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doctor_tailor2012-03-23 08:27 am
crowdog66) wrote in doctor_tailor2012-03-23 08:27 am
Entry tags:
Fic: "Impulse" 4/?
Title: Impulse 4/?
Pairing: Garak/Bashir
Rating: R
Word Count: 1534
Summary: An unusual incident at lunch leaves Garak utterly dumbfounded — and hopelessly hooked.
Notes: Set between "Cardassians" and "The Wire".
Part One here.
Part Two here.
Part Three here.
*************************************
Precisely three and a half hours later Garak was sitting at the neat work desk in his spartan quarters, a glass of liquor from his precious stock of kanar in one hand and his forehead in the other, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to just bolt down five measures of the stuff in one go and put himself out of his misery rather than hang onto whatever was left of his self-control. It certainly couldn't make matters any worse.
About forty-five minutes previous he'd woken up on a biobed in the Infirmary, bathed in blinding light, with a pounding headache that even his implant wasn't dampening and Nurse Jabara Elin leaning over him, informing him that he was going to be just fine once the side effects of the amitron compound (which had counteracted the effects of the neural virus the Averal ambassador had set loose on the station) were out of his system. Garak had refused to lie back and wait to feel better: given the memories that came rushing in along with the pain he was absolutely horrified at the thought of facing Doctor Bashir, who mercifully was nowhere to be seen. Thanking whatever Gods might exist that even Federation officers had to use the bathroom occasionally, Garak got himself upright and dressed and out of there in what had to be record time, resolutely ignoring Jabara's repeated instructions to get back on the bed and let himself be tended to. He'd brushed her off with a glib remark about the hardiness of Cardassian physiology and sailed out onto the Promenade with what he hoped was a jaunty stride, refusing to let any trace of his expression or body language betray how the abysmally glaring lights of the station were drilling into his eyes like the spines of an Esarelite wildebeest, or how he felt like his brain was trying to burrow its way out through his forehead ridges.
The worst of the pain was past, fortunately — physically speaking, that is. Mentally he'd been flagellating himself without respite, his eidetic memory replaying every humiliating second of his interaction with Bashir after arriving at the Infirmary. Arriving? No, his transgression warranted a far less neutral term than that: he'd prowled in like a riding hound looking for a gobbet of meat from its master, his intent to dominate, his heartfelt desire to have the tables turned on him. Had Bashir known enough to take firm hold of his neck ridges through his tunic and administer punishing pressure with those deft brown fingertips he'd have sunk to his knees and assumed the posture of supplication, bowing his neck as others had bowed their necks before him, as he had always been forbidden to do himself.
An agent of the Order does not submit, he could hear old Rekerit saying as clearly as if the spare-fleshed elder were standing in the same room, leaning over the desk to fix him with a severe stare that bore the weight of immutable Tradition. An agent of the Order must never submit, even if it is otherwise… in his nature. The rich contempt in those cultured tones made Garak flinch, even in memory. He never performs the kishaja, he never exposes his nape, and he never permits himself to entertain the slightest inclination to do so. One moment of weakness would be the ruination of all his hard-won power.
Garak tossed back the rest of the kanar and poured himself another glass, his third of the night. Another two and he might start to feel the effects of intoxication; as it was, the biting taste of it was comforting, familiar, a remnant of the home he had long since lost.
So what else do I have to lose? The question made him pause with the glass halfway to his lips, staring into its clouded blue depths as if into an oracle. The boy didn't hesitate to take a kiss, when he wanted it. What if — He laughed, a dark bitter bark of sound, and put the glass aside, the better to bury his face in both hands, shutting out the painful light. But that was the infection talking and acting, not him. He doesn't want me — and even if he did, I could never….
He could never… what? Permit himself to act upon what Bashir, innocent brazen pup that he was, had tapped into without knowing what he triggered? Surrender to those sure hands and bold eyes? Yield to that demanding mouth? Offer freely to the boy what no other man could — or would dare try — to take: his dominance?
Oh yes, a voice deep within Garak whispered, deeper than the kanar had yet reached and silenced: Yes, and gladly, if he'd —
"He doesn't," Garak said aloud, harshly, his eyes narrowing to glints of pure ice that shivered on the verge of breaking. "He's never shown the slightest inclination toward anything but the company of lovely young ladies. Never."
Until today. Those kisses felt pretty damned sincere, didn't they? Not a second's hesitation or revulsion. He drank you in like… well, like a thirsty man drinks kanar.
Garak laughed again, sounding weary in his own ears. "If he did, he chose an old and degraded vintage." He wasn't in the habit of talking to himself and briefly wondered if it was a lingering effect of the neural virus. "I do have to wonder, though, when the ungainly child became so…"
Masterful? the voice prompted unhelpfully.
"I was going to say 'self-assured', but yes, that term would also suffice."
