The BLTS Archive - The Debt
Third in the Black Bottle series
by Hermit (paradoxymoron4242@gmail.com)

---

Yadda: Not my characters, made up, just for fun etc.

---

Julian is transformed by sleep. Whereas some people are quite
themselves whether awake or asleep, Julian becomes another person
altogether. When they slid into bed the short night before, Julian was
a strong and comforting, protective presence next to him. Now he lays
curled up against Garak, head bowed very low and off the pillow, and
his fingers are haphazardly splayed and mashed on Garak's chest,
stretching the fabric of his shirt. He looks like he couldn't protect
a flower from a bee. And he doesn't look comfortable at all despite
the ease with which he seems to be sleeping. Garak lies still as
stone, looking, and thinks about trying to rearrange him a little.
Thinks he probably could and Julian would be none the wiser, but
despite his deep slumber, Garak doesn't want to risk waking him just
yet. It is still very early.

Some people, quiet and reserved people, sleep quietly and reservedly
in their beds. Some boisterous and mad people thrash about in their
fitful dreams, and wake with wild hair. And some, like Julian, go from
being lonely, intelligent, and complex people, to contented,
companionable, malleable, and simple sleepers.

Garak hasn't slept like that in years, maybe decades. He wonders if
Julian always sleeps like this or if tonight has been different. He
knows it was different for him. He barely slept at all, he realizes,
and yet he is wide awake, refreshed, for the moment. Not sleeping is
seldom a problem for Garak as he usually has a chemical helper of some
fashion, almost every night. He doesn't usually wake up feeling this
way. Of course, last night he needed no chemicals besides what was
already pumping through him. An intoxicating cocktail of emotions on
top of exhaustion spun him out on a wing of shallow sleep more
valuable than any long deep slumber in recent memory. He is struck by
a fleeting, but startling thought. Could the doctor have slipped him
something? Ridiculous. He would feel it this morning if it had been
artificial. No. It was just - so much...

Garak takes in a deep shaky breath and looks down at the human in his
bed. Cautious still, Garak brushes a hand softly through Julian's
hair. Julian stretches in response like a slumbering cat and leans
into the touch unconsciously, craning his head back now with an airy
noise to expose his Adam's apple. His breath comes slowly through the
pastel edges of slightly parted lips. Garak watches his face. His eyes
move back and forth under their thin lids. He has a dewy film of sweat
on him, Garak notices then, so he carefully pulls back the covers from
him a little, one-armed. He smiles fondly when he sees the doctor's
uniform shirt is rucked up under his arms from his night-time
squirming and he tries to pull it down some with two delicate
fingertips. Julian stirs, perhaps just one more movement or
disturbance between him and wakefulness, and then burrows down deep
again between Garak's arms, against his chest. The uniform works its
way right back up where it had been and exposes a wash of brown skin
shadowed by simple young starlight. Something akin to a reflex makes
Garak curl around him, and he wraps his arms around Julian fully,
fists curled tight and wrist bent as if his hands were coated in wet
clay. Their clothes stick and stutter against each other from the
moisture and heat and the conflicting nap of the cloth, and Garak
takes another deep and unsteady breath, this time taking his air from
within Julian's hair.

/Sisko to Bashir./

Garak lets go smoothly but with the wide-eyed speed of guilt.

Julian muffles, rubs his face twice quickly into the mattress, perhaps
slightly startled, and cracks open warm eyes that are already directed
up at Garak. Garak can feel Julian's breath stop in his throat for
half a second before he rolls over to touch the comm button and give
his voice to the room instead of Garak's neck. /Bashir here,/ he
nearly mumbles.

/Sorry to wake you Doctor, but we have a Klingon Bird of Prey coming
in with casualties. At least four in serious condition. They'll be
docking in ten minutes./

Julian exhales just quietly enough that it isn't picked up by the
comm. /Understood./ Then he hits the button once more and sighs aloud.
He doesn't look at Garak right away, and all Garak can do is lay
perfectly still on the pillow and watch him rub his eyes and yawn at
the ceiling. Any pretense now would be unseemly, he thinks. It may be
early and morning may soften the edges of feelings and actions and
lower Julian's voice to a purr, and night may bring fatigue and
loneliness to a head, but it is too early and too late for discussions
right now. And he can handle honesty for ten minutes at least.

Julian finishes grinding his palms into his eyes and then scratches
his fingers through his hair. He hasn't said a word yet and he wonders
if Garak has noticed. He wonders if Garak is going to say something.
Hopes he will. Hopes this won't turn into another game.

Garak remains silent. So before the silence grows too thick, Julian
wets his lips a little and slurs through another half-hearted yawn,
/What time is it?/

Garak would have asked the computer for that information in any normal
moment of the day, but he feels detached from his body now, somehow.
He's been lying there watching Julian in that position so long he
barely exists outside of what he can see and sense. Julian, some wall
and some ceiling, drapes, and in the blurry foreground, the bridge of
his nose. That is the half-dream world now. He doesn't want to move
and acknowledge anything else yet, nor does he want the computer
butting in. He can't bring himself to break it. Silence is honest, he
thinks. He also suspects in some automatic part of his brain that
Julian doesn't really care what time it is anyway, but that part is
nearly mute right now and he still feels as though he knows nothing,
is nothing, besides the contents of his purview.

Julian looks over at him with one eye from inside the crook of his
elbow. His arm, arched over his head, conceals the rest of his face as
his fingers busy themselves with idle scratches to his scalp. The eye
blinks once, then crinkles up at the corner a little, the lower lid
bowing up in the middle as Julian's smiling cheek peeks into view.

