DS9 FanFic, "Marked," G/B, [R/NC-17], 3/6
Here's part 3 of 6 of "Marked."
Title: Marked, Part 3 of 6
Author: PrelocAndKanar
Series: DS9
Code: G/B
R/NC-17 (though not graphic) for semi-consensual and consensual m/m sex, torture and angst. Don’t read unless you’re into this sort of thing.
Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that Paramount has exclusive rights to the Star Trek universe, All Rights Reserved, and that all characters and locations are the property of Paramount television. No infringement is intended. STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures. Paramount owns all. I own nothing but my twisted mind.
approx. 15,000 words
This is my first attempt at fanfic. Purple prose alert. Comments, constructive criticism, and other feedback are very welcome!
Canon-breech alert. I have tried to explore how Cardassians differ from humans, and in addressing Cardassian anatomy and customs, I have of necessity strayed from canon, because we have, sadly, a dearth of naked Cardassians to examine. And because it’s true that good Cardassians are hard to find, (as well as the corollary that hard Cardassians are good to find!), I have had to rely on my imagination.
Before long, the two sweaty bodies lay tangled together. Well, one sweaty human body; Cardassians don’t sweat, exactly, although they do secrete. Garak raised himself on his elbow and regarded Julian through eyes that were slowly clearing.
Julian looked at his friend. It must have worked - he could actually see the Garak he knew returning, slowly but unmistakably. It was incredibly odd, to be lying here, naked with his friend, who was now looking like he might be ready to begin critiquing Terran literature at any moment.
Garak sighed gently, his eyes softening as he kept looking at Julian. He couldn’t get enough of looking at him. Now that his thoughts were returning to normal, he couldn’t believe that he was actually lying here with his dear doctor.
A thought occurred to him. Would it be prudent, would it be useful, to mark him as his d’stren? Would marking him protect him from whatever might still be to come? Garak had no illusions that their ordeal was over. He was sure that they had been monitored and had provided much entertainment, although he wasn’t sure Julian was aware of that. But, what was to come next? If he claimed Julian, perhaps any further efforts might be directed solely at himself. It was worth a try. He was only being practical, of course. He couldn’t imagine why a wave of dizziness should pass over him at the thought.
He turned to Julian and told him what he was thinking, but he did not yet explain what the marking entailed. “If I do this, then no other Cardassian can touch you. Literally.”
“Does that mean we’d be engaged?” Julian joked weakly.
“No.” Garak was serious. “There are other ceremonies that indicate intention to wed. This is… not a relationship of equals. It doesn’t particularly connote affection.” He paused. “If an overseer in the strip-mines, say… Well, many of them used the Bajoran women for their pleasure. For many, it didn’t matter which one. But, if they wanted one exclusively for their own, they would mark her, and any other guard or overseer would know not to touch her.”
“You mean, I would be your… chattel?” Julian asked.
Julian watched as a charming flash of charcoal played across Garak’s ridges. “Something like that. I would be claiming you as my, well, the term is “d’stren.”
“How do you mark someone? Is it like a tattoo?” asked Julian. “Or a scar?” It must not need any special equipment, if Garak was prepared to do it here. Maybe he did it with his teeth? That didn’t seem pleasant.
“No.” Garak looked at him, then turned away and walked a few steps. Without turning, he continued. “It is not a permanent mark. It needs to be renewed every two-cycle or so. It’s a scent marking. It typically requires a, what we call a second taking. After the first, well, that is, when a second sexual encounter follows immediately after an initial one, there is a secondary gland that secretes a.. special fluid.” Still facing away from Julian, he stood still and closed his eyes. “Because it requires a second taking, it’s an indication of intention.”
“As opposed to pure need,” suggested Julian.
“That’s right.” Garak drew a breath, then opened his eyes and turned to face Julian. His eyes looked into the young man’s.
Julian’s mind was having trouble keeping up. His face was still, impassive. A mask.
Garak turned away again. Julian watched as his friend’s back seemed to fall in on itself. It was like watching a house of cards tumble. How old was Garak, anyway? Julian had never thought of him as old, but now… well, he seemed defeated.
“Of course, I can… simulate the second taking, and produce the secretion. I’m sure that’s best, and then you can have whatever protection it accords you.”
He thinks I don’t want him, Julian thought, realizing simultaneously what had always been simmering underneath the surface all these years. He walked up to Garak and placed a hand on his shoulder. He tried not to show the pain he was feeling.
