Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.pas.earthlink.net!elnk-pas-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!priapus.visi.com!orange.octanews.net!news.octanews.net!green.octanews.net!news-out.octanews.net!news.glorb.com!border1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!newshosting.com!nx01.iad01.newshosting.com!yellow.newsread.com!news-toy.newsread.com!netaxs.com!newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "Penumbra" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW DS9 Dark Stone of Souls 1/3 (G/B) [NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 372 Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 18:55:03 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1092077703 209.198.142.218 (Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:03 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:03 EDT Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:82557 X-Received-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 11:55:10 PDT (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Dark Stone of Souls Author: Penumbra Contact: penumbra at clinched dot net Series: DS9 Rating: NC-17 Codes: G/B Summary: In the aftermath of a devastating loss, Julian Bashir learns Warnings: Character death (pre-story and no, it's not Garak), foul language, boy-meets-boy sex, copious angst, bad puns, quasi-consistent Brit vocabulary and spelling. Setting and Spoilers: Nine years after "What You Leave Behind" with only the vaguest of spoilers. Feedback: Comments, constructive criticism, and mash notes accepted with heartfelt gratitude either on-list or via email at the contact address above. Notes: I don't know what possessed me to write a story with a plot spanning over two (!) Post-It notes, and in present tense to boot, but here it is. I pilfered dialogue from this story to various drabbles you've already seen, so moments of deja-vu are completely understandable. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dark Stone of Souls by Penumbra (c) 2004 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dr. Julian Bashir doesn't quite know why he's still on Deep Space Nine. The cold, dead weight of his soul has never felt heavier than at this moment as he stands and watches over Kira. He rests his hand on the photon torpedo casket. The metal is cool to the touch and he smiles, appreciative. He finds it appropriate that she's getting a Starfleet funeral, because she was the best Bajoran that ever happened to the Federation. "I'm sorry we couldn't save you," he whispers. With 'we' he means 'I.' "I'm just...I'm so sorry, Nerys." Intellectually, he knows it was a Breen weapon that killed her, but he's not entirely convinced she was alive when it caught her in the chest. Even after a week, he's still surprised she died of the wound when her heart had been dead for so many years -- something only he saw, because his own heart has been as lifeless as hers is now. The funeral is in three days. Bashir hopes he won't cry, because Nerys wouldn't want tears and because tears remind him of Ezri. * * * * * The Cardassian delegation arrives in the nick of time -- an hour before the memorial ceremony -- and amidst controversy. When the Galor-class ship slides to dock in upper pylon 3, the station's Bajoran residents dial up their uneasiness a notch, which makes the Starfleet security forces finger their phasers more often than usual. Bashir tags along with the reception committee because he doesn't want to hog Kira. So, feeling out of sorts in his dress uniform, he stands between Jake Sisko (a man, now; a boy who only wants his father back) and Harry Kim (their interim station commander; a Peter Pan with the pips of Captain Hook). His limbs are numb from exhaustion and sorrow. When the airlock door opens, the Cardassian delegation brings the smell of ozone and reactor coolant with them. Their leader seems vaguely familiar. "Legate Gotenka," Kim intones solemnly and shakes his hand. "This is an honour." When it's his turn, Bashir holds Gotenka's hand too long although he won't remember it later. "I've heard of your exemplary work in overcoming radiation sickness, doctor," the Cardassian says. "My people are forever in gratitude for your efforts." Bashir smiles on autopilot. "Thank you, legate." Gotenka's next words go unheard by Bashir because by chance, he glances at the Cardassian entourage before the legate can utter them. Amidst unfamiliar faces he finds one that is achingly familiar. It's the face he's searched in crowds for nine years, first reflexively and then desperately. "Garak?" he breathes, unable to help the disbelief or the catch in his voice. The smile is sly and generous, much as Bashir remembers it. The voice is not. "The one and only. Hello, my friend." Breaching Starfleet etiquette and not caring, Bashir shoulders his way around Gotenka and grabs Garak's arm. Underneath his exquisite tailoring, he's still solid steel and strength. The years and the crowd around them fade away. "It's really you, isn't it?" Garak's lips twitch. "Would I be so cruel as to send a doppelganger in my stead?" "Yes," Bashir replies immediately. "Yes, you would." "Alas, then it seems my skills have gone to disrepair." The unfamiliar rasp in Garak's before so sonorous voice makes Bashir want to clear his throat. "A shame, really. Such an opportunity to devastate you, and I didn't even think of it." Bashir smiles. To his eyes, Garak hasn't aged, but he does bear new scars and a calm to his visage that he never had before. His uniform is obviously a uniform -- a deep, dark midnight blue with a high collar that screams for insignia to be attached to it, yet there is none -- and he carries a tablet of pale stone under his arm. "What's that?" Garak brushes the antique tablet with his fingers. The touch is fleeting, yet almost erotic in its reverence. "It's a *neltek'leht*, a Soul Stone. It carries a soul on its final journey into the void. Or in this case, to the Celestial Temple." "I'm sure Nerys would appreciate it," Bashir says, because that's what he's supposed to say. He's quite certain Kira