Then he rolls over and faces Garak, and Garak breathes in and holds
it. Julian is still smiling, sweetly, maybe ironically. Like he knows
something; like this simple human can see something besides just the
bridge of his own nose.

Julian's smile ebbs most of the way and he returns Garak's gaze
unashamedly. Ten minutes, Garak. He lets loose the breath he had
forgotten he was holding and it comes out loud to his ears and
vibrato. A long-fingered, delicate hand comes up then and slides into
his hair. The world Garak knows grows to include the millions of tiny
stroked and happy nerves in his scalp and the leaden fluttering of his
eyelids that threaten to wink the rest of existence away. He wants to
hold on to it, make sure it doesn't disappear when next he blinks.

/I have to go,/ Julian says. It sounds damp and melancholy, and it is.
This early (he's guessing it's still early) he might be a little slow
on the pick up, but as soon as it's out of his mouth it starts to take
shape in his mind, and the part of him that cares for foresight and
the planning of what is likely to be a long day is already in motion,
drawing up blueprints for every moment of the next ten hours or so,
reviewing his schedule, Klingon anatomy, it's all going on up there,
but another part, an insistent, pleading part which seems to have
hooks in his chest and eyes, has buried an anchor here in this bed and
does not want him to leave. It wants to ignore everything else. It
could happily declare everything else unimportant and irrelevant. For
a moment those two parts team up and try to think of a way to unload
this on to someone else this time, just this once, but they both know
it is a waste of time.

Julian's eyes pass over powder soft grey scales to bowed and parted
lips. He wants Garak to sew the two of them together with gentle adept
hands, forearm to forearm, then thigh to thigh, stitches through
yearning skin until they start to melt together; and maybe thoughts
such as these just mean he's still half-asleep, but he wants those
hands. The ones he couldn't have last night. And like magic, there
they are, the one, trapped below, timidly takes his hand and the other
smooths up over his wrinkled shirt, over his flank, the thumb locking
around a sensitive tendon under his arm, and fingers curling up to his
shoulder. Pressed together it's a small tilt of the head to bring
their lips together, and he does, sucking in a sharp breath as they
unfold into each other's mouths. Warmth crawls up his body and covers
his head, engulfing him, and he grabs hold of Garak tightly.

Garak is all too happy to let his eyes slip closed now. Not much to
see but blurry shapes at this proximity anyway. He knows Julian is
still there. He can feel the tickle of his exhale on his upper lip,
hear the sheets rustle just a little under him as he shifts deeper
forward. He can smell him. Dear Gods and Prophets he can smell him. He
never wants that smell to leave his memory, so salty sweet and warm.
And yes there is other warmth. Tactile warmth in the pulse at his
wrist and in the flesh of his curled palm; and heat, real heat from
within his mouth. Garak, though normally cool and collected, answers
with his own heat. It builds within him like bellows-fed fire far more
quickly than his ambiance-loving mind can cope with. He's dizzy
suddenly, but nothing spins him away from the silken lips until
Julian's neck stiffens and he lets them come apart.

/I have to go,/ he says again and curls a sad little smile at the
realization. His eyes are still heavy and his limbs languorous, but he
lifts them and rolls slow and smooth out of Garak's welcoming,
beckoning bed. Garak has hardly moved, but watches him with alert and
searching eyes. Julian can't help but wonder what any of this means.
His silence, his inertia. Julian slips on his shoes and runs his
fingers through his hair in front of Garak's mirror, watching Garak
watching him in the background of the reflection. He wonders if he's
scared the tailor so badly that he has been reduced to a supple lump
of acquiescence, willing to go along with anything Julian wants until
such time as he can escape. Could falling in love be that horrifying
of a prospect to him? Again, he thinks hypnogogic imagination is at
work this morning, but it still doesn't sit quite right with him that
Garak is so still, so quiet. He has never seen him like this. He
wishes, as he pauses in the doorway, that he had a little more time.

Garak feels... indebted... To all of the people who came and went,
to all of the happenstance that arranged itself to allow him to live
in the present moment he lives in now. Yes. He is lucky, he realizes
now, and for the first time feels it too. He is in debt to all who
tried to guide him to amnesty and peace, and to all of the brave ones
who fell before him.

Garak lays in his bed for some time after the sound of the door
closing behind Julian reaches his ears and becomes real. Julian is
gone and he feels he is finally awake, as if he had stepped through a
door of his own, back to this world. The room remains ever the same,
but he is off to one side of his bed. The wrong side. Isn't that a
human expression? He is sure it is. Perhaps it does not have the same
effect on Cardassians. He lays there and looks over the details of the
room, the Bajoran orchid on the nightstand on the drape of smooth
green cloth, the red-grey nightstand beneath that, and then right next
to him, on the right side of the bed, a curious dent, and a short
brown hair on the pillow. It all seems poised to convince him of the
reality of it, but this could still be a dream. If it is he will cling
to it a while longer. There is no hurry. Garak pulls that pillow to
him with crawling fingers, careful not to disturb this new dream, and
even before his face reaches the rippled cloth he can smell the salty
air left behind where Julian slept. He has never dreamed such a smell,
he knows, and finds himself smiling as he pulls himself upright.

Elaysian cotton. That is the answer.

---

"Let me die or let me live! Do not dishonor me for your own glory,
Human." The Klingon clutches his chest with shaking fingers and spits
at the floor to remove some of the blood filling his mouth.

General Martok grumbles from a nearby bed with bleeding lacerations on
both arms. Julian almost fails to repress a smile at the general's
obvious annoyance. "Do not be an idiot, Kornan. A punctured lung is
not going to kill you so you might as well let the doctor patch you up
so you can get back to your post quicker."