Garak didn’t move. Julian stepped up close behind him, and put his lips to his ear. “Please take me,” he said simply. “Again. I want you.”
Garak turned slowly. Julian had never before seen the look that was on his face. It might have been called wonder.
Garak sighed, and allowed his eyes to take in Julian, all of him. It was disturbing to look at him. Part of him looked with pride at the bites and bruises that marked Julian’s body. There was some blood. He wanted to lick it. But another part of him was appalled. What had he done to his friend? Living too long with humans had weakened him, he realized. He put his hand on Julian’s shoulder.
Julian flinched.
Garak’s hand flew away, hesitated, then landed gently on his hip. But there was bruising there, as well. A quick shadow passed across Julian’s face.
“Doctor, is there anyplace I can touch you where I won’t hurt you?” Garak asked.
“There are two places I can think of,” replied Julian. He took his friend’s hand.
“Here.” He placed it against his stirring erection.
“And here.” He moved the hand and placed it on his chest, atop his beating heart.
Oh, my dear, demented doctor, thought Garak. That’s where I’m likely to hurt you most of all. He wrapped his arms carefully around the young man. “It’s time for me to be your student. Teach me. I want this to be for you.”
“And for you.” Julian pushed Garak off gently so he could look into his face. “I want you to be perfectly clear about why. Not for the protection. But because I want this.”
Afterwards, as Garak massaged Julian’s neck and shoulders as gently as possible with what he called his flissitin, Julian tried to figure out what he was feeling as the alien fluid soaked into his skin. Amusement mingled with mild disgust. But he somehow felt flattered and pampered, too. And ashamed. The secretion was not anything like human ejaculate. Why such clinical terminology, Julian, he thought to himself. Don’t hide behind a doctor’s skin. Cum, that’s the word you want. Well, anyway, it was nothing like that. It was a thin liquid, somehow both oily and sticky, if that were possible. It was perfectly clear, and with no scent at all, that Julian could smell, anyway.
He turned to look at Garak, and noted his chest rising with deep breaths. He couldn’t hear anything, but he had an idea. “You’re doing that thing, aren’t you?” Garak looked at him quizzically, raising one brow-ridge. Julian tried again. “You’re using your scent-receptor, right? That’s what that... air-sucking, tongue-clicking thing was all about.”
“Yes, doctor. I’m stitking you. It means, well, ‘tasting the air’, I suppose.”
“I’ve never been aware of you doing that before,” Julian mused.
Garak smiled, amused as ever by just how much Julian was unaware of. “Oh, my dear doctor, non-Cardassians would never notice it. It’s done very quietly, with great finesse, at least usually. To stitk at someone so that they could hear it is, well….” Julian gave him one of those open, curious looks of his. “That would be a clear indication of sexual interest.” Intense interest, he added silently.
“Oh,” said Julian, his mind working furiously.
“ Yes, adults usually do it silently,” he went on quickly, “and it gives us an incredible amount of information. When we do this, we can…” He, who was usually so articulate, was at a loss to describe it. “For instance, when I did it just now… It smells… you smell….” Oh, Garak didn’t have the words to describe the aroma of his mark mingled with Julian’s scent. It filled him, it moved him, in a way he couldn’t have predicted. Their scents, combined into one… The truth was, he had never claimed anyone before. He wasn’t a soldier, well, not exactly, and he’d never been an overseer of any kind. Actually, in the circles in which he traveled, almost no one used marking these days. Anyway, in his line of work, well, the fewer attachments, the better. Even ones as impersonal as claiming. He still struggled to describe the scent. “You smell…”
“Stinky?” Julian offered.
Startled, Garak laughed. Oh, guls, when had he last laughed? The laugh was short, but it was good and pure. It was salve for a parched part of him that he didn’t even know was dry. “My dear doctor,” he managed. “There are people who have known me for many years who have never heard me laugh. Thank you.”
“You know, about this ‘doctor’ stuff,” Julian complained. “When I’ve been Taken and Claimed and Marked and battered around and what-not, not to mention kissed,” he could actually feel himself blushing at this, “I really do think I have to insist that you call me Julian - Elim.” He smiled.
But Garak didn’t smile this time. His eyes met Julian’s. It was amazing how intense those hooded eyes could be. “Julian,” he said. He said it very slowly, drawing out each syllable. To Julian, it sounded like a purr. To Garak’s ears, it sounded like prayer.
