InsaneJournal

Title: Black Bottle, Chapter 5: Grey Anatomy Part 2, Or: The Gift of Anatomy Direly Indebted and Dipped in Chocolate
Author: herm42
Fandom: ST: DS9  EG/JB
Rating: very very very adult
Notes:  This is a very long chapter divided into multiple posts.  Canon is starting to crumble this chapter.  Also, I've taken some liberties with the Cardassian species.  Fleshed them out a little with some things that do not exist in canon, not even in fanon as far as I know, but seemed to me to be possibilities.  I hope you will look at my additions with an open mind.  I don't intend to make very many enormous alterations to the Cardassian paradigm, or any other Star Trek aliens, so I won't be asking you to integrate too much new information beyond what is in this chapter. 

    Garak wakes to a ghostly tingle on the back of his neck and a rare silence in his head.  A dream withdraws its fingers from his skin as he opens his eyes and exhales a steady breath.  There is nothing tethering him to his fears this morning, and even that realization does not bring him crashing back to reality or uncertainty.  Though serenity is always welcome if it graces him, once again he isn't sure of the source.  He knows from experience that it is usually a harbinger of something to come. It is an automatic response he conditioned in himself a long time ago, though he does not always recognize it when he feels it. It is similar to the phenomenon of animals fleeing an approaching tsunami while the people remain unaware.  Some part of his mind recognizes the signs of an impending event and takes action but it doesn't always let him in on it.  Rather than fleeing or frenzying like rats on a sinking ship, however, he feels his mind clear slowly over the course of a day or so, faster if there is less time. He knows not to take this feeling as cause for alarm, that would defeat the purpose, but he does note it, knows to expect something.  He is rarely disappointed.

    Two days, less than two days to go. That could be it.

    He can thank Tain for this ability, this pseudo-prognostication. He had a hand in teaching him to bend his instinct into this mechanical coil that tightens and focuses when needed instead of springing out in panic. Can thank him for his survival over the last six years if for little else.

    He can't help, however, the ring of anticipation in his ears. Intellectually he knows that an event is on the horizon, instinctively he knows as well, it seems, which really only serves to make his heart skip along happily, as it seems just that much more plausible that he is going to get what he wants.  He feels, though contrary to his nature, that everything somehow will fall into place, if he just lets it.

    Though, it occurs to him, whenever Julian is involved, his sight becomes skewed.  Certainly with foresight he could expect the effect to be magnified as any margin of error when projected into the future.  Perhaps there is something else on the horizon he is not expecting, or perhaps his heart is jumping the gun.  He keeps going back to that kiss in the lift.  He felt just like this right before that happened and ruined his calm.  Well.  Ruin is perhaps not the best term for it.  Still water is poetic, but splashing is far more fun.  He doesn't think Julian will break the arrangement, not on purpose, so he can probably rest easy another day, but the actuarial paradox of preparing himself for what is coming without thinking about it and unsettling himself is almost as tempting a worry as the feeling itself.

    Something is definitely going to happen tomorrow night.  That does not depend entirely on him.  Giving Julian the manifesto of four days, he can count on an event then regardless of his own action. What will happen exactly, he isn't yet certain, even this close to the deadline.

    It's just that it feels different lately.  In the more distant past this calm had a vibration to it like a humming cello, ringing out a low base tone until the moment of truth.  This time it has manifested as an absence.  Just an inner silence where there would not ordinarily be one.  This is what seems to be tripping him up. Usually when he feels this calm before the storm, he can at least tell which direction the wind is blowing beforehand.  Today it seems to be swirling around him and obfuscating the compass points, clouding his eyes and in turn, somehow, blanketing him in uneasy tranquility.

    The gratitude festival is again upon them. Garak wonders if he will be burning a scroll or not. There is really only one thing he might put on it.