Julian continues to take readings on Kornan, mindful of the sometimes
unpredictable temper of an injured Klingon, but heedless of his
complaints. All around, other broken and bleeding Klingons make their
way through triage and patiently if not agreeably endure the
ministrations of Deep Space Nine's medical staff. They just wouldn't
be Klingons if they didn't at least try to fight it.

"I will not be a soft and feeble petaQ suckling at the Federation's
teat." Kornan growls. Julian avoids an eye roll only just barely.

Martok does not even try, but then he doesn't have to; he's the
general. "Kornan! You will lie there and allow Doctor Bashir to do his
job without any further complaint or I will hold your mouth closed for
you! Is that understood?"

Kornan heaves a few rattled breaths as he fights to keep control of
himself. He pauses a moment, breath held, back arched in pain, as if
physically halted at a fork in the road, but then nods curtly in the
general's direction. Martok fills in the resulting silence with gruff,
hollow-cheeked mutterings in Klingon. He shifts uncomfortably in his
seat. "Now, Doctor. Where is that nurse of yours? I seem to be
bleeding on your carpet again."

Julian smiles and hands Kornan off to his assistant who wheels him
away to be prepared for surgery. "I noticed," he says cheerfully, and
begins cutting Martok's tough uniform off of him at the shoulder. "But
I can't hold you responsible this time it seems. I'll send the
cleaning bill to the Dominion when this is over."

Martok winces as Julian carefully peels an under layer of cloth from
where it has stuck to the wounds with tacky half-dry blood. "With the
increased frequency of my visits to you, Doctor, perhaps it would be
wise to replace your carpet with titanium flooring. It would be much
easier to clean."

Julian shakes his head a little as he dabs blood away from the long
gash on Martok's left arm. "No," he says absently, intently
concentrated on the still oozing wound and his tricorder. "It would
just get slippery when you bled all over it. Wouldn't be safe."

Martok chuckles heartily but it turns into a little groan at the end
when Julian prods his other arm.

"How was this treated by your ship's surgeon?" He meets Martok's eye.

Martok huffs dismissively. "It doesn't matter, just get it done. I am
needed back on the Rotarran."

Julian squints a little at the General and takes in a slight pallor in
his face he hadn't noticed before, a heaviness in his good eye beyond
what could be expected of a mildly wounded Klingon. He takes his pulse
manually. "I think you should lie down." Martok sighs irritably,
avoiding Julian's gaze for a moment. "How was this treated? The battle
was a day ago but this is fresh blood. Did you reopen it somehow?"

He sighs again. "It was not treated. I do not put my fighting arm in
the hands of that flesh-tinkerer on board my ship."

"General, you could have died of blood loss on the trip here."

"Could have, would have. Will you get on with it?" Martok is already
perturbed. There is no point to arguing further about it. Julian
glowers and begins regenerating the exposed blood vessels to stop the
bleeding.

Julian is in surgery for nearly eight hours following the sorting and
triage of the Rotarran's wounded. Eight hours he focuses on the men
and women on his table. Martok's injuries were light, and even with
his blood loss he was luckier than many of his crew. Kornan lost the
lung and though he would be no worse for wear in the long run he
looked like a man violated when he came out of surgery, not relieved
to be alive. Ch'Targ had major disruptor burns all over. The pain kept
him delirious the entire trip to Deep Space Nine according to the
Rotarran's surgeon. He at least had a word of gratitude for Julian
when he woke under an inhibitor field.

Twice in that eight hours he had to order General Martok back to the
recovery room. He insisted that he was well enough to leave, and he
probably was, but Julian wanted to see his blood pressure get back to
at least the low side of normal before he left. Also, he liked having
him around. His presence more than likely discouraged dissidence among
his crew, and his example, though not perfect, probably allowed the
other Klingons to accept the treatment and the soft beds a little
easier. The disruptions were kept to a minimum and the usual chaos and
havoc of battlefield medicine remained atypically mild with a largely
veteran team under Julian's direction.

Until Tavana was brought in. Her injuries, broken bones and internal
hemorrhaging mostly, had been caused when a plasma vent exploded on
the Rotarran. They were lucky the whole ship had not been destroyed.
Tavana had been directly in the line of the explosion and was thrown
back against a control panel and a bulkhead. She was stabilized and
then sedated en route, Julian had been told, which he knew was rare.
He found out why when she came to suddenly in triage. The sounds of
her roaring screams could be heard across the promenade undoubtedly.
She did not scream solely for her own pain, but for Ortikan who died
before her eyes only a moment before the blast. Julian could only
frown and swallow around his empathy for her. His staff, clearly
shaken, became markedly quiet after Julian administered another dose
of the sedative. Martok did not attempt to leave again without
Julian's approval after that, either. She too would wake after surgery
stolid and composed with an appreciative nod for the doctor as she
left, but nothing further about her loss. He had no doubt she would
make the Jem'Hadar pay for it, but she would not burden anyone else.