Julian was wearing Garak’s tunic again, and trying to find a way of lying on the hard pallet that didn’t hurt him somewhere, when the door groaned open. In strode Dukat, along with his usual retinue of three guards.
As always, Garak was on his feet immediately, standing between Julian and the door. Julian rose, slowly and stiffly.
“Well, well-” Dukat began, but suddenly he stopped and froze, as did his men. Simultaneously, they stared at Julian.
Now that he knew what to expect, he looked for it. In unison, the four Cardassians’ chests rose slightly, and he could just barely hear the sound of air being sucked in through clenched teeth. He couldn’t hear the tongue tapping, of course, but he knew.
Then, like a weird folk dance, the four of them, in perfect synchronization, bobbed their heads slightly from the base of the neck and with each head-bob, took a step backwards, one, two, three, hissing oh-so-quietly, for all the world like they were birds performing some bizarre mating ritual. It lasted only a moment, and it looked like an automatic reaction. Then the spell was broken, and Dukat laughed.
“You actually claimed this human as d’stren?!” he sneered. Then the smile vanished, and his face darkened. “It’s an insult! An insult, to mark a human! The other thing, well, that was my joke on you, wasn’t it. With the raspercahn, I wondered which way it would go. You were both very - entertaining.” With a sinking heart, Julian realized that they had been watched. Apparently, though, they had missed the second act. “We all took bets, you know.” A cold smile returned to his face. “I won. But I never expected you to go this far.” Suddenly he roared, “It is an insult!”
“How is it an insult, to claim a human?” Garak scoffed. “We claim Bajorans all the time.”
“Of course, we claim our Bajorans,” Dukat hissed. “They’re ours! We conquered them! We owned them!” His voice lowered. “We took care of them. They were like our children.” Julian didn’t know any Bajorans who would agree with that. “But these humans-?? They are strangers! You don’t mark on strangers!”
Garak spoke again, his voice now soft and silky. “Some Cardassians, they say, went even further than just claiming ‘their’ Bajorans….” he almost whispered.
Suddenly the room grew very silent, and the guards all seem to be looking at the floor, the walls, anywhere but Dukat. Julian could hear Dukat actually growling low in his throat, and he strode, step by step, right up to Garak, thrusting his face inches from him. What the hell is going on here, thought Julian, knowing he was missing something. He felt absolutely stupid. I hate this feeling! But it was clear that Dukat was beyond furious.
Dukat stood right up next to Garak. Dukat was tall, aristocratic, wearing the uniform designed for intimidation; his face was sculpted with arrogant angles; he was lean as a whip, and he was, well, magnificent. He pulsed with rage, pride, and power. Garak, in contrast, was shorter, stockier, with a broader face, wearing only his rumpled trousers, and he stood bare-chested. For a moment, next to Dukat, he looked like yesterday’s hummus.
Then Garak lifted his chin, and did something subtle, some slight adjustment to his posture maybe, Julian couldn’t really tell what. But suddenly, Garak radiated solidity, strength, dignity and a mighty force. He looked like a king, like Caesar or Zeus, and it seemed as if he were gazing down, somehow, on Dukat, even though Dukat was inches taller. The effect was remarkable.
Dukat’s glare faltered. Trying to cover up his momentary uncertainty, he spat. “No one claims scum! Not even you.”
Garak looked at Dukat with pity. “Don’t call him scum. He’s glorious, and you know it,” he said softly. Julian realized that Garak was talking about him, defending his, his right, Julian suddenly realized, to be claimed. It was confusing - Garak was defying Dukat over Julian’s worthiness to be considered chattel. He should feel degraded, insulted, incensed. Why then did he feel proud?
The two Cardassians glared at each other, then Dukat smiled in a way Julian didn’t like at all. “Very well,” he said smoothly. “To each his own.” He smirked. “Take your little d’stren and let’s proceed. I think a change of venue is in order.”
The door opened, and they entered a long corridor. Julian was having trouble walking. Standing, he could manage, but each step he took - well, he didn’t have much choice, he supposed. He tried to stand as straight as he could, even though the urge to hunch over was strong.
Julian noticed that the guards gave Garak and himself plenty of space, much more than they had previously. They were just as alert and let neither their attention nor their weapons falter, but they allowed the two of them what seemed to be an almost respectful distance.
Garak walked quite close to Julian. “Listen to me very carefully,” he whispered. “There’s not much time. Dukat hates me. He wants revenge. He wants very much to hurt me, badly. But he can’t touch you now. Just remember - I’ve been trained, I’m a professional. I can take much more pain than you can imagine.”
