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Despite all his naïveté, Julian had actually looked forward to the dirty and grimy bits of frontier medicine. Serving on DS9 had been eye-opening, more frontier and more medicine than he had ever dreamt of. He had never dreamt of other things, either. He’d never dreamt that he would find himself in the midst of a war, confronting the complexities of people who had spent their lives living in the grey… or trapped entirely in the dark. He had never dreamt that he might have to shine that light on himself as well, counting the threads of grey in his hair and beard as surely as the grey threads now woven through his soul.
He had never dreamt of such friendships and follies, of such triumphs and tragedies, of moral questions that tested the core of him, ones that could not be solved by intellect, however enhanced.
He certainly had not ever expected finding himself embroiled in a sultry web of espionage, one that put his puerile fantasies to shame, one that ultimately unraveled into the happiness and excitement of true and deep and hopelessly hopeful love.
After all of that, rushing to provide relief to the ruins of Cardassia did not even factor into the major decisions of his life. It simply felt inevitable; Garak would go back to finally fulfill a loyalty, one that had been from childhood twisted into something malformed and ugly, now allowed to blossom into something productive, creative, restorative. And Julian found that he couldn’t let him go alone.
But in all of his wildest dreams, he had never once entertained the idea that he might find himself covered in itchy sores, waiting in frustration, wrapped only in a linen towel, while his doting husband too gleefully read out the instructions. For the treatment of those sores.
From Dr. Gelinnak.
Julian’s veterinarian.
Because somehow he had contracted jumping fleas, a Cardassian pest previously only reported to feed on riding hounds.
As Garak had said, with what sounded far too much like laughter hiding in his voice, that it was possibly because Julian was just so delicious, and even more possibly because they had never had other opportunities. Whatever the unlikely constellation of factors had caused it, the jumping fleas had attacked Julian with absolute ferocity. They honed in on his thin skin and warm body heat so quickly that the first day he woke covered in the itching bumps, he assumed that he was having an allergic reaction or possibly had contracted a virus. It was only when Garak had gently carded one of the pale blue insects out of his hair that he realized that he had become the host of a parasitic picnic.
“Elim, would you please stop snickering under your breath? You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are.”
“I do apologize, my dear, but even you must admit to the inherent comedy of the situation.”
The hyposprays that Dr. Gelinnak (the veterinarian) had provided (after rigorous analysis by Julian) would render his body inhospitable to the jumping fleas. The bites themselves, however, apparently responded best to a medicated cream; it smelled like tar and had the colour and consistency of ballpark mustard. Julian would have been far more likely to laugh along if he wasn’t about to itch out of his skin and the only recourse was a medication that resembled a spoiled condiment.
The first gentle touch of Garak’s fingers made him flinch at the cold cream, but the relief was instantaneous, letting him hang his head and question every decision in his life. Garak tutted unsympathetically at him.
“Of all the possibilities for viral mutations and unforeseen diseases and potentially fatal parasites, an infestation of jumping fleas is surely among the least disruptive.”
“Maybe… but Elim, this is so deeply humiliating!”
It was humiliating. It was also a stark reminder of the xenophobic history of the civilization that now lay in ruins. Julian and Garak both had been lucky, lucky that resources were so desperately needed that skill and service counted more than family or even species. The decorous rigidity of society could not survive the decimation of the most basic of infrastructure, and those dying and in pain seemed unwilling to spend energy worrying about the species of their doctor or the unsavory personal history of the community organizer efficiently distributing the meager relief supplies and overseeing the development of local food gardens, replaced irrigation systems, and reviewing the load-bearing capacity of temporary shelters. The fact that they were, in their own ways, quite good company smoothed over any lingering suspicions.
The ultimate issue was not the attitudes of the present, but those of the past. While Julian was delighted to finally, finally have access to the necessary resources to ensure the health and wellness of his Cardassian patients, there was no information about how Cardassia would affect him.
After the first near poisoning from a fruit in the nightshade family (which he had erroneously assumed was close enough to a tomato for safety) Garak had insisted that every animal, vegetable, and mineral be scanned and logged before consumption. The first autumn and winter, after safe foods had been established and makeshift shelters had made way for more established buildings, Julian found himself not only happy but also… satisfied. There was something about seeing Garak fussing around their small hut, exhausted but still insistent on keeping up appearances, that made his chest curl up like a warm kitten in front of a fire.
