Chapter Text
Garak makes it from London to Ljublana in an appalling 10 hours. Julian watches the tiny dot that marks the car traveling on the motorway at eye-watering speeds. Garak is an excellent driver, but even so, Julian is unwilling to do anything but occasionally say, “Police patrol in half a kilometer” for fear of distracting him. He passes off the majority of the supervision duties onto Stevens, an eager-to-please junior Q Branch agent, once Garak is well on his way. Julian focuses on accessing the available camera systems in the old castle where Garak’s target is staying. It’s a newly-installed system with plenty of custom modifications, and if Julian were anyone else, it might give him pause. But Julian is Q, so he’s into the underlying program within ten minutes and begins mapping out the interior, identifying the blind spots, so that he can upload a complete map to Garak’s phone by the time he arrives. Fortunately, the castle’s owners are paranoid enough that their network of surveillance stretches through nearly the entire structure and its outbuildings, including the guest rooms and the gardens. It’s comforting to Julian—he doesn’t like to run missions in places where he can’t keep an eye on what’s happening. Tracking an audio signal isn’t the same, particularly not when he’s trying to keep one particular signal safe from all the others.
“You should have the map now, 003,” he says when Garak arrives. “Be aware that the grounds are extensively bugged. Someone will be able to hear anything that you say.”
“Aren’t they always,” Garak mutters, and then bestows a smile on the woman who welcomes him. “Zdravo,” he tells her. When she asks for his name, he offers his latest alias, “Peter Franks,” and flashes two thick gold-and-diamond bands on his fingers as he signs the register. His shady diamond-dealer alias is one that the division has carefully maintained for nearly six years now, one of the better ones (in Julian's opinion).
If not for the strangeness of whatever is between them right now, Julian wouldn’t have minded accompanying Garak on this mission, notwithstanding his injuries the last time he ventured into the field. The target, Dr. Andrej Krajnc, is a scientist who’s grown to fancy himself a weapons designer. He’s preparing to auction off a prototype of his latest high-powered laser—a laser that happens to require very precisely cut diamonds to operate at peak efficiency. Julian has been hacking into his files for six months now to gather information and he’d like to see the prototype in person. “You’ll need to get my scanner within two meters of Krajnc’s computer and remain at that distance for five minutes, minimum, to get me in,” Julian reminds Garak. “Before the auction begins, if at all possible. Do try not to bend the scanner this time, at least not until it’s done its job.” He remembers the last time Garak used an earlier version of the scanner and suppresses the slight shiver that threatens him.
“I do know how it works, Q.”
Julian examines the surveillance in Krajnc’s room, and in the room next to it. “Krajnc’s computer is against the west wall of his room, roughly three meters from the entrance. If you access the room next door, you should be able to put the scanner at the same location on the east wall to download it.”
“Whose room is that?”
Julian consults the registry. “Savannah Sweet. American scientist with a chemical company. I’m sending her photo to your mobile now.” He runs a comparison of her image with the surveillance feed footage. “She’s presently in the south garden. You should be able to get to her room without attracting attention—”
“I know what to do,” Garak says abruptly, and turns in the direction of the south garden. Julian's heart sinks a little, certainly only because this is less efficient. Trust Garak to go for a seduction when a little break-in would be just as effective.
He stays silent while Garak finds Savannah Sweet, silent when Garak persuades her to take him up to her room. Garak starts kissing her before they’re even through the door, and Julian has to mentally congratulate him—it looks entirely unintentional when Garak pulls her with him until his back hits the wall just next to where Krajnc’s computer is set up. Savannah pushes his coat off his shoulders and Julian watches it fall. It’s perfectly situated, and Julian doesn’t doubt that Garak can manage to spend another five minutes in this room with Savannah. Sure enough, Garak’s eyes flash up to where the hidden camera sits as he kisses Savannah and Julian remembers viscerally what that feels like. He realizes that he’s holding his breath and exhales slowly. Garak’s gaze snaps away from the camera and he spins them, lifting Savannah bodily so that she wraps her legs around his hips. Julian watches his hand snake between their bodies, watches the way that Savannah’s eyes flutter closed and hears Garak murmur something about how wet she is. She says something back, high-pitched, and then there’s the clink of a belt buckle being undone and Garak’s trousers are around his thighs. Julian watches the muscles of Garak’s ass as he slides inside and thinks, it was so much easier before he knew exactly how this feels.