“But - the wire -”
“Forget about the wire. That came later. I was in the Order for years before I got the wire.” He glanced quickly around him. The corridors still stretched before them, and neither the guards nor Dukat seemed to mind their hushed conversation. “I don’t have time to explain everything. Just remember this - Whatever he does to me, you mustn’t react. It might be dangerous for you if you did. If what you see is disturbing, just… disconnect. Dukat knows we are associates, but it would be best if he were clear that you have no particular… affection for me.” And he’d better not know how I feel about you, he thought grimly. He paused, then suddenly backhanded Julian across the cheek. “Impudent!” he barked.
Dukat’s voice, from behind them, dripped with concern. “Having trouble with your ’stren?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Garak replied, his eyes on Julian. Julian understood. He rubbed his jaw ruefully.
They entered a room like so many rooms in Garak’s past. There was a table, a chair. There was a ceiling attachment with restraints. There were instruments on the table. Garak quickly looked them over. Whip. Blunt instruments. Bladed instruments. A nerve collar and remote. Crude, primitive tools. A sophisticated interrogator could achieve excellent results with much more delicate and subtle techniques. But clearly elegance was beyond Dukat. He scoffed to himself. Amateurs. They didn’t understand. His mind was automatically beginning to prepare himself.
“Garak. You should feel right at home here,” said Dukat smoothly. “Well, why don’t we begin?”
Garak took a quiet, steadying breath and stepped forward, as though he were ready to receive a prize. Positioning himself under the wrist restraints hanging from the ceiling, he turned to face Dukat and inclined his head in a formal little nod. “Whenever you are ready,” he said in a courtly manner.
Dukat smiled at him for a second, then shook his head. “Not you. Him.” Not taking his eyes off Garak, he jerked his head toward Bashir.
Everything stopped. Garak had never realized that the very atoms in his being could cease spinning like that. There was no time. Civilizations might have arisen, conquered rivals, and fallen into ashes as he stood there. The silence was absolute; his brain was clay; and he existed without breath. Then the moment was over; time resumed its steady pace, and his body drew in air once more.
“You can’t!” he said, horrified, at Dukat. “You can’t touch him!”
“I won’t,” said Dukat. “You will.”
Julian was following this development as though it were a somewhat dull game of tennis between people who were strangers to him. The words didn’t seem to make complete sense, even though the exchange was in Standard. He was puzzled. A slight frown formed on his face. The guards beside him exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.
“What?! You would force me to torture my own d’stren?” Garak tried hard to keep his voice from shaking. The guards shifted their weight.
“Oh, now, Garak. Torture is such a human word. We chastise our ’stren all the time.”
“That’s not what you’re talking about, and you know it.”
Dukat said nothing.
“What if I refuse?”
“Then you die.”
“Fine. Kill me now. It’s what you want, anyway.”
“Excellent!” Dukat sounded pleased. “And afterwards,… I think I’ll give him to my first squadron, now that he’s been broken in. They’ve just finished a very long, tough training exercise. They deserve a little recreation.” Dukat nodded. “If I keep patching him up fast enough, he should last…weeks. Well. Days, at least.”
There was a sensation inside Garak’s chest, a combination of heat and cold and electric energy, and it felt like it would explode. It burned and it itched and it grew bigger and bigger, and it was about to consume him, he could feel it. He wanted to let it explode and obliterate him, but he couldn’t let it. Slowly he squeezed it into itself, smaller and harder, until it was a tiny point of cold fire contained deep in the center of his heart.
Dukat watched Garak carefully. He reached for his weapon and aimed it.
“Very well.” Garak managed to say. Sadness washed over him as the weapon was returned to its holster. He regretted that the indulgence of death was to be denied him, at least for now. He hadn’t yet earned its release. He needed to prove himself worthy of its embrace. He had a duty to fulfill; maybe then he could relax into the promise of oblivion.
Slowly he approached the young human wearing his tunic. Julian looked lost, confused and frightened. He took an awkward step backwards, stumbling, shaking his head slowly. Garak walked around him, easily cutting off his retreat, and stepped up very close behind him. He placed his hands one at a time on Julian’s trembling shoulders. He brought his lips close to his ear. He didn’t know what he would say, but he wanted to pour some brief word into that exquisite shell.
There was no reassurance he could give, no hope he could extend. He simply breathed, “Julian.” Then he pushed him forward.