would have words not suitable for polite company. Garak's smile is crooked; he understands absurdity like only a career nihilist can. "For the saviour of the Cardassian people, only the best will suffice." As Bashir stands there, grinning like an idiot and his hand forgotten on Garak's arm, he feels warm and content inside. An unusual feeling for him, and even though it's nostalgia he feels and the warmth of memories, he decides that as emotions go, it's no less genuine than his seemingly indissoluble grief. "You must be tired. Let me show you to your quarters." "I'd be delighted," Garak says and the familiarity of his gracious nod makes Bashir's heart ache pleasantly. "Well, c'mon. This way. We have just enough time to get you settled and to have a quick tour." * * * * * Twenty minutes later, Garak's belongings are in the guest quarters and Bashir has blackmailed him into a walk at the Promenade. He sells it with the promise of nostalgia; Garak scoffs at the notion and reminds Bashir of his hypermnesia, but comes anyway. "This certainly brings back memories," Garak murmurs. He gives no indication on whether the memories are good or bad. "It hasn't been the same since you left." Garak nods towards the tailor's shop and the Bolian puttering around inside it. "Alas, they are a species known for their expertise in plumbing, not fashion." He clicks his tongue. "A tragedy in the making." "That's not what I meant." "I know," Garak says and turns away with a smile. "I choose to live in the belief that intelligent species never let Bolians hem their trousers so please, do not dissuade me of my comfortable fallacy." "He doesn't get to touch my trousers," Bashir readily provides the untruth. "Really. Scout's honour." "Thank you. Now, shall we continue?" They make their way to the upper level of the Promenade, sparsely trafficked and quieter. Garak leads Bashir to the viewports facing the wormhole and leans against the wall. To Bashir, the pale blue of his eyes is like Romulan ale, alien and intoxicating. "Whatever happened to that Trill girl of yours?" Garak makes a show of his reminiscing. "That young thing. What was her name again?" Bashir smiles at Garak's pretense. "She's Bitan Dax now," Bashir says and thinks of the young, strapping Trill with magical green eyes. "Really?" Garak asks, as if the information surprises him. "Yeah. Six years and then some." Although they haven't seen each other in months, he believes Bitan must still have that look about him, the painful stain of reassociation. He thinks a familiar, ugly thought about Lenara Kahn. He doesn't blame Ezri for her momentary weakness -- not any more, at least. "I'm so sorry." No you're not, Bashir wants to say. "Don't be." You never liked her, he wants to add; there would be no malice in his voice, because he never liked her that much either. "Anyone new in your life?" "Just Kukalaka and various indoor plants I invariably end up killing." "Well," Garak says and smiles one of his not-smiles. "Now and then, euthanasia is the only viable answer." Bashir makes a noncommittal sound, not quite knowing how to take Garak's obvious jest. "And you, old friend?" he asks, because it's the polite thing to do. Garak glances at his side and touches his lips with his finger. "Watch," is all he says and guides Bashir's eyes down to the Promenade with a nod. Frowning, he complies. At first, Bashir thinks Garak is implying Legate Gotenka is what brings a smile to his face. Before the preposterousness of that visual can sink in, he understands what Garak wanted him to see. Or rather, whom. "Uh...Captain Picard? Garak, I'm impressed." Garak smiles again. "As always, the flights of your imagination are nothing short of astounding. Watch," he instructs again. Legate Gotenka is among the dignitaries gathering in front of the temple, as is the Federation representative, Captain Picard. The latter -- a sparse, regal legend of a man, resplendent in a dress uniform -- emerges from a group of Bajoran vedeks and approaches the legate. Three paces away, he stops, a storm gathering over his suddenly stony appearance. "What in the name of...?" Bashir mutters, frowning. "Keep watching, my friend." As Bashir looks, he can see the angry words leave Picard's mouth but can't quite hear them. He sees the sudden, restless activity amongst the Cardassians and the equally sudden appearance of Starfleet and station security, followed by Captain Kim. In no time at all, Gotenka is being led away amidst vociferous protest and kerfuffle. Bashir turns back to Garak. His manner is entirely unruffled, as if he has been expecting this very outcome to the accidental meeting -- which was not quite so accidental, Bashir realises. It seems some things in the Universe never change. "Garak. What kind of a game are you playing this time?" Instead of an answer, Garak glances at the chrono embedded in the cuff of his jacket and stands up. "We need to go lest we miss the memorial service," he says as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. "I have a delivery to make," he adds, again touching the stone under his arm. Resigned to his fate of incomprehension, Bashir follows Garak down the stairs and towards the temple. A smile inches its way on his lips. How he hasn't died of boredom without Garak, he doesn't know. * * * * * Bashir had thought he could cry no more, yet his tears are flowing freely. His grief is like a living thing, a growing, cancerous weight on his heart. He sees Jake Sisko's lips move but he can't hear his words. A touch on his arm jolts him from his paralysis. Looking down, he sees Garak's hand and a white handkerchief in it. "Thanks," he croaks. The fine linen feels harsh on his tired eyes. When Jake finishes his eulogy, Vedek Bertom takes his place. "Thank you, Mr. Sisko. Our beloved daughter has heard your words," he intones solemnly. "Who wishes to address Nerys and the prophets next?" Bashir is startled when Garak stands up. "I do." To the tune of scandalised whispers from the Bajorans and puzzled looks from everyone else, Garak makes his way to the front. His gaze lingers on Kira's gleaming torpedo