Chapter Text
It’s a fluke when Julian walks past the tailor’s shop and the jacket in the window catches his eye. He’s on his way to the infirmary, ready to brief his fresh-faced staff and begin his shift as the station’s CMO. He doesn’t have time for shopping. But the jacket is a rich green and—oh, is that velvet? Just a peek can’t hurt. Slipping inside the shop, Julian caresses the fabric between his fingers and hums in appreciation. Not velvet, but something equally soft.
“It should bring out your eyes nicely,” a mellifluous voice says.
Julian turns to find an older Bajoran man smiling at him. The proprietor, he assumes. “Oh, hello!” Julian says, his fingers still running up and down the delightful fabric. He’s always been the tactile sort. “Do you really think so?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Would you care to try it on?”
“I don’t know—” Julian stammers. He frowns at the jacket that has charmed him. “It’s a bit big, isn’t it?”
“You’re in luck, then,” the man says, “as I happen to be a tailor.”
“I—well. Right, of course. Sorry.”
He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but the man handles Julian’s sudden onset incoherence with breezy professionalism, whisking the jacket off the mannequin and holding it out. “If you’d allow me.”
Julian slips an arm through the offered sleeve and turns as the man pulls the jacket over his shoulders. There’s a full-length mirror beside the rack of blouses, and Julian preens in front of it, twirling about and petting the fabric covering his stomach. “Brilliant,” he whispers.
The man circles around, inspecting the fit with experimental tugs here and there. “I quite agree.”
“Is it a type of velvet?”
“Nausicaan suede, actually. Yes, yes, I like this on you.” The man brushes a hand against the waist and Julian jumps as a spark of electricity jolts him. The man laughs, giving the carpet a rueful glance. “I apologize. I must be shuffling.”
“It’s all right.” Julian grins and appraises his backside in the mirror. Bloody brilliant. After a moment of hesitation, he blurts, “I’ll take it.”
A look of disappointment passes over the man’s face. “Don’t you want to haggle?”
Julian isn’t used to paying for items, much less bargaining over them. It seems dreadfully Ferenginesque. But the man seems dead set on this ritual, so he looks down at the tag on the jacket’s sleeve. A bit low, he thinks, considering the quality of the workmanship. With a pointed smile, he names a higher price.
The man raises a brow, but catches on to the game at once. His rebuttal is lower than Julian’s offer. Back and forth they go until Julian relents on a price that’s higher than originally requested, but still low enough that the man doesn’t seem to feel he’s ripped Julian off.
“I can have it ready for you in two days,” the man says as he helps Julian out of the jacket and hurries behind a counter.
“Don’t you need to take my measurements?”
The man waves a hand. “Already done.”
Julian laughs. “You’re that good?”
“I’m that good.”
“Well, if you need to reach me, my name is—”
“Julian Bashir,” the man says. “You’re the station’s Chief Medical Officer.” Julian must look surprised, because he adds, “it’s a good practice for every merchant to know his potential customer base.”
Of course. “And your name?”
The man’s smile is wide and disarming. “It’s on the shingle.”
As Julian leaves, he tilts his head to read the colorful tile hanging above the door, written in Kardasi, Bajoran, and Federation Standard: Pela’s Clothiers.
It’s later in the day, when Julian is in Ops conferring with Jadzia over a malfunction in the medical database, that he thinks to mention his encounter to Major Kira.
She leans over her station to scowl down at him. “Pela Serot? You mean the collaborator?” She spits out the word with the same venom she reserves for Cardassian.
He winces at the accusation as if it were leveled at him personally. “He seemed rather nice to me.”
“Of course he’s nice,” Kira says. “He was nice to everyone, including the Cardassians. He mended their damned uniforms. He took their money.”
“Surely you can’t label a man a traitor simply for doing his job.”
“Watch me. As far as I’m concerned, any Bajoran who profited from the occupation is the worst kind of traitor.”
Jadzia turns around. “That seems a little harsh.”
Kira’s eyes flick between the two of them. She sighs and mutters, “I don’t expect either of you to understand.”
Julian shrugs it off; he hasn’t been aboard Deep Space Nine long enough to be familiar with the finer points of Bajoran-Cardassian relations. But it piques his curiosity. A possible traitor aboard! Is this Mister Pela hiding in plain sight from the Bajoran authorities? Does Commander Sisko know? Should Julian do something to stop him?
As promised, the tailor/collaborator contacts him two days later to cheerfully announce that his jacket is ready. When Julian arrives, the tailor wastes no time steering him to a line of shirts and sweaters he claims will complement the jacket nicely. It’s excellent salesmanship, made more effective by Pela’s hand on the small of Julian’s back, guiding him into a dressing room. He’s aware that the man is flirting with him. Shamelessly. Even if it’s only to ensure a sale, Julian basks in it, his ulterior motive to spy on the man long forgotten.
And the clothes are stylish, and the blue one fits snugly around his chest, making his pectorals seem larger than they are. Julian rubs each soft and silken sleeve against his cheek and sighs in delight.
He can’t settle on any one item, so he buys them all.
This begins another round of bartering, more intricate than the last. Pela wants to give him a discount due to the sheer quantity. Julian argues that each shirt is so different that the “buy two, get one half off” model isn’t fair, but might become amenable if Pela throws that paisley scarf in for free. Pela insists that the green and orange wrap to the left would be better.
Julian has no choice but to give in.
“I’m trying to become your favorite customer,” Julian says, propping his chin in a fist as he watches the tailor neatly fold each garment.
“Oh, you’re well on your way, dear doctor.” Pela winks. “You have excellent fashion sense.”
Julian bows. “Why, thank you, Mister Pela.”
“Please, doctor, it’s Pela. Plain, simple Pela.” He pauses for what can only be effect. “But you can call me Serot.”
