Chapter Text
…
Possibly Deep Space 9 could use some sort of dedicated courier service, Julian muses. It would make the situation so much less fraught if Security weren’t the ones handing out deliveries.
“Thank you, Odo,” he says, nevertheless, reaching to take the small parcel. He even manages a smile.
Odo, of course, doesn’t bother with such things. And he doesn’t let go of the parcel. “Preliminary testing shows traces of a possible harmful biological agent.”
Julian blinks, and then looks down at the box. “Odo, it’s from my parents.”
“Does that make it automatically free from suspicion?” Odo asks, almost pleasantly. The nurses are all agog.
There are a lot of arguments to be made — the parcel has its contents listed in a shipping manifest attached to its side, the parcel has all appropriate stamps from Federation-regulated checkpoints, if Odo really thought it suspicious then why bring it to the Infirmary in the first place — but, the truth is, Julian doesn’t really care.
It’s a Christmas box. It’s covered in silver foil, decorated with a sprig of holly, and the label addressing it to “Jules” is done in his mother’s fine calligraphy. Julian hasn’t celebrated Christmas since breaking things off with Palis and running off to Deep Space 9. And his parents hadn’t bothered to send a Christmas box for three years running; what’s the difference now?
“Is it the holly that’s triggering your scans, I wonder?” Julian says, and flicks at the small berries. “It’s considered poisonous to Humans, but I know quite well not to eat them.”
“Poisonous how?” Odo demands. His hands tighten around the box, scrunching the wrapping.
“If eaten, the berries can cause digestive distress. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea,” Julian lists, watching Odo’s hands tighten further. “But they’re frequently used in seasonal decoration and, as I said, I won’t eat them, or let anyone else do so.”
“I think we ought to check with Captain Sisko,” Odo says, and Julian sighs. “Come along, and we can spare the shackles.”
…
Captain Sisko is, rather fortunately, in a good mood and thus entertained by Odo’s concern. “I think we can trust that Doctor Bashir wouldn’t allow anyone to ingest the berries, considering he’d be the one treating them if they did.”
“If it would alleviate concern, I’m happy to reclimate it right here and now, with both of you as witnesses,” Julian offers, gesturing to the replicator.
“You don’t want to keep it?” Sisko plucks the sprig up and twirls it in his fingers. Odo stares suspiciously. “It’s a pretty little plant. Festive.”
“You can keep it,” Julian says decisively. “I’m not big on Christmas decoration, sir. I’ll be fine with the parcel alone.”
He could leave the parcel, too, honestly. It’s unlikely his parents have thought to send anything Julian would like, and he doesn’t know where to forward gifts for their imaginary, perfect son “Jules.”
“If the Constable is fine with that,” Sisko says, turning to Odo with a serious expression but bright, laughing eyes.
Odo hands Julian the parcel with bad grace, harrumphing and glaring around. “I apologize, Captain, for taking station security seriously, even in the face of parcels from parents.”
“Constable, you know how much I appreciate your dedication —“
“I expect to find adverse biological agents in Quark’s shipments, not the Doctor’s. Forgive me for daring to investigate!”
“Odo, with all due respect for your fine work —“
Julian shuffles backwards, and when no one seems to notice, makes a break for it.
…
Back in his quarters, Julian opens the parcel to find the ACTUAL harmful biological agent nestled inside with a card and some glitzy gold tissue.
“Peppermint bark!” he yelps, aghast. How in the hell had they gotten this through customs and trade regulations? The sheer amount of menthol, menthone, and pulegone should have been enough to get the damn box seized! There’s nearly a pound of the stuff!
While not particularly toxic — if not always pleasant — to most Terran species, peppermint can be very uncomfortable to downright harmful to non-Terrans with stronger olfactory systems, including Bajorans. Julian flings the card aside and makes to reclimate the box, already composing an angry note to his parents in his head, when someone knocks sharply on the door. And if it’s Odo —
Julian chucks the box at his bedroom and goes to answer.
“Garak,” he says blankly, staring at the man in honest surprise. Garak doesn’t just come to his quarters. “What — what can I do for you?”
Garak, eyes wide and ridges raised, looks Julian up and down. “You look nervous, Doctor. Are the rumors true?”
“Rumors?”
“That Constable Odo is recommending arrest after you smuggled some sort of biological weapon on board.” Garak politely hides his laughter while Julian sputters, but he’s not trying particularly hard. It’s showing around the edges. “It doesn’t seem quite your style, though, so I thought I’d ask.”
“It’s not — I received some Christmas snacks from my parents, that’s all,” Julian tells him, huffing and running a hand through his hair.
Garak nods solemnly. “They’re terrible cooks, then, I take it?”
“You’re not funny,” Julian grouses, but he finds himself beginning to smile. “I’ll explain over dinner, if you like.”
“A fair offer.”
With the door shut securely behind them, peppermint cordoned off for the moment, they head to the Promenade together, Julian explaining:
“It’s a very popular holiday on Earth. Too popular, really. There was a big push to make it accessible to everyone, which kind of — “ Julian pauses, choosing his words carefully — “it makes it less special, I guess. You take away the elements that make it unique to make it a fit for everyone.”
“From my understanding, it’s a basic winter solstice festival with feasting, gifting, and family gathering,” Garak points out. “Hardly unique anyway.”
“But it wasn’t always that, that’s what it is now, but it was something a little more special than that, it’s just now it’s, well, what you said.” Julian waves his hand weakly. “I had no religious upbringing, but I know all the Christmas songs and stories. Part of growing up in Charles Dickens’s London.”
“Do any of the stories explain the peculiar hats?” Garak points towards Quark’s bar as they approach and Julian stumbles, because the Ferengi and a few of the Dabo girls are wearing red Santa hats.
“What in the stars…?” It’s not just Santa hats. A few of them are decked out fully in jolly little Santa or Elf outfits. The Dabo girls are wearing skirts just long enough to qualify.
“They’re selling something called Egg Nog,” Garak sniffs. “Apparently it is not named for the Little Ferengi That Could.”
“Oh, tell me how that’s a Cardassian reference and not an allusion to The Little Engine That Could!” Julian instantly rounds on Garak, fired up and ready.
“An allusion, my dear?” Garak is smirking. “More outright parody, don’t you think?”
“So you’re researching Terran children’s literature all on your own?”
“Was that for children? It seemed as literary as any other Terran work you’ve recommended me.” By unspoken agreement, they’re heading to the Replimat, rather than Quark’s Bar and Santa Clause House.
“I suppose Cardassian translation does omit anything not directly promoting the State,” Julian sighs, patting Garak’s shoulder with faux sympathy. “I’m not surprised you end up with a book redacted to a few words.”
Garak’s smile is a lovely prize. “You are in rare form today, my dear Doctor. Must be that Christmas spirit.”
“It’s the opposite, I assure you!” Julian laughs, and then briskly puts his order in at the replicator. “I don’t celebrate Christmas, and I don’t intend to start.”
“Even though your parents do?”
They sit at their usual table, Julian taking the time to think through his answer as they make their way over. “They can celebrate what they like. It’s all aesthetics for them, anyway. They live in London. London does Christmas. Hence, my parents do Christmas.”
“And you live in Deep Space 9, which does the Gratitude Festival,” Garak says, tucking his napkin into his collar. “Hence, you do the Gratitude Festival.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“Ex- excuse me, Mister Garak, sir,” comes a voice, and it’s Rom. Rom in a Santa hat, and an extraordinarily tacky Christmas sweater. Julian blinks at it several times. (There are jingle bells on it.) “Is, is the order ready?”
“The order your brother put in this afternoon?” Garak exchanges a similarly bemused look with Julian. “For twenty different outfits?”
Rom’s face is sweaty, and his eyes are very shiny. “Ye-yes, that’s the one.”
Garak’s expression becomes more fixed. “I don’t recall your brother paying for a rush order.”
Normally, Rom would be backing away — in fact, most people would be backing away from that expression on Garak’s face. But his face only gets sweatier, and his eyes shinier. “But it’s Christmas.”
There’s even something that, if this weren’t Rom, would read as belligerent in his tone. Garak looks at Julian again, and Julian mouths “I don’t know” and shrugs.
“If Quark needs his order done by a certain time, he can come and negotiate those terms with me,” Garak says, slow and sharp. His claws, buffed and filed to a mostly innocuous appearance, suddenly appear quite long as he delicately places his spoon in his bowl. “Tomorrow. At my shop. We open at oh nine hundred hours.”
Rom’s face is blank and cold, and he holds Garak’s gaze without flinching. “Understood, Mister Garak.”
He then whirls around and marches away, boots hitting the floor with force. Julian turns back to Garak, gaping. “What was that about?”
“I have no idea,” Garak says, and unlike most things Garak says, this one rings true.
…