casket for a moment before he turns to the audience and sets the Soul Stone down in front of him. "Or rather, I know who wants to be next," he says and smiles down at the stone tablet. "At your convenience, my friend." Just as Bashir is convinced that at last, Garak has lost his final marble, the tablet draws his attention. What before was inert, pale stone and intricate carvings now shimmers with a golden sheen. As he watches, stunned to silence as much as the rest of the audience is, the stone shifts and morphs and grows into a humanoid shape that's instantly familiar. "Garak, you old devil," Bashir breathes, his sorrow momentarily replaced by bittersweet joy. To hushed whispers, the golden statue coalesces into its final form. "Hello," Odo says as the final glimmers of gold vanish underneath black fabric. He turns to Garak. "Thank you, Garak." Garak nods and smiles. "Consider us even." "Oh, I don't think so." "Ah, well. Hope springs eternal," Garak says amiably and vacates the stage. As Odo turns to the spellbound crowd, Bashir's eyes follow Garak all the way to the exit. Frowning, torn between following him and listening to Odo, he vacillates between staying and going long enough for Odo to start. When Odo speaks, his voice is strong and with inflection that's unfamiliar to Bashir. It reminds him of Captain Sisko: strong, assured and mature beyond what mere mortals can achieve in their modest years. It also reminds Bashir of the war and he stops that thought before it can take him to places he doesn't want to go to. So he listens to Odo's words, watches his familiar shape and strength of his shoulders that seem to be able to carry any weight except this. Afterwards, the crowd gathers around Kira's casket. Bashir finds Odo standing at the sidelines, watching from the shadows. What do you say to a friend ten years gone, he wonders. "You're getting better with your noses," Bashir says stupidly and feels like kicking himself. "Thank you, doctor," Odo says and smiles as he touches his ear. "Alas, external auricles are still beyond my capabilities." "You'll get there. Give it time." Odo glances back at Kira's torpedo casket, as if to seek reassurance from her earthly remains. "Time is all that I have, now, it seems." "I'm so sorry, Odo. If there's anything I can do...?" "You already did more than enough, Julian," Odo says. The smile on his face is dying slowly. "You were a friend to her when she needed one." Bashir wants to say something about not being able to save her, but decides at the last second that it's something Odo doesn't need to hear right now. In a decade, maybe. A century, perhaps. "You'll stay with her tonight?" Odo nods, his eyes once again on the black torpedo. "If I may." "Of course. I'll see that you're not disturbed." "Thank you." Bashir touches Odo's sleeve. Distractedly, he notes Odo chose not to wear the uniform and wonders whether the decision was symbolism or convenience on his part. "I'll see you tomorrow. The funeral is at 0800 hours." Odo doesn't reply, merely nods and sits down again. To Bashir, he looks a broken man, although he knows Odo can't be broken nor is he really a man at all. ----------------------------- End of part 1/3. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newshosting.com!nx01.iad01.newshosting.com!yellow.newsread.com!news-toy.newsread.com!netaxs.com!newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "Penumbra" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW DS9 Dark Stone of Souls 2/3 (G/B) [NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 447 Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 18:55:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1092077705 209.198.142.218 (Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:05 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:05 EDT Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:82558 X-Received-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 11:55:10 PDT (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Please see part 1 for codes, warnings and disclaimer. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dark Stone of Souls, part 2/3 by Penumbra (c) 2004 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- When Bashir exits, he automatically searches the crowd for Garak. He spies him across the Promenade: he's sitting at the Replimat with a cup of something steaming at his elbow and a padd in his hand. Bashir makes a beeline for him. "Ah, there you are! The Yigrish cream pie the replicator makes has improved remarkably in my absence. Or perhaps you'd like some Tarkalean tea?" Garak asks, gesturing at his cup. Bashir can still feel the dull ache of his grief and wonders how Garak can be so cheery and so nonchalant on a day of mourning. "Do you not feel anything?" he asks with little asperity. He seats himself at Garak's table. "What, pray tell, should I be feeling?" "Melancholy. Anger. Maybe some acute distress." Bashir gestures vaguely around them. "Hell, anything. It's a funeral. It's Kira." Saying her name wounds him more than he expected. "Julian," Garak says and puts the padd down. The use of his first name, so unusual for the former tailor, deflates Bashir's indignation in its infancy. "What makes you think I don't feel anything?" "Well, if you are, I certainly can't tell what it is by looking at you." "And this would surprise you, why, again?" Bashir snorts, amused despite himself. "Touche." When Garak smiles, Bashir finally sees the sadness in him, in that smile that knows too much about life and the ugly reality of life on a knife's edge. He realises that his friend knows a side of Kira he never did: the unwilling saviour of a people she hated with a passion. "You wear your heart on your sleeve, Julian, but if you didn't, you wouldn't be who you are." "Thank you, I guess." Bashir taps his fingertips against the table; he needs to get his mind off Kira. "So you want to tell me how the hell you came to bring Odo here, and what that business was with Picard and Gotenka?" "Odo's story is his own, so he can enlighten you regarding that. As for Gotenka, well," Garak