    He can't help but cringe internally when he thinks about how enormously indulgent and unfocused his behavior has been recently.  I love you too much.  Gods and Prophets he's becoming an old ninny.  At least the worst of it is over.  If it weren't for Julian's own display of childish maudlin in last night's short conversation, he'd still feel indelibly asinine.  He would like to blame his emotional instability on something outside his own body.  Life on the station, the cold air, the isolation, but he'd be lying to himself.  Yes it is a factor, but frankly this has been so long coming, whether they consummate this fool's errand tomorrow or it all blows up in his face, at least he can look forward to the eventual settling of things after it is done.

    Garak feels a momentary flutter of trepidation and glee and then rolls out of bed.

    The shop glitters again today in a way that makes him squint irritably despite his good mood.  The place looks like a dance hall there is so much color and twinkling rainbows streaking the walls.  The celebratory garments displayed about the place, though all hanging perfectly still on their hangers in the early morning shop, create dizzying movement with great washes of intense colors, every color you could wish for provided it is bright or powerful, and so much refraction of the overhead lights that it takes Garak a few minutes every morning to get used to it.  The Klingons sneer as they walk by his shop, which is no bad thing.  For one, he knows it isn't just him who finds the gaudy festival fashions of the Bajorans too much to bear, and two, it means he might not have to see the Klingons in his shop for a while.  Not that they come in often, but when they do it is never to buy clothes.
    It isn't long however, optical system adjusted, before Garak finds himself humming quietly as he goes through a crate of clothes which will be replacing the sequined mess the minute the gratitude festival is over.  He pulls stray cut threads from them, presses out small creases they've gained from the last few weeks of storage, then folds them precisely and stacks them behind the counter.  These clothes are the staples of this place.  Grays, blues, black, maroon, rarely, some green.  Sensible colors, though never any white.  He wonders about that.  He likes a variety of colors, likes to see the way they react to each other, the way people react to them, but it just isn't necessary to have sickening amounts of flashy color to create an inviting atmosphere.  White would be a nice change right now.
    Garak is daydreaming as he slowly and absently folds and presses.  His fingers know on their own how to do this.  His eyes passively tell him what shapes belong to the garment and what belong to a foreign piece of something that should be picked off by the automatic functions of his hands.  He imagines himself a robot when he does this, an android who's only initiative is the clipping of strings and pressing of wrinkles.  It leaves his mind unoccupied and free to roam.  Garak folds a green tunic and places it carefully on the pile, then reaches for the next item.  His hands know what it is before his eyes float over it.  A pale brown, butter-soft enyak leather vest.  It is a favorite of his, and he keeps it priced as so.  Garak made it four years ago at the request of a young man visiting the station.  Never came back to claim it.  Irritated, Garak eventually gave up, kept his small deposit and hung it on the rack to be sold as any other item.  However, while Garak sat in his shop with that vest swaying gently in the corner, he found himself dragging his fingers across its flank every time he passed it.  He would spend minutes every day standing in front of it puzzling and frowning, smoothing it against the hanger though it never needed any maintenance, and wondering why it drew him so.  It was made for a man much smaller than him so he could never hope to wear it.  Would look ridiculous on him anyway; Cardassians don't wear vests.  He would touch it again and again and wonder but never come up with a reason for his fascination. Then one day, Julian came by looking for something to wear on a date with yet another beautiful young Starfleet officer.  He hadn't dropped by like that in a while, so it was a welcome surprise, until Miles followed him in the door.  Not that the Chief is unwelcome, but his presence meant that Garak simply stood behind the counter and exchanged pleasantries while attempting to look engaged in some bookkeeping rather than engaged in the doctor the way he would were he alone.  Julian tried on a few things and Miles, bored but humoring his friend, simply thumbed through some of the children's clothes.  Julian came out in a drooping blue shirt, too shiny for him, then a few other things that all got apathetic reviews from Miles.  Finally, after an extended amount of time in the fitting room, and a few strings of perturbed Irish nagging from from the outside, Julian emerged wearing a pair of light brown trousers that were much too large for him, drooping off of him in fact, and so old and out of date that Garak had forgotten they existed, and that damned vest.  Nothing else.  Miles doubled over laughing while Julian grinned triumphantly with his fingers through the belt loops to keep himself decent.  It was then that Garak realized that that smooth leather, perfect and supple and so agonizingly gorgeous to touch was the exact color of Julian's skin.  He appeared almost naked standing there in Garak's shop with a grin on his face like he knew what he was doing.  Maybe he did.  When O'Brian had controlled himself again he suggested blithely that he wear that to the Alamo, but Julian, aware that Garak makes almost everything in his shop, was kind enough to mention that it was far too nice to let it be ruined in the holosuite.  When the two of them had gone, Garak took the vest in his hands again to feel the leather, still warm with Julian's heat.  Someone else walked in the shop at that moment, he recalls, and he could not indulge more than a second more, so he placed it behind the counter, and later on marked up the price of it higher than it would ever sell for and hung it back in the corner where it stays most of the year.

