Many Parts (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Julian, Jadzia, PG)
Written for yuletide 2012.
It is three-thirty in the morning, not that morning means much on a space station unless you want it to, when there’s a chime.
“Come in,” Julian calls out, sleepily.
It goes again, and he pushes himself out of bed, wondering who it is that feels the need to interrupt him when he’s sleeping but won’t just come inside. Captain Sisko would reach him over the comm system, surely, unless -
And then suddenly his brain switches into action, thinking about the likelihood of something going wrong on a transport ship back to Earth. Calculating the possibilities of attacks on someone known to be guilty of genetic tampering. His parents won’t have reached Earth yet; his father won’t have reported to Starfleet headquarters. Anything - not quite anything, he knows, that too-smart too-fast brain of his knows, but enough - might have happened to them.
Or his father, for all his promises, might have tried to escape. There is a sinking feeling somewhere in Julian’s chest; this feels like a truer possibility than the others.
All of this takes only a split second; when he reaches the door he is prepared for the worst, which in a way he has been prepared for since he was fifteen years old. He can imagine it: I’m going to have to ask you to resign your Starfleet commission, Doctor.
So it is a relief, of a kind, to see Jadzia Dax there, out of uniform, looking as though she’s just come from the holodeck. “Benjamin told me.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been punching things for the past hour.”
He doesn’t know what to say. “Has it helped?”
She shoots him a withering look, the kind that reminds him that she really is three hundred years older than he is. “Not really.”
And once again he’s reminded of his inadequacies, the only thing that define him more than his manipulated, created strengths. He hadn’t predicted this, at all. “Jadzia.” But that’s where he finds himself stuck - what can he say to excuse this? “Would you like to come in?”
“Not really,” she says, heavily, but she does, and the door slides behind her as she stalks towards his standard-issue grey couch. She nudges aside the stack of PADDs - he’s been reviewing his medical records, his official ones, the ones that lie - and sits. “Benjamin says you’re staying in Starfleet?”
“My father turned himself in.” The words sound alien in his mouth. He’s not used to speaking of his father at all, not on this station.
Jadzia opens her mouth and then closes it again and then finally says, “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Yes,” he says, because he can answer this, at least. “I thought it could wait ‘til tomorrow -”
“No, Julian. I mean if you hadn’t been found out. Would you have told me?” She’s looking at him with that piercing gaze that he knows can cut through all kinds of deflecting, and there is a part of him that is angry, all of a sudden.
“No. No, Jadzia, secrets that could get me kicked out of Starfleet aren’t the sort of thing you share with a dear friend.” He can’t look at her; instead he leans against the window, staring out into the blackness of space. This little frontier space station suddenly seems far too close to his past for his taste. It’s as though he’s a teenager again, ready to explode at anything, anyone.
Jadzia leaps up. He can imagine her trajectory, without needing to turn around. “Don’t you dare throw that back in my face.”
Part of him wishes he hadn’t. There’s another part that is glad it’s finally out in the open. “You wanted the truth, didn’t you?”
She moves towards him, and he knows even before he turns that her hand is reaching out to touch his shoulder. “I thought I was going to be the angriest one in the room tonight,” she says, offering him a tentative smile.
The part of him that is not genetically enhanced - the part that is all neuroses and worries and crushes and daydreams - can’t help but let some of his frustration dissipate when she’s looking at him like that. “You’ve every right to be angry.”
She stares at him for a moment, as though she’s seeing him for the first time. He watches her watching him, and then without him even having to really think about it, calculates the precise distance between their noses. Freak, he thinks.
After a while - two point seven eight minutes, to be precise - she speaks again. “How much of it was an act?”
What a question to ask someone who’s been performing his whole life. “What part, exactly?” There is something strangled about his voice, he notes.
“That overexcited young lieutenant I met on my way here five years ago, who…” She shrugs a little here. “Who pursued me so ardently and so… clumsily. Was that to throw me off the scent?” There is the tiniest quiver in her voice, something most people wouldn’t notice. The smallest of flickering of her eyes, as though she’s terrified of the answer.
That part of Julian that will always be half-in-love with his friend, Worf or no Worf, allows itself to feel moderately smug. It is also the part of him that hastens to reassure her. “No. Not in the slightest. The first time I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen and I wished desperately for…” He winces, thinking of his younger self. “Well, any kind of social skills, really.”
She laughs, and her face lights up. “You weren’t so bad.”
“I must have done something right.” At her expression, he hastens to explain. “To still be your friend, despite all that silliness.”
“We are still friends, aren’t we?” She is solemn, as though there might be some chance he’d say no.
“Yes, of course. Aren’t we?” Now he’s alarmed. He can feel his pulse racing, and orders it to calm down.
“I suppose,” she says slowly. “If I’m not too… backward for you.” She tries to look serious, but there’s a giveaway twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“I’ll do my best to cope,” he says earnestly, and smiles.
“I wouldn’t want to hold you back.” She smirks.
“Goodnight, Jadzia,” he says.
She pauses for another moment - shorter this time, thirty-seven seconds - at the door, like she’s memorising his face. “It’s still you,” she says, finally.
Relief floods through him as he returns to bed, though he knows there is a part of him that is nothing like the man she knows. The part that can keep secrets for decades, the part that calculates everything, absolutely everything. Of course he gets things wrong sometimes; he miscalculated his pursuit of her entirely. He is not infallible.
And he is not entirely sure he deserves her forgiveness, just yet, but as he pulls the covers over his head he realises that she hasn’t granted it yet.
The part of him that is most raw, the part that values his friendship with her so very much, hopes desperately he is not in error when he assesses their conversation and hopes, so very much, that the forgiveness is implied.
