Chapter Text
Edinburgh
May, 1978
It all started with the suit.
When Mr. Smythe-Wickham finished excoriating him for letting his conditioning slip – which was fair, Julian supposed, he had, but exams were coming up – he’d said, on his way out of the rink, “And by the way, lad, when you’re a doctor you’ll need some decent suits. None of this fussy modern nonsense.”
“I suppose I shall,” Julian had murmured, head full of over-rotated axels and aching sartorius muscles. Knowing the anatomy actually made it hurt more.
“Very good. Now as it happens my nephew had a very good new suit made for his wedding. But you see, the wedding’s been called off.”
“Oh. Um. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Gads, I’m not. Dreadful girl! American, can you believe. Well shot of her if you ask me. But the upshot is, Bashir, he was about your size, and I thought I might make a present of it to you. It’s almost new, and when you’re a doctor you’ll need decent suits.”
The May sun was a welcome shock after the misty coolness of the ice rink. Mr. Smythe-Wickham pressed a card into his hand.
“The shop’s not far. I should go straightaway, if I were you.”
He should revise, actually – he didn’t feel at all ready for the neuroscience questions – but Mr. Smythe-Wickham had been his games master at Havergal before he was his skating coach, Julian wasn’t in the habit of contradicting him.
“Uh. Yes. Very good.”
“Capital.”
***
The shop was dark, and quiet. The tailor seemed to be expecting him, and measured him with cool efficiency. Julian wished he’d stopped to shower after his workout. He would have, if he’d known an unassuming man with pale blue eyes would have his hands all over his body.
The suit was dull. Julian had been eyeing Felix’s new green corduroy with the wide lapels, which looked so elegant with the pink paisley shirt. This was not that.
He also loved the detail in the James Bond books that Bond never wore black tuxedos, only the deepest midnight blue, to stand out with subtle elegance in a crowd. This wasn’t that either.
This was a classic, staid number in gray, with tame lapels and three buttons and a waistcoat. His father would approve of it. It would look good with a white shirt and a conservative tie. It would blend in anywhere.
It was a very nice gesture of Mr. Smythe-Wickham, just the same.
“That should be all we need, Mr. Bashir,” the tailor said, in his unplaceable foreign lilt.
“Thank you, Mr. … I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Have a good afternoon.”
Julian found himself bustled towards the door. He didn’t remember putting his trousers back on.
“And you. And it’ll be ready …?”
“Oh, we’ll let you know.”
And with that, a confused Julian Bashir found himself back in the afternoon sun.
***
It took nearly a week for the other shoe to drop.
“What do you mean you don’t have my exam results? I sat the bloody exams, and all right I think I flubbed that question about preganglionic fibers but I should still have my results!”
It was another stupid perfect May day. Warm but not muggy, with a bright blue sky and lilacs in the air. The secretary of the deanery should have been out enjoying it. Julian should have been out enjoying it.
He was not enjoying it.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bashir—” he didn’t even follow the rest, because oh how that “Mr.” grated. He’d sat the exams. He’d read the books. Gone to the labs, dissected the corpses, finished all the requirements of his MBBS and even kept up with skating, and he should be Dr. Bashir. Junior doctor, but still doctor, damn it! He had a training fellowship waiting for him in London! Having to postpone or refuse it because of a misunderstanding would be … well, intolerable didn’t even begin to cover it.
“—can only assume there was some sort of error in the paperwork, and I’m sure it will be sorted out soon.”
“Error in the paperwork? You’re the ones who do the paperwork! Can’t you sort it out?”
Mrs. McKenzie put down her crocheting and gave him a “Don’t make me fetch the dean” look over the top of her glasses. Julian slumped.
“Right. Yes. Sorted out soon.”
He walked back to his flat, dragging his feet. The streets were full of students and their families, all laughing and drinking, posing for pictures with grandmothers and flowers. That should be him. Avoiding his parents’ fussing, sneaking off for a pint with Felix, maybe getting down to the rink for a quick off-hours workout, and instead here he was, in bureaucratic purgatory.