    This really has been a long time coming, Garak thinks to himself and stretches just a little in his midsection.  The pressure in his belly increases, the throbbing present and momentarily intoxicating.  That sharp ache is lessening every day now, last night being the closest he has felt to normal in weeks, and he is relieved that it is nearly done.  He does not want to have to deal with the pain never mind the explanation tomorrow night if it comes to that.  It has been so long since he felt like this.  The last time must have been twenty years ago.  He feels young and alive and recalls the blush of lust as it felt when he was a young man struggling to rein in ebullient hormones.  The fact that he is placidly going on with life while so much goes on inside him is a testament to his training, and his father.

    Then he remembers that he doesn't even know what it looks like.  Musth is different for everyone, and different every time, but you can always count on it being uncomfortable, and you can count on your genitalia being unrecognizable as your own by the time it peaks.  One way or another he is going to have to take a look tonight.  Last week it was in the early stages and not nearly as painful as it has been this week.  He hasn't seen it since then and has frankly been dreading it.  It is receding quickly, but that doesn't mean all is well.  It is foolish, as the saying goes, to neglect the blades of your shears.  Or if he were a Klingon, he could probably come up with some sword-related euphemism, but the meaning is the same.  Pain and discomfort, occupational obligations, or institutionalized shame; none are good reasons to put yourself at risk.

    A man wanders into Garak's shop as he folds the vest in half and places it on the pile.  He nods at Garak without even a hint of disappointment or worry upon seeing the Cardassian tailor, which is unusual for a newcomer.  He meanders through the small shop and fingers a few of the men's items.  He isn't human, but he could pass for one almost anywhere but on Earth.  He looks to be relatively near Garak's age, and wears the expression of a man with no aim and nothing planned.  If the expression is genuine, and Garak thinks it is, this man has no attachments, no ties to anywhere or anyone, and reminds Garak of himself betimes recently past.

    Garak doesn't think he'll stay long, just browse then nod again as he leaves, but surprisingly, he approaches Garak's counter and Garak puts on a solicitous smile and steels himself alert and ready.  His phaser is strapped beneath the counter and aimed nicely at the man's crotch.

    "I was wondering if you have anything else on hand in a men's jacket.  Maybe a little warmer than what you have out?"

    "Certainly.  Did you see the rack at the far end?  Bajoran fleece coats and jackets."  Garak is relaxing but wants a few more sentences out of him before he abandons his weapon.

    The man makes an unsure noise.  "Yes.  But...I was hoping for something a little less....colorful."

Garak smiles.  "Gaudy, you mean," and the man grins bashfully in return.  "I would bet I have something you'll like right here," Garak says and ducks behind the counter to collect some of the autumn and spring men's jackets from the storage containers he has surrounding him.  He keeps half an eye on the man, but he does nothing but peer curiously over the counter as Garak disappears.  When Garak rises again it is with a guttural groan.

    The man is approaching a chuckle when next he sees his face, and Garak is suspicious again.  "I know exactly how you feel.  Every time I  bend over like that I nearly need an antigrav belt to get me right side up again.  Getting old just isn't much fun is it."

    Getting old has nothing at all to do with Garak's groaning, but that certainly isn't anything that this stranger needs to know.  "On the contrary, I have more fun with every year I pass here," he says cheerfully and places the garments on the counter.  "Why don't you go through these and see what you like.  And if you are planning on being on the station for a few days, have a look through the catalog.  Most things in it can be made within that time."