The proximity alarm on Julian's system goes off and he sees three heavily-armed men making their way toward Savannah’s room. “003,” Julian starts, and then watches horrified, as Garak pulls the earwig out of his ear almost violently and shoves it down into his pocket. It feels like Garak has slapped him across the face. “003—Garak!” There’s no point yelling, not when Garak isn’t wearing his comm, but Julian can’t help doing it anyway. The men are getting closer, nearly to the door, and Julian can’t reach Garak so he does the next-best thing—he sets off the fire alarm.
It shrieks through the hotel, accompanied by a loud voice instructing guests to exit in an orderly fashion in English, French, and Slovenian. Garak flinches and pulls out of Savannah, who’s already scrambling for her underwear, and he’s just lifting his own trousers when the men burst into the room, guns drawn. Garak has his own gun out just an instant slower, but he’s too late—Savannah shrieks and tases him. Garak goes down hard, twitching from the electricity, and the men are on him before he can struggle back up.
“Someone get M on the phone for me,” Julian snaps. He’s incandescent with rage, at himself and at Garak—mostly at Garak, for starting this stupid game in the first place and then taking out his bloody earwig for some reason when it’s Julian's job to do exactly what he was about to do—and he watches helplessly as the men drag Garak through the hallways and down into the cellars, which are, naturally, the only place without any fucking cameras at all. He scans quickly, but there’s not even a single cell phone camera, nothing at all that he can piggyback on. He has to settle for audio alone. He skips from one channel to another until he finds the three men carrying Garak into what sounds like a small room with stone walls, from the echoes. There’s a dull thud as they dump him on the floor. Julian winces in sympathy. It sounds like they’re wearing earwigs rather than carrying radios, so Julian takes a chance and sends a surge of high-pitched static through one. Its wearer curses and must yank it out of his ear, because Julian hears it fall to the ground.
It sounds like two of the men leave the room. The third remains and begins the sort of tired interrogation that comprises demanding answers from Garak—who they keep calling Franks, which means his cover is secure—and then the meaty smack of a fist on flesh. Garak has the sense to keep playing Franks, stammering and begging them not to hurt him. It’s jarring how easily Garak slips in and out of the role. Julian should know well enough that he’s always been a chameleon.
“I have M.” Someone passes him a telephone. Julian doesn’t take his eyes off the cameras on the entrances into the cellars.
“003 went and got himself captured,” Julian says. He wouldn’t usually bother M, but given the situation and the questions that they’re asking, he thinks that he knows where this is going. “He’s being interrogated now—I don’t have eyes on him, but I can hear it and I believe they’re going to demand that he produce a substantial quantity of diamonds within 48 hours or so, to operate the prototype. I suspect he’ll be held as collateral.”
“What are you asking, Q?” M sounds exhausted.
“Sir—I believe I’ll need to be the one to go in.” Julian is prepared with the explanation—he’s the only one who fully grasps how the prototype operates with the diamonds, the only one who knows how precisely the facets need to be polished, the only one with extensive enough knowledge to adapt if the technical situation changes—but M doesn’t even ask for it.
“I’ll authorize it. We’ll send you as soon as someone calls the cover contact number. And, Q—”
“Yes.” Julian knows it means an airplane flight. With the timeline that he can hear them discussing, there’s no comparison between what should be a seventeen-hour drive and a 2-hour flight. “The plane will be ready?”
“I’ll send 009 to accompany you. Good luck, Q.”
Julian hears the interrogation stop and hangs up on M. It sounds as though they’ve left the earwig in the room where Garak is being held. He can’t risk speaking through it, not when there are bugs everywhere, but he turns up the static and sets a repeating pattern: - - * -, - - * -. If Garak can hear it, he’ll know that Julian is coming.
The call comes two hours later from a number at the castle. Julian answers the phone. “Mr. Franks? You haven’t been answering your mobile—”
It’s Garak’s voice on the other line. Julian knew he wasn’t dead, but it’s a relief to hear him speak directly to Julian all the same. “Mr. Hammersmith.” Garak’s voice is rough, and it sounds like his lip is swollen. His voice quavers, but Julian knows that’s part of the pretense. “I’m at the conference. I’ll need you to bring me—250 grams of D-grade diamonds, flawless, at least two carats each. And cutting and polishing tools. You have—24 hours.”
“I’ll bring them myself,” Julian says. He hesitates, then asks, “Is everything all right, Mr. Franks?” He’s contemplated how Peter Franks’ lead employee would react to a request for diamonds and decided that Franks is shady enough that Jules Hammersmith would be relatively unfazed, but curious nevertheless.
“Do you job,” Garak snaps. “Don’t be late.” The connection terminates. Over the hacked audio surveillance, he says, “You’ll have the diamonds, I promise,” and he’s dragged back to his cell.
Don’t be late, with millions of dollars worth of diamonds gathered in twenty-four hours not counting travel time. It’s an absurd request for anyone with resources less than those of the entire British government and, more specifically, their off-the-books diamond production laboratory. Fortunately, they’ve been assembling the collection since Julian first figured out what was going to be demanded, and ten hours later, Julian is boarding a private jet registered to Peter Franks with a briefcase of diamonds. 009 is standing just inside the hatch. She’s a tall woman with an imposing face that turns very kind when she smiles. “All right, Q?” 009’s voice is gentle and Julian wishes it weren’t. A plane this size is his worst fear, every teenage nightmare come true.
“Fine,” he says shortly.
She nods. “Belt in and we’ll go,” she tells him. Then she closes the door to the cockpit.
Julian has taken the bare minimum of anxiety medication for this flight. He can’t afford to be the slightest bit muzzy-headed when he arrives, not with millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds in one hand and Garak’s life in the other. 009 is backup, but he knows better than to hope she’ll be allowed to stay with him the entire time. Krajnc’s men won’t let a bodyguard near where they’re holding Garak, not if they have any sense; it’ll be Julian, and Julian alone, who makes it into a room with him.
He has the uploaded data from Krajnc’s computer on his laptop and he tries to distract himself from the sheer terror of the flight by reading eagerly through it. The laser is a marvel, tiny with extraordinary destructive power, the sort of thing that Julian himself would try to fit into a watch or a pen to send along with Garak. But it’s a hungry weapon, and its use wears hard on the diamonds that focus it. Five seconds of continuous use will crack the diamond that it uses as a primary focusing lens, making it a wildly expensive tool.
“We’re landing shortly,” 009 says over the radio. If Julian is honest, this is the part he’s been dreading most—the moment when the plane rattles and begins to descend. He digs his fingers into his palms and focuses on the pain of it, chews at his lip until it’s swollen, tries to keep his breathing even. When they land, the force of it expels all of Julian's breath at once and he barely swallows back his hasty lunch. There’s a limousine waiting for them at the airstrip and 009 slides into the driver’s seat. Julian handcuffs the briefcase to his hand and pulls the sleeve of his coat lower to try to conceal the cuff. The inside of his mouth is sour, his heart is rabbiting in his ears. “I’ll have your back,” 009 tells him as they pull up to the castle.
Julian takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders. He’s Jules Hammersmith now (thank you, Moneypenny), sent down from Eton for cheating just for fun, Franks’ chief buyer and cutter, longtime number one man, faultlessly loyal because he’s never been presented with a better opportunity. The frame of his glasses conceals a set of lockpicks and he’s wearing a single gaudy diamond earring, because Jules is the kind of man who makes up for his slight stature with obvious wealth, and because if the setting is twisted just right, it will open to reveal a tiny needle laced with enough sedative to stop an elephant. Julian will be damned if he walks into this situation with anything less than everything he could possibly use to rescue Garak.
“Jules Hammersmith,” he snaps at the woman who greets him. He nods shortly at 009, who’s carrying a single suitcase of clothing; he has the diamonds and a satchel full of equipment. “I’ve had a hell of a flight and I had bloody well better be expected.” Jules Hammersmith has no reason to think that anything is out of the ordinary.
Her smile is tight and looks very much like she wants to strangle him. “I will inform Dr. Krajnc,” she says. “You will be escorted downstairs. Your woman may take your bag to your room.”
009’s eyes flick to his, and Julian nods slightly. He’d hoped to keep her with him a little longer, but the men approaching don’t look like the matter is up for discussion. She can monitor both his and Garak’s vital signs and locate them with her mobile; if things go very wrong, he trusts her to make the right call.
Naturally, they take him down into the cellars and pat him down thoroughly. They don’t notice his earring or his glasses, though, which is one point in Julian's favor. “Where’s Mr. Franks?” he asks.
“Did you bring the diamonds?” He recognizes the man as one of the ones who took Garak, and from his voice, he’s the one who conducted the interrogation, such as it was.
Julian lifts the briefcase slightly. “I should warn you,” he says, “all of our diamond transport briefcases are protected with an explosive compound that will detonate unless disarmed with a code, only half of which each of us knows.” He smiles flintily. “Where is Mr. Franks?”
The man looks like he wouldn’t mind blowing off Julian’s hand and taking his chances with the briefcase, but someone must give him an order because he touches his ear and grimaces. “This way.” He leads Julian to a windowless room—locked, Julian notes—that is a much grimmer version of the hotel rooms up above. There are two beds and not much else. Garak is lying on one of the beds, unmoving.
“Mr. Franks!” When Julian steps inside, the man shuts the door behind him. Julian hears it lock—a physical lock, not electronic. Excellent.
“Jules.” Garak sits up gingerly, and that doesn’t look fake. Julian swallows back an exclamation. One of Garak’s eyes is swollen shut, and there are bruises on his cheekbone, along his jawline, around his neck as though someone grabbed it and squeezed. There’s dried blood from a split in his eyebrow.
“Are you all right?” Julian taps his ear to indicate the presence of bugs, then touches his eye and shakes his head to tell Garak that there are no cameras.
“Just—a misunderstanding about a business arrangement,” Garak says. He touches his ribs once—bruised or cracked, then, but not broken. “Did you bring the diamonds?”
“Yes. And my tools. I explained that the suitcase requires a code from each of us to open. Haufiku took my luggage to my room, though I don’t suppose I’ll be sleeping there,” he says ruefully.
“I don’t expect any trouble once the deal is complete,” Garak says, which means the exact opposite. He glances down at the handcuff and Julian spots a tiny smile. “Really, isn’t the handcuff a bit dramatic? I don’t think you’re at risk of purse-snatching.” Julian’s fingers itch to run over Garak’s ribs and confirm that nothing is broken, to lift his shirt and check for the bruising that is almost certainly there. His eyes light on the earring. “What have I told you about wearing tacky jewelry like that?”
“That it becomes me?” Franks and Jules have a good relationship, Julian has decided. Franks is conscious of his position as the boss, but he doesn’t mind a bit of banter as long as Jules remembers his place. Julian preens a little and gestures to it with his free hand. “Brand new. Mitzy threw it in as a bonus when I picked up the diamonds you asked for.”
Mitzy, Garak mouths, and that’s genuine amusement in his eyes. “It’s tacky.”
“We can’t all afford rings like these,” Julian says, and he reaches out to run his finger over one of the diamond-studded signet rings that Garak is wearing. They both have the same sedative in them that Julian’s earring does. They’re intact; if Garak hasn’t seen fit to use it yet, that’s a good sign. Julian tells himself that he’s touching the rings only to make sure Garak understands what his own earring is for, but his thumb brushes the bare skin of Garak’s knuckle. That scrap of heat is comforting, even if it makes Julian want to clutch at Garak’s hand like some kind of—but that’s not what they are, or what they’ll ever be. That, of all things, reminds him abruptly that he’s unspeakably angry at Garak for his carelessness, and he snatches his hand back and walks to the opposite side of the room.
“Jules?” Garak’s voice is cautious.
“You know this has—caused several significant deals to follow through,” Julian says. “I had to withdraw at least three sale offers to come up with the necessary amount of diamonds,” and he lets the anger show in his voice, because their informal relationship extends to Jules expressing discontent. After all, better if the guards think that Jules is a little insubordinate, maybe even questioning how far he’ll ever advance while Franks is still in the picture. Better if they think that Franks and Jules don’t care about each other’s safety so that they don’t try to use one as leverage against the other. He doesn’t think Garak would sacrifice him—not out of any emotional attachment, but because Julian is, objectively, less replaceable than a 00. And he doesn’t know if he has it in him to sacrifice Garak. “I don’t understand how you could forget that you’d need such a significant quantity of diamonds on such short notice. It’s irresponsible—”
“Mind your tongue,” Garak snaps, and he strides across the room in three steps to grip Julian’s collar and shove Julian against the wall one-handed. The shove itself doesn’t hurt—Julian expected some reaction like it when he let his anger show too honestly, particularly given the number of people who are probably listening—but Julian loses his grasp on the handle of the briefcase and it jerks the handcuff sharply against his wrist as it falls. Julian can’t stop a small noise of pain (Jules wouldn’t stop it, he thinks) and Garak snatches the handle of the briefcase before the handcuff can dig into Julian's skin again. “Be careful with those,” he says harshly, even as he lifts both Julian's hand and the briefcase to inspect them. Julian's wrist is barely bleeding where the handcuff cut into it. “Don’t ever speak to me that way again.”
“I’m sorry,” Julian says, and pretends that the waver in his voice is from fear instead of from the intensity of Garak’s eyes, from the ghosting touch of his thumb as he wipes away the few drops of blood. The adrenaline that’s been pounding through him since Garak was first taken is hot inside him and the pressure of Garak’s body isn’t helping. He licks his lips almost reflexively and Garak’s eyes drop to his mouth. The heat inside him is almost blinding. If not for the situation—
“Just don’t do it again.” Garak’s voice is rough from something that isn’t anger. If he leaned in a few inches, he could kiss Julian—but the audio surveillance would pick that up. Instead, he presses his thumb to Julian's lower lip and Julian can’t help but touch the tip of his tongue to it. Garak’s eyes lift from Julian's mouth to his eyes and then he seems to remember where they are. He steps back abruptly. “When is the deal happening?”
It takes Julian a long moment to steady himself. He hates that Garak has this effect on him so easily. “I wasn’t given that information,” he says.
Krajnc’s men prove just how closely they’ve been listening by opening the door then. “Now,” the lead man says. “Follow me.”
“I procured the diamonds,” Garak protests as they follow the man. “We haven’t discussed payment—”
The man deposits them in another windowless room, where Krajnc is sitting at a table already with another guard and the prototype laser. Julian's stomach jumps in professional admiration when he sees it. “That’s incredible,” he gushes, and Krajnc preens a little. Classic—a man dipping a toe into the world of illegal weapons sales, convinced of his own brilliance and happy to hear it reinforced. “Is that what the diamonds are for? Can I see how it works?” Jules is a little careless, he thinks. Jules lacks the guile to take Franks’ place.
“Shut up, Jules. Open the case.” When Julian looks to Garak, he sees that Garak is rotating one of his rings gently with his thumb, apparently casual. There’s only one guard accompanying Krajnc, looking a little too comfortable with the idea that he’s the only man carrying in the room. Julian inclines his head a little and twines a lock of hair around his finger so that he can brush his finger across the diamond stud.
“It needs your half of the code first, Mr. Franks.” He offers the keypad to Garak. “The six-digit one.” It doesn’t really matter what Garak enters. He passes it back to Julian, who types in the code that arms the flash grenade beneath the diamonds. As long as the briefcase is aimed in the proper direction, he and Garak should be relatively protected from it. Julian opens the briefcase, unlocking the cuff from his wrist with the same code. “It’s all there,” Julian says. When Krajnc and the guard peer inside, Julian shut his eyes tightly and hits the trigger on the cuff. The brilliant flash of light is red on the inside of his eyelids before it fades. Krajnc cries out once and Julian scrambles across the table to inject the man with his earring; from the corner of his eye, he sees Garak doing the same to the guard.
“A brilliant idea,” Garak says.
Julian stifles an eyeroll at the halfhearted joke. He snatches up the laser prototype and slides it into the case, then shuts the entire thing. “I take it we’re bringing the doctor with us?”
“If we can.” Garak has already retrieved the guard’s firearms—a pistol and an M12—and he passes the pistol to Julian before tucking the guard’s sheathed tactical knife into his waistband. “How long will the sedative last?”
Julian has been cycling through radio channels trying to find 009. When his series of clicks is returned in kind, he says, “009, I have 003. We’re in the cellar with Krajnc and a guard, both unconscious.” When Garak gestures, Julian passes the radio to him. He’s under no illusions that, under these circumstances, he should do anything but put his entire faith in the 00s. “The sedative is good for an hour, give or take. Depending on individual physiology,” he says, before Garak can make a comment about the lack of accuracy.
“I’ve been tracking you both,” 009 says over the radio. “You’re not far from what looks like an exit to the east garden. Can you get there?”
Julian compares his mental map of the cellars to his memory of the map of the grounds. He nods to Garak. “Yes,” Garak says. “There may be a bit of noise.”
‘A bit’ is an understatement. Garak kills four guards with short bursts of fire from an M12, then helps Julian hoist Krajnc’s limp form as they make for the exit. Bullets zip past their heads as they shove their way through an old door—Julian has never been so glad to see 009 standing on the other side of a door. “Let’s get out of here,” 009 says, and hoists Krajnc’s body over her shoulder. “The car is close.” They tumble into the backseat of the DB11, where Garak zip-ties Krajnc’s hands and feet. Julian is almost surprised at the lack of enemy vehicles pursuing them, but 009 is an efficient—and less terrifying than Garak—driver and has them to the airfield in a matter of minutes. She steps out of the limousine while Julian's heart is still pounding and telephones someone.
“Well,” Julian says, “there was a good deal less blood on this mission than my last with you.” Even Krajnc, neatly trussed and still unconscious on the seat, is unbloodied.
“Get on the plane,” Garak tells him. “009 and I will secure Krajnc in the hold.” And Julian can’t really say no, he’d rather not get on the plane, perhaps he could take the train back instead—
Somehow, Julian had imagined that after everything that’s happened, the jet wouldn’t be so bad. After all, he walked more or less alone into a mad scientist’s lair with a briefcase full of diamonds and managed to emerge with the diamonds, a prototype miniature laser, and Elim Garak; after that, a two-hour flight on a luxury private jet should be nothing.
It’s not nothing. He should have brought some bloody opiates along for the trip home. He settles for a large glass of Scotch, which he grips so tightly that he worries he might break it. They’ve been in the air for half an hour, sitting across from each other and staring out their respective windows, when the plane hits a pocket of turbulence. Julian drops his glass and says “Fuck” in a pitch that’s closer to a yell than a scream. The world is blurring a little in front of his eyes and he’s struggling to breathe when a warm weight presses hard against his shoulder. Julian manages to catch a breath and focus his eyes as the plane smoothes out, and he realizes Garak has crossed to sit next to him.
“I’ll tell M that you deserve hazard pay for flying,” Garak says, and Julian stifles a miserable laugh. Garak lays a hand on his forearm, but it isn’t quite enough.
“The plane was only—a little bigger than this,” he manages to say. It was a little better flying to Ljubljana; at least then he’d had an urgent purpose. “I could use a distraction.” He only means that he wants Garak to talk to him, but Garak’s hand drops from his arm to his thigh, and then creeps up his thigh.
“I can manage that,” Garak says, and forestalls Julian's next objection by draping a blanket across his lap. Julian should tell him to stop, but there are ninety minutes left on this flight and this sort of distraction was very effective the last time Garak employed it.
Garak hesitates, hand on the button of Julian’s trousers, until Julian says, “Yes, all right.” Julian wasn’t anywhere near hard before, but when he shimmies his trousers down a little to give Garak better access, Garak grasps his cock and Julian nearly cries out. He’s suddenly very grateful that 009 is the only other person here and is shut firmly in the cockpit. He expects Garak to go quickly, but Garak’s touch is light, almost teasing, all along the length of his cock, until Julian is trying to push into his hand. Garak’s fingers reach the head of his cock, slipping across where he’s already leaking, and Julian bites his lip hard to keep from making a noise.
“Don’t,” Garak tells him, and closes his fingers around his cock. The pressure is better, but Garak is still maddeningly slow and Julian can’t bear to look at him. Garak lifts his hand and kisses the place where the handcuff cut into his wrist, already purpling into a bruise. Julian can’t stop a noise then, and when he turns his head, Garak catches his mouth in the kiss that Julian has wanted since he found him. He bites Julian's lower lip very gently and speeds up his strokes, and Julian whines into his mouth. He’s close, very close, when the plane hits turbulence again—just one hard bump—and it jolts him out of the glorious feeling that had begun to creep through him. He breaks the kiss, breathing too fast, and Garak says, “It’s all right.” He unbuckles his own seat belt and lifts the blanket off Julian's lap, and before Julian can protest, Garak is kneeling in front of him to suck his cock.
Julian almost yells, catching himself at the last second. He slams his head back against the seat at the feeling of it, tugs at Garak’s hair until he remembers himself and loosens his fingers. He should care about how openly this is happening—god forbid there should be cameras in the plane, he’s pretty sure that there are—but there’s nothing but Garak’s mouth, and fuck when Garak looks up at him with those eyes, Julian has to close his eyes because he can’t do it. He doesn’t know why Garak is offering this, whether it’s gratitude or a passing desire or some measure of human kindness, but he’ll take everything offered. It’s at once more and less intense with his eyes closed, easier without having to look into Garak’s eyes. If the plane hits turbulence again, he doesn’t feel it because there’s nothing beyond the heat of Garak’s mouth. When he comes, he bites his lip so hard that it nearly bleeds and he still makes a noise so loud that 009 must hear it up in the cockpit.
Garak sucks him gently until he’s oversensitive and squirming. The air of the plane is cool on his wet skin when Garak releases him and sits back down, wincing. It takes Julian a moment to gather the wherewithal to close up his trousers, and then he realizes that Garak did all that with cracked ribs. “Fuck,” he says. Exhaustion is hitting him as the adrenaline ebbs. “I’m sorry.” Julian lets out a long breath.
“Don’t,” Garak tells him, and fuck his throat sounds rough from Julian’s cock. This is going to destroy Julian.
“You can’t go off comms like that,” Julian says. “G—003, you can’t. I wasn’t going to—” Embarrassment floods him, remembering exactly when Garak had ripped out the earwig. “I wasn’t going to—give you instructions. I was trying to warn you—” He takes another deep breath. “I have to be able to alert you if you’re in danger. That’s the whole point. Whatever happened between—” He wishes Garak would interrupt him so he wouldn’t have to finish one of these sentences. “I won’t talk to you during—encounters like that, except to warn you.” He know he sounds a little plaintive but he can’t help adding, “Just—don’t look at the camera like that, if you don’t want me to—”
“All right,” Garak says. “I won’t look at the camera if I don’t want to hear you.”
Christ, but Julian hates him sometimes. This entire mess is Garak’s fault, from the first time that Julian got hard watching him to this humiliating blowjob on a company jet that someone from Q Branch is probably watching right now. “You know,” Julian says bitterly, “death in a fiery crash is beginning to seem better and better.”