says and pauses to glance towards the nearest gaggle of Starfleet security. "Years ago, when I first met him, he went by Gul Lemec and had some, shall we say, unfortunate dealings with our good Captain Picard. For a man of your vast mental acuity, unravelling the rest should be a small chore -- let's call it homework." "Homework?" "Homework." Garak's eyes are on him again and they almost twinkle with his particular shade of mischief. Bashir sighs as he sits back. His first impression still held true: to his eyes, Garak is not much older, only different. The years have made him leaner and somehow deadlier still, yet they have not taken away any of their intimacy. Their friendship still feels more than that to Bashir; he can still count the notches of Garak's ridges and hear the cultured cadence of his voice in his sleep. Bashir wonders if Thomas Haynes Bayly was right -- wonders if it's only absence that has made his heart grow fonder, or if it's something else entirely. Kira's senseless death has given him new urgency, because he has learned how random death can be; for the first time in his life, he truly understands mortality. He needs to know before it's too late. Decision made, he stands up. "Come with me." "Where?" "Please?" Extending his hand, Bashir smiles. "When could I ever say no to you, my friend," Garak says, and it's more a statement of fact than a question. He takes the offered hand; Bashir is startled to realise how warm Garak is to the touch. * * * * * "Your quarters? How disappointing -- I had hoped our tour of nostalgia would've been over by now." Bashir smiles and slaps the entry pad of his door a bit too hard. "Well, you said I have research to do, yes?" "What does that have to do with me?" "While I research Picard and this Gul Lemec you mentioned, you'll sit quietly there," Bashir says and points at his sofa as they step in, "and answer any questions I might have on the subject." Garak's look is genuinely humoured. "I will?" "Yes, and don't think I'm going to let you go before you tell about Odo, too," Bashir says firmly and all but steers Garak to the sofa before taking a seat in front of his computer console. "Computer, search all Starfleet databases for 'Gul Lemec'. Order by proximity to 'Picard'." "Searching. Please wait," the computer intones pleasantly. As he waits, Bashir turns in his chair, his hands nervous on his thighs and a strange, disembodied set to his mind. On the sofa, Garak is once again engrossed in his padd; the thick, gleaming fabric of his uniform rustles as he crosses his legs. He's thought of Garak every day, sometimes twice a day. He can't help it. Garak is always with him, like a bad habit. "Three matching entries found. Clearance code required." Startled out of his reverie, Bashir swivels back to the terminal. "Clearance Bashir theta-five-six-seven-alpha." "Permission denied." Bashir frowns at the display. "What do you mean, permission denied?" "Permission denied. Level eight Security clearance required." "I didn't realise Starfleet would be this paranoid," Garak notes with obvious approval. He startles Bashir; he hadn't heard him stand up. "If I may?" Bashir waves for him to proceed. "Break a leg." Garak gives him a sly, humoured glance. "Clearance code Allentown omega-six-zero-zero-pi, confirmation password 'magniloquent'. Display." Suddenly obedient, the computer beeps in approval, not surprising Bashir the least. "'Magniloquent,' Garak?" "Quite apropos, I thought." "Yes," Bashir mutters. "Couldn't have put it better myself." He selects the first of the files and quickly scans the text version. He's peripherally aware of Garak re-seating himself but that awareness soon fades as the contents of the file register in his mind. When he reaches the end of the data, he switches the display off and sits quiet for a moment. The silence in the room is not oppressive, merely contemplative. "There was a familiar name mentioned here," Bashir finally says and taps the now black screen with his fingers. "My name?" "No. Not quite. 'Obsidian Order,' which happens to ring a bell." "Ah," Garak says. The lone syllable rasps deep in his throat. "Known as the Intraplanetary Security Agency these days, incidentally enough." "Is that their uniform?" Bashir asks, nodding towards Garak. "What makes you think I'm wearing a uniform?" Bashir grins. "In my life, I've spent a lot of time with a tailor and in various uniforms. I know one when I see one. Don't dodge the question, Garak." "I wouldn't dream of it. The answer to your question is, no." His manner indicates further probing into the character of his outfit would be unwelcome. "Please, do enlighten me as to your findings and subsequent conclusions." Bashir suppresses a shiver. He really doesn't want to think of the things Lemec and Gul Madred did to Picard. "Gul Lemec was...your friend? A colleague?" Garak makes a displeased sound. "Hardly. Lemec is a dilettante, an amateur too enamoured with his imagined cunning and nonexistent skills. That he survived the war and made a legate is a sure sign of how unjust the Universe can be when it really tries." "Somehow, I don't think Lemec'll be a legate that much longer." "Mmm. Good of you to notice," Garak replies. His smile is like a straight razor, sharp and burnished. "Knowing you as I do, that wasn't so hard," Bashir says, knowing he doesn't have the full truth yet. He pauses for a moment, thinking. "Are you hungry?" Seemingly unsurprised at the non sequitur, Garak cocks his head in consideration. "Always," he replies. Bashir has a feeling he's not talking about just food. "Have dinner with me, then? Just you and me and the replicator. I want to pick your brain some more." "Offer me a good glass of port wine and I might be tempted." "Don't know about port wine, but I do have a bottle of decent kanaar stashed away." Garak's browridge twitches. "Oh? You do?" "Yeah. It seems you taught me more than to look for dark clouds in every silver lining, my friend," Bashir remarks, smiling. Garak's smile mirrors his. "If only you meant it." * * * * * If not the mediocre vindaloo, then at least the replicator's