider, Dean always feels like there’s something he’s missing. But this tense summer brings back a figure from his past: years ago, a teenaged Cas worked for a season at the Winchester ranch. His return could change everything. If you ever wanted a 90s horse girl book, but starring a young Dean Winchester, this is your fic.

“Crusher here–”

“Doctor, I have completed my analysis of the Federation Teen Beat ‘Sexiest CMO in Starfleet Poll’–”

“Come to Sick Bay now.”

–

Beverly sits at her office in Sick Bay staring at a PADD. Data stands quietly–Beverly’s brow is furrowed and her silence after reviewing his findings has exceeded the expected duration for ordinary conversation. She has not touched her coffee at all.

Finally, she sets the PADD down. “Julian Bashir?!”

“Yes, Doctor, though as the analysis shows, a significant portion of the vote originated from a single location on Deep Space Nine.”

“Garak’s Clothiers. I don’t understand that either.”

Data considers his response. “The findings were inconclusive.”

“I didn’t realize non-Federation citizens could vote in the poll.”

“They are not permitted,” Data responds. There is a subtle difference between “cannot” and “should not be able to” that Data chooses not to mention. Across from him, Beverly deflates.

She takes a sip of coffee. The lettering on the outside reads “DOCTOR MILF.”

“But even without the anomalous votes from the clothiers shop, Julian won by several percentage points.” She sighs, long and deep. “There was a time, Data…I suppose this was inevitable. ‘Can’t keep up with all the young up-and-comers nipping at your toes. Don’t get me wrong, Julian is very cute. That smile, those dimples–”

“Are you referring to the dimples on this cheeks, Doctor?”

“Yes,” Beverly laughs. She’s relaxes now, her anxiety has dissipated. “Where else?”

Data doesn’t answer.

A sudden note of realization comes over Beverly’s face.

“Data, did you vote in the poll?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Beverly gazes at Data, her eyes widening with sudden realization. “I see. Excuse me, Data. Thank you for all your help. I just remembered I have a call to make very soon.”

Tech that can regenerate my old meat legs.

Robot legs that work just like meat legs and are functionally just meat legs but robot

Literally anything that would mean I don't have to use a wheelchair.

If I do need to use a wheelchair, make it fly or able to "walk me" upstairs

What I actually want:

Prosthetic covers that can change colour because I'm too indecisive to pick one colour/pattern for the next 5+ years.

A leg that I can turn off (seriously, my above knee prosthetic has no off switch... just... why?)

A leg that won't have to get refitted every time I gain or loose weight.

A wheelchair that I can teleport to me and legs I can teleport away when I'm too tierd to keep walking. And vice versa.

In that same vein, legs I can teleport on instead of having to fiddle around with the sockets for half an hour.

Prosthetic feet that don't require me to wear shoes. F*ck shoes.

Actually accessible architecture, which means when I do want to use my wheelchair, it's not an issue.

Prosthetic legs with dragon-claw feet instead of boring human feet or just digigrade prosthetics that are just as functional as normal human-shaped ones.

A manual wheelchair with the option to lift my seat up like those scissor-lift things so I'm not eye-level with everyone's butt on public transport/so I can reach the top shelf by myself.

Before fic tagging was common, fics weren’t tagged. You had a pairing, if applicable, an author’s note about genre or general content, and if they were feeling charitable, a vague content warning. There are even a few genres of fic where even vaguely tagging literally spoils the plot and impact (such as horror, psyche thriller, in which the likely content is implicit to the genre). As a result, there is a basic category tag that permits this, as a courtesy to “old-fashioned” writers.

“No Archive Warnings Apply” means the fic is PG13 at worst, probably fluff, totally safe.

“Choose Not to Use Archive Warnings” is the polar opposite. It’s a glaring Enter at Your Own Risk billboard. It means: a shitload of warnings apply but I ain’t telling because this story requires shock value. It’s very important to read the author’s notes for those fics because they might be using that older format from above.

graphic depictions of violence

major character death

underage

rape/non-con

I’ve been dumpster diving in the Garak/Bashir tag on AO3 for nearly a month now, so I’m here to share the spoils of my conquest!

Letters from the Northern Continent by thehoyden

It just figured that the first time Julian Bashir set foot on Cardassia after the war, it would be halfway around the world from Elim Garak.

I’ve encountered this writer in other fandoms before and their prose is beautiful, so I wasn’t surprised that I loved this.  There are approximately a zillion “Julian finds his way to Cardassia post-canon” fics, but I can’t get enough of them.  This is definitely one of my favorites.  The pace and mood are just lovely, and I was very fond of the one major OC.

Opacity of Paradise by thehoyden

"'True enough', my dear doctor, is my favorite kind of lie."

Really you should just check out everything by this author, but this was the other standout for me.  It deals with the whole “Bashir replaced by a shifter” arc, and it addresses the reveal of his genetic engineering in a very different – but satisfying – way.

Altering Course by @aurora-nova-fic

When Julian volunteered to spend six months on Cardassia he set in motion a chain of events which forever changed his life - and Garak's.

Listen, I wasn’t kidding about the post-canon Cardassia fics.  This one is particularly satisfying because it’s long, it does a deep, fascinating dive into Cardassian culture (we all know I love me some world-building), and Julian and Garak’s relationship is very much presented as a meeting of the minds, which I love.  I’ve barely dented the surface of this author’s extensive work, and so far this is my favorite, though I also love the Private Universe series.

Strange and Distant Shores by @gryvon

In 2398, reporter Felix Marian interviews Chairman Garak and Ambassador Bashir about the formation of the Cardassian Democratic Union and ends up learning more about Cardassia than he intended.

Yep, more post-canon Cardassia!  This one with a lovely outsider POV component and far jump into the future.  

A Friend in Need by prairiecrow

Julian seeks to alleviate one aspect of the torment of Garak's exile.

This is some seriously excellent p0rn, folks.  Not only is it hot like burning, but it also manages to explore Cardassian cultural/social expectations around sexual relationships in a really fascinating way.  The author keeps both Julian and Garak spectacularly in character with some wonderfully snappy dialogue.  Unf.

Cardassian Soil by @johannestevans

Look, technically this isn’t just “another post-canon on Cardassia” fic – it’s also a “Julian is exiled due to his genetic engineering” fic!  I really love the glimpses of darkness in Julian in this one, and the dialogue is fantastic.  

Failure of Discipline by @ernmark

Sharing close quarters with Julian aboard the Defiant leaves Garak struggling with the nuances of Cardassian biology.

Even worse, there's a war on.

Listen.  There was zero chance I was going to fall for a pairing between a human and an alien and not go rooting around for some delicious, tropey id!fic.  This is pretty much what it says on the tin, but also features a Garak who is both secretive and incredibly protective of Julian, which we love to see.

I Could Be Your Own Avenging Angel by @ernmark

Hoping to salvage medical supplies on the mission to Empok Nor, Julian becomes the focus of a drugged Garak's obsession.

See above re: alien trope id!fic.  This one features Garak getting drugged and violently protective of Julian.  Be still, my heart.  I love it when writers really lean into Garak’s past as a Very Dangerous Person.