The community at large had complained bitterly about the winter, but Julian had felt quite comfortable in the warm jumper that Keiko had sent in one of his care packages (Garak had immediately “adjusted” it to his specifications. He was, in fact, a very good tailor). Time and resources were scarce, so he let his beard and hair grow, disturbed by how undisturbed he was by the creeping streak of grey. It also had the benefit of encouraging Garak to grow his own hair.
“You look absolutely dashing in a man-bun,” Julian had commented after a few months. Garak had made grumpy, dismissive noises and an all-too eloquent gesture with his hand, but he hadn’t cut his hair.
Julian had gotten used to the well-meaning but vaguely unsettling comments (especially from his younger patients) on his various simian features, but all in all, the community seemed to find him confusing but charming. He had solved the most pressing medical concerns and had just been settling into providing comfortably routine family care when the seasons changed. Within a week, the Cardassians around him had shed their heavy coats and scarves and Julian had transitioned to the lightest, roomiest clothing that Garak would allow him in public in. And within two weeks, Julian had woken to find his back, chest, and limbs covered in tiny, itchy bites.
He’d been ready to face anything from unknown allergen to unknown pox (he’d already been mentally composing the eventual paper he would write on the subject), when Garak had gently carded the small insect from his hair.
“Oh dear,” he’d said, and then burst into hysterical laughter.
It turned out that the local clinic, while well- equipped for any medical emergencies that Julian might encounter, had limited resources for local parasites, especially those who didn’t normally cause issues for the Cardassian public.
“I’ve heard of young children with thinner skin and prepubescent dermal keratin getting the occasional bite after spending too much time in the stables, but it’s never to this… degree,” Garak had offered after managing to contain his amusement. “I’m so sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid that your best option is to consult a specialist.”
“A specialist? I’m the only doctor for kilometers! Is there someone I should call for a consultation?”
“There are several medical doctors further South, but I was thinking of someone closer to home.” Garak’s smile made Julian nervous.
“You may be the only medical doctor for kilometers, but Dr. Gelinnak is only a short ways away, and extremely well regarded in the agricultural community.”
“Then why haven’t I ever heard of them?”
“Because, my dear, Dr. Gelinnak is a veterinarian.”
Despite his hesitation, Julian was far too itchy to complain. Thankfully, unlike Garak, if Dr. Gelinnak found his situation humorous, she didn’t show it.
“Two factors make you susceptible,” she declared after a rudimentary examination in her office, which consisted of a polyboard lean-to with various hounds and farm animals casually wandering in and out. There was some sort of pink-orange bird not unlike a chicken who seemed to find Julian’s shoes fascinating. Dr. Gelinnak was a pretty, no-nonsense looking young woman with an unfashionably bobbed haircut and sturdy-looking rubber boots. She patted the wandering livestock absently as they wandered about.
“First off, because you are hominid instead of cingulate, you aren’t as protected by dermal cartilage and skutes. You also have a higher body temperature and more body hair, so… you are kind of a jumping flea’s dream.”
Julian hung his head in defeat, “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“Don’t worry!” Dr. Gelinnak replied brightly. I’m sure that we can adjust the flea treatment for riding hounds to treat you; it’s not invasive at all, and I’m sure we can turn the flea collar into a… bracelet or something.”
“Kill me now” Julian murmured into his chest.
“While we’re at it,” Dr. Gelinnak commented thoughtfully, “we should probably see if you need a dewormer.”
Between the cream and the light touches across his back, Julian had relaxed and then fallen asleep on his stomach on the raised palate that served as their bed. When his eyes slowly blinked open, he found the small hut bathed in the peachy-red light of sunset. Garak was fussing over something delicious and spicy-smelling over the small camp stove. Julian pulled on the loose linen trousers that he wore for sleep, and padded across the packed dirt floor to peer over Garak’s shoulder.
“What’s this?” He asked, inhaling deeply.
“I took the liberty of doing a bit of research of my own,” Garak said, giving the bubbly stew a thoughtful stir. “There are a number of folk remedies for jumping fleas, and one of the most common is including capsicum in the daily diet of the hounds. While you know my usual dislike of extreme spice, I know that it’s one of your favorites, and I have been growing some Terran peppers along the edges of the community gardens to discourage pests. I’m willing to valiantly sacrifice my tastebuds if it provides you a bit of relief.”
Watching Garak choke and cough through the delicious stew that evening, dining in last dim rays of the setting sun, Julian couldn’t find that he regretted a moment of living on this strange, beautiful, savage planet. He found that he loved Cardassia.
Fleas and all.