approximation of naan bread pleases Bashir. He is also pleased when he locates his lone surviving kanaar bottle. After Garak assures him that kanaar never goes bad and Bashir expresses his alarm over this miracle of preservation, they retire to the sofas. "So what will come of Gotenka or Lemec or whatever he's called?" Bashir can hear the slight slowing of his speech and makes a note to watch his kanaar intake. "He'll either face a Federation war crimes tribunal or a Cardassian court. Either way, his days of glory are long gone." "Your little game turned out the way you planned?" Garak smiles and takes no offence at his choice of words. "I did." "You used Kira's funeral to make a political play. This doesn't strike you as somewhat...blasphemous? Or disrespective?" Bashir's voice is inflectionless, because all his anger he keeps inside. He knows yelling at Garak won't change anything and somehow, that makes Bashir resent him all the more. "Opportune circumstances occur so very rarely," Garak says and shrugs. Bashir stands up and stalks to re-fill his glass lest he say something unwise. Tears blur his eyes again and the kanaar bottle shakes in his hand when he hears Garak move to stand behind him. "You used her, Garak." "She was -- she is a hero to me, Julian." Bashir notes he doesn't deny the accusation. "There are bigger things in play than the mortal passing of one person, even when she's the saviour of my people. All I can say is that I did it not for myself, but to honour her memory." Bashir frowns and turns to face Garak. "I don't understand." "One day, you will." "I could understand right now if you explained it to me." Garak's smile is unfathomable, yet somehow reassuring. "One day." Wiping his tears away with a clumsy, angry gesture, Bashir wonders how he's always the one to cry. His sorrow is eating away at his heart as if his blood has turned to lye; yet somehow, Garak's presence makes the pain inconsequential. He realises that in Garak, he has a man who can be silent during despair, who can tolerate not knowing and not healing, who is there only to help him face how powerless he is. Through the contemplative silence, Garak reaches out and touches his wet cheek. His hand is warm and impulsively, Bashir mirrors the gesture. Garak's skin feels like liquid metal; his breath brushes Bashir's wrist. "Please make me forget," he whispers, because he needs an excuse to touch him. "Please. Make me forget about today." "Do you know what you're asking, Julian?" He smiles. The feel of Garak's hand, sliding into his hair, is electric. "I've known for fifteen years, Elim." Bashir doesn't know where his glass lands and doesn't give a damn, because Garak is kissing him. Desire scales his spine as he tastes the heady flavour of kanaar and hunger on Garak's lips. They are softer than he expected; in his arms, Garak's body is harder than he has ever imagined -- and imagined he has. "Why do you want to forget?" The rasp in Garak's voice is suddenly more pronounced and infinitely more erotic to Bashir's ears. "I don't. I lied," he breathes and pushes Garak against the wall. "I want to remember this for the rest of my life." Garak's pupils have dilated to hungry, inky black wells. "Be careful what you wish for, Julian." As he unfastens Garak's collar, Bashir smiles in reply. Despite what Garak thinks, he knows very well what he's wishing for: a fire to play with. Underneath the uniform jacket Bashir finds only naked skin. His breath hitches when he pushes the dark, heavy material apart to reveal the wide expanse of Garak's chest, knotted with muscles and heaving. He touches the scales in wonder, watches them shiver, and traces their patterns down to an octagon of dark stone embedded into Garak's abdomen, spanning three of his transverse ribs. "What's this?" he asks, touching the stone. Its pitch-black surface is cool to the touch and full of intricately carved patterns. "Right now, do you really care?" "But--" When Garak's hand grasps his already distended cock through his uniform, Bashir forgets all about the stone. Pushing the jacket off Garak's shoulders, he exhales a startled moan against Garak's lips. Warmth floods his bones and muscle and he sways. "Oh, Elim," he murmurs, spreading his hands across the smooth landscape of Garak's torso. Resting his forehead on a neckridge, he fights to breathe. "What is it that you really want, Julian?" Garak's breath is like fire on his cheek and his touch burns. "Tell me." What does he want? Not release, and not oblivion, either. What he wants is to feel wanted again. He wants to know what he has not had despite wanting it for fifteen years. He wants Garak's mouth on him, everywhere. He wants to learn if Elim Garak tastes like danger, as he should. Lifting his head, Bashir meets Garak's gaze. He knows what he wants. "I want you to fuck me, Elim. Tonight, right here." Garak's exhalation sounds surprised, or perhaps it's excitement. For the span of a breath, he doesn't move except for his grip on Bashir's cock, which tightens until it's almost painful. When he finally speaks, the dark timbre of his voice makes Bashir's heart race. "Take off your clothes." Bashir's hands shake as he obeys, peeling off the many layers of his uniform until he stands naked, shivering from the strength of his arousal. His erection sways in the cool air with each breath he takes. "And now what?" Garak's appreciative gaze travels the length of him, from head to toe. He smiles and to Bashir, the smile is as hypnotic as the map of ridges and scars on his exposed torso. "Come here," he says, reaching out. One hand on his jaw, the other curled around his cock, Garak is both keeping him upright and turning his knees to pudding. Panting against Garak's lips, his tongue tasting the cool, heady mouth, Bashir fumbles with the fastenings of Garak's trousers. They refuse to give way, so he pushes his hand down past the waistband. For a few, terrifying moments he feels like a virgin again, when nothing he touches seems familiar. But when Garak's cock uncurls -- slick and hotter than molten steel in his hands -- and he makes a groan with a universal meaning, Bashir's hesitation vanishes. He strokes the hard, thick length he holds and the slide of scales against his palm is the most erotic thing he's ever experienced. "Elim, please," he moans. His hips jerk at the pace of Garak's hand on his cock. The touch is skilled, stroking him with intensity that makes him see stars. "I want you inside me...oh god, please...inside me." "Julian...