Blood coats every surface of his infirmary it seems. A pervasive
substance, like ink, once spilled it transfers to anything and
everything silently and secretly. The whole medical staff looks dogged
by the time the last Klingon leaves surgery and everyone is either
back on their ship or resting in the recovery room. Marcia is one of
just a few of the staff who have not yet left to wash up. A small but
boisterous woman from Georgia, Julian chose her himself out of
hundreds of academy applicants to join his staff. She arrived only
last week. In that short time she earned a reputation for being the
untiring sunshine of the infirmary. You just can't help but smile when
she smiles at you, nor stifle your laughter when she tells you her
stories about growing up on a real family farm on Earth. Now she
stands in a corner near a console, uncommonly quiet with a hand to her
mouth. Julian sends an orderly out with a case of instruments for
sterilization and approaches her slowly, arcing around the room so
that he passes in the corner of her vision before reaching her. They
are both still in red surgical covers but with the hoods down loose
around their necks. A clean white towel over his shoulder, Julian
crouches a little to look at her face and sees her eyes wedged with
the look of overwhelming grief that often accompanies one on their
first major day in triage. When he gets close enough that she notices
him, she flinches and tries to hide the tears glittering in her eyes,
but instead they just fall to the console. The cause of hiding now
hopeless, she sobs once, quietly, and Julian gently takes the wrist
she has bent before her mouth and wipes a smear of blood from her
fingers with his towel. Julian drops the towel to the console but it
slips off the slick surface and fluffs to the ground, ignored. Julian
takes her guarding arms away from her chest and pulls her in to what
feels like a natural but oddly intimate embrace. Like a tactile echo
of the night before.

"It's ok," he murmurs to her and smooths a hand over her shaking back,
rocks her a little side to side. He wonders if this is going to become
his mantra and smiles a little into her hair. Julian, Comforter of the
Alpha Quadrant. Then he pushes her back a little and she hurriedly
wipes her face with her hands. He lets the smile stay there on his
face for her. "You did wonderfully, Marcia." She takes a breath but it
shakes and her face crumples again, so Julian pulls her back in and
continues where he left off for a moment more.

"I thought it might be easier," she mumbles into his shirt.

"What?"

"Easier to handle the... because they're not human."

He understands what she can not yet say. "It's very good that it's
not, Marcia. It just means that you have compassion that extends
beyond you and your own kind. You'll find your own way to handle it. I
promise."

Her brow and her frown quiver and her eyes sparkle anew. "I don't know
if I can do this." Her voice shakes with distressed laughter.

He hugs her again and she accepts it plainly this time. "You can. I
know you can. You just did."

The captain appears in the doorway of the infirmary just then,
unobtrusively, and his face changes from simple inquiry to concern at
the sight of the crying woman. Julian grants him a reassuring smile
and pats Marcia's back a little.

Marcia startles slightly when she notices Sisko and wipes her face
again. He puts up a hand in response but she is bent on repose if not
yet achieving it.

"How did it go?" he asks Julian softly with a worried shake of the
head.

"As well as can be expected," he says, and holds tightly to one of
Marcia's hands. "Everyone who came in will be leaving under their own
power by tomorrow."

"That's good news," comes Sisko's low reply with an equally pleasing
lift to his brow. "Let me know if anything changes, and I'd like a
detailed report later on when you get the chance. Starfleet wants data
on Klingon casualties."

"Tomorrow morning."

Sisko leaves as silently as he arrived.

Marcia just has a needful look left on her face now that she's wiped
away the tears and the red of upset is abating. Julian looks at her
for a moment and thinks of Garak again. He wants to see him. Badly. A
day like today is exactly the kind of day he normally seeks him out.
To talk, to laugh, to argue. To anything besides think about the war
and the effect it is having on himself and the whole quadrant. But he
also wants to hang on to Marcia. She's exceptional at her job and he
doesn't want to lose her. This was a tough first week for her, for
anyone. He needs to take care of this. Everything else must wait. For
a while.

"Can I get you a glass of water or something?"

She shakes her head and looks around the room though Julian isn't sure
what she's looking for. An escape, something to do maybe.

"Well what about lunch? Have you eaten?"

This startles a laugh from her. No one has had a thought to food much
less something as sophisticated and formal as lunch all day.

"Ok," he says. "Let's get cleaned up and we'll have lunch."

---

"Come on. When was the last time you did something stupid?"

Julian chuckles. "What do you mean? I do stupid things all the time."

"Name one thing... Come on. Don't think about it. Don't flip back
twenty-five years. Something recent."

"I was dismissed from the bridge once."

Marcia's jaw drops. "You're joking."

"No."

"What happened?"

"I... said something I shouldn't have."

"To the captain?"

"No. Worf was in command at the time."

"And he didn't cut your heart out on the spot?"

"That's... generally frowned upon in Starfleet, lucky for me. And
everyone forgets to turn the voltage down on the regenerator after
using it on a Bolian, Marcia."

Marcia sighs harshly and frowns. Her brown eyes implore for relief
though she knows only she can forgive herself. "I just can't forget
the way that Klingon yelled. I knew it immediately. I knew I forgot."

"He's a Klingon. He'll be fine. It was just a small burn."

Marcia pushes her food around on her plate a little. "Julian."

He looks up from his tea and empty soup bowl.

"Why does the captain want a report on Klingon casualties?"

Julian meets her eyes for a moment and then answers. "Starfleet wants
casualty projections. They're using data on the injuries and deaths
from Klingon ships to predict the kind of casualties we can expect in
our own ships and also to identify vulnerabilities." Marcia's eyes
flit to a place somewhere behind Julian, then down to the floor and
back to her plate. Julian senses her discomfort, but the fact that she
asked tells him that she is only trying to prepare herself. He
continues with as gentle a warning as he can think of. He wants her to
be prepared, but he doesn't want her to run away. "The Cardassian's
bloodlust is only deepening since they allied themselves with the
Dominion, if you ask me. Most of the deaths on the Rotarran were not
from the Jem'Hadar raiding party; they were from the Cardassian ships
that ambushed them on their way back to Federation space."

Marcia looks oddly distracted and then pushes the remainder of her
meal a few inches across the table.

---

It's 25:00 hours again already. It seems as if it is always too late.
As if time rushes on without him, hastening the day of work,
lengthening the amount of time it takes to finish what he has to and
leaving precious little left at the end of each day to do the things
he wants to. Two hours in triage. Eight hours in surgery. Three hours
of damage control with his greener staff members, then paperwork and a
senior staff meeting. He's not even tired. He's had longer days than
this, but none of those have ever occurred at a time like this. When
all he wants is to be with him. And now it's too late, isn't it.