    The man thanks him, and Garak chooses to busy himself elsewhere to avoid the inevitable conversation.  He approaches the cubbies where he stashes his reams of cloth.  He isn't sure what he is looking for other than an escape from the present moment, but at the least he can make it look like he is doing something terribly engaging so the man will think twice about bothering him.  He pulls out a bat of dark purple satin, then puts it back in favor of a toffee colored one.  He places the thick roll on the table in front of him and smooths a hand over its surface.  He loved the color when he saw it in the sample book that his Bajoran supplier always carries with her.  She isn't keen to trade with him, nor does he need her merchandise, he has other sellers plus the replicator, but it is nice to keep communication open as much as possible.  So now and then he will buy something superfluous from her.  This particular one he may actually use.  It is no coincidence that it too is in the same color family as that vest.  Maybe he'll make Julian some pajamas.  Though really what would be the point.  He smiles faintly to himself.  Why dress him to just look naked. 
    Garak is staring at a spot off toward the door of his shop as his mind wanders again to Julian's face and hands.  His chest he has only seen and not felt, so many other parts of him in the same state.  He wants to feel all of that skin against him, wants to bury his face in Julian's hair again and smell him as they rock together in a lulling rhythm.  He wants to wind him up.  He wants to do everything Julian wants him to do, but only after he has teased him with it for as long as he can.  He can not wait to get that body beneath his hands and work it like a hard lump of warm brown clay.  His belly throbs and for not the first time it feels almost like you could see it throbbing through his clothes.

    His customer clears his throat and Garak looks up.  He is standing patiently at the counter with a blue-green jacket in hand.  Garak tries to abandon his daydream and tend to the man, but finds himself attached to the bat of cloth.  He looks down and discovers he has unconsciously twisted his thumb into the tight center of the roll and it has grabbed him like a finger-trap.  Garak nervously shakes himself loose and goes back to the counter.  "Just this one?"

   "Yes," he says.  "Can you take the sleeves in just a little?"
   "Of course.  You can pick it up in an hour."

~*~

    It's awkward being a doctor attracted to one of your patients. Julian has had the misfortune of being in that position, oh, many times. One could possibly add that to the Chronicles of Julian's Inimitable Stupidity if one was inclined to blame him for the exertion of his drives as well as his decisions. Of course, being the CMO of Deep Space Nine, he is sort of everyone's doctor. So if he is going to be attracted to someone, more than likely he is their doctor by default. Can't blame him for that. Can blame him, however, for torturing himself with scandalous reports dug from the bilges of the station's computer. The kind of thing the Cardassians made sure they purged from the memory banks beyond all possibility of restoration before they turned over the station to the Bajorans. The kind of thing the Cardassians probably don't even allow their citizenry to read, encrypting it with seven layers of digital mire and authorization codes and false faces so that no one save a small elite group of Cardassians could ever hope to access it.

    Yes, he is looking for trouble again.  Not just looking but digging deep, scouring every possibly crevice for it.  He calls it research.  Julian pieced together the articles on deviant sexuality over breakfast, bending or breaking at least a half-dozen regulations and rather impressing himself with his decryption technique.  Then he spends some quiet morning hours in his office reading them.

    What he finds is indeed shocking, though not for the reasons the Cardassian public might find it shocking.  He finds little in plausible or useful information.  Mostly contradictions and archaic-sounding sensibilities.  Granted there could be fundamental differences between human and Cardassian sexuality, but some of this stuff doesn't make a lick of sense.

    "If children at an early age witness sexual intercourse between adults, they inevitably regard the sexual act as ill-treatment or an act of subjugation; they view it thereafter in a sadistic sense.  People become masochistic as a way of regulating their desire to sexually dominate others. The desire to submit, on the other hand, arises from guilt feelings over the desire to dominate. Also, the desire to be bound or punished can arise on its own when a man wants to assume the passive female role, with bondage and beating signifying being castrated or copulated with, or giving birth."

    "These people are addicted to cruelty. They feel compelled to be anally abused or crawl on their knees and lick a boot or a penis when the problem, is that they can't love. They are searching for love, and this deviant behavior is the only way they can try to find it because they are locked into sadomasochistic interactions they had with a parent."