*shelk'ta, mek*. I don't -- I don't think I'll last that long." From the tension in Garak's voice and from the pleasure coiling in his abdomen, Bashir recognises their first time is going to be a hand job. If it didn't feel as heavenly as it does, he would regret the fact. But he doesn't; the things Garak's hand is doing to his aching, weeping cock rob him of words and all thought. Moaning incoherently, Bashir rubs his cock against Garak's fingers and the coarse fabric of his trousers. Garak's mouth is on his neck, teasing and biting, and he can feel his low growl vibrate against his skin. Sharp fingernails graze along the underside of his cock, making him quiver with ecstasy. "Please don't stop...please. I'm so close. Oh god..." "Come for me, Julian," Garak says, his breath harsh gasps. "My Julian." "Oh, Elim, I'm--" Bashir comes into the tight grasp of Garak's hand, screaming out gods he doesn't believe in. Through the sheer bliss of his release, he feels Garak jerk and thicken in his hand, the delicious textures of his cock becoming slicker still. Warm, silky wetness floods his hand and it stains his fingers and flows down between them. When he can finally see and breathe again, Bashir staggers a step backwards. He pulls his hand from within Garak's trousers and licks his lips when he sees the translucent pale blue that coats his fingers. Cardassian come -- or perhaps it's just Garak -- tastes like burning leaves. Fire and warm metals and autumn frost, Bashir thinks hazily. Garak leans back against the wall. "I wanted to ask you, why now," he rasps, "but I'll ask it later." "Why later?" Bashir breathes, still weak-kneed from his orgasm. Garak unfastens his trousers and lets them drop. His erection is as black as the stone in his chest and still as hard as the look of want in his eyes. Bashir swallows. "I see." His sphincter clenches in fear. "You have a bed somewhere, I assume." He nods towards the bedroom doorway, his eyes never leaving Garak's groin. "Back there." "Excellent," Garak croons and kicks off his shoes and trousers. "Come with me." As he follows Garak towards the bedroom, Bashir finds that Garak's ass is as riveting as the magnificent proportions of his cock. With a smile, he decides to make a valiant effort to do as ordered and come with him. ----------------------------- End of part 2/3. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: ath: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newshosting.com!nx02.iad01.newshosting.com!216.196.98.140.MISMATCH!border1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!newsread.com!newsstand.newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "Penumbra" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW DS9 Dark Stone of Souls 3/3 (G/B) [NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 398 Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 18:55:06 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1092077706 209.198.142.218 (Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:06 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:55:06 EDT Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:82559 X-Received-Date: Mon, 09 Aug 2004 11:55:11 PDT (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Please see part 1 for codes, warnings and disclaimer. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dark Stone of Souls, part 3/3 by Penumbra (c) 2004 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- The next day dawns as dark and cold, as they always do in space. Bashir stumbles into the launch bay at 0759 hours. Bruises in the shape of Garak's hands span the skin underneath his uniform, his eyes are crusty from lack of sleep, and he can't sit down. He prays for the morning to pass quickly, for the sake of his aching body and because he thinks he can't take the guilt much longer. The ceremony is as Starfleet as the memorial service was Bajoran: a requisite and thankfully short eulogy by Captain Kim, followed by a quiet version of "Taps." When Kira's remains shoot out of the primary torpedo launcher, Bashir thinks he can feel the station shudder. "The wormhole?" Bashir nods numbly. "Yeah." "How...appropriate." The pain in Odo's voice is palpable. "Perhaps she'll see Sisko there," Julian murmurs, more to himself than to Odo. "She'd like that." "Yes," Odo says quietly. "She'd like that." "I thought so, too." He glances at Odo's stony visage. He can almost see the maelstrom raging underneath his surface, visible through the dead of his eyes. It's the same look Bashir got used to seeing in Kira's eyes: not the pain of lost lives, but of lost chances. Loving Odo is what hurt Kira, and now losing her is what's slowly killing Odo's soul. The wormhole flares open. Its eye is a white so blinding it makes Bashir blink and so he misses the moment when the torpedo enters the light. * * * * * "My head hurts." "More tea, perhaps?" Garak suggests. Bashir shakes his head in the negative. "It'll pass." The extremes of emotion are why his head aches: the sorrow of Kira's passing, the ecstasy of fucking Garak. The pain began during the ceremony and not even the relative darkness of his quarters helps. For a moment, he wonders how Garak can read in the dim light, only to remember he's not human. When the door chime sounds, Bashir jerks to sit upright on the sofa. Garak, still clad in only his uniform trousers, sets his padd down. "Are you expecting company?" "No, I'm not," Bashir murmurs as he stands. "Enter." The door slides open, admitting Odo. "The computer informed me I would find Garak here." Flush creeping up his features, Bashir draws his robe more closely around him and nods at Garak. "What can I do for you today, Odo?" "Dr. Mora is back on Bajor so