It is three-thirty in the morning, not that morning means much on a space station unless you want it to, when there’s a chime.
“Come in,” Julian calls out, sleepily.
It goes again, and he pushes himself out of bed, wondering who it is that feels the need to interrupt him when he’s sleeping but won’t just come inside. Captain Sisko would reach him over the comm system, surely, unless -
And then suddenly his brain switches into action, thinking about the likelihood of something going wrong on a transport ship back to Earth. Calculating the possibilities of attacks on someone known to be guilty of genetic tampering. His parents won’t have reached Earth yet; his father won’t have reported to Starfleet headquarters. Anything - not quite anything, he knows, that too-smart too-fast brain of his knows, but enough - might have happened to them.
Or his father, for all his promises, might have tried to escape. There is a sinking feeling somewhere in Julian’s chest; this feels like a truer possibility than the others.
All of this takes only a split second; when he reaches the door he is prepared for the worst, which in a way he has been prepared for since he was fifteen years old. He can imagine it: I’m going to have to ask you to resign your Starfleet commission, Doctor.
So it is a relief, of a kind, to see Jadzia Dax there, out of uniform, looking as though she’s just come from the holodeck. “Benjamin told me.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been punching things for the past hour.”
He doesn’t know what to say. “Has it helped?”
She shoots him a withering look, the kind that reminds him that she really is three hundred years older than he is. “Not really.”
And once again he’s reminded of his inadequacies, the only thing that define him more than his manipulated, created strengths. He hadn’t predicted this, at all. “Jadzia.” But that’s where he finds himself stuck - what can he say to excuse this? “Would you like to come in?”
“Not really,” she says, heavily, but she does, and the door slides behind her as she stalks towards his standard-issue grey couch. She nudges aside the stack of PADDs - he’s been reviewing his medical records, his official ones, the ones that lie - and sits. “Benjamin says you’re staying in Starfleet?”
“My father turned himself in.” The words sound alien in his mouth. He’s not used to speaking of his father at all, not on this station.
Jadzia opens her mouth and then closes it again and then finally says, “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Yes,” he says, because he can answer this, at least. “I thought it could wait ‘til tomorrow -”
“No, Julian. I mean if you hadn’t been found out. Would you have told me?” She’s looking at him with that piercing gaze that he knows can cut through all kinds of deflecting, and there is a part of him that is angry, all of a sudden.
“No. No, Jadzia, secrets that could get me kicked out of Starfleet aren’t the sort of thing you share with a dear friend.” He can’t look at her; instead he leans against the window, staring out into the blackness of space. This little frontier space station suddenly seems far too close to his past for his taste. It’s as though he’s a teenager again, ready to explode at anything, anyone.
Jadzia leaps up. He can imagine her trajectory, without needing to turn around. “Don’t you dare throw that back in my face.”
Part of him wishes he hadn’t. There’s another part that is glad it’s finally out in the open. “You wanted the truth, didn’t you?”
She moves towards him, and he knows even before he turns that her hand is reaching out to touch his shoulder. “I thought I was going to be the angriest one in the room tonight,” she says, offering him a tentative smile.
The part of him that is not genetically enhanced - the part that is all neuroses and worries and crushes and daydreams - can’t help but let some of his frustration dissipate when she’s looking at him like that. “You’ve every right to be angry.”
She stares at him for a moment, as though she’s seeing him for the first time. He watches her watching him, and then without him even having to really think about it, calculates the precise distance between their noses. Freak, he thinks.
After a while - two point seven eight minutes, to be precise - she speaks again. “How much of it was an act?”
What a question to ask someone who’s been performing his whole life. “What part, exactly?” There is something strangled about his voice, he notes.
“That overexcited young lieutenant I met on my way here five years ago, who…” She shrugs a little here. “Who pursued me so ardently and so… clumsily. Was that to throw me off the scent?” There is the tiniest quiver in her voice, something most people wouldn’t notice. The smallest of flickering of her eyes, as though she’s terrified of the answer.
That part of Julian that will always be half-in-love with his friend, Worf or no Worf, allows itself to feel moderately smug. It is also the part of him that hastens to reassure her. “No. Not in the slightest. The first time I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen and I wished desperately for…” He winces, thinking of his younger self. “Well, any kind of social skills, really.”
She laughs, and her face lights up. “You weren’t so bad.”
“I must have done something right.” At her expression, he hastens to explain. “To still be your friend, despite all that silliness.”
“We are still friends, aren’t we?” She is solemn, as though there might be some chance he’d say no.
“Yes, of course. Aren’t we?” Now he’s alarmed. He can feel his pulse racing, and orders it to calm down.
“I suppose,” she says slowly. “If I’m not too… backward for you.” She tries to look serious, but there’s a giveaway twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“I’ll do my best to cope,” he says earnestly, and smiles.
“I wouldn’t want to hold you back.” She smirks.
“Goodnight, Jadzia,” he says.
She pauses for another moment - shorter this time, thirty-seven seconds - at the door, like she’s memorising his face. “It’s still you,” she says, finally.
Relief floods through him as he returns to bed, though he knows there is a part of him that is nothing like the man she knows. The part that can keep secrets for decades, the part that calculates everything, absolutely everything. Of course he gets things wrong sometimes; he miscalculated his pursuit of her entirely. He is not infallible.
And he is not entirely sure he deserves her forgiveness, just yet, but as he pulls the covers over his head he realises that she hasn’t granted it yet.
The part of him that is most raw, the part that values his friendship with her so very much, hopes desperately he is not in error when he assesses their conversation and hopes, so very much, that the forgiveness is implied.