(Continued in Part 4 of 6)
Part 4 in next entry.
Title: Marked, Part 3 of 6
Author: PrelocAndKanar
Series: DS9
Code: G/B
R/NC-17 (though not graphic) for semi-consensual and consensual m/m sex, torture and angst. Don’t read unless you’re into this sort of thing.
Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that Paramount has exclusive rights to the Star Trek universe, All Rights Reserved, and that all characters and locations are the property of Paramount television. No infringement is intended. STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures. Paramount owns all. I own nothing but my twisted mind.
approx. 15,000 words
This is my first attempt at fanfic. Purple prose alert. Comments, constructive criticism, and other feedback are very welcome!
Canon-breech alert. I have tried to explore how Cardassians differ from humans, and in addressing Cardassian anatomy and customs, I have of necessity strayed from canon, because we have, sadly, a dearth of naked Cardassians to examine. And because it’s true that good Cardassians are hard to find, (as well as the corollary that hard Cardassians are good to find!), I have had to rely on my imagination.
Before long, the two sweaty bodies lay tangled together. Well, one sweaty human body; Cardassians don’t sweat, exactly, although they do secrete. Garak raised himself on his elbow and regarded Julian through eyes that were slowly clearing.
Julian looked at his friend. It must have worked - he could actually see the Garak he knew returning, slowly but unmistakably. It was incredibly odd, to be lying here, naked with his friend, who was now looking like he might be ready to begin critiquing Terran literature at any moment.
Garak sighed gently, his eyes softening as he kept looking at Julian. He couldn’t get enough of looking at him. Now that his thoughts were returning to normal, he couldn’t believe that he was actually lying here with his dear doctor.
A thought occurred to him. Would it be prudent, would it be useful, to mark him as his d’stren? Would marking him protect him from whatever might still be to come? Garak had no illusions that their ordeal was over. He was sure that they had been monitored and had provided much entertainment, although he wasn’t sure Julian was aware of that. But, what was to come next? If he claimed Julian, perhaps any further efforts might be directed solely at himself. It was worth a try. He was only being practical, of course. He couldn’t imagine why a wave of dizziness should pass over him at the thought.
He turned to Julian and told him what he was thinking, but he did not yet explain what the marking entailed. “If I do this, then no other Cardassian can touch you. Literally.”
“Does that mean we’d be engaged?” Julian joked weakly.
“No.” Garak was serious. “There are other ceremonies that indicate intention to wed. This is… not a relationship of equals. It doesn’t particularly connote affection.” He paused. “If an overseer in the strip-mines, say… Well, many of them used the Bajoran women for their pleasure. For many, it didn’t matter which one. But, if they wanted one exclusively for their own, they would mark her, and any other guard or overseer would know not to touch her.”
“You mean, I would be your… chattel?” Julian asked.
Julian watched as a charming flash of charcoal played across Garak’s ridges. “Something like that. I would be claiming you as my, well, the term is “d’stren.”
“How do you mark someone? Is it like a tattoo?” asked Julian. “Or a scar?” It must not need any special equipment, if Garak was prepared to do it here. Maybe he did it with his teeth? That didn’t seem pleasant.
“No.” Garak looked at him, then turned away and walked a few steps. Without turning, he continued. “It is not a permanent mark. It needs to be renewed every two-cycle or so. It’s a scent marking. It typically requires a, what we call a second taking. After the first, well, that is, when a second sexual encounter follows immediately after an initial one, there is a secondary gland that secretes a.. special fluid.” Still facing away from Julian, he stood still and closed his eyes. “Because it requires a second taking, it’s an indication of intention.”
“As opposed to pure need,” suggested Julian.
“That’s right.” Garak drew a breath, then opened his eyes and turned to face Julian. His eyes looked into the young man’s.
Julian’s mind was having trouble keeping up. His face was still, impassive. A mask.
Garak turned away again. Julian watched as his friend’s back seemed to fall in on itself. It was like watching a house of cards tumble. How old was Garak, anyway? Julian had never thought of him as old, but now… well, he seemed defeated.
“Of course, I can… simulate the second taking, and produce the secretion. I’m sure that’s best, and then you can have whatever protection it accords you.”
He thinks I don’t want him, Julian thought, realizing simultaneously what had always been simmering underneath the surface all these years. He walked up to Garak and placed a hand on his shoulder. He tried not to show the pain he was feeling.
Garak didn’t move. Julian stepped up close behind him, and put his lips to his ear. “Please take me,” he said simply. “Again. I want you.”