Unless Garak happens to be up too.

Julian is a little startled as he steps out of the infirmary. The
insulated quiet of his domain usually prepares him only for the
uncommon stillness of the midnight promenade and the creeping
emptiness of his walk back to his quarters. Tonight however he is
assaulted by glittering curls of light, colorful curtains draped over
the hard angles of Cardassian architecture, and five hundred people at
least hanging still more decorations, banners, warming up instruments
in B flat and preparing food. He'd forgotten Ha'mara was today, and
tomorrow, now almost here, marks the end of the fast and the beginning
of the celebration. Hungry Bajorans smile and talk, even at the late
hour, and grow more excited for the feast and the rite that begins in
just one hour. Long minutes for the starving. It could go either way
for Julian.

He smiles wanly at the residents who greet him as he walks the
promenade. He filters through the people as much as he can visually,
looking for just one, but it gets more and more difficult as more
people arrive, more Bajorans dressed in warm colors, glittering smiles
and earrings. He weaves his way past the Klingon restaurant which is
filled to capacity with burly patrons, some of which came directly
from the infirmary, also celebrating but unwilling to wait until
midnight to eat. Quark's is busy too. He's staying open through to the
next evening to accommodate the celebration, and Julian expects to see
Leeta in his office tomorrow with "Dabo Shoulder". She always gets it
when she works double shifts. Beyond a cluster of people loitering in
front of Quark's, he passes a few smaller shops that actually closed
for the night, probably because their owners are helping with the
preparations, and then finally Garak's shop which, Julian sees as he
approaches, is dark and shut. Julian peers in the tiny glass window on
the door but sees only the silhouette of a dressmaker's dummy and the
dark glitter of sequins from an unsold Ha'mara dress.

---

It's 25:00 hours again. Lack of sleep is finally catching up to Garak
but his nerves are on fire everywhere. His senses are dulled and
vision tunneled... It feels like fear except he's running toward
the object instead of away. Or at least he hopes he is. The closer he
gets though the more his shoulders flinch and his pulse races. He
feels like maybe he's walking too fast and the swarms of Bajorans
moving in and out of the habitat ring are watching, noticing his
unease. It feels so horrendously stressful, so why is he doing this to
himself? Ah yes. Because he has no choice but to try to be near him.
Whatever embarrassment or discomfort that may bring.

He's standing before Julian's door before he knows it, almost walks
past it, not realizing he had crossed the distance already. His hand
wavers before it touches the call button and then stops. It's 25:00
hours. Hello Julian. It's the middle of the night. I brought you some
pants.

Garak sighs at himself and rubs his eyes. You need to sleep. And you
need to calm down and stop thinking about it.

He turns and heads back toward his own quarters.

Garak waits at the door to the turbolift down the corridor from
Julian's. He taps his foot irritably, wondering if Julian is even in
his quarters. He could ask the computer, but then Julian would know in
the morning he had been looking for him. Looking hard enough to have
the computer track him down. Garak rubs his fingertips together and
glances down the hall toward the bowed wall where Julian's door hides.
The turbolift door opens, a half dozen people leave it, talking and
laughing, even in the face of a flustered Cardassian, then several
more hurry on to it before the door closes. Garak turns and walks the
other direction toward the promenade.

The music is getting louder and the vents in all the walkway ceilings
are pumping out cool air to combat the heat rolling off of excited
bodies. It dries Garak's eyes and makes him shiver. He sidesteps this
way and that to get through the throng of people all lined up and
waiting for the Vedek to begin the ceremony. Finally he finds an eddy,
a break in the current where he can cut a clear path around the
outside edges of the noisy promenade toward the infirmary.

Brightly lit and sterile, he knows without asking as soon as he
approaches, Julian isn't here. One foot in the door, he looks around,
bends his neck in the direction of the open office door to peek inside
and then turns.

"Are you looking for Julian?"

Garak turns back again and then looks down. Marcia, possibly the
smallest adult human Garak has ever seen, approaches him. He's taken
aback for a moment. He didn't think he was that obvious.

"You're Mr. Garak, right?"

"Yes," he says hesitantly, out of habit. He can't be truly suspicious
when the inquiry comes from such a creature.

She smiles a little and he can instantly see why Julian likes her.
This in turn makes his stomach clench as lightly as she smiles. "I saw
you today when we were having lunch."

"I see." He didn't think he'd been obvious then either. /You're losing
your touch, Elim./

She seems to want to say something else but does not. A pause, and
then, "You only just missed him."

Garak doesn't have time to consider what she's leaving out, but he
does take the time to smile warmly at her and nod. "Thank you very
much, my dear," he says and bows out, noting the blush that creeps
over her face as he does.

Out the door again and into the fray, he has a purpose now at least.
He's not wandering aimlessly, hoping to stumble upon his destination.
The promenade is thick with people and smells and sounds but they're
not quite as cold as a moment ago, not so alarming or unsettling. He's
rather hot now actually. There seems to be two sides to this constant
dread. There may be after all a good reason to put himself through
this exertion, this anticipation. The cold inhospitable melancholy
comes from the cynical anticipation of loneliness and disappointment.
. .  That is clear now. Yes it is a gamble, but when the flip side is
this butterfly high of impending commencement, well. It all seems
worth it.