It takes enough staggering and puffing to carry his many bags to his quarters that Julian considers asking the chief to beam them over. When he finally arrives and dumps the contents onto the bed and surveys the impressive pile, he wonders how long he should wait before going back for trousers. Two days should be about right.
“I think you have a shopping addiction,” Jadzia says one night at Quark’s bar. He’s arrived at their table in another new ensemble, which she appraises with quirked lips. “Either that, or a major crush.”
“Is that jealousy I hear?” Julian teases. When she makes a show of rolling her eyes, he leans forward. “I can’t explain it, but I find him utterly fascinating.”
Jadzia shrugs and sips her drink. “He seems like any other Bajoran shopkeeper to me.”
“Ah, but Jadzia!” Julian wags a finger at her. “You should know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving. Just yesterday, I saw him in the Replimat, reading. I almost never see anyone sit still and simply read for pleasure. As it turns out, he was reading an Andorian treatise by an author I’d studied for a paper at the Academy. He’d come away with a wildly different impression about the role of community in local politics, one I hadn’t even considered. Before I knew it, I was twenty minutes late to my shift. Nurse Jabara was very cross with me.”
Jadzia’s eyes have already glossed over. “Political theory was never a strong suit of mine. Curzon, though—”
Julian doesn’t mention that Serot has invited him to lunch tomorrow.
When he arrives, the tailor is already sitting at the same table as before. Upon spotting Julian, his face lights up in a way that’s so genuine, so open and honest. It’s a refreshing change from the grudging tolerance Sisko, O’Brien, and the rest of the command crew give him.
Serot has hasperat, Julian a platter of kebabs. They discuss their meals, the ethics of vegetarianism (Serot is trying to take it up, and, with one hand over his mouth conspiratorially, admits to cheating), and from there find themselves debating Leviathan. Julian is surprised that Serot has read Hobbs, and is even more surprised that he isn’t entirely convinced of the merits of representative government.
“I agree with the absolute sovereignty of the state,” Serot says, “but how can that be maintained when everyone is treated equally and has an equal say in state function?”
For a moment, Julian is stymied. “A little chaos is a small price to pay for democracy.”
“Chaos for whom?” Before Julian can reply, Serot continues. “Despite being the paragon of democracy, it seems the Federation never did ask me how I feel about its presence on my home.”
This is a common refrain among the Bajorans, one Julian has overheard in the mutterings of his nurses. Mutterings his enhanced senses can’t help but pick up. He nods, pushes his empty plate away, and raises his eyes. “Do you not want us here?”
Serot smiles sadly. “Doctor, it’s much too late to ask for my opinion. It won’t change anything.”
“I know that. But it still matters.”
“Do you really—”
Julian laughs at the sudden hesitation. “Yes! Come on, Serot. You don’t seem like the type to withhold an opinion. Tell me.”
Serot looks over his shoulder and, laying his palms flat on the table, lowers his voice. “Keep in mind, my dear, that I’m very glad you’re here. Your presence brightens this dreary station considerably.”
Julian feels his face flush, covers it up with humor. “You don’t need to flatter me to get my continued business, you know.”
“I’m merely speaking the truth. I’ve been enjoying your company. But we don’t need Starfleet. The resistance drove out the Cardassians, all without Federation intervention.”
At high cost to Bajor. “We’re not here to intervene. We’re offering aid and acting as a deterrent should Cardassia regroup and seek reprisals. Or worse, try to retake Bajor.”
“At the cost of becoming your protectorate.”
“Major Kira would agree with you there.”
Serot’s nose wrinkles further at the mention of her name. “Major Kira.”
“She says you were a collaborator.” Julian isn’t sure why he says it. Perhaps he doesn’t like the accusation himself and hopes that Serot will refute it. Put his mind at ease. It isn’t fair, he thinks, with the occupation so fresh in everyone’s minds, but it’s too late. “I’m sorry, I just stuck my foot in it, didn’t I?”
“I suppose she would think so, and she isn’t the only one here who feels that way.” Serot slides his hands away to fold them in his lap. “She’s under the impression that any Bajoran who didn’t actively fight in the resistance was a collaborator.”
“So you weren’t—”
“That’s all in the eye of the beholder. I may not have been in the active cadre of the resistance, but I was a passive supporter. At the risk of sounding defensive, I did my best. Yes, doctor, it’s true that I worked for the Cardassians. I mended the uniforms they wore while torturing and oppressing my people. But I also charged them for it. And what I didn’t need to live on, I funneled back to the resistance.”
“Then why not tell her that?”
“Major Kira is already well-aware. Let’s just say that her opinion of me is rather complicated. In fact, you’d be well-advised to keep your distance from me, lest your reputation be sullied.”
“Oh, because I’m making so many friends now? If you haven’t noticed, I’m sort of the station pariah.” Standing, Julian grabs their trays and tosses them into the reclamation port. He follows Serot across the Promenade. “Nobody wants to talk to me.”
“Certainly that’s only because they haven’t gotten to know you.” Serot glances over at him, toward Julian’s chest, then away, then back again, as if worried. “My dear, I didn’t want to say anything at the Replimat, but are you aware you’re wearing that shirt backward?”
“Am I?” Mortified, the shirt is instantly over Julian’s head, exposing his torso to the Promenade.
He’s sure he just heard Security Chief Odo mutter, “Put that back on, Doctor Bashir,” but Julian’s attention is on how Serot has stopped in his tracks to stare.
Julian wrestles with the shirt longer than necessary before tugging it back in place. He smoothes his hair and is pleased to find Serot watching him with a quirked head.
“Better?” Julian asks, grinning.
A smile spreads across Serot’s face. He nods once.