I thought I'd pay him a visit. You're not in any hurry to leave, are you?" Garak smiles beatifically, as if Odo's tone hadn't been both exasperated and disapproving. "Not in the least. Go, my friend. Let me know when you're coming back." Odo turns as if to leave, but Bashir stops him with a hand on his arm. "Wait, Odo. You're going to leave, just like that, without even a proper hello?" Odo looks as if he wants to roll his eyes. "Hello, Dr. Bashir. How have you been?" Smiling, Bashir muses that spending time with other changelings has done nothing to improve Odo's irascible temper. "I have been better, but also worse, thank you for asking. Despite the circumstances, seeing you so unexpectedly has been a treat. However, how on earth did you wind up hitching a ride with him?" he asks, glancing at Garak. "Let's just say he owes me a number of favours--" "Oh, let's not exaggerate, Odo. Two favours, at most. That business with Gul Melor and then Romulus, if my memory serves me right," Garak interjects. "--and I called in one of them," Odo continues as if he hadn't heard Garak. "Why he came, I don't understand, but I've resigned to the fact that Cardassians do things that make little sense to you and me." "Kira Nerys saved my people, Odo. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her." "Ever the patriot?" Odo asks Garak, something akin to a sad smile playing on his thin lips. "Hardly. Merely an old sentimentalist." Odo snorts, prompting a smile from Bashir. "Anyway, I'm off. Try not to get into trouble while I'm away, Garak," he says, his eyes moving from Garak to Bashir. "And you, doctor, you need to find out who you're dealing with here." "What do you mean?" "Him," Odo gruffs, pointing at Garak, who immediately assumes an impeccable mien of innocence. "Ask him about that stone while you're at it, too." Garak's sigh is worthy of the stage. "Oh, Odo. I thought we were done with this discussion." "We are. However, Dr. Bashir hasn't been privy to it." With a curt nod, Odo exits and leaves Bashir to stare at the door that closed after him. He turns slowly, deliberately, until his eyes are on Garak. "Yes?" Garak queries, once again holding his padd. "Are you going to tell me or do I have to pry it out of you with pliers?" Before Garak has a chance to reply, Bashir shakes a finger at him. "And don't you dare to tell me I need to do 'research' because I swear to god, Garak, if you do that I'm--" "--not going to suck my cock when I'm done?" Sudden warmth suffuses Bashir's body and he makes an appreciative sound at the thought. He sits down, both to hide his sudden interest as well as not to loom over Garak. "Exactly," Bashir manages. His incipient erection aches pleasantly. "Pray, do tell." "This is a Soul Stone -- a real one, not a changeling this time," Garak says. His fingers trace the thick cords of scar tissue around the tablet. "There are only three of them in existence and of those, this is known as the Obsidian Soul Stone." Bashir inhales as comprehension dawns on him. "As in, the Obsidian Order?" "Very good, Julian," Garak murmurs and smiles. "This stone is, quite literally, at the heart of the Order." "I thought the Obsidian Order died with Tain's failed pact with the Romulans? And what of this..." He trails off, waving his hand. "Whatever you called it." "Intraplanetary Security Agency?" "Yes, that's it." "Oh, they call it that these days, but it isn't the first pseudonym the Order has ever assumed. Are not all higher powers polyonymous -- Yahweh, Allah, your Lord and Saviour? Same can be said for the Order of the Obsidian Soul Stone." Garak smiles, and it is not really a smile at all. "As long as there is a Cardassia, the Order will be there to protect it." Bashir nods numbly, his eyes drawn to the black void of the stone. It's not merely attached to Garak's chest; it's embedded into it, right over where a Cardassian's heart is. "But why do you have it?" "I'm no longer of the Obsidian Order, Julian," Garak says and touches the stone as if he is touching his soul. "I *am* the Order." Startled, Bashir's gaze darts from the stone to Garak's eyes that regard him with cool patience. He recognises the importance of what Garak is saying -- that the order of things has changed during their years apart. Garak is not an exiled prodigy, but the master; no longer a rising star, but the true centre of power. "You?" Bashir asks numbly. "Did you not wonder why my uniform -- and yes, Julian, it is a uniform -- has no rank markings? It's because I don't need any." "But Garak, this is the organisation that exiled you...tried to kill you." "And now I've returned to them, not as their outcast but as a conqueror," Garak says. The rasp in his voice is more pronounced. "I have breathed the toxic air and smelled the burning bodies on Cardassia for nine years because it's finally my right to do so again. It's my right and my duty, Julian, to myself and to the Cardassian people." Bashir exhales, startled and afraid of this new fire in his old friend's voice. "You...you have become Enabran Tain," he whispers. He regrets his vocalised thought immediately when he sees the flash of pain in Garak's eyes. Suddenly, the man sitting across from him is not the head of Obsidian Order any more. He's plain and simple Garak, his friend. His...lover. "I'm sorry, Garak. I didn't mean to--" "I'm not my father, Julian. I do not intend to live my life as disgracefully as he did, nor will I make the same mistakes he did." "What mistakes are those?" "He failed ultimately because he had nothing to live for." Garak's smile is warm and he leans forward. His skin glows like brushed steel. "I don't intend to die a lonely man. Why do you think I came back to Terok Nor, to my place of exile, after all these years?" "As a favour to Odo, I thought. And to trap Gul Lemec." "No, Julian. I came because of you." Breath catches in Bashir's throat. He had thought he'd cried all his tears already, yet his vision blurs when he slides down from the sofa to kneel in front of Garak. "We were stupid about this back then, weren't we, Elim?" "Oh, I suppose we were." Garak's touch on his cheek is gentle; his cock shifts inside his trousers like a living thing when Bashir rests his hand on it. The distinctly reptilian hiss of approval turns Bashir's blood to quicksilver. Soon, sliding his lips along Garak's hardness, Bashir doesn't care that his jaw hurts or that he still can't see for the tears in his eyes. He lives solely to hear the encouraging, breathless groans Garak makes and to feel the rapid pulse that races along the thick, slick shaft he takes in his mouth. "*Shelk'ta* Julian. *Azfiriez al nat're. Azfiriez...