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“How would you do it?”
Garak sets his fork down to regard his companion, a silent and contemplative island amid the nearby conversations and clattering silverware, and the distant exclamations of, “Dabo!” from across the bar. His face remains blank, neutral and indecipherable, although a spark of something flickers behind his eyes. There's the hint of a twitch in his right cheek. Interest? Amusement?
Distress?
“Why do you ask?”
Julian shrugs and finishes off his whiskey. It might have been a tequila with the way his stomach has begun to wriggle like he swallowed the worm. Still, he attempts to maintain an air of nonchalance. “Oh, I don't know. Curiosity, I suppose. You went through all those demonstrations with Quark, ways that you would help him off himself. There were quite a lot of options, from what I heard. What do you think you would use… on me? If I hired you?”
Rather than continue his meal, Garak sets his utensil aside and tilts his head, an almost reptilian regard that wouldn't look out of place with a flicking tongue. He doesn't smile playfully, like he had with Quark, or lean forward with curiosity or even intrigue. “Do you anticipate needing me to assassinate you, Doctor?” He, too, sounds detached, as if this were an ordinary lunch conversation in the replimat. Still. It almost feels like a dark aura has coalesced around him, a far off thunderstorm that threatens lightning. He has become the shadows of the alcove he chose to sit in, ones the ebullience of the drunken revelry surrounding them cannot penetrate.
“What? No, of course not,” Julian scoffs while getting to a passing waiter for another drink, calling on the suave persona he developed over time in the holosuites. “Although if I did, you’d be the first one I'd come to.”
“I don't know if I should be flattered or offended.”
“Don't be offended. If there's anyone I'd trust to get the job done, and do it right, it's you.” Julian accepts the replacement whiskey, saluting Garak with the glass before drawing a calm and carefully measured sip, his eyes fond but serious over the rim.
“I believe you may have had too much to drink,” Garak declares with decisive finality. With a flick of the hand, he picks up the fork and resumes eating his heavily peppered zabu as if the conversation is over.
It isn't. “I'm only on my third one. I've had fewer than Miles this evening. And you,” Julian tips the drink to point in Garak's direction, “didn't answer my question.”
***
Julian enters the holosuite, breath held in anticipation, his feet only slightly unsteady as he steps over the lip that Quark still hasn't removed to make the room more accessible. He's in his bedroom now, the lights set on low. Small details are off: the color of his blankets, the absence of Kukalaka. But it's remarkably accurate for Garak having been there only once before. Cardassians and their eidetic memories. Not to mention how many details an Obsidian Order agent would have remembered. Or gathered.
An agent is standing in the farthest corner just now, off to Julian's right, a black silhouette among deeper black. The dim illumination across Garak's creates a dappled camouflage pattern that no doubt would have rendered his ancient ancestors nearly invisible among swampy foliage. Even though Julian’s own species long ago stopped being prey, his mouth goes dry and his limbs sluggish at the unmistakably predatory stillness, senses heightened. There is nothing sinister in his friend's eyes, nothing that constitutes a tangible threat, and yet… all of his instincts demand caution, possibly escape.
Garak’s form inches forward not towards him but the figure sleeping peacefully on their stomach under the covers, one arm exposed and half hugging the pillow. He approaches the bed stealthily, not a single hair on his head disturbed from the passing air or altered posture. He pauses at the side, observes the slow, even breathing, seems to match the rhythm of the inhales and exhales with his own.
And proceeds to… do nothing.
“I could use a hypo, or a needle.”
His voice is low and calm but far from conversational. This is informative, a lecture. “But you may wake from the pain and have a chance to take action before the effects set in.” He continues to watch the obliviously slumbering form from only inches away. “I could use gas if I had a mask, but that method carries the risk of leaving behind some form of residue.”
Julian moves out of the doorway to lean against the wall, feeling more unstable than he had upon entering. His heart and stomach are doing strange things, and his mind is now wondering if just what he's gotten himself into.
“A knife to the throat or through the ribs would be immediately effective, but too messy. If a single trace of DNA ends up on my person, I have to destroy the outfit and decontaminate myself. Which is difficult to explain under interro- investigation.”
Garak presses the fabric over his hip, revealing a concealed shape beneath. “A phaser set on disintegrate would remove most traces except ashes, which are notoriously difficult to collect. There's always one or two left behind.” His head turns only slightly, sights still mostly set on the bed. “Tell me, doctor, what would you do?”
Wholly unprepared to have the tables turned, Julian stammers while he trying to bring his knackered braincells back online. “I- Wha- I, uh… Aren't you the expert?” he manages. “You've killed plenty of people before. And obviously gotten away with it. What… What did you do then?”
It's slowly dawning on Julian that Garak was only playing with Quark before; none of the scenarios had been in earnest or real. As the inebriation slowly eases off, it is being replaced with the notion that this may have in fact have been a terribly inappropriate and uncomfortable inquiry to someone he considers a rather close friend.
That he may not actually want an answer.
But still he waits, fingers twitching with a slight tremble, nearly cowering off to the side not with fear precisely, but with… something. Something dark, and yearning, and fascinated. To be incredibly honest with himself, he's mesmerized.
Garak reaches out to brush over the sleeping figure’s hair, and it's only then that Julian notices the gloves. The form under his caress sucks in a deep and sudden breath, stirs at the touch. Garak's hand moves lower, joined by a second one. They settle on Julian's shoulders to massage at the muscles, eliciting first a satisfied and indulgent moan that is instantly cut off in shock at the realization of an intruder being present. But by then it's too late. Garak has straddled the holographic human’s hips, knee bent so that his feet are pinning the legs, and wrapped his hands around the lithe brown neck, squeezing too tight for any air to enter, much less escape in a scream.
From his diagonally situated viewpoint, the real Julian watches in stunned stupefaction as the body between Garak's legs bucks and twists and is easily--so easily--subdued. Garak is larger, sturdier, heavier. At an advantage, attacking from behind where even lengthy arms can't do much more than scratch ineffectually and tug at clothes. The feet can kick, and they do- one heel appears to get a lucky strike at Garak's kidney. But in the end, it isn't enough. The struggle grows weaker, the movements less controlled and lacking force. A few more jerks, a slump.
It takes under two minutes and is laughingly simple.
And Julian is so hard it hurts.
He wishes that were him.
Not dead, no. But under Garak, surrounded by him. Held in his hands and trapped between his legs. Helpless under the spell and body of someone dangerous, powerful. Someone who could best him and his unearned, unnatural abilities. Someone who was shaped by his master into a sentient tool: smarter, faster, superior to others and therefore apart, separate and unable to relate to their ordinary, menial lives.
A monster like himself. Maybe even more so, and all the more fascinating for it.
Garak doesn't appear the least bit strained, rumpled, or disheveled when he lets up and turns around. It's too dark to tell what's in his eyes. He doesn't mention what he would do with the body that he's patched upon, frozen and lifeless. “Well?”
“Do it again.” Julian's voice is low but firm, not a hint or trace of his inner turmoil making it to the surface to betray him. He hasn't moved, but under the skin his blood boils, pulsing through his veins in expectation, exhilaration… exaltation.
Garak studies him for only a moment before giving the faintest nod, then extracts himself from the bed to retreat. Unlike the previous time, however, he faces the wall rather than the holosuite door.
I'm two long strides he's standing over the bed, and barely spares a glance for his clone. “Computer,” he murmurs, hopefully low enough to evade Cardassian hearing, “remove the Bashir hologram.” Julian steps out of his shoes to take its place.
Only this time he's lying on his back. Face (and other things) up.
Thirty seconds later, Garak turns around. Julian shuts his eyes and shows his breathing to appear asleep.
He doesn't hear the approach, but already his muscles scream with how tightly they're wound as he waits. And waits.
And waits.
Finally, a single finger brushes across his forehead, a feather-light sweep that adjusts his bangs.
Julian's lips part on the next inhale, and he swears he can taste something both familiar and alien on his tongue: oil and spice, and musk, with earthy, sandy undertones. He imagines the finger tracing down his cheek, sliding into his mouth, and sucking on it as it probes further and further back. Or two fingers, one on each side, pulling his cheeks apart to open him up impossibly wide…
But instead the story plays out as it did before. Two heavy, solid hands settle on his shoulders. Two thumbs press into the flesh under his clavicle, the fingers rub into the muscles above, and--just as predicted--he lets out a moan.
Before he can melt into the mattress, though, Garak’s weight shifts; the hands are now pressing Julian down into the mattress and Garak's hips are flush with his own, and in a very sobering flash he realizes that Garak has to feel the bulge of his erection throbbing between them. His eyes fly open to meet glowing, actually glowing, blue ones piercing into his--he hadn't known they could do that--and the moment Garak's hands tighten around his throat Julian thrusts up to grind against him and comes so hard that it burns. Fireworks erupt behind his eyes, and his entire body shudders.
Garak doesn't let up. But he doesn't go any tighter, either. His hands remain around Julian's neck, and he looks… dazed. Two blinks give him away.
Julian dives upward and drags the man down to meet him, their mouths clashing with an almost violent force. Teeth and tongues bite, lick, scrape. Garak flattens out until Julian is nearly smothered beneath his length. Grabbing, pulling, exploring, massaging. They roll onto their sides while attempting to keep their mouths engaged, shuffle back into the center of the bed, then roll again until Julian is on top.
As the kiss deepens and becomes less urgent but more insistent, Garak guides Julian's hands up to the thick, ropy ridges of his neck, where they grip the scutes and scales. Julian squeezes them tight, tighter, as tight as he can because he knows it'll be rough but a Cardassian can handle it, an agent would expect it, and Garak writhes under him. His knowing surgeon's thumbs stretch out and extend inward not towards Garak's windpipe but over the arteries that carry blood to his brain, and compress.
Garak groans into Julian's mouth, and Julian thinks he can actually taste his name on the whimpered breath. With a shout that is closer to a cry, Garak jolts in place and shudders, then goes lax. A warm wetness seeps through Garak's pants and into Julian’s. With a twitch, his body adds one more drop of fluid his own.
***
“I wouldn't actually kill you that way, just so you know.” Garak cards his fingers through Julian's sweaty locks, trails over the shell of one ear.
Curled into Garak's side and head pillowed on his chest, Julian wants to ask how he actually would do it. Maybe. He's more than a little curious, and probably always will be.
But maybe some things are better off left unspoken. Unknown.
After all, Julian is an augment. If his genes ever betray him, whether it's his mind that goes or his body… maybe he'll end up actually needing Garak's unique brand of service.
It's comforting, in its own way.