He unlocked the front door and trudged up the stairs. The rink was still a good idea. Figure skaters didn’t care if you were a doctor. He could even take his hockey skates, see if anyone was around for some quick five-a-side shinney. That was bound to take his mind off it. Then they’d sort it out and be off to his Foundation training in London in no time.
By the time he reached the third floor, he was already feeling better.
The door to his flat was open.
He had locked it, hadn’t he?
So he probably wasn’t being robbed.
Probably Mrs. Braithwaite had just let one of his friends in. Or his parents. Oh god what if his parents were here?
Oh god that was his mother’s voice.
How would he face them with no exam results?
He slunk towards the door.
“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. He told us the results would be posted yesterday, so when we didn’t hear from him we thought we’d just surprise him, you see. You’re not saying he’s in some sort of trouble? He’s a good boy, our Julian.”
“Oh no, no trouble at all,” someone answered. The voice was almost familiar. It was also instantly intriguing. Silky, with a faint, unplaceable foreign accent. “In fact, he should be very happy. And I’m sure he will be, when he stops lurking in the hallway.”
Julian’s face burned. He pushed the door open.
“Er. Hello.”
Five faces pivoted from around his untidy little room. He would have at least made his bed, if he’d known his parents were going to be sitting it. Or picked up his underpants off the floor, if he knew Mr. Smyth-Wickham and two strange men were going to be pointedly ignoring them from his sofa.
“Ah, Julian,” said Mr. Smythe-Wickham. “Your suit’s ready.” He gestured. It was hanging on a hook on the back of the closet door.
Julian slid his eyes across the other two men. One was bald and severe, dressed in the kind of ratty tweed that always meant old money. The other was compact and muscular, in an understated but beautifully tailored dark suit. He had startling, pale blue eyes. It still took Julian a moment to place him.
“You’re the tailor,” he said numbly.
“Among other things,” the man replied, with an amused smirk. “You owe me a drink, Godfrey.”
“And you ow me a great deal more than that,” said the bald man in a posh accent. “But since he doesn’t recognize you, perhaps you should introduce yourself.”
“With pleasure,” the foreigner said. “My name is Garakov. I happen to be your new coach.”
Julian opened and closed his mouth several times. What finally came out was “The Garakov?”
The man shrugged mildly. “There may be others.”
He couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized him. He even remembered the startling blue eyes. He’d kept an issue of SKATING with a retrospective about Garakov’s career, from his solid debut at the 1956 World Skating Championships to the shocking events at the Innsbruck Winter Olympics twenty years later. After coaching the Soviet team to victory, he had simply … disappeared. At the medal ceremony, he was nowhere to be found. As far as Julian knew, he hadn’t been seen since.
And now he’d turned up in Julian’s bedroom.
It was too much.
“I’m sorry, I seem to be a bit behind the times. Could I offer anyone some tea?” He made his way to the sink and kettle and hotplate and teapot.
“Do you have jam?” asked Garakov.
“Just gooseberry.”
Garakov wrinkled his nose marginally. “Then no, thank you. What a considerate young man.”
While the kettle heated, Julian turned to Mr. Smythe-Wickham. “What’s this about a new coach? I know we haven’t talked much about London – I’m not sure how much time I’ll have with clinic hours but I’d certainly like to keep skating –”
“You’re not be going to London,” Mr. Smythe-Wickham said.
The teapot overflowed.
“Not – now hang on –”
The bald man, Godfrey, cut him off. “Mr. Bashir, have you heard of the Deep Sport training camps? Deep Snow, Deep Water, Deep Green, Deep Ice?”
Julian didn’t trust himself to speak. He blotted the spilled tea numbly with a dishtowel and shook his head.
“International sport remains one of the few venues for … uninhibited discourse between the free world and … the rest,” Godfrey said. Garakov winced theatrically. “In Sport –” Julian could hear him pronounce the capital letter – “we can set aside our differences and unite in a common spirit of humanity.”
“That’s lovely, but what does it have to do with me?” Julian asked.
“In the two years before each Olympic games, Deep Sport camps invite ten athletes to train together and compete in international competitions. A symbol of athletic harmony, you might say,” Garakov said. His eyes really were startling. At this moment, there was a wry twinkle in them. “Interestingly, these ten athletes somehow always seem to include one from each of the five permanent members of the UN Security Council. An odd coincidence. And as it happens, this year, Britain has found itself short a trainee.”
“I’m sorry, you want me to abandon my medical career to go perform … diplomacy on ice?”
“Succinctly put.”
Garakov continued to look as though the whole situation was wonderfully funny. Godfrey and Smythe-Wickham, though, looked deadly serious.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but it’s out of the question,” Julian said, trying to muster as much dignity as he could with a sopping towel in one hand. “I’ve finished my exams and start my foundation training at UCL this fall. I’m not giving up something I’ve been working towards for five years for – I apologize, Mr. Smythe-Wickham – a hobby.”
He gripped the handle tightly and poured four cups of tea. Two sugars and milk for his mother, three and black for his father. Just milk for Smythe-Wickham.
“Mr. Godfrey?”
“Black, thank you.”
He was glad there hadn’t been enough for him. He didn’t think he could have kept it down.
“Putting it on hold, not giving it up,” Smythe-Wickham said quickly. “You could certainly return to medicine after the games.”
“But until then, it is of paramount importance that the United Kingdom contribute to a prevailing atmosphere of sportsmanship,” Godfrey continued. He sipped his tea, grimaced slightly, and continued, “Lake Placid will only be the second games to feature Figure Skating. And after the … unfortunate public spectacle at Innsbruck –” he shot Garakov a look, and the other man rolled his eyes “– all eyes will be on international skating in general, and the Deep Ice Ten in particular.”
“The Deep Ice Ten.” Perhaps he had hit his head. Perhaps Felix had laced one of his drinks with something. That would make more sense than this.
“The Deep Ice Nine, without you,” Garakov said. “The training camps are held at the site of the previous games. A way to recoup some value from building all those arenas, as I understand it – what odd challenges one must face in a capitalist society. I look forward to seeing Innsbruck again.”
“There must be someone else,” Julian said. He was hardly the country’s best skater. “What about Brothers?” Corbin Brothers had medaled in every international event for the past four years. He was the clear favorite.
“Brothers is out,” said Godfrey. “A riding injury, I believe. He should recover in time to compete at Lake Placid, but he has a long road ahead of him, and the camp starts next week.”
“I’m not as good as him,” Julian said bluntly.
“Not yet, but with the right coach …” Smythe-Wickham said. “Well, Julian, you could be.”
“The right coach.”
“Garakov has generously offered to come out of a secluded retirement to work with you.”
“A secluded … did you defect?” Julian asked.
Garakov made the same face he’d made at the gooseberry jam. “An inelegant term. I felt that my career would be best served by pursuing other opportunities.”
“Such as disappearing into a secluded retirement.”
“My dear fellow, you cannot imagine the opportunities disappearing unlocks. Why, five years ago I only sewed skating uniforms.”
Julian catalogued details around the flat, trying to find some sense of reality in this madness. The paint on the shutters was chipped, showing layers of white and red under the butter yellow. He’d left the record player open, and the afternoon sun glinted off the vinyl’s grooves. The slightly motheaten plaid blanket on his bed was rucked up around his mother’s leg.
His parents’ faces were tight and pale.
“Mum? Dad?” he said, suddenly lost.
“We think it’s really better if you do this, son,” his father said. Usually, Richard Bashir had a Byronic swagger about him. His favorite saying was “Let Papa handle it!” This subdued man, who kept glancing nervously at Godfrey, was nothing like his father.
“I … but …”
“Really, Julian. It’s for the best,” his mother added, squeezing his father’s hand tightly. He’d only seen them look like this once before, ten years ago, when his grandmother was in the hospital and his father insisted it wasn’t safe enough to go back.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
It was just a delay. Not the end of his medical career. A detour. For some reason, strange men wanted him to go to Austria and spend two years figure skating.
How bad could it be?
“Right. I suppose I’d better pack.”