Garak turned slowly. Julian had never before seen the look that was on his face. It might have been called wonder.
Garak sighed, and allowed his eyes to take in Julian, all of him. It was disturbing to look at him. Part of him looked with pride at the bites and bruises that marked Julian’s body. There was some blood. He wanted to lick it. But another part of him was appalled. What had he done to his friend? Living too long with humans had weakened him, he realized. He put his hand on Julian’s shoulder.
Julian flinched.
Garak’s hand flew away, hesitated, then landed gently on his hip. But there was bruising there, as well. A quick shadow passed across Julian’s face.
“Doctor, is there anyplace I can touch you where I won’t hurt you?” Garak asked.
“There are two places I can think of,” replied Julian. He took his friend’s hand.
“Here.” He placed it against his stirring erection.
“And here.” He moved the hand and placed it on his chest, atop his beating heart.
Oh, my dear, demented doctor, thought Garak. That’s where I’m likely to hurt you most of all. He wrapped his arms carefully around the young man. “It’s time for me to be your student. Teach me. I want this to be for you.”
“And for you.” Julian pushed Garak off gently so he could look into his face. “I want you to be perfectly clear about why. Not for the protection. But because I want this.”
Afterwards, as Garak massaged Julian’s neck and shoulders as gently as possible with what he called his flissitin, Julian tried to figure out what he was feeling as the alien fluid soaked into his skin. Amusement mingled with mild disgust. But he somehow felt flattered and pampered, too. And ashamed. The secretion was not anything like human ejaculate. Why such clinical terminology, Julian, he thought to himself. Don’t hide behind a doctor’s skin. Cum, that’s the word you want. Well, anyway, it was nothing like that. It was a thin liquid, somehow both oily and sticky, if that were possible. It was perfectly clear, and with no scent at all, that Julian could smell, anyway.
He turned to look at Garak, and noted his chest rising with deep breaths. He couldn’t hear anything, but he had an idea. “You’re doing that thing, aren’t you?” Garak looked at him quizzically, raising one brow-ridge. Julian tried again. “You’re using your scent-receptor, right? That’s what that... air-sucking, tongue-clicking thing was all about.”
“Yes, doctor. I’m stitking you. It means, well, ‘tasting the air’, I suppose.”
“I’ve never been aware of you doing that before,” Julian mused.
Garak smiled, amused as ever by just how much Julian was unaware of. “Oh, my dear doctor, non-Cardassians would never notice it. It’s done very quietly, with great finesse, at least usually. To stitk at someone so that they could hear it is, well….” Julian gave him one of those open, curious looks of his. “That would be a clear indication of sexual interest.” Intense interest, he added silently.
“Oh,” said Julian, his mind working furiously.
“ Yes, adults usually do it silently,” he went on quickly, “and it gives us an incredible amount of information. When we do this, we can…” He, who was usually so articulate, was at a loss to describe it. “For instance, when I did it just now… It smells… you smell….” Oh, Garak didn’t have the words to describe the aroma of his mark mingled with Julian’s scent. It filled him, it moved him, in a way he couldn’t have predicted. Their scents, combined into one… The truth was, he had never claimed anyone before. He wasn’t a soldier, well, not exactly, and he’d never been an overseer of any kind. Actually, in the circles in which he traveled, almost no one used marking these days. Anyway, in his line of work, well, the fewer attachments, the better. Even ones as impersonal as claiming. He still struggled to describe the scent. “You smell…”
“Stinky?” Julian offered.
Startled, Garak laughed. Oh, guls, when had he last laughed? The laugh was short, but it was good and pure. It was salve for a parched part of him that he didn’t even know was dry. “My dear doctor,” he managed. “There are people who have known me for many years who have never heard me laugh. Thank you.”
“You know, about this ‘doctor’ stuff,” Julian complained. “When I’ve been Taken and Claimed and Marked and battered around and what-not, not to mention kissed,” he could actually feel himself blushing at this, “I really do think I have to insist that you call me Julian - Elim.” He smiled.
But Garak didn’t smile this time. His eyes met Julian’s. It was amazing how intense those hooded eyes could be. “Julian,” he said. He said it very slowly, drawing out each syllable. To Julian, it sounded like a purr. To Garak’s ears, it sounded like prayer.
Julian was wearing Garak’s tunic again, and trying to find a way of lying on the hard pallet that didn’t hurt him somewhere, when the door groaned open. In strode Dukat, along with his usual retinue of three guards.
