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Black Bottle	By : herm42 Category: Star Trek > Deep Space 9 Views: 2406 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
prologue
en bref

    It
didn't feel like this in the beginning. Before, it was easy and
completely entertaining to watch the naïf try to be
inconspicuous. The memory of that first hesitant smile makes his
mouth quirk sympathetically. Though Garak did underestimate him.
Everyone did. Behind that smile was a capacity for artifice he had
not imagined. A learned and finely honed skill. That was a
bit of a surprise, but only a mild one; only a connection between a
few formerly unaccountable entries in Garak's mental tally. He knows
better than to underestimate him now. Usually.

    But
it didn't feel like this in the beginning. Now it feels like
deception. He'd never been troubled with such a notion before. But
now. Julian trusts so much. Gives so much. Even after everything that
has happened. Everyone they've lost, everything broken. His mood is
often sombre these days. The war has closed in on everyone, a choking
wind forcing too much air in your lungs, and there is little to do
but hold on and face the gale. They seldom enjoy lunch together
anymore either. Instead it takes a concerted effort to arrange a few
hours of quiet escape. It's the only thing Garak looks forward to
anymore. And yet it knots him up inside as well. Despite everything,
Julian trusts him. And now it feels like deception.

    Duplicity,
coersion, intimidation; forms of discrete force that result in a gain
for one and a loss for another. Second nature to Elim Garak. First
nature. Whether used to extract information or as punishment, the
most effective of them is the promise of a gain where none exists. If
you make it clear that they are going to lose everything, not losing
something feels like a win, and they will do anything for it. Tell
you anything, sell you their own lives. It is a gift you give them.
The knowledge that their family will suffer only humiliation and not
death. Or perhaps you give them death as their concession. It is
better than life in agony, but regretful if in
vain.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I.
The Gift


Julian answers the door close to midnight and lets Garak in with
barely a nod. Garak can see a beastly tension riding high in
the human's shoulders and shadowing his face as he returns silently
to a rumpled cloth half-spread over the table. Julian has
rearranged his quarters a little since their last dinner. His
half-moon couch has moved from the window to the middle of the room.
Different, Garak thinks, and steps just inside. Julian does not
seem to notice that he is invited in, but not yet welcomed, and he
stands for a few silent seconds in the doorway.

    “I
have something for you,” Garak intones, taking the initiative.
Julian looks up, edges back toward his guest with a final palm
smoothed over the tabletop. Pleasantries are not necessary
between them perhaps, but Garak can not help but wonder if the lack
tonight indicates displeasure, or if it is just another facet of
whatever it is that has turned the doctor's brow hard and flat.

    Garak
produces a small black glass bottle from a plain box. It bears an
etched label painted in fine scrolls of red. Ragged curl of paper at
the top. He always brings something, Julian has noticed.
An off-world treat, a Cardassian dish to which he has not yet been
introduced, a piece of music. Julian would reciprocate, but
Garak has never offered to host and Julian does not bother suggesting
it. The fact that he always brings some sort of offering is
meaningless, he thinks, but his tired eyes snag on the glossy bottle
just as his mind does on the way the Cardassian has drawn attention
to the gift. Either the gift is different or he is different.
He does not give Julian time to consider it right away.

    “Azkali
wine," Garak explains and Julian's attention is strung taught,
overworked and resisting, but compulsory. Nothing with Garak is
simple or wasted, and he is aware that there is either something
important being communicated, or the Cardassian is trying to distract
him from the important thing, or both. Sometimes he thinks
Garak has been at his game so long he is no longer aware that he's
playing it.

    He
shows his surprise with a blink. “I've heard of it. Isn't it
extremely rare, hard to come by?”

    Garak
notes with a little melancholy amusement that Julian is even still in
his uniform. 'Hello' and 'How are you?' are often not in the
doctor's vocabulary on days he's so busy he's still in his uniform at
midnight.

    “Yes.
Especially now that the Azkali's planet has been razed, I don't think
we can expect a new vintage from them any time soon. I've only ever
even seen one other bottle.” Garak explains.

    “Tain?”
Julian asks mildly, quietly, as if to avoid disturbing that
particular spirit.

    “Tain,”
Garak nods. “He saw to it that he got a supply before he
ordered the Azkali eliminated some fifty years ago. They refused to
accept Cardassian currency for their goods." Julian's face
hangs low as he looks the bottle over and Garak feels a sour pang of
regret in his chest.

    “If
it's that rare, maybe we should...save it,” Julian says and
frowns, thumbing the fine red lines to get their texture.
Maybe, maybe, maybe he is reading too much between the lines.

    “I'm
sorry. It was not a good choice for a gift.”

    Julian
shakes his head and pushes the glower from his face. “No, what
better way to remember them,” is all he can think to say, and
hands it back to Garak with a forced half smile. A shallow and
pedestrian sentiment perhaps, but what else is there? He won't refuse
such a gift on the basis of it's dark connotations. He spends too
much time in the dark these days. Especially where Garak is
concerned. “Where did you find it?”

    Garak
places the bottle on the table Julian has set up for them in his
living room and wanders toward the large window as Julian fetches
glasses. Garak begins to lose himself in the inky black outside as
soon as his eyes reach the infinity, the easy slip of an accustomed
habit, and could swear he feels the station swaying under his feet.

    War
is like a churning engine in dark ocean waters. It stirs up the
glittering living flotsam from its protected home on the seabed, and
the current carries it to waters it has never seen, and where it is
not likely to last long. The thought creeps unbidden into his palate
and tastes of dust.

    “Garak?”
comes Julian's voice, soft, but neutral.

    Garak
takes a deep breath and refocuses with a sanguine smile. “War
is a splendid motivator in the market of antiques and rarities. It
inspires people to pick up and leave their homes, travel to new
places, bringing their culture with them so they may liquidate it to
survive. I found it for sale on the promenade only a week ago.”

    Maybe
not.

    Julian
blinks, his eyes momentarily hard and glassy. An odd reaction,
Garak thinks. Then Julian's eyes drop, and his brow
counterpoints in a way that makes him look indifferent, matching the
tone of his next question. “Does it always come in such
small bottles?” Julian examines it in one hand as he sets the
two stems on the table top. Clearly he does not mean to imply that
the donated bottle is inadequate, as he simply looks it over front
and back and front again with casual reverence. It is
a very small bottle for two people to share, or it would be if it
were any other spirit.

   Garak's
smile becomes a little more yielding. “Doctor, you should be
very well acquainted with the notion that appearances can be
deceiving.”

    A
deep frustration has been growing like mold within Julian for the
past several months. “Am I ever,” he mumbles
irritably and replaces the bottle on the table between the two sparse
place settings. He sighs and sits down at the otherwise empty table,
and by the pause Garak takes to watch him do so, he guesses it was
exactly the inaction that his Cardassian friend wasn't expecting.
They are there to have dinner after all. Whether Julian's frustration
stems more from the war or from a vein of hostility impregnating the
thick membrane between Garak and himself, he isn't sure, but reletive
to it, this small defiance is satisfying in a way. He sighs and says,
“I can't say I really feel like eating, Garak.”

    A
thoughtful half-pause and Garak approaches the table. “No, I
admit my appetite is lacking as well lately. But I don't recommend we
indulge in the wine without something to buffer our stomachs.”

    “It's
that strong?” An indefinite moment hangs in the air and Julian
scowels. He's teetering between aquiecence and rebellion and he
doesn't like it. “I don't know, Garak. Getting well and
fully drunk sounds like a good idea right about now.”

    “I
don't think we'll have any trouble accomplishing that, food or no.
Why don't you pour while I find us something suitable to accompany
it.”

    He
can't quite muster capitulation, so instead Julian slaps a limp hand
to the bottle's neck and scrapes the vessel across the table toward
himself, disturbing his perfect table cloth with a streak of ripples
like a finger dragged over the surface of still water. He peels the
seal off the top, leaving the crinkled and curled rind in the middle
of the table. He turns the cap and the cork extracts itself with a
tiny pop befitting the baby bottle. A glass before him, he tips the
vessel gently but finds his hand rootless and weak. Probably because
he hadn't eaten all day. Julian brackets the mouth of the glass with
his other hand and steadies the neck of the bottle with thumb and
middle finger. A warbled clicking as the air reaches inside the
bottle to pull out its contents, and then the black liquid is
emerging, quick and fluid as clear water, though the color shocks
him. His breath catches in his throat and he finds himself in a state
to memorize every glossy curl and dark film as they fill the glass.

    “Julian.”

    Julian
looks up at his friend and feels the subtle, cool touch to his hand
as he spills the wine. He looks down and tips the bottle back up
quickly. He hasn't spilled much, just a little puddle in the web of
his thumb that drips over the back of his hand. Reflex brings his
hand to his mouth but he stops as he realizes that the wine isn't
black as it appears, but the deepest vital red. It stains his skin
slightly even after he has collected the spicy sweet moisture with
his tongue.

    Garak
turns to look back at Julian, ask him what kind of bread he wants. He
meets the brown eyes for a split second before they are wrenched away
to the glass and the spatter of wine on Julian's skin, and Julian's
lips claiming it. He forgets what he was going to say.

.................................

Garak
brings a plate of sliced bread, cheese, dried dates, and sevruga
caviar to the table and sets it between them without a word. Glasses
full and the bottle empty, Garak sits and lifts his glass by the
small bulbous cup. Julian does likewise and wordlessly touches the
lip of his glass to Garak's before closing his eyes and taking a slow
sip.

    Hot
and heady, the small volume rolls over his tongue with the same spicy
sweet effect he had tasted a moment ago, but ten times as powerful
without the alkali of his skin beneath. Like diving off a cliff.

    “That
is strong,” he says after he has swallowed and blinked a few
times. He breathes through his nose and smells burning flowers.

    Julian
has a bite of the bread. Then, he lifts a minuscule spoon of caviar
to his mouth, in the carefully focused manner one would use to paint
a landscape, and takes another small sip of the black wine. The salty
roe seems to take the fight out of the wine, mellow it right on his
tongue before it releases every nuance of jasper and saffron, warms
to his temperature to give him cinnamon and violet and ancho. Then he
lets it slide down his throat and all that's left is the memory of
warmth.
    The corner of Garak's mouth curls up
just a little. Leave it to his brilliant Julian to discover the
nature of things without even a hint.

    “It
is stronger even than it tastes, Doctor. Drink with caution.”
Julian simply nods in acknowledgment, the gnaw of hunger finally
reasserting itself in his gut. “The Azkali were mariners. Most
of their planet was covered with water, much like your own, but with
many smaller continents. The only other thing they became known for
was their vineyards, stiffened and nourished by the sea air. And
perhaps all it does is perpetuate the connection between sailors and
drinking, but there is little else left of them.”

.....................................

    Garak
took the smallest of tastes from his glass, but despite his
moderation, his head began to swim pleasantly in short order. And he
perhaps did not caution the doctor as sternly as he should have
either. They settled into Julian's small and comfortable crescent
sofa at some point. Garak still retaining the presence of mind to
bring what was left of the food and two glasses of water with them
(while the doctor seemed only concerned that the wine made it there),
he set the lot on the short table in front of the couch. The wine
bottle is empty, but somehow it follows them to the coffee table too
as if it were another dinner guest. Shortly thereafter with his wine
glass drained as well, Julian speaks softly, a whimsical asymmetry
settling into his face, his red stained lips. He curls up into one
half of the couch to face Garak, who simply leans back onto the
opposite side. Julian looks small all folded up like that.

    Bizarrely,
all Garak can think as he listens to the wine speaking freely, now a
little less weary and drum-taught, about everything he has thought
and done since the last time they met for dinner, is that Julian
needs some new pants. The bottom hem is frayed from wear, he can see,
contrasted with Julian's skin. He had failed to notice, probably
again the wicked drink in his belly, when Julian had pulled off his
shoes and socks, but now his bare brown toes curl into the meat of
the sofa seat in front of his bent knees. Those long elegant feet,
despite how they match their owner in size and shape and grace, are
completely alien. How often did he see human feet? He got used to the
plain human faces, their soft, unprotected necks that look too frail
to hold up their heads, and human hands which are just a shade
thinner and less blocky than his own. But the feet. He isn't used to
them and he finds himself staring unabashedly, considering, for a
moment, reaching out and touching. Once again, the wine.

    He
thought about telling him once. Maybe in just this way. A few drinks
to cushion what would likely be a mental blow to the head. Possibly
an emotional upheaval. He imagines that if he did it gently enough,
Julian would take it with maturity and the idea would be born and die
in the space of a few minutes, never to return, and with little in
the way of an awkward period.

    It's
just sex. More or less.

    Garak
smiles as Julian's face warms and brightens further with relaxation.
He watches those lips move with lazy syllables as he talks about who
knows what. Garak cannot quite stay focused on the meandering topic
enough to participate. Nevertheless, he is absorbing the story
in the background. His eyes roam, unnoticed by the doctor, over long
lean limbs in dark fabric. He doesn't need to admit to himself that
the physical attraction has something to do with the delicacy of the
man. Near femininity. Either way, it doesn't bother him,
but he wonders if he might convince the doctor that it is possible to
extend the definition of heterosexuality to include different
species, if one takes a small liberty with the etymology of the word.
It would nicely cancel both issues if the doctor was sufficiently
primed to accept the rationalization. Male or not, Cardassian or not,
the potential has been enough to justify entertaining the fantasy for
a long time, if not enough to pursue it.

    Because
it's never that simple. He can while away an hour now and then within
a detached daydream where the needs of the minute are satisfied and
nothing changes afterwards. It would never be enough though. For a
man his age it's not even a frequent thought really. But the fact
that, when he allows himself a brief romp in that fantasy world, it's
always Julian he's with is telling, isn't it? He knows, even if
Julian wouldn't dismiss it gracefully. Even if he smiled that wicked
little smile and crawled cat-like across the couch to cover him, it
wouldn't be enough, once, twice, and that would be truly horrible.
That would be more torture than he could bear. Or perhaps worse yet,
Bashir could surprise Garak once more and refuse to have anything to
do with him ever again. Seems unlikely for a man so open and
accepting and forgiving as the doctor, but a relevant concern, and
hardly worth the risk. Especially since sex is hardly the main goal.
Not that he is sure what the main goal is.

    He
can't really think that big anymore. Torture victims have very small
wants, and his shrink more and more every day. Granted, he is not the
victim of the kind of deliberate, violent injury that turns people
into selfish, brutish animals. He isn't thinking just about himself
yet. That sort of interrogation is like shooting a ship into space.
It needs so much persistent force behind it to reach escape velocity,
that if the craft isn't sturdy enough, the launch will destroy it,
the vacuum of space sucking them from their lives, the air from their
lungs, the light from their eyes. What's been done to him has had the
force necessary to propel a bit of down through open space, or float
a corked bottle on the surface of the sea.

    In
six years he's moved quarters once. Also in those six years he's
begun to realize how saturated with pain he is.

    Julian
pauses in the middle of his story and looks Garak in the face. Garak
is staring at a point in his vicinity, but he is clearly no longer
engaged. The ridges and scales on that face do much to hide his
thoughts, but after six years, Julian can read the darkness in his
eyes.

    “You
know,” Garak starts with an air of thoughtful pause, filling
the short void Julian has left. ('You know' is incidentally one of
his favorite human phrases, a segue into anything. So pretentious.
'You are aware
of this painfully
obvious
piece of information aren't you? It would be frightfully bourgeois of
you if you weren't.' And, 'Whether or not you want or need this
information, I'm going to impart it upon you, even if you've heard it
a thousand times before, even if I'm aware that the reminder will be
a slap in the face.' And let's not forget, 'I'm going to tell you
what's real. I'm going to wipe that smirk off your face with the
power of my wit, or else replace it with something a little more
supplicant.' All those shades of meaning in two little words. He uses
them all the time.) “If I were a greedy man, I would exploit
that remark to the fullest extent of my ability,” Garak says,
generously.

    “What
remark?” Julian grins, expectant, hopeful that his acquiescence
might derail Garak's depression just this once.

    “The
one you made just now.”

    “About
the Chief?”

    “How
much have you had to drink, Julian?” He smiles just a
little, a hazy reflection of Julian.

    The
fact that Garak would know exactly how much because he had had the
same amount seems to be lost on Julian. “I've had...”
he squeaks indignantly, looking at the streaks in his empty wine
glass, “...just enough. Thank you.”

    The
comment in question seems to slip through the cracks of Julian's
memory as he doesn't ask again, but Garak can not completely hide his
own amusement at the idea of Julian attempting to lure a woman like
Keiko O'Brian into bed at any stage in their lives. Even as
Julian grins at him, glassy-eyed and open, Garak feels his own smile
slipping. He turns his head a degree or two and looks at the
empty bottle on the table. He feels like he is slowly being
crushed.

    “And
how much have you
had?”

   Garak
waits until the silence is loaded, though he doesn't mean to.
There just seems to be an inordinate lag between his ears and his
mouth. Maybe he's not being crushed. Maybe he's being
stretched. “None at all.”

    A
strange timbre of annoyance creeps into Julian's voice and his smile
seems to splinter a little. “We've never done this before, have
we?”

    “What
do you mean?”

    “Just...opened
a bottle and got drunk together. The Chief and I. We must do about
once a month. More if Keiko's away. Sometimes I go have drinks with
Keira, Dax. Even Worf will have a pint with me, but in all the years
we've known each other it's never happened. Why is that? And why does
it start now?” For a drunk man Julian is forming a probative
inquisition on Garak with alarming speed and accurate aim. His
focus snaps back and he sits perfectly still in his seat.

    “I'm
sorry, Doctor. I didn't realize you felt our friendship lacked
anything.”

    Dismissive,
“I don't know, Garak. I think I know more about you than anyone
on the station-”

    Garak
nods. “Unless you've been briefing Sisko again.”

    “And
yet you still skirt every question I ask you, no matter how mundane.”

    “And
sometimes I suspect Chief O'Brian of being a much more devious
investigator than he lets on. It's possible he knows things.”

    “I
mean, how long did it take me to drag out of you how old you are?”

    “He
did survive that Romulan
debacle,”
Garak says with an absent-looking flourish in a raised eye ridge.
“Anyone who can out-deceive the Romulans has at least the
potential to test my defenses.”

    “And
the other day. During your physical.” Garak's hard gaze glances
off Julian's.

    Julian's
persistent nagging at him to get him into the infirmary year after
year usually pays off for the doctor about once every two. The last
time had been particularly unnerving. Julian's hands roving over his
skin with more familiarity than had ever passed between them before.
“Elim,
why is your heart beating so fast?”
he had asked him. Before Julian could suggest he get more regular
exercise, Garak sprinted half-dressed to the infirmary restroom and
threw up.

    “I
asked you what you had for breakfast and you made me deduce the
answer with a, a-” Julian stammers, his frustration rising and
the alcohol muddying his thoughts.

    “Come
to think of it. He's been giving me odd looks all week. More than
usual,” Garak says. He sees the white cap of another crushing
wave high above him.

    “Are
you even listening to me?”

    There
is the briefest pause and Garak meets his eyes again over the lip of
his glass. “Maybe I'm just trying to keep things interesting
for you, Doctor. You do seem to enjoy the pursuit even if you're just
chasing your tail.” Garak swallows down the acid left behind by
those words.

    Julian
feels beat upon, wan. “But why must everything be a bloody
puzzle? Why do you never say what you're actually thinking? When you
got here. You were staring out the window for fully five minutes
without a word, and rather than tell me what was on your mind you
made some sarcastic crack about the war.” Garak doesn't answer
except for a simple smile. The volley dies out and Julian is quiet
for a moment as well. Then he hits upon it. It comes from his mouth
before the thought even completely forms in his head. “You
don't have any more great secrets from me do you. You've turned to
these petty quizzes and annoyances because you have nothing left to
hide from me.”


Garak hates where he
is even as he stares into the cinnamon brown eyes from across the
short couch and notes the arch of every eyelash. Julian says he wants
to know. He doesn't. How could he? Always looking through the rippled
glass of Garak's facade with cupped hands and concentration. He wants
to see it because it is hidden. And Julian presumes he keeps it
hidden just to test him, just for Julian's own amusement. Sometimes
that is true, but it is also true that he can not live without it.
Either of them. Julian or his thick shell. And that is
about when it starts to feel too familiar. Too much like the old
Garak. Deception and not just protection. It keeps him coming
back, and that is Garak's lifeline, his Julian. He lures him in like
an angler, but he can not see Julian caught, fed upon. Not his
Julian. And so he releases him again, even though it is further
torment for Garak to have what he wants so near and yet unreachable.
Even if he stopped his fishing, it would be the same. It would be
punishment from afar or it would be punishment close and intimate.
He prefers this.

    Garak
wants to reach out and rub the little stitch of discord from Julian's
left eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, and he does it mentally. He
wonders what that strange little ribbon of hair feels like. Would it
yield to his touch or resist. Would it bristle or smooth.

    “There's
only one mystery left now, Elim.” Garak's nerves begin singing
sour notes like rubbed crystal. “And that is, why is there a
mystery at all?”

    Julian
is defiant but still completely open. He never shuts down like Garak.
He stands, setting his glass on the table and his arms animating at
his sides. “Do you keep me at arms length because you just
don't like me?”

    Garak
droops to his left. “Now really Julian. You're-”

    “No,
Garak. At this point...I have to question it.” Julian wanders
in a tight circle near the couch. “After, after everything
we've been through together and apart, after everything we've shared,
whether we wanted to or not at the time, I don't regret any of it. Do
you?” Intoxicated and angry, Julian's upper lip curls a little
on one side, seemingly in anticipation of disgust. And that was
exactly what Garak was expecting, unfortunately.“We go on like
this all the time. You, you evade me, you treat me like a child, you
clam up for a few days and then you're back again and you act like
nothing has happened. We go back to having lunch and talking politics
and art and everything else and you,
you're positively magnanimous,
until it starts all over again. Do you think I don't notice?”
he spits. “The only explanation I can come up with is that you
keep me around as long as you can stand me for whatever..." he
shakes his head, grappling for words, "...devious purpose you
have, and then when you simply can't bear another minute of me you
push me away and take a holiday so you can come back fresh Monday
morning.” The bitterness of it, far more fiery than Garak had
anticipated, rings out on an echo in the still room. Then he begins
again, softly. “Or. You want something Elim, but you can't
muster the courage to just say it.”

    Garak's
own mouth responds to Julian's heavy words by curling inward and down
and he finds himself shakily on his feet to meet the human eye to
eye.

    “Don't
you think if it were that easy I would have done something about it,
Julian? Do you think me stupid? Yes! I do keep you around. I entice
you with mystery and layers of invented intrigue to keep you coming
for as long as I can bear your presence and then I turn
on you, I swat you away like the irritating little pup that you are,”
he growls acidly, a tremor in his face.
    To
Garak's discomfort, Julian looks completely sanguine. “You're
doing it again. You think you can just get rid of me when I get too
close? Why is
there still a mystery Garak? I don't believe that we are anything
less
than
friends. I don't care what you say or how you yell it.”

    Garak's
knees are locked to keep him upright. He breathes seven shallow
breaths before attempting to speak again without malice. “I
would not risk that friendship on a foolish gamble.”

    “So
you'd rather just permanently endanger it.” Julian swallows
around a stubbornly tight throat and realizes how hard he is
frowning. Garak is silent and Julian is getting the impression that
he is going to remain that way. But he doesn't walk out. Yet. “Elim,”
he says just above a whisper.

    “Stop
calling me that," he
grates out behind his teeth.

    A
strange shock, those words. Ripped so fast from Garak's mouth as if
they had been waiting there for a very long time. The shy retreat and
contradiction of the next thing Julian says feels funny. “Garak,
that's your name.”
    “It is not
my name. I am not
Elim
any longer. I cannot
be.
You get-” he says and makes a sound like a whimper he cut off
and strangled within his own throat.

   “You
get near me,” Garak tries again, his voice still shaky and
barely making it past his teeth which are bared in an
uncharacteristic display of pain. The contortion of his face seems
raw and exposed. He feels his stomach reject and surge and he has to
stop again. He swallows hard and finds his breath. “You get
near me, and you say that name. You don't say it you, you whip
me with it, and I...can't stand to look at you.” He is pleading
but not asking for anything. No, not outright. Asking but not. Wants
so badly to ask, to shuck the need from himself, but that would ruin
everything. It would ruin it much more criminally than it was already
ruined. The sound of his own voice makes his hearing fade in and out
in protest. How did this happen so quickly? He pictures himself in
his mind, taking the little wine bottle, breaking it into a jagged,
desperate weapon of pity and cutting his own throat.

    “Garak
are you alright?” Julian echoes from somewhere behind a high
pitched hum. Garak's eyes light on his own reflection in the
twinkling black velvet window and the dark leeches into the room and
inks everything out like thick brine.

    Hands
have him and a couch comes up to meet him as his knees give and lower
his body down to where his tired heart is capable of keeping up the
pressure. His feet are up on the arm of the sofa only a second later.

    “That's
it. Take it easy.” Julian's fingertips are at his wrist, his
other hand at his jaw, and as long as Garak is this close to
unconsciousness anyway, he closes his eyes and enjoys the touch as if
he is already safely dreaming. He swallows. It only takes a few
moments with his skin tingling numb for the color to seep back into
the room and Julian's voice, soft and gentle once more, to lead him
back into the present.

    Julian's
blood pressure is high enough for both of them, but it doesn't do
either of them any good. The Cardassian's pulse gradually begins to
return to normal and his skin back to a healthy temperature and
color. “I'm sorry,” he hears himself say, and before he
even sees Garak look away from him in dejection he feels stupid for
saying it. He takes his hands away from Garak's cool skin and grounds
them on his thighs as he sits back on his heels. “Are you ok?”

    “It
is very strong wine,” he says after a long minute staring at
the back of the couch. This is what he is reduced to.

    More
or less confident that he can remain upright, he flexes and pulls
himself up to sit, slowly, and looks at his knees.

    “Listen,”
Julian says. He is listening of course, but it would be so easy to
just tune out right now, go to that place where he only distantly
exists. The place he sees when he stares into the stars.

    Julian
is shaking his head like he has a hand full of randomly suited high
cards. Like anything he throws out is likely to be replaced by
something less valuable, but the hand he has now isn't worth anything
either.

    Looking
up at the grey eyes not looking back, he feels his heart hammer
erratically before he opens his mouth again. “I love
Elim Garak.” It hangs in the air like a bell. The grey eyes
rise and meet his skittishly and Julian needs to explain. Needs to
chose his cards carefully and quickly. “I, I know a lot about
him. More than most others know about him. And I love him.” Not
despite. “I don't care what he's done in his past, I love him
now.
I love who he is. What he is. So unless you have something else to
confess, you are going to have to face that as I have.” Call.

    Garak
feels his whole face soften and crumble, and the pleasant hum in his
head still left from his drink drowns out the tiny voice that
normally shouts at him whenever these feelings come unbidden. Instead
he is asking himself silently, What
do I have to do to take this? Garak
suddenly finds his hand, relaxed and pliant, raised to Julian's face,
and his thumb outstretched to cover the start of Julian's left brow.
As it slicks over it, slow and gentle, Julian's eyes slip closed as
if he has nothing whatsoever to fear from Garak, from a man he knows
to be a murderer, a torturer, a deceitful wasted wreck. He can't
remember the last time he saw peace on another's face so close to his
own. Peace without death. Oddly, it feels like a cold reprieve, a
reminder of where he is. And where he is not.

    He
lets his fingers trail down Julian's temple and brush the hair above
his ear before he fades away and turns the radian of his focus off of
Julian's toffee skin.

    “It
is a complicated problem, Julian, having what you want offered to you
but being unable to accept it.” Elim's voice is a level
instrument.

    “Why...why
can't you accept...” Julian says fuzzily from the floor.

    "I
am not used to being given anything, Doctor. I take. I am an
operative of the Obsidian Order. This you know. People hide from me,
not the other way around. And when they do, I take these things from
them. Their lives, their spirits. No one offers.” From
one statement to the next, Garak's voice becomes straighter and
cooler in Julian's ears.

    Garak
stands with eerie silence and extricates himself from the coda of the
couch and Julian on the floor. He wanders back to the table they had
shared just a few hours ago and regards it as if it is the other half
of the conversation.

    “I
want to,” Julian says and stands.

    Garak
turns back and growls into Julian's wide eyes. With a glance to the
nearby table, he gathers and then clutches the tiny black bottle in a
tight fist near Julian's face, and together they back up into the
wall, a short dance, until they are nearly chest to chest. And even
as Garak fumes frustration, he hungers with the proximity. His words
come out harsh and pointed. “I have a black
hole
in my heart, Julian,” he rumbles like thunder. “And I've
filled it with the tears of the people I loved. And there is no.
more. room. I can not take
anymore; I can not ask it of anyone. Certainly not you.”

    This
time, he leaves.

II.
The Gift Part 2

    He
can't see disposing of the bottle. It is empty but for the memory of
a failing friendship and an extinct species, both nothing more than
footnoted victims of another war. Beautiful still. He puts it in his
office in the infirmary, in plain sight and he doesn't care what
people think when they see it, if they think anything at all.

    Though
something in him clenches and worries a little at the thought of
Garak walking in and seeing it displayed so. He is not yet sure
if the feeling comes from regret or hope. Not much chance of it
happening anyway. It might be his imagination, but it seems
they both have the same idea, avoidance. Julian has stayed
sequestered here and Garak, presumably, at his shop. Though
he's taken the scenic route to and from his quarters to avoid passing
the storefront and the replimat, so he doesn't even know that for
sure.

    Julian
has been staring at it for two days. It is a pocket of darkness
in his brightly-lit space, it catches his eye countless times.
Even when he spends hours in the infirmary proper, a closed door
between him and the bottle, it never leaves his mind completely.

Julian
looks into the screen in front of him, his sight never quite reaching
the text, but finding his own shadowed reflection on the smooth
surface. He puts two fingertips to the side of his face where
Elim had touched him and watches it happen in the screen until his
eyes slide closed.

    He
would do anything to feel that again. Not the touch, just- the
abandon. It was only a taste, the smallest sample of what it could be
like, like that little bottle of wine, a fractal example of perfect
freedom. It's just to the left of his screen. He can see it
even now without looking, feel it as well. He opens his eyes,
picks up the little glass rememberance and uncorks it, presses the
neck to his lips. Cool and smooth, and fragrant with the dregs.
Everything is a stochastic tendril of Elim.

    “I
can not ask it of anyone. Certainly not you.
"

    That,
Julian realizes, now that the fog of alcohol is gone and his mind is
clear of the raw rejection of two days ago, was an admission. That
was more truth than Elim had ever voluntarily spilled before. In the
past, Julian could expect about half of what Elim said to turn out to
have a grain of truth to it, and the other half to be completely
unaccountable. No witnesses of course.

    “Of
all the stories you've told me, which ones were true?”

    “My
dear doctor, all of them were true.”

    “What
about the lies?”

    “Especially
the lies.”

    And
it always amazes Julian, the way Garak is able to invent grey areas
between the stark monochrome of truth and untruth. Julian, as a
scientist, has always placed his faith on the strength of that
definition. At any moment in time, something is either true or it is
not. And he and Garak, they are speaking the same language.
That is undeniable now. So a truth should follow naturally.
This push and pull doesn't make any sense.

    “You
do seem to enjoy the pursuit even if you're just chasing your tail.”

    A
chilly finger of fear scratches up the back of his neck as he
considers the probability that the reason it doesn't make sense is
that it isn't true. Because it is all another act and he has
bared his heart to a cruel madman.

    “It
is not
my
name.”

    And
yet. Julian can see the want in those grey eyes. Sees the
affection behind them and feels warmed by that cold Cardassian gaze.
Simply by that. Maybe it's all part of his own perspective, but
it doesn't feel like it. It feels like an incomplete truth.
Something hanging in limbo and not yet decided.

    “No.
More. Room.”

    He
shakes his head and hopes that all the pieces inside will rearrange
themselves to a complete picture when they settle. It doesn't
work. How do you wrap your mind around a thing as complex and
bifurcated as Elim Garak?

    “Julian?
Oh, there you are.” O'Brian peeks around the corner of Julian's
office and then steps inside. A reflex from somewhere wants to
grab the bottle off the desk and shove it in a drawer, but he stifles
it. “Do you have that hypo for Yoshi?” The Chief's
gruff and accented burr is always a small comfort. A little
reminder of home way out here on their metal island. It breaks
the dreary spell Julian has been under, at least for the moment.

    “Sure.”
Julian swivels in his chair, picks up the vial in question from a
little shelf next to him and swivels back to hand it over to the
chief. “You don't want me to administer it?”

    “Nah.
Keiko wants to do it. Ever since she took the kids to see that farm
on Bajor, Yoshi's scared of ya.”

    Julian
raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

    “He
thinks you're a scarecrow.”

    Julian's
face wrinkles up a little on one side with a tired smile and he leans
back in his chair. Then his face falls. He didn't see it
how it got there, but now Miles has the empty wine bottle between his
hands, twirling it with vague and casual interest, the way one would
handle a cheap souvenir on a shelf in a shuttleport store.

    “Hey
what's eating you?”

Julian
flinches a little, he's perched to take it from him but the knowledge
that that would bring undue attention to it keeps him in his seat.
A lie, a half truth is on his lips but it tastes like bile. Tastes
like something Garak would say to brush him off and he swallows it
rather than feed it to Miles. “Just a puzzle I can't seem to
find the answer to.” Vague is ok. Utter fallacy is not.

    The
chief chuffs with a funny little smile in his small mouth. “No
really. What's the trouble.”

    He
can't laugh at himself today. Not at anything. He hates
them, Miles. Julian loves one and Miles hates them all with
perhaps only a measure of extreme distaste reserved for Garak.
“I really...I'm just stuck. It appears to be a perfect knot,"
he grumbles.

    “Julian.
The problem has yet to be invented that you can't figure out. What is
it anyway?” he asks and puts the bottle back on Julian's desk.

    He
thinks about how much he wants to tell his friend about this. Miles
can be amazingly perceptive at times, though he doesn't think that
even if he spilled the whole thing, he'd be able to just write up a
solution on the spot. In fact, he could see him having Julian
committed at the mere mention of it. “I guess it's sort
of a philosophical problem," he begins. "If you take
what you need to survive it's not immoral, but if you take what you
need to be happy it is. But what good is it to simply survive
if you can not be happy? And is decieving yourself, telling
yourself you don't need to be happy, don't deserve to be happy, for
whatever reason, is that the same as taking what you need to survive
from someone else who would need you
to
be happy?"

    Miles
makes a face. “Julian, I'm an engineer, not a philosopher.
Honestly, that sounds more like the kind of thing you should talk to
Garak about. He at least seems to think
he
has all the answers, and he's never shy about sharing them and
showing you how you're completely wrong, unless you're Cardassian. Of
course you only get that far if you can get him to stop lying for a
minute. But I think you have more luck at that than most of
us.” Perceptive. Julian purses his lips against the
wry smile that threatens there. Miles points at Julian.
“Maybe you should interrogate him," the chief says as an
afterthought, "Give him some of his own medicine.” Miles
smirks mischievously and Julian is helpless not to return the grin.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

    Garak
steps into the sultry refuge of his quarters. He doesn't bother with
the lights. He just wants a drink and then he's going to bed.

    Kanar
in hand, he slumps into the round, padded chair in the shadowed
corner of his living room. He takes a sip and lets it leech between
his teeth before swallowing, leaving behind a comforting, if shallow
warmth. His eyes slide closed and his head, with little voluntary
action on his part, dips back and rests on the soft tall back of the
chair in an unusual gesture of trust, or maybe just resignation,
toward the darkness. His throat exposed, he swallows again.

    “Computer,
initiate force field.”

    Garak's
eyes and head snap open and up. Nothing else moves because nothing
else can. His arms and legs are held fast to the chair. The
familiarity of the voice was the only reason he didn't pop out of the
seat at the first intonation of the first word of that sentence, but
now he regrets allowing Julian to finish his command before reacting.

    Julian
emerges from the black of Garak's bedroom doorway and approaches the
trapped tailor in his seat. Garak looks up at him through his brow
and schools his face unreadable, the small measure of resignation of
a moment ago gone. “My dear doctor, I assume that there is some
grave, urgent, medical
reason for this...unexpected visit.” A knot of anger twists in
his gut, and he wants to call this an intrusion, blatant abuse, but
he is the one stuck to his seat like a rat in glue, and he doesn't
have the heart to raise his voice to Julian again.

    Julian
crosses the small room. He takes the short glass of kanar from the
tailor's trapped hand and places it on the small table nearby. He
turns back to Elim and places his own hands on the arms of the chair
behind Garak's elbows and leans in closely. Julian can feel Garak's
accelerated breath on his face. He looks into his eyes, now
more firey blue than grey, and says lowly, “Yes. There is.”

    Julian
leans forward the rest of the way and as the centimeters between them
disappear, Garak's mind shuts down and fails completely to think of a
way to stop it from happening. Garak stiffens throughout his whole
body and blinks over and over again as Julian's solid pressure forces
him to press back or allow his head to be toppled to the back of the
chair. A few seconds that blink by slow and fast at the same time,
and Julian backs away. The sound the kiss makes as it breaks is
foriegn
and shocking. Elim blinks some more and presses his lips
together, not entirely sure they are still there. It was a dry kiss,
humble. A familial exchange; perhaps even an apology. Only as
his mouth cools does he realize how warm Julian's lips were.

    Garak
stares straight ahead, at the flat seam between the black below and
the shadowed cyan above it on Julian's uniform. In the foggy daze of
overload, it looks like pre-dawn over a black sea, and his pulse in
his ears laps like waves.

    “Look
at me,” Julian whispers, and focus returns.

    Blue
eyes rise from neutral to meet his, and Julian has never before seen
Elim Garak look so guileless. His thumb goes without thought to the
outer edge of a crescent ridge, hard as bone but smooth as silk.
Garak's lips part and his pupils widen subtly. “Now,”
says Julian, his heart hammering so hard he thinks Garak must be able
to see it, “Are you going to listen to me?”

    Garak
clears his throat and swallows. “You have my undivided
attention,” he says, only managing to get it above a whisper.

    Julian
seems bolstered, but his voice wavers as he speaks again. “Good,”
he nods, a little knot forming between his brows before he leans in
and kisses him again. Julian's knees snug between Garak's hips and
the soft chair arms, and his hands bracket Garak's face, so warm, so
soft. Garak's mouth falls open and he accepts it plainly, unhindered
by a thing. Lips and tongue and panted breaths and then he pulls away
again, wide eyed and breathing fast. He shivers a little even
as his eyes are hard and steady on Garak's.

    “I
love Elim Garak,” he says. Another soft short kiss on the lips
and a few more white hot pecks down his chin. Garak can't really
think. “Say it.”

    Garak's
breath is shaky at best. He's forgotten how to do it automatically.
“I,” he says, dizzy and helpless, “I...love Julian
Bashir,” he just barely gets it out his own surprised lips.

    Julian
half grins and tuts out the smallest pebble of laughter. “No,”
he purrs. “I. Love. Elim. Garak. Say it.”

    Well
well. Is that fear
coiling
around your rib cage Mr. Garak?
Garak's eyes widen. He knows this game, he's just never been on this
side of the playing field. “I...I...” he stumbles on it
over and over, and Julian, brave now, runs the tip of his nose down
Garak's neck. The human's touch is downy fire.

    “Say
it,” Julian whispers at his pulse.


“I...love...Elim
Garak.” Julian's smile moves up and he kisses him again. His
eyes slide shut as he takes Garak's mouth and slips his tongue
inside, warm and luxurious. Garak can't even begin.

    Julian
tastes Garak's lips as if they were his own, laves his mouth and his
breath, leaving Garak warm all over. He leaves his mouth after
a moment and Elim licks the taste of him off his lips, wanting to
capture it and frame it in case it never happens again, like a
snapshot of a blazing meteor.

    “Say
it again,” Julian's voice is hoarse and low.

    Garak
is compelled to obey, and that feels like breathing water, but he
does it. “I love... Elim Garak.”

    Julian
kisses him again. Escalating each time by a small step, climbing a
short flight toward a blissful peak, each kiss seems to push the
edges and now with the addition of gently dragging teeth, Garak is
surrounded and bathed with a heat that this cold rock in space has
never before granted him. And Garak can't move a muscle, nor
can he remember the last time he has been so completely removed from
his thoughts, so completely taken and helpless. Julian has punctured
him with those teeth raked across a shell he had not known was so
thin. Bitten a hole in his side with the most rudementary
weapons, and he's going to bleed, he can feel it.

    “Say
it again,” he says, his kiss-swollen lips a centimeter away.

    “I
love Elim Garak," he says between heavy breaths.

    “Again,”
Julian whispers.

    Garak's
voice drops off as well, “I love Elim Garak.”

    “Again.”

    “I
love-” Julian doesn't quite wait for him to finish. He's
standing up tall on his knees, devouring Garak's mouth from high
above, his hands threading hard into Garak's hair to rub solidly at
his scalp and tug at the roots in a way that turns his spine to ice
water. It seems anything Julian does now is perfect, every
movement of his body against Garak's is artful and every plaintive
nonsense syllable that escapes the lips pressed against his sets
Garak's nerves alight. He feels as though he's arching up to
the sky to taste the rain or reach the last bubble of air in a
drowning cage it is that vital that he stretch as far as his
invisible bonds will allow toward that face. He could be a seedling
in the sun. Julian supports the back of his head as he stretches up,
and the rest of his body might as well not be there as it is pinned
down to the chair on every surface and just tingling. He can't
remember the last time he breathed.

    Julian
sinks back down, slowly, taking Garak with him, and sits part of his
weight on Garak's knees. The kiss breaks slowly, rolling away and
peeling like rosey wet citrus, and Julian's eyes reopen and focus on
Garak's from too few inches away to really see. Their noses brush and
breath battles between their lips.

    Garak
pants shallowly for a moment and then says in an unsteady voice, “I
thought you were going to tell me something.”

    “I
am telling you,” Julian says, sounding equally winded despite
the fact they are both seated in the same comfortable chair. Then
he's kissing him again. Short gentle kisses over and over because
neither of them can really stand much more of the kind that bruise.
Or perhaps this is just a breather.

    “When
do I get to rebut?” Garak says between a few of them, faintly
surprised that his capacity for such talk is not removed by this
point.

    “Shut
up,” Julian says with a sigh.

    Elim
barely gets “Ok,” out of his mouth before it is swallowed
again by a ravenous human doctor with the softest, sweetest lips
Garak has ever had the fortune to have forced upon him. The shape of
them against his own is maddening; feeling the definition of their
outline slip between his lips as he captures them in a playful
mockery of his own predicament, and then releases them to taste their
marriage with his tongue. It's a cruel tease, self-torture, as
he participates at once eagerly and helplessly. He wants and he
wants, and he tries, even as he is kissed into obliviousness, to take
it all in, to feel everything there is to feel, breathe in his scent
and absorb his taste, and to just resist the desire to let his eyes
fall closed because even with his limited vantage point, there is so
much he wants to catch. Even in the unlit room he can see
Julian is flushed pink all over, and Garak wonders if he can feel
that or if it is purely for the enjoyment of the observer. He
is no longer concerned that he will wake from this and find it was
another daydream or that it will end as abruptly as it began and all
he will have to cherish is the memory of a few moments. No,
this is not something transient that is building and budding here.
He hangs on to every second tenaciously now the way one clings to a
life preserver, or to a person long and severly missed, drowned and
saved. He is memorizing this because it is a gift.

    By
the time the heady barrage begins to slow, Garak becomes aware that
he has no idea how much time has gone by while they sat there.

    Julian
sits and strokes every small ridge and outlines every scale and
strange marking on Elim's face and neck. He is hesitant to break the
spell they are under, but Elim looks so tired, so spent and drained,
even if he doesn't say so, even if he doesn't say a word, Julian can
tell.

    “Computer.
Force field down.”

    He
is free but he doesn't move. Julian runs his hands down the large
neck ridges and massages Elim's shoulders and chest through his
clothes. His eyes shut for a while, then blink open over and over.
Julian can't tell if it happens because he is sleepy but is trying to
stay awake, or because he is relaxed and blissed out and just trying
to remain alert. Either way it isn't really necessary. Garak hasn't
moved his hands from the spot where the force field had them pinned.
That isn't necessary either but he doesn't expect it to change right
away.

    Time
passes again in random pieces and at strange speeds totally removed
from normal experience, but eventually Julian shifts and stands,
removing that secure anchoring weight from Garak's lap. Garak follows
him with his gaze but still doesn't move. Julian takes his hand and
pulls him up gently. His knees crack and he almost smiles as he faces
Julian again.

    Julian
brushes his hair back into an approximation of that slick perfect
arrangement Garak usually has, kisses him, and takes him by the hand
to lead him toward his bedroom.

    In
the few steps it takes to get to Garak's bed side, his face has
changed and he's breathing noticeably faster, if still quiet as a
mouse. The silence is precious though, he knows, and does not break
it. In the dark, Julian sits Garak down, removes his shoes and
jacket, and lays him down on his bed with gently guiding hands. Elim
swallows hard as Julian walks around the bed to the other side,
slihouetted by Bajor, half lit in perpetual dusk on this side, and
climbs in with him.

    Julian
draws the covers over both of them, thick, supple, blue sheets Garak
made himself. Arms wrap around him then turn him to face the human
and he realizes he's trembling, his hands are cold but everywhere
else he's hot. And one part of him is extremely interested in
everything that has happened tonight, but the rest of him is suddenly
and absolutely terrified.

    Bashir's
sad eyes are looking into his as he continuously strokes his hair and
face. “Julian,” he whispers, on the verge of something,
at the corner of a precipice. The first thing he has said in perhaps
hours. Julian scoots closer and slides and arm under his neck and the
other around his back and he holds on, lips pressed to Elim's ear.

Julian
pulls back to look at him again, and then moves in, and presses a
soft kiss to the smooth round depression on Garak's forehead.

    Garak
is undone. He wonders only for a moment if Julian knows how intimate
a gesture that is, but after everything that's happened in the past
few days, he doesn't doubt that he knows. He's known all along.
Despite Garak, he knew. So brilliant, and so beautiful looking
at him from across the pale pillow. Garak bows his head and
sinks into the deep blue beneath the sheet and in the circle of
Julian's arms. His large hands reach out and find the slim waist in
front of him, and gently grip his ribs. As he sinks, the pressure
builds around him slowly and it feels like his whole body is being
purged, wrung out. It is a long way to the bottom, where the soft
sand will greet him, but even just this small rend bleeds out relief
so sweet, he's struggling not to weep into Julian's tunic.

    “It's
ok,” Julian says, and pulls him closer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

    Elim
looks the picture of peace. Julian, his head propped up on the
triangle of his bent arm, faintly strokes a shred of black hair above
his ear. Every little ridge and embellishment on a Cardassian's body
is an erogenous zone if touched the right way. By the right hand.
Julian avoids them now in favor of more innocuous places, hoping to
let Garak sleep as long as possible even if he lay awake until
morning. He is content to just look and let his mind wander.

    The
desire for more, for everything, was unmistakably there and real, and
now in the vanguard whereas it had been smoldering background noise
for so long. But now was not the time for it. Some precious bottles
should be preserved, saved for a time when it will sweeten happiness
rather than simply dull despondency. Kept regardless of the chaotic
destruction all around, the potential for loss. What good is a
beautiful thing not fully appreciated? For them it will feel like a
gain if it is not snatched from their grasp. And if unrealized
catastrophe is gain then unrealized love is just as good as a loss
undone. And Julian knows that in that they can lose themselves drunk
and freed for many nights to come.
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Black Bottle