He hurries, feels like he might have actually taken wing over the
crowd he sifts through it so quickly, heart beating like a bird's.
Past the raucous racket of the Klingon restaurant, alien smells and
baritone singing. Past Quark's, hot trays steaming with the buffet
offerings all along the bar, past his own shuttered shop and on at a
polite jog to the habitat ring. Having come full circle, Garak pauses
outside Julian's quarters, takes a steadying breath as three Bajoran
dancers in blue pass behind him, and presses the call button.

He waits and prepares a nonchalant smile behind his lips.

He presses the button again and listens for the chime from behind the
door, which he can just barely hear. Still nothing, and Garak begins
sorting through the possibilities... Surely he couldn't already be
asleep. Showering? Avoiding?

Garak's neck begins to itch, but he stands there and waits. One
minute, two, two and a half, then hits the call button once more,
waits, and then wanders away.

Confused, disappointed... Uncommon sensations. The turbolift takes
him down a level and as he stands on the hard metal floor of the lift,
the garment over his arm feels heavy and his fingers cramp around its
edge. He's been carrying it like that for a half hour now.

The lift door opens onto the familiar corridor of his own level of the
habitat ring. He emerges from the small lift alcove avoiding the eyes
of the lift's next group of sparkling passengers and stops.

Julian halts in place, forcing a Vedek and two acolytes to weave
around him in the hall to get to the lift before it leaves.

And finally the only two faces not bent in merriment, the only two
holdouts for dolor on the whole station give in and share a private
smile between them.

"Garak. It's nice to see you," he says, impressing himself with the
apparent control in his level voice. "How are you?"

Garak approaches another step, cautious, wary of the observer, whoever
that might be. "Wonderful," he says, and means it.

Another string of dancers and a flustered costumer pass between them
one way, a pair of Bajoran siblings from the other. Garak waits until
the flourish of tails and fringe is gone.

"Now," he adds with a smile. Julian reacts conservatively to that
before his eyes glance to Garak's parcel. "I brought these for you."
He doesn't mention that they are no where near Julian's quarters nor
any place that they had planned to meet. He takes it as read finding
each other was an inevitability tonight.

"What's this?"

Garak hands him the pants which Julian unfolds and inspects. "Your old
ones were worn. I thought you could use a new pair, and I thought,
considering how busy you've been, you probably haven't even put any
thought to getting a new pair."

"No, I hadn't. Thank you. But... You know I can get a new uniform from
the replicator whenever I need one. You didn't have to go to all this
trouble."

Garak smiles brightly. "What you get from that replicator may be
regulation but it will never fit as well as something made just for
you. And it won't be made of Elaysian cotton either."

"Practically floats, I understand," Julian says, his grin returning.

"Usually."

There is an odd quiet between them for half a moment until Julian
notices people looking at them both as they pass, the phenomenon of
two people simply looking at each other in a hallway and not speaking
drawing their attention. "Um. Have you eaten?" Julian tries.

"There you are." Dax and Kira approach in a hurried flourish. "Are you
coming? It's going to start any minute," Jadzia urges.

They're decked out in some of the loveliest greens and blues they've
ever worn, as far as Garak is concerned. Obviously from Jadzia's
closet. Although the Major does look fetching in autumn colors, she
overdoes it, and the purely passe Bajoran fashions currently occupying
shop windows on the planet certainly don't help. A smear of glitter
brightens Jadzia's already dazzling face.

Julian looks uncertainly at Garak, then back at the two smiling women,
and Garak realizes that surrender is in order tonight. "You go ahead,
Doctor. Perhaps we can have lunch tomorrow."

Julian is relieved to be offered the pardon but wishes it had come
from the other side, honestly. The further thought occurs that
breakfast sounds better than lunch, and wonders how much of this is
written plain on his face.

Garak is looking back and forth between Julian's obvious inner
struggle and the ladies' urgency when suddenly the Major, for all she
means well, complicates and elongates an already painful submission
with an uncharacteristic spurt of camaraderie. "Come on Garak, why
don't you come with us?" She's smiling that bright as the sun smile
she reserves for people she actually likes and it's tempting to take
her up on it. After all, he could spend the next few exhausting hours
watching Julian vibrate in his own skin as he is doing right now,
enjoying the subtle blush to his cheeks he'll buy with a drink or two,
but then Garak has never found much pleasure in self-inflicted
torment. He thanks her for the offer quickly and politely declines. "I
should really get some sleep. And, the gratitude festival is just
around the corner," he says with a leer. "I don't see why we need
another enormous party in the same month. You'd think you'd want to
spread out the late nights of imbibing and debauchery a little more."
Garak says finally, just to restore a little normality. Kira looks
appropriately shirty.

"Hey, it's not the Bajoran's fault that the Emissary decided to show
himself scant weeks before the biggest Bajoran festival of the year.
He'll have to suffer the consequences." Dax says through a grin.

Julian tsks. "Like having a birthday near Christmas. Poor guy."

"All right already, are we going?" Kira demands and starts trailing
away, pulling Julian by the hand.

Julian casts a quick glance over his shoulder at Garak as he and the
two ladies head off down the corridor, and Garak just stands and
watches him float away.

---

Garak leans against the cold railing of the lift, his mind quiet for
the first time in recent memory. He isn't sure what has caused this
relative tranquility after the frothing anxiety of the past few days,
but he'll take it, he'll enjoy it while it's here. Perhaps it's the
normalcy. This feels like a very normal day. He woke, showered,
changed, opened his shop, made a delivery, and soon he'll be going to
lunch with Julian. Even that thought doesn't make his heart leap like
he expects. It all feels very familiar and easy. They haven't gone to
lunch together in ages, but the experience of that weekly, sometimes
daily event over so many years... Well, it's like sewing. He could
stop for twenty years or so he imagines and then leap right back into
it again with no problem, with joy even. A little normalcy would be
nice right now.

The lift slows, then stops, then opens. Garak stands up straight.
Julian meets Garak's eyes and smiles a secret wry smile before
stepping inside. He doesn't even wait for the door to close
completely. Garak gets half a syllable out of his mouth before Julian
closes the distance, all the distance between them, and brings their
lips together. Garak lets his hands fall gently to Julian's hips and
greedily tastes the warm sweetness of Julian's mouth and the juicy
flesh of his tongue.

It's gone in just over a second, time enough for three quick mouthfuls
of Julian. Just his unexpected presence there was enough to shatter
Garak's calm, but the hot wet assault and the smell of him so near, so
suddenly, has made him forget everything else but the mad strangling
want in his gut. His planned destination from the lift, his objectives
for the day, this "normality" of a moment ago. All gone.

As Julian turns away from Garak to face the door, a fluid motion from
his step in, to the theft of Garak's mouth, to where he stands now,
two nonchalant meters away from Garak, the lift door opens again on
the next floor down and a Starfleet crewman enters. The young engineer
nods at Julian who nods back, and the lift is on its way.

He can hear his own river-rapids pulse in his ears and nothing more.
Garak looks at the floor and studies, not for the first time, the box
pattern minted into the metal. He counts thirty-seven three centimeter
squares surrounding his feet before the lift stops again and the
crewman exits.

He looks over at Julian who smiles a little and bites the corner of
his lip.

Garak is reclaiming a little of that calm. "We must stop meeting like
this, Doctor. People will talk," he says finally.

Julian laughs out loud though he knows it wasn't that funny. He's
nearly giddy with it though. The need to just grab him is driving him
mad, and the walls of time and duty between them are looking
perilously thin from his point of view, even as Garak stands there
looking cool as a Cardassian, steel grey eyes, broad chest softened
and disguised under muted green and blue. "Do you... do you want to go
to lunch now? Are you free?"

Garak dissects the mirth around Julian's eyes for a second or two. "I
think that's a wonderful idea."

Julian looks at the lift floor this time. "My quarters? Since we're
here?" Indeed the lift slows and stops again on Julian's floor. Garak
makes no mention of the fact that the promenade is equally close on
this level. Julian's smile and slight blush says it.

---

Garak's hand is a leaden weight on his hip and it makes him shudder
internally when his thumb squeezes in just a little. The hand moves
back and wraps tighter around his lower back , so low he can feel his
tough fingertips, hot as they dig into the bone of his pelvis through
the whisper thin material of the trousers Garak made for him. His
mouth is hanging open a little he realizes, but he has no power to
close it as long as Garak is going to steal his breath as he nips at
Julian's chin.

Julian doesn't know what to do with his own hands. He rakes them down
Garak's back and chest but with so much material in the way it is not
very satisfying. He wants to touch him, wants to feel and discover the
alien skin beneath. Blind, Julian finds the bottom hem of Garak's
shirt and begins worming his fingers under one layer, then another.
Garak's hands come from off of his body and grasp and hold Julian's
away as he kisses and licks and devours.

Julian kisspushes him away, two, three times, then pulls back to look
at him, wild-eyed and raw-lipped. "Did you want lunch?" he asks
through a pant.

Garak doesn't answer him again. He doesn't know what that means when
he becomes unresponsive, but he trusts for now. Elim backs him up with
a step forward and the balance of his body against Julian's. Dancing
again, but this time through the doorway to Julian's bedroom, another
kiss connecting them as they go. Julian grins brighter as they enter
the dark, quiet room. He doesn't bother to keep his arousal to himself
now, but lets it press hard into Elim's hip. Elim hums low in his
throat and just looks back at Julian, shark-eyed and intent. Julian
swallows hard and then pulls his uniform shirt up over his head
followed by his undershirt.

Garak's breath stops in his throat as he looks on all that tawny
flesh. He thinks in that moment that he may have never felt a riptide
craving for anything quite as he does for the warm and inviting body
before him. Julian keeps kissing him, placing his hands at Garak's
belt trying to get at more skin. Garak takes Julian's clever hands in
his again because he just doesn't know what else to do to curb this.

Hands are safe. Hands are made for touching. Hair is soft and
inconsequential. Lips shield teeth, but are matched when you kiss. The
weapons there cancel each other. But you don't bring lips to hands, or
anywhere else where they might be tempted to bite soft skin and
durable muscle. Likewise hands to lips or any other delicious parts to
touch is out of the question. They may taste the silk of skin, the
satin of sweat, and pilled roughness of hair or scale, but who will
stop them when they want to pinch and dig and bleed?

"Elim," Julian whispers. "Please." A request for mercy or an order, he
isn't sure. It comes too softly to his ears, needy, aching down
feathers.

He lets go of Julian's hands then and slips the button on Julian's
trousers, lets them fall. He barely glances down then as he pinches,
then curls the fabric of Julian's shorts around his fingertips and
pulls them over his cock to let them drop as well.

Julian is standing naked and painfully aroused in a room with a fully
clothed and irritatingly stoic Cardassian. All Garak has to do is lean
forward a little and Julian's calves meet the edge of his bed and he
is forced to sit. Julian watches with something akin to fear tumbling
through him as Elim removes his jacket - and nothing more. He kneels
silently and pulls off Julian's shoes and pushes his clothes to the
side. He looks up at Julian under lowered ridges, and all Julian wants
is to touch him, but twice now he's been refused and he isn't sure if
he should try again or not. He looks dazedly back at him, searching
his face. Garak smiles just a little, leans up to kiss him once and
then braces his fists on the bed on either side of Julian's hips
before dipping down between his knees. Julian gasps in the way you do
when you see a bottle fall from a shelf, before it actually hits the
floor and shatters with musical bedlam.

Julian's concerns are gone in a flash as the sun below the sea
following that harrowing second of hesitance. His fingers knot into
Garak's hair and in response he hums around Julian's cock. He's slow
and languorous about it at first. Seems to slip down by only the lazy
force of gravity, then crawl up to the top again and start over. Just
a few times, and then he's licking at him, at the underside from the
base, tantalizing and real, then up to the head, and Julian feels he
might crawl out of his skin. He makes some inarticulate noise when he
reaches that place again and finds he can't hold himself upright
anymore, and leans back on one arm. But now he can see what is
happening and he huffs several times and squeezes his eyes shut
against it. Too much. Garak's lips sliding down under gently closed
eyes. His cock disappearing into Garak's  mouth; it's unreal. He keeps
his eyes shut a few more seconds but it's no good; he's seen it and
that image is going to stay burned there for some time. He moans out
loud as Garak sucks hard on the head and then dives back down on him.
Julian opens his eyes and finds himself chuckling at his own lack of
control.

"Oh my God," he mumbles and wants to kiss him again. But Garak starts
pumping up and down on him faster, his lips tight around him, his
tongue flat and slippery under his cock, teasing with the tip and
running around the head in circles every time he comes up for air.
Garak breathes steadily, gulping through his nose and Julian can feel
the cool rush of air inside his mouth as it blows across the head of
his cock. That in itself is going to kill Julian. The hot and cold
trading places over and over. He feels it drawing near, he wants to
push it away, petulant. Not yet. Too soon, way too soon. But it's
inevitable and quickly squeezing his groin inward, blood stiffening
his cock rock hard and purple against Elim's face until Julian's
abdomen is spasming. Oaths spew from his mouth punctuated by other
wordless noises and calls as he squeezes his legs around Elim's head.
He can feel the Cardassian's silky hair on his thighs. Julian gasps
for breath and goes limp, feeling bodily numb except for the tingling
ecstasy like rivulets of gold all over him and Elim's rapid breath on
the base of his cock. Garak comes up slowly, partially, and Julian
shivers at the feeling of him swallowing with his mouth still full. He
pauses then, still except for a tremor Julian can feel in Garak's
lips. Then his head dips down on him again and Julian cries out and
grabs Elim's head with both hands. He comes back up, and that tongue
laps at him, and he's so oversensitive it's like sweet burning knives,
so good but so much. Garak tongues and sucks and dives at him over and
over and each time, Julian thinks it will be the last time he torments
him, but it is not. He begins to laugh and can not help the reflexes
of his body that pull him away from the onslaught, that demonic mouth.
He shivers away from Elim, calling his name and laughing anxiously
still until finally Garak is out of range.

Garak is panting but still kneeling as he was. Julian catches his
breath for a moment and then crawls to him, limp and wasted, but more
appreciative than he thinks he could possibly express in words. He
takes Elim's face in his hands and begins kissing him over and over,
tasting himself on his tongue and feeling the slip of swollen lips
between his. He nips at them gently until Garak's hand comes up to the
side of his face, a thumb running over his ear and hair. He pulls back
to look at him again, to search him for a desire. He wants to know
what Elim wants from him, wants to hear him say it, but he'll take a
subliminal message if he can't get conversation.

"I'm afraid I must be going, my dear," Elim mutters, then clears his
throat.

Julian wants to say something in response to that, but he can't come
up with a thing. Nor does Elim give him a chance to. He looks his face
over again, as if memorizing it, which strikes alarm in Julian like
breaking glass to his ears. Then he kisses him again, quick and soft,
and then he's gone.

---

Garak gets the door to his quarters closed behind him, locks it with a
word and begins gasping fish-like as he had wanted to ages ago in the
corridor. He's leaning against the corner where the doorway meets the
wall and he undoes his trousers. The darkness in the room seems to
hide him from himself. Hide his face from the cold eyes of his rooms.
He winces, holds his breath and clenches his teeth as his organ
emerges, painful and hard, from his body. He lets the breath go when
it's out and tingling in the air. Dripping wet onto the floor and his
pants, he takes it in hand and strokes  with relief up and down the
hard shaft, nudging the head through his fingers with the movement of
his hips. His eyes slip shut, and behind them he can see Julian, and
he remembers with crystal clarity the dark weight of his cock in his
mouth. Not like a Cardassian's. Thicker and more rugged. Perfectly
fleshed and silky. His cock jumps in his hand, and as if it directed
his thoughts with a mind of its own, Garak sees Julian in front of him
again, his bare back to him, fistfuls of his flesh in Garak's left
hand. He's not screaming anymore, just placid and accepting, sweat on
his brow, dry tear tracks on his cheek. His skin is red and the first
dappling of purple is rising in arcs across his back. Garak fucks his
hand but his face is crumpling in shame, despair. He can't resist.
He's violating Julian in his mind and it feels so good, just imagining
his fist is Julian, but it can't be enough. He wants it to be, but it
isn't and his hand is clutching something. Now that he knows what it's
like to touch him, to taste him, the fantasy is too real. It's too
close to the surface and he can not sink it. He hits Julian with the
rod in his other hand, the real hand coming down to smack the wall
behind him, bruising his knuckles. Julian cries out as he did when
Garak wouldn't let him go. Just moments ago this happened. Garak's
eyes fly open and he throws his arms away from himself with a growled
Cardassian slur.

He's shaking and his hard, weeping cock points angrily into the center
of the room. The room doesn't seem to notice, but Garak collapses on
himself anyway, hiding. He puts his face, distorted and mangled into
his wet hands and slides down the wall.

---

to be continued in Black Bottle Three: In Trust