You have no one to blame but yourself, you know. Mean-spirited now, and acerbic. The first time you met him he was a nervous fluttering mess, and you said to yourself: I can take that young man in hand and train him up, non-Cardassian though he is. I can make him something better, something that almost fits his own inflated self-image. And you did exactly that, didn't you? You honed him on the whetstone of debate and were so pleased when he took an edge so well, and you fed him on scraps of information and carefully groomed him… you teased and tested him, fenced and flirted, weaving a clever patterned dance to hold his interest…
"Why?" he asked the empty room almost plaintively. "Why did I… he's not even a sar'havat! At least a sar'havatwould be a fellow Cardassian!"
You danced for him, and now you're surprised that he's acted on it, after growing confident under your careful tutelage?
"He never noticed before." A low groan, full of aching misery. "He was never supposed to notice…"
And he never would have, at least not consciously, if that thrice-cursed Averal hadn't dropped her viral payload and rewired his too-clever brain. It dropped to a vicious murmur, a hiss devoid of all pleasure. So where does that leave you, Garak? No, wait, let me tell you! It leaves you in a position where the one person on this entire wretched station who viewed you with anything close to friendliness will want to avoid you for the rest of his tour of duty, and rightly so, even if he has no real concept of just how far you've betrayed your —
"No!" Garak shot to his feet and began to walk, restlessly pacing the perimeter of his prison-within-a-prison, not even seeing the tasteful decoration of it: only the walls, the walls that bound him. "No… I can bring him back around. He's improved, yes, but he's still a gullible —"
Beautiful? Daring? Enticing?
"— a gullible boy." He spoke in a rush, a breathless spill of words. Oh, he was ill, but he had no one to turn to for succor and so many who wanted him to suffer. "A child who'll believe anything he's told. I'll tell him I don't remember a thing — that the whole episode is a blank to me. I'll convince him that I was so desperately sick that nothing I said or did can be held against me. Yes! Yes, he'll be ready to believe that, because I do intrigue him and really, who else does he have who challenges him the way I do? Chief O'Brien? Please! Jadzia Dax? The woman won't give him the time of day, not the way he wants! Not the way I could give him —"
Yourself?
He stopped dead in his tracks, almost back at his desk again, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes with painful force, while the voice spoke again, an acidic blast that even the anodyne of his implant couldn't counteract: You pathetic, perverted old fool.
He was opening his mouth again, even though he had no words to deny the accusation, when the door chime sounded its piercing warble and chilled him to the marrow of his bones.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]
Part Five here.
Pairing: Garak/Bashir
Rating: R
Word Count: 1534
Summary: An unusual incident at lunch leaves Garak utterly dumbfounded — and hopelessly hooked.
Notes: Set between "Cardassians" and "The Wire".
Part One here.
Part Two here.
Part Three here.
*************************************
Precisely three and a half hours later Garak was sitting at the neat work desk in his spartan quarters, a glass of liquor from his precious stock of kanar in one hand and his forehead in the other, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to just bolt down five measures of the stuff in one go and put himself out of his misery rather than hang onto whatever was left of his self-control. It certainly couldn't make matters any worse.
About forty-five minutes previous he'd woken up on a biobed in the Infirmary, bathed in blinding light, with a pounding headache that even his implant wasn't dampening and Nurse Jabara Elin leaning over him, informing him that he was going to be just fine once the side effects of the amitron compound (which had counteracted the effects of the neural virus the Averal ambassador had set loose on the station) were out of his system. Garak had refused to lie back and wait to feel better: given the memories that came rushing in along with the pain he was absolutely horrified at the thought of facing Doctor Bashir, who mercifully was nowhere to be seen. Thanking whatever Gods might exist that even Federation officers had to use the bathroom occasionally, Garak got himself upright and dressed and out of there in what had to be record time, resolutely ignoring Jabara's repeated instructions to get back on the bed and let himself be tended to. He'd brushed her off with a glib remark about the hardiness of Cardassian physiology and sailed out onto the Promenade with what he hoped was a jaunty stride, refusing to let any trace of his expression or body language betray how the abysmally glaring lights of the station were drilling into his eyes like the spines of an Esarelite wildebeest, or how he felt like his brain was trying to burrow its way out through his forehead ridges.
The worst of the pain was past, fortunately — physically speaking, that is. Mentally he'd been flagellating himself without respite, his eidetic memory replaying every humiliating second of his interaction with Bashir after arriving at the Infirmary. Arriving? No, his transgression warranted a far less neutral term than that: he'd prowled in like a riding hound looking for a gobbet of meat from its master, his intent to dominate, his heartfelt desire to have the tables turned on him. Had Bashir known enough to take firm hold of his neck ridges through his tunic and administer punishing pressure with those deft brown fingertips he'd have sunk to his knees and assumed the posture of supplication, bowing his neck as others had bowed their necks before him, as he had always been forbidden to do himself.