*" The Universal Translator doesn't understand Garak's words and neither does Bashir, but he comprehends their intended meaning. When Garak comes into his mouth, Bashir swallows the thick ejaculate with content warmth blossoming inside him; it's no longer mere desire he's experiencing. When he touches the Soul Stone, Bashir can feel Garak's rapid heartbeat through it. Resting his cheek on Garak's pale, muscled thigh, he traces the filigree patterns on the stone and the scar tissue around it with his fingers. "You are...quite wondrous," he whispers. He doesn't mention love, because he knows how vulnerable he is right that moment. "You are the reason the Universe invented beauty, my Julian," Garak replies. There is post-coital languor in his gestures as he smiles and touches Bashir's shoulder. "In so many ways." Bashir mirrors his smile and wonders how he has managed through the years without the infuriating, compelling presence of the man in front of him. "I didn't realise you really were a sentimentalist, Elim." "We'll keep that as our secret, won't we." * * * * * Two days later, Bashir stands by the airlock in upper pylon three and looks as if you could knock him over with a feather. When he speaks, disbelief colours his voice. "The Breen?" Odo nods. "Along with the Romulans, yes. Ever since we took that little trip to Romulus a while back, I've been trying to figure out why Garak was so interested in the Breen raids into Bajoran territory." "Because of Gul Lemec," Bashir breathes, the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. "Has to be." "Very good, doctor. It seems Gul Lemec has not lost his entrepreneurial streak: he was the one funnelling funds and equipment to the Breen through Romulus. To what end, we still don't know, but Garak has several working theories." "He was stealing money? The Obsidian Order's money? Did the man have a death wish?" Odo's lips twist into a thin smile. "His greatest failure was to let pride instead of caution guide his decisions. Lemec thought himself smarter than Garak." "No wonder Garak came all this way himself." "Hm, yes. He has developed a fondness for the hands-on approach, I guess. I'm sure Nerys would've appreciated the poetic justice." The hurt in Odo's eyes is almost too painful for Bashir to look at, but he agrees with his assessment. A former enemy using her funeral to ensnare the man indirectly responsible for her death is symbolism worthy of deep admiration. Garak, it seems to Bashir, is a worthy successor of the legends that have led the Order. "So you're going back?" Bashir doesn't ask how Odo and Garak manage to get to and from the Gamma Quadrant without being detected, because he knows it'd be a futile inquiry. "Yes, right after we get to Cardassia Prime again. That place..." Odo trails off and to Bashir, it seems he almost shivers. "No, the Link is where I belong." "When you come back," Bashir says, emphasising the first word. "When you come back, please come and visit me." "Perhaps, Dr. Bashir, the Universe will accommodate us." "Speaking of accommodating, what's keeping Garak?" Bashir remarks and glances at the chrono. As if summoned, Garak appears just then, breathless and flushed. "My apologies for being late. Captain Kim made his decision and so I had to arrange transportation for Gul Lemec back to Cardassia on a rather short notice." "He's not joining you?" Bashir asks. "Alas, no. That would be, shall we say, inconvenient." Odo eyes Garak. "He's going to have an 'accident,' isn't he?" "I don't know what you're talking about, Odo," Garak intones and brushes nonexistent lint off his sleeve. Looking as if he's dying to roll his eyes, Odo grunts and turns towards the airlock. "Goodbye, Dr. Bashir. I'll give you two your privacy," he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the waiting ship. Bashir turns to Garak and smiles, memorising how blue his eyes are and how tempting his grey lips are. "I hope it's not going to be another nine years," he says, feigning nonchalance. "And hopefully the circumstances will be less sombre the next time we meet." Garak makes a sympathetic noise in his throat. "Kira's loss will be felt for a long time -- both here and on Cardassia." Bashir's exhalation is unsteady. "She is...in a better place," he says, wishing his words true. Garak touches Bashir's cheek, a sad look in his eyes. "I always wondered what could extinguish the light in you, Julian. To my great sorrow, I've now found out what it takes." Bashir smiles, touched by Garak's sentiment. He knows Garak is wrong because whatever it is in him that has died with Kira, it is now eclipsed by a new radiance. He kisses Garak because he wants to remember what he tastes like, and he doesn't care that he's scandalising half of the people around them by doing so. "Don't let it be nine years, Julian," Garak says when they part. His voice is hoarse. "You know where to find me." "I do. I love you, Elim," Bashir says before he loses his nerve. His words startle Garak to stillness, the ice blue of his eyes thawing to something resembling regret. "Say that to me again one day. On Cardassia." "I will." Bashir watches Garak's ship depart, standing still until its cumbersome silhouette is swallowed by the space between stars. He knows that out there, on a dying planet orbiting one of those distant stars, is his destiny. He loves a killer -- a devious, damaged man with a dark stone for a heart -- and the thought fills him with joy. ~~~ T h e ~ E n d ~~~ ----------------------------- End of part 3/3. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: