Chapter Text
This time, when he opens his eyes, some measure of clarity has returned to his brain. “Ow,” he says automatically, and then realizes that actually his body doesn’t hurt at all. He can barely feel it, in fact, beyond a warm narcotic haze. He can’t see very well through one eye, and his wrist, when he tries to move it out of some perverse desire to check if it still works, is immobilized in a cast. Julian lifts his head a little and sees Garak in a chair next to his bed. “Guess I’m still hallucinating,” he says. His voice sounds terrible, like maybe he’s been screaming.
Garak’s head jerks up. “No.” He stands and walks to Julian's bedside. “No, you’re safe now.”
Julian squints at him. “Was there a helicopter?”
“I had to steal it,” Garak says. “MI-6 wouldn’t give me one of theirs.”
Julian doesn’t ask whether Garak stole it from MI-6, or from his captors. “Dukat, and the others?”
“Dead.”
He wishes Garak would say something to make a little lighter of the situation—a terrible pun, anything. “Didn’t anyone get my message? I said it was a trap for you, that you shouldn’t come.”
“Yes.” Garak sounds miserable, which is terrifying. Garak isn’t supposed to sound like he’s having feelings. Garak’s face twists at that.
“Sorry. My—brain-to-mouth filter isn’t working very well at the moment.” He wishes Garak would touch him. He’s not willing to say that out loud, but he does turn his body toward Garak a little more. There’s a bandage on Garak’s upper arm. “How long?” He lifts a hand to his own chin and feels the scrape of hair. A few days at least. When he reaches to touch his throat, Garak grabs his hand away, but releases it quickly.
“Three days since I found you. You’ve been asleep most of the time.” Garak is pressed so close to the side of the bed that Julian can feel the warmth of him through his clothes. “Dr. Patel didn’t want to wake you until you woke up on your own.” Julian can’t tell if Garak actually looks uneasy or if he’s projecting his own interpretation on Garak’s face. “She’s going to tell you that she won’t release you unless there’s someone at home to take care of you while you recover.”
Trepidation. That’s the word. It’s very hard for Julian to ask, “Will you be?” His throat aches. This time, Garak doesn’t stop him before he can touch his neck, and he finds the bruised spots where the guard gripped his throat. Garak’s eyes follow his fingers.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Is someone else going to do a better job of it?” Julian doesn’t have the energy for this. He’s tired, bone-deep, and whatever narcotic painkillers he’s on, they’re starting to wear off. All he wants is to go curl up in his own bed with Garak wrapped around him. He has a distressing memory of confessing love to a Garak hallucination. “If I said something while I was hallucinating, forget it. I’ll recover faster at home and no one will keep me safer there than you.” He thinks that’s relief on Garak’s face, and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
Dr. Patel releases Julian to Garak’s care with a bottle of painkillers and a strict schedule for taking them. “Focus on resting,” she tells him.
He feels rather stupid as Garak holds the car door open for him. “You know, the only part of me that’s broken is my wrist,” he says. “I wasn’t shot, I wasn’t stabbed—”
Garak’s face is unreadable. “Dr. Patel gave strict orders.”
“Yes, yes, rest. I know.” Julian sits down a little harder than he means to in the passenger seat and has to admit that his depth perception is a bit off. His black eye is too badly swollen for him to wear glasses without pain, which means that he’s wearing a contact lens in his one good eye. It leaves him a little dizzy and waspish. The silence on their drive is less comfortable than it used to be. Julian can’t help feeling like he’s supposed to be apologizing for something, like Garak is waiting to hear something, and yet Julian doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. “I wasn’t being irresponsible,” Julian says, and he sounds like a protesting teenager. “I took an MI-6 car.”
Garak’s hands tighten almost imperceptibly on the wheel, though his driving is precise as ever. “Dukat wasn’t interested in you.” Every word is tightly controlled. “I doubt he really realized what he had in you, or he’d never have been gloating and daring me to come rescue you.”
“He knew I was important to MI-6, important enough that they’d send their best agent.” He thinks that Garak’s fingers tighten again. The streets of London are slipping by without Julian really noticing. Garak doesn’t respond.
Julian has gone from awake to a semi-dreamlike state by the time he and Garak arrive at his flat. Garak steers him through the door and his touch is perfunctory, nothing more. Julian ends up in bed in a pair of pyjama pants, not quite sure how he got there, and he falls asleep before he can ask if Garak is coming to bed.
He gasps himself awake out of a dream and flails until he’s sitting upright, dragging giant breaths of air into his lungs. The place next to him in bed is empty; in the dim light, he can just make out Garak sitting at the end of the bed. Julian tries to steady his breathing, reminding himself that there’s no hand around his neck anymore. “Could you—” His throat hurts again. “Could you lie down?”
“All right.” Garak stretches out next to him. It’s jarring to find him fully dressed, the buttons of his shirt pressing into Julian's bare skin.
Julian means to confront him, but sleep takes him again.
* * * * *
Julian wakes from another dream of being strangled to find that Garak has placed a very light hand on his sternum. “You’re safe,” Garak says.
“Fuck,” Julian says feelingly. “Fuck.” When Garak starts to lift his hand away, Julian grabs it and presses it back to his skin. “Don’t.” It feels like a novelty to see light at the windows—to see windows at all. “Whatever you’re going to do—I want a few more days.” He can’t see Garak’s face beyond a pale-toned blur.
Garak hesitates. “All right,” he says. Julian can only see well enough to see that Garak is leaning down toward him before he feels the warmth of Garak’s breath against his skin. Gently, he kisses one of the fingerprints left on Julian’s neck, and then the next. When Julian clutches at his shoulder, Garak shifts until he’s bracing himself above Julian, careful not to rest his weight on Julian's chest. When he’s kissed each of the marks, he kisses Julian's mouth and Julian lets out a shaky breath because at least he knows what to do with this. He starts to drift off back to sleep around the time that Garak is kissing his way slowly down toward his navel, and this time he doesn’t dream of being strangled.
In the morning, Julian opens his good eye to discover that Garak is watching him sleep, their faces close. “Dukat didn’t take you because you’re important to MI-6,” Garak says, all in a rush like he’s been waiting to say it. “Two years ago, I seduced a woman to get access to her employer’s files. Her participation was—discovered, and punished. That was Dukat’s lover.”
“Oh.” He supposes that makes a little more sense than kidnapping an important MI-6 asset to draw out a different MI-6 asset. “I did try to tell him—”
“I saw the video,” Garak says shortly. “I got back eight hours after you were taken.” He touches his thumb to the scabbed cuts on Julian's cheekbone. “I didn’t call in at first because I didn’t know—I assumed you would be home that night and I’d see you then.” His finger traces the undamaged skin around Julian's puffy eye. “Your messages all came in. Likely trap. Do not send 003. Captors unknown. Location unknown. Trap for Garak.” His voice is steady. “You were very precise at first in your descriptions of what was happening. Torture minimal. Lack of sleep concerning. You got less coherent. At a certain point they couldn’t decipher your messages anymore. The best-case scenario was that you’d been drugged. 009 thought it was a good sign that you were still—intact enough to try to communicate. She said brain damage was less likely.”
Julian closes both eyes as Garak cups his undamaged cheek with one hand. The all-consuming drowsiness has started to recede. “I’m quite disappointed in myself,” he says, because he’s not ready to confront whether Dukat was right to think that he could hurt Garak by taking Julian “I had an EMP and that laser in my watch as well, but I waited too long to try to use them. I should have set off the EMP in the car when I was first taken. Or used the laser to—” He doesn’t know that he could have shot the driver in the back.
Garak doesn’t say, no, you reacted naturally, no one would have thought to do something like that. Garak would have. “You were right. People close to me die,” Garak says. “They die, I let them die, sometimes I kill them.”
Julian finds Garak’s cheek with his own hand. It’s soft, and he imagines Garak standing in the bathroom shaving, razor at the ready for what must seem like an inevitable attack. “I would prefer if this weren’t the part where you tell me that you’ll need to keep your distance for my own protection.” Garak’s jaw works just slightly beneath his hand, as though that’s precisely what he intends to say. “I think it’s a bit late for that, given recent events.” He hates the idea of turning into some burden on Garak, something complicated and worrisome. He doesn’t want this to end, even if it’s only Garak’s way of working off energy between missions.
“It’ll happen again,” Garak says. “There will always be someone.”
“Undoubtedly.” Julian puts a finger to Garak’s lips to keep him from speaking. “But—and I say this with the correct amount of ego—I am far more likely to be attacked or kidnapped for my role as Q, rather than for my occasional roll in bed with you.” Ha, he thinks grimly. A pun worthy of Garak.
Garak catches Julian's finger in his teeth very briefly before releasing it. “Do you feel up to some breakfast?” And just like that, the conversation, such as it was, is over.
“I would like tea,” Julian says, willing to accept the minor victory of having persuaded Garak that he’s a valuable target even when not associated with Garak. “And some of that numbing bruise cream, and my bloody glasses instead of that damned contact lens.”
* * * * *
Garak actually attempts to turn down the next assignment that he’s given. Julian is more or less recovered, the obnoxious cast on his wrist the last remnant of his injuries, though you wouldn’t know it from the way Garak has been skittish around him. He’s in a briefing with Garak, M, D, and 009, and diligently paying attention while skimming the written briefing and pondering equipment specs, when Garak says, “I think 009 could handle this alone.”
The proverbial record-scratch is deafening. “No.” Julian's mind is still half in the equipment specs. “No, it’s a two-agent job, minimum. D and I are more than capable of running the technical side of it from here, but the scope—”
“It’s not up for discussion,” M snaps, and Julian realizes that Garak’s statement was something more than a comment on the personnel necessary for the mission.
“I have most of the equipment on hand already. ” Julian doesn’t have the emotional capacity to contemplate what’s happening at the moment. “The remote driving system is fully installed in the DB11. It doesn’t sound like you’ll need a second car. And I have a full makeup kit prepared for 009. The lipstick and powder shades should be appropriate now.” The pigments in the original makeup kit had been designed for 008 and thus severely melanin-deficient. “Sedative gasses have been replenished in the respective jewelry.”
“Thank you, Q,” M says, with a very significant look at Garak, and Julian decides that he’s happier not knowing exactly what’s being left unsaid.
In his workshop, Julian fastens the newly improved watch around Garak’s wrist. Garak holds onto his wrist for far too long, staring at Julian like he’s trying to say something silently, until 009 clears her throat. There’s a timeline, Julian remembers. And god only knows what Garak is trying to communicate anyway. “Don’t trigger the gas if the watch is within a foot of your face,” he warns. “009, I take it you know what to do with this?”
009 plucks the lipstick from the makeup case and smacks her lips together, though she doesn’t apply it. “Good night,” she says. “I shudder to think what the mascara does?”
“Don’t get it in your eyes,” Julian warns. “It induces temporary blindness.” He offers the DB11 keys to both of them, and 009 only rolls her eyes as Garak snatches them.
The mission, such as it is, goes as smoothly as any mission ever does. In San Antonio, Texas, Garak and 009 disperse to their respective hotels, to see if they can locate the dirty bombs that are allegedly going to be set off in twenty-four hours.
Julian doesn’t know exactly how 009 goes about searching out her side of the information—that’s D’s job to supervise—because it’s Garak, of course, who goes to the hotel bar, where the National Conference of Regional Transit Authority attendees are gathered, and picks out a likely-looking young man. Garak picks the lock to a utility closet one-handed with his other hand playing at the button of the man’s slacks, and he gives one shocking blue-eyed glance at the security camera before they disappear into the utility closet.
Julian can’t see them, but he can hear them. He hears the man say, “Let me touch you,” and finds himself telling Garak, “Don’t let him touch your cock.” His throat is dry and he hopes D is distracted by whatever 009 is doing. “Don’t let him make you come.”
He hears that choked noise in the back of Garak’s throat that he’s come to recognize as immense frustration, and then the noises very close to the audio receiver that tell him Garak is sucking the man’s cock, and that only leaves Julian to imagine what they must look like. When they emerge from the closet, Garak’s mouth is red and he stares hard at the camera again before saying, “I have the location.”
“Q, 009 has her location,” D says, as Julian turns to tell her, and he nods.
“We’ve got what we need. 003, 009, sending the locations and recommended routes to your mobiles now.”
Garak and 009 simultaneously enter distant quadrants of the San Antonio Metro Transit area, in which two bombs are hidden that must be deactivated at exactly the same time. Julian and D sit side-by-side, watching each other’s screens as well as their own, speaking softly and quickly to their respective agents to ensure that every movement is synchronized. There’s a tense moment when they both do something wrong—or perhaps the bombs are set to recognize when things are a little too perfect—and a rapid countdown begins. “Jul—” Garak starts, so quickly that Julian barely recognizes the beginning of his own name.
Then 009 says, “I know what to do. Garak, with me,” narrating each step, and they mirror each other’s actions as Julian and D watch helplessly from Q Branch.
At the end of it, both bombs have been deactivated. “Get out of there,” Julian tells them. “We’re calling in the bomb disposal squads.” He closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting out a long breath.
“This side of things is terrible sometimes,” D says. There’s too much understanding in her voice, and they sit quietly as Garak and 009 emerge into the hot light of downtown San Antonio. “009, you have your hotel and return flight plans. Stevens will be monitoring your signal until you reach home.”
“Roger that. I’m bloody starving.” 009 smiles in view of the nearest surveillance camera and ducks into an ice-cream shop.
“003.” Julian knows what he should say. It’s been a long day. Garak must be tired. He’ll want to spend the night at the hotel. Stevens can monitor both Garak and 009 from now on. There’s no reason to think that they need further direction. “If you catch the next flight out of San Antonio, you can be home in twelve hours.” His voice cracks a little as he says it.
Garak looks directly up at the traffic camera. “I’ll be there.”
* * * * *
Julian walks into his flat and Garak is there as promised, one hand in his hair and the other at the button of his trousers. His mouth is hot against Julian's own, and Julian opens to him. He loves this, the desperation in Garak’s hands after a mission like this, the soft noises in the back of his throat when Julian touches him. He presses Julian up against the kitchen counter and Julian realizes dimly that they’re always angled like this, Garak’s body between him and any threat.
“I missed you.” Garak says it against his neck like a confession, one thigh pressed between Julian's legs so that Julian can rub against it, and it makes Julian shiver.
“It was barely two days. You only wanted to come,” Julian tells him, and his voice goes high-pitched when Garak lifts his cock free in one big hand. “You only—” He’s panting as Garak’s fingers slide from the base of his cock, behind his balls and then back a little further to rub at his rim. “You’re just—” He loses his train of thought as Garak presses the tip of his finger inside and Julian can’t help but jerk against him. “Bed,” he says instead.
Garak carries Julian, who keeps his legs wrapped around Garak’s hips for dear life, into the bedroom. He feels how hard Garak is, his cock thick in his trousers, but Garak hesitates like he’s waiting for something from Julian. Julian finds the lube and slicks up two of Garak’s fingers with a filthy stroke, like he’s jerking his cock. “Jul—” Garak starts, and Julian grasps Garak’s wrist and pushes those fingers inside himself. It burns a little, two at once, but it’s worth it for the way it fills him up, the way that Garak groans and kisses him sloppily. Garak moves his mouth from Julian's own to his nipples, licks and bites at them until they’re too sensitive and Julian's cock is leaking messy. He pushes a third finger in as he closes his teeth on Julian's nipple again and Julian comes like that, lightning-quick, tightening around Garak’s fingers so hard that it must be painful.
Garak is still fully dressed, but his cock is straining at his trousers and there’s the slightest damp spot. Julian drags his fingernails across it lightly, even as Garak’s fingers are still inside him, and it tears a noise from Garak’s throat that makes Julian shiver. When Garak withdraws his fingers, Julian misses them, but he unfastens Garak’s trousers and pulls him down onto the bed too. With Garak’s trousers open, his cock distorts the shape of his briefs obscenely. Julian crouches between his legs and mouths at the head of Garak’s cock through the cloth. He can just taste him when he drags his tongue leisurely across the damp patch. “Julian—” Garak says. “I missed you,” and it’s more urgent this time, as though Garak is trying to say something very different.
“Don’t,” Julian tells him. A week ago Garak was trying to let him down easy for his own sake. He doesn’t want to think about it now. “You don’t have to—pretend.” He rucks up the edges of Garak’s briefs until they’re tight around his cock. “Admit it,” Julian says, and kisses the inside of his right thigh with a hint of teeth. Garak’s groan is quiet, but Julian sees him fist his hands in the sheets. “It’s all right, you can admit it.” He bites at the inside of Garak’s left thigh, just hard enough that Garak hisses, and his cock jerks in his briefs next to Julian's cheek. “Admit it’s a pretense, and you can come.” He can see Garak’s throat working, almost as though he’s laughing.
“I can’t,” Garak says, even as his thighs shake beneath Julian's fingers. “Q—Julian—you idiot—I lo—” Julian yanks his briefs down and swallows his cock, and whatever Garak was about to say is lost in the desperate noise he makes as he comes. When Julian releases him and starts to stand, Garak tugs Julian back down to him and pulls Julian’s head to rest on his chest.
They breathe together like that for a long time until Garak says, “The problem with being a professional liar is that no one ever believes you when you’re trying to tell—the truth.” Julian doesn’t know quite what to say to that. He can hear Garak’s steady heartbeat. “I realize it may seem less than sincere when you watch me—do whatever is necessary to accomplish a mission—on a regular basis, but I do mean it.”
Julian laughs softly against his chest. “I suppose some people would take it as a sign of meaningful commitment that you moved into my dreadful little flat.” He’s sticky with sweat but can’t find the energy to peel himself away.
Garak’s arm tightens around him a little. “I like it here. It feels like—someone actually lives here.”
Orphans make the best operatives, Julian remembers. It takes a great deal of courage to joke, “You know, on our combined salaries, we might be able to afford someplace a little larger.” He feels Garak’s chest shake with laughter beneath his cheek. “I don’t expect you to alter your tactical approach,” he adds.
“I have,” Garak reminds him, and yes, he has told Garak to behave differently, hasn’t he. Only to use his hands and mouth, never to come until he’s at home with Julian.
“True. But I suppose I could even make allowances for special circumstances.” Julian is still struggling to grasp the idea that Garak feels something, something beyond an appreciation for excellent orgasms.
He hears Garak’s quiet laugh. “If the fate of the free world hangs in the balance?”
Julian pokes him in the side. “The entire world,” he scolds. “The free world is a propaganda relic of the Cold War—”
“I love you,” Garak says, and kisses him before he can argue.