As always, Garak was on his feet immediately, standing between Julian and the door. Julian rose, slowly and stiffly.
“Well, well-” Dukat began, but suddenly he stopped and froze, as did his men. Simultaneously, they stared at Julian.
Now that he knew what to expect, he looked for it. In unison, the four Cardassians’ chests rose slightly, and he could just barely hear the sound of air being sucked in through clenched teeth. He couldn’t hear the tongue tapping, of course, but he knew.
Then, like a weird folk dance, the four of them, in perfect synchronization, bobbed their heads slightly from the base of the neck and with each head-bob, took a step backwards, one, two, three, hissing oh-so-quietly, for all the world like they were birds performing some bizarre mating ritual. It lasted only a moment, and it looked like an automatic reaction. Then the spell was broken, and Dukat laughed.
“You actually claimed this human as d’stren?!” he sneered. Then the smile vanished, and his face darkened. “It’s an insult! An insult, to mark a human! The other thing, well, that was my joke on you, wasn’t it. With the raspercahn, I wondered which way it would go. You were both very - entertaining.” With a sinking heart, Julian realized that they had been watched. Apparently, though, they had missed the second act. “We all took bets, you know.” A cold smile returned to his face. “I won. But I never expected you to go this far.” Suddenly he roared, “It is an insult!”
“How is it an insult, to claim a human?” Garak scoffed. “We claim Bajorans all the time.”
“Of course, we claim our Bajorans,” Dukat hissed. “They’re ours! We conquered them! We owned them!” His voice lowered. “We took care of them. They were like our children.” Julian didn’t know any Bajorans who would agree with that. “But these humans-?? They are strangers! You don’t mark on strangers!”
Garak spoke again, his voice now soft and silky. “Some Cardassians, they say, went even further than just claiming ‘their’ Bajorans….” he almost whispered.
Suddenly the room grew very silent, and the guards all seem to be looking at the floor, the walls, anywhere but Dukat. Julian could hear Dukat actually growling low in his throat, and he strode, step by step, right up to Garak, thrusting his face inches from him. What the hell is going on here, thought Julian, knowing he was missing something. He felt absolutely stupid. I hate this feeling! But it was clear that Dukat was beyond furious.
Dukat stood right up next to Garak. Dukat was tall, aristocratic, wearing the uniform designed for intimidation; his face was sculpted with arrogant angles; he was lean as a whip, and he was, well, magnificent. He pulsed with rage, pride, and power. Garak, in contrast, was shorter, stockier, with a broader face, wearing only his rumpled trousers, and he stood bare-chested. For a moment, next to Dukat, he looked like yesterday’s hummus.
Then Garak lifted his chin, and did something subtle, some slight adjustment to his posture maybe, Julian couldn’t really tell what. But suddenly, Garak radiated solidity, strength, dignity and a mighty force. He looked like a king, like Caesar or Zeus, and it seemed as if he were gazing down, somehow, on Dukat, even though Dukat was inches taller. The effect was remarkable.
Dukat’s glare faltered. Trying to cover up his momentary uncertainty, he spat. “No one claims scum! Not even you.”
Garak looked at Dukat with pity. “Don’t call him scum. He’s glorious, and you know it,” he said softly. Julian realized that Garak was talking about him, defending his, his right, Julian suddenly realized, to be claimed. It was confusing - Garak was defying Dukat over Julian’s worthiness to be considered chattel. He should feel degraded, insulted, incensed. Why then did he feel proud?
The two Cardassians glared at each other, then Dukat smiled in a way Julian didn’t like at all. “Very well,” he said smoothly. “To each his own.” He smirked. “Take your little d’stren and let’s proceed. I think a change of venue is in order.”
The door opened, and they entered a long corridor. Julian was having trouble walking. Standing, he could manage, but each step he took - well, he didn’t have much choice, he supposed. He tried to stand as straight as he could, even though the urge to hunch over was strong.
Julian noticed that the guards gave Garak and himself plenty of space, much more than they had previously. They were just as alert and let neither their attention nor their weapons falter, but they allowed the two of them what seemed to be an almost respectful distance.
Garak walked quite close to Julian. “Listen to me very carefully,” he whispered. “There’s not much time. Dukat hates me. He wants revenge. He wants very much to hurt me, badly. But he can’t touch you now. Just remember - I’ve been trained, I’m a professional. I can take much more pain than you can imagine.”
“But - the wire -”
“Forget about the wire. That came later. I was in the Order for years before I got the wire.” He glanced quickly around him. The corridors still stretched before them, and neither the guards nor Dukat seemed to mind their hushed conversation. “I don’t have time to explain everything. Just remember this - Whatever he does to me, you mustn’t react. It might be dangerous for you if you did. If what you see is disturbing, just… disconnect. Dukat knows we are associates, but it would be best if he were clear that you have no particular… affection for me.” And he’d better not know how I feel about you, he thought grimly. He paused, then suddenly backhanded Julian across the cheek. “Impudent!” he barked.
Dukat’s voice, from behind them, dripped with concern. “Having trouble with your ’stren?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Garak replied, his eyes on Julian. Julian understood. He rubbed his jaw ruefully.
They entered a room like so many rooms in Garak’s past. There was a table, a chair. There was a ceiling attachment with restraints. There were instruments on the table. Garak quickly looked them over. Whip. Blunt instruments. Bladed instruments. A nerve collar and remote. Crude, primitive tools. A sophisticated interrogator could achieve excellent results with much more delicate and subtle techniques. But clearly elegance was beyond Dukat. He scoffed to himself. Amateurs. They didn’t understand. His mind was automatically beginning to prepare himself.
“Garak. You should feel right at home here,” said Dukat smoothly. “Well, why don’t we begin?”
Garak took a quiet, steadying breath and stepped forward, as though he were ready to receive a prize. Positioning himself under the wrist restraints hanging from the ceiling, he turned to face Dukat and inclined his head in a formal little nod. “Whenever you are ready,” he said in a courtly manner.
Dukat smiled at him for a second, then shook his head. “Not you. Him.” Not taking his eyes off Garak, he jerked his head toward Bashir.
Everything stopped. Garak had never realized that the very atoms in his being could cease spinning like that. There was no time. Civilizations might have arisen, conquered rivals, and fallen into ashes as he stood there. The silence was absolute; his brain was clay; and he existed without breath. Then the moment was over; time resumed its steady pace, and his body drew in air once more.
“You can’t!” he said, horrified, at Dukat. “You can’t touch him!”
“I won’t,” said Dukat. “You will.”
Julian was following this development as though it were a somewhat dull game of tennis between people who were strangers to him. The words didn’t seem to make complete sense, even though the exchange was in Standard. He was puzzled. A slight frown formed on his face. The guards beside him exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.
“What?! You would force me to torture my own d’stren?” Garak tried hard to keep his voice from shaking. The guards shifted their weight.
“Oh, now, Garak. Torture is such a human word. We chastise our ’stren all the time.”
“That’s not what you’re talking about, and you know it.”
Dukat said nothing.
“What if I refuse?”
“Then you die.”
“Fine. Kill me now. It’s what you want, anyway.”
“Excellent!” Dukat sounded pleased. “And afterwards,… I think I’ll give him to my first squadron, now that he’s been broken in. They’ve just finished a very long, tough training exercise. They deserve a little recreation.” Dukat nodded. “If I keep patching him up fast enough, he should last…weeks. Well. Days, at least.”
There was a sensation inside Garak’s chest, a combination of heat and cold and electric energy, and it felt like it would explode. It burned and it itched and it grew bigger and bigger, and it was about to consume him, he could feel it. He wanted to let it explode and obliterate him, but he couldn’t let it. Slowly he squeezed it into itself, smaller and harder, until it was a tiny point of cold fire contained deep in the center of his heart.
Dukat watched Garak carefully. He reached for his weapon and aimed it.
“Very well.” Garak managed to say. Sadness washed over him as the weapon was returned to its holster. He regretted that the indulgence of death was to be denied him, at least for now. He hadn’t yet earned its release. He needed to prove himself worthy of its embrace. He had a duty to fulfill; maybe then he could relax into the promise of oblivion.
Slowly he approached the young human wearing his tunic. Julian looked lost, confused and frightened. He took an awkward step backwards, stumbling, shaking his head slowly. Garak walked around him, easily cutting off his retreat, and stepped up very close behind him. He placed his hands one at a time on Julian’s trembling shoulders. He brought his lips close to his ear. He didn’t know what he would say, but he wanted to pour some brief word into that exquisite shell.
There was no reassurance he could give, no hope he could extend. He simply breathed, “Julian.” Then he pushed him forward.
(Continued in Part 4 of 6)
Part 4 in next entry.