amango-tea asked:

This is practically your own prompt back at you, but: Julian and contact-starved Garak. DS9 or DD9--your choice.

I think this is DS9; really, though, it could almost be either.

It’s funny, in a way that really isn’t very funny at all.

Garak looks at him, at how he moves, how he laughs, and aches to touch him.

Instead, his fingers curl into his palms, his fingernails bite into his own flesh. He keeps his arms steady at his sides. He permits himself only pleasant smiles, nodding laughter. He never reaches out.

It simply isn’t safe.

Sometimes he is touched, gently, lightly. Sometimes a warm hand finds the small of his back, or rests for a moment on the angle between shoulder and arm. It’s not often. It’s too often. It’s dangerous.

The first time they’d met, he’d touched him, not having any idea what he was doing. He’d rested his hands on his shoulders, savoured the way that tension roiled there. He’d been delighted with how easily manipulated he was.

Too easily. He’s starting to realize, now.

The man is malleable beyond belief. He smiles, he tilts his head, he aches to please, and what will he become if he shapes himself to please Garak?

It’s unthinkable.

Garak remembers a bright room where, once, with gentle hands, he’d unmade a man. With slow, measured movements, unassisted by any tool or toy, he’d stripped away everything that had made that man a person. He’d torn away his dignity. He’d taken his pride. He’d destroyed his ability to think. He’d left him quivering and fearful, flinching at the sight of his soft, uncalloused hands.

At the start, there had been two people in that bright little room. At the end, there had been only one.

It’s ridiculous, really, to think that the taint of his past could somehow sully the lovely man who lights his present. There is no blood on his hands. They carry no mark of how they have been used.

But he will not touch him with hands that have done that. Not again. Not now that he knows just how much damage he could do.

It’s such a silly fancy. There’s a banquet in plain sight and he’s starving to death, and for what? Penance? The need to make it right?

Bashir laughs, smiles, flashes bright eyes at him, and oh, he aches, and his hands are still, still, still.

I can never do penance enough.

But this is a place to start.