On Garak sewing for Julian
From the perspective of someone who does sew things for people they love (my husband has so many ridiculous shirts), Garak doing the same for Julian is one of my absolute favourite things in fanfic. Before you make a garment for someone, you have to design it, and design it for them. You have to know the person, what style suits them, what colours suit them, plus what they like in the first place. It’s like a wearable portrait.
If I were a fic writer I’d write a whole piece from Garak’s perspective about designing a gift for Julian. I’d have him sneakily arrange some samples on the cutting table for him to fiddle with, surreptitiously gauging his reaction, figuring out which ones he reaches for, which ones he recoils from, which ones he unconsciously holds up to his cheek.
I’d write about the hours spent poring over the cut of the garment, how much of his Cardassian aesthetic he puts into it, how much of Earth, how much of everything else. Garak would do his research - he’d look into Earth symbolism, to try and tell a story in his embroidery. He’d laugh himself into a coughing fit when he figured out that Earth people had at some point chosen the wrong mythological staff to represent the medical profession, and then decided to just run with it. He’d sew in a branching, tree-like pattern that ascended up each sleeve, repeating seven times, and push down a flutter of nervousness about whether Julian would get the reference.
I’d write about reconciling the Julian he knew with the measurements he’d - not stolen, if such information was so easily found. Tailoring the fit of the garment to him would feel oddly daring, a feeling he’d never encountered when the numbers were just numbers, and the bodies were just bodies. His eyes would follow the tapered lines from the shoulders to the waist and find a strange kind of intimacy in those clean, pressed seams.
When it came time to give him the gift, he’d wait. He’d wait for an opportune moment, when Julian was out wearing some poorly-tailored asymmetrical monstrosity, something that didn’t lie flat along the shoulders, machine embroidered, with a neckline that sat far too high. He’d tell Julian about all of these shortcomings in detail, remarking widely on his awful taste in clothing and his clear inability to dress himself. Then, and only then, he’d tell him to come by the shop later. Don’t leave me waiting for you, Doctor.