    "Like alcohol abuse, binge eating, and meditation, sadomasochism is a way people can forget themselves."
    The best one, though, came from the most highly respected psychologist in Cardassian history.  Julian had read one of his books, and even remembers liking it.  "This form of abnormal sexuality is nothing more than a primitive, infantile response to stress within a relationship, or, in the case of single people, stress cause by a damaged self-image manifesting in a desire to either be punished, or to make the outward appearance match the inward."
    Primitive?  Julian laughs out loud.  Inflicting pain in retaliation or anger, that's primitive, that's basic survival instinct, the behavior of children and animals.  But the process that algolagnists go through to arrive at a state in which they can show each other love and care with such an enormous spectrum of behavior is anything but simplistic.  Most people settle into a long-term relationship with a partner at some point in their lives, the stability of which depends upon those people building a sturdy foundation of trust and consideration.  That's fine, of course, if you can build that foundation with what you have: your body and your faculties.  But for some it isn't enough.  It doesn't seem strong enough, at least for Julian it doesn't.  How do you know if your relationship is rotting from the inside when you can't see inside your partner to know their feelings?  The idea of getting that extra depth has always appealed to him, though he has never before found anyone willing to try for it.  And this is only one facet of the phenomenon.  Another is the way it takes pain away from the relationship by introducing it as a deliberate action done in love.  Not only is it not a simple or primitive concept, but it has echos in sociology that have been accepted for hundreds of years.  People take pain away from derogatory words by using them themselves.  He can see, however, how it might seem infantile from the outside.  In a way, you could interpret the algolagnist's mental state as being child-like, as children are similarly susceptible to take whatever attention bestowed upon them by their parents as love, no matter how cruel, but children never appreciate pain.  The thought makes Julian cringe a little.  It takes an adult sensibility to take pain delivered by another being and make it belong to you, whether in love or simply for survival.
    It isn't long before Julian abandons the abnormal psychology texts in favor of less scholarly, but more useful works written by eye witnesses, i.e., the deviants.  He finds sketchy, mismatched, and badly written accounts, but there is the occasional factoid that he finds anecdotally corroborated, the occasional gem.  Unsurprisingly it goes directly back to the comfortable, hard-science realm of biology.

    "The Cardassian penis, being internal, is more sensitive than an external mamunian penis.  While most Cardassians will say they have a high tolerance for pain, many will make an exception when it comes to the genitals.  Common surfaces and substances that would not bother a being with external genitalia will render a Cardassian incapacitated with pain.  Too much friction is the most common problem for Cardassians during intercourse.  This can be caused by dryness or foreign matter."

    Julian considers this passage in particular.

~*~

    Before heading home, Garak stops and gets his hair cut again.  The barber at the little shop next to the Klingon deli is naturally surprised to see him there, and sort of squints, as if trying to remember something that doesn't exist for him to remember, that being a lapse of time long enough to warrant Garak's current visit.  He usually only goes about once every two months, and just a trim.  The short little old man, a Ruitian with nothing but white hair himself, far from home but possibly better off, mumbles absently about a red-headed girl as he cuts nearly two centimeters from the back of Garak's head.

    At home, Garak trims his fingernails, has a few bites of some fresh fruit to tide him over for another hour or so, and then a few large gulps of Bajoran whiskey.
    He draws the bath just barely warm enough to be comfortable.  It has been a long time, but as he recalls it is a trial to get the water the right temperature for this.  If it is warm enough for him on the outside, the inside is offended by the heat and the pain can be too much.  If it is too cool, he will begin to shiver and he won't be able to do what he needs to do.  Garak turns off the water when it reaches a high enough level and steps in.  Not his usual bath, but maybe afterwards he can relax in a hot one.  He thinks about adding some lavender to the water to help him relax but he isn't certain it won't do more harm than good, so omits it for now.  He has a chilled bottle of gel on the edge of the tub that should be soothing, a small hand mirror, and a soft mouth guard he can bite down on if necessary.

    