An agent of the Order does not submit, he could hear old Rekerit saying as clearly as if the spare-fleshed elder were standing in the same room, leaning over the desk to fix him with a severe stare that bore the weight of immutable Tradition. An agent of the Order must never submit, even if it is otherwise… in his nature. The rich contempt in those cultured tones made Garak flinch, even in memory. He never performs the kishaja, he never exposes his nape, and he never permits himself to entertain the slightest inclination to do so. One moment of weakness would be the ruination of all his hard-won power.
Garak tossed back the rest of the kanar and poured himself another glass, his third of the night. Another two and he might start to feel the effects of intoxication; as it was, the biting taste of it was comforting, familiar, a remnant of the home he had long since lost.
So what else do I have to lose? The question made him pause with the glass halfway to his lips, staring into its clouded blue depths as if into an oracle. The boy didn't hesitate to take a kiss, when he wanted it. What if — He laughed, a dark bitter bark of sound, and put the glass aside, the better to bury his face in both hands, shutting out the painful light. But that was the infection talking and acting, not him. He doesn't want me — and even if he did, I could never….
He could never… what? Permit himself to act upon what Bashir, innocent brazen pup that he was, had tapped into without knowing what he triggered? Surrender to those sure hands and bold eyes? Yield to that demanding mouth? Offer freely to the boy what no other man could — or would dare try — to take: his dominance?
Oh yes, a voice deep within Garak whispered, deeper than the kanar had yet reached and silenced: Yes, and gladly, if he'd —
"He doesn't," Garak said aloud, harshly, his eyes narrowing to glints of pure ice that shivered on the verge of breaking. "He's never shown the slightest inclination toward anything but the company of lovely young ladies. Never."
Until today. Those kisses felt pretty damned sincere, didn't they? Not a second's hesitation or revulsion. He drank you in like… well, like a thirsty man drinks kanar.
Garak laughed again, sounding weary in his own ears. "If he did, he chose an old and degraded vintage." He wasn't in the habit of talking to himself and briefly wondered if it was a lingering effect of the neural virus. "I do have to wonder, though, when the ungainly child became so…"
Masterful? the voice prompted unhelpfully.
"I was going to say 'self-assured', but yes, that term would also suffice."
You have no one to blame but yourself, you know. Mean-spirited now, and acerbic. The first time you met him he was a nervous fluttering mess, and you said to yourself: I can take that young man in hand and train him up, non-Cardassian though he is. I can make him something better, something that almost fits his own inflated self-image. And you did exactly that, didn't you? You honed him on the whetstone of debate and were so pleased when he took an edge so well, and you fed him on scraps of information and carefully groomed him… you teased and tested him, fenced and flirted, weaving a clever patterned dance to hold his interest…
"Why?" he asked the empty room almost plaintively. "Why did I… he's not even a sar'havat! At least a sar'havatwould be a fellow Cardassian!"
You danced for him, and now you're surprised that he's acted on it, after growing confident under your careful tutelage?
"He never noticed before." A low groan, full of aching misery. "He was never supposed to notice…"
And he never would have, at least not consciously, if that thrice-cursed Averal hadn't dropped her viral payload and rewired his too-clever brain. It dropped to a vicious murmur, a hiss devoid of all pleasure. So where does that leave you, Garak? No, wait, let me tell you! It leaves you in a position where the one person on this entire wretched station who viewed you with anything close to friendliness will want to avoid you for the rest of his tour of duty, and rightly so, even if he has no real concept of just how far you've betrayed your —
"No!" Garak shot to his feet and began to walk, restlessly pacing the perimeter of his prison-within-a-prison, not even seeing the tasteful decoration of it: only the walls, the walls that bound him. "No… I can bring him back around. He's improved, yes, but he's still a gullible —"
Beautiful? Daring? Enticing?
"— a gullible boy." He spoke in a rush, a breathless spill of words. Oh, he was ill, but he had no one to turn to for succor and so many who wanted him to suffer. "A child who'll believe anything he's told. I'll tell him I don't remember a thing — that the whole episode is a blank to me. I'll convince him that I was so desperately sick that nothing I said or did can be held against me. Yes! Yes, he'll be ready to believe that, because I do intrigue him and really, who else does he have who challenges him the way I do? Chief O'Brien? Please! Jadzia Dax? The woman won't give him the time of day, not the way he wants! Not the way I could give him —"
Yourself?
He stopped dead in his tracks, almost back at his desk again, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes with painful force, while the voice spoke again, an acidic blast that even the anodyne of his implant couldn't counteract: You pathetic, perverted old fool.
He was opening his mouth again, even though he had no words to deny the accusation, when the door chime sounded its piercing warble and chilled him to the marrow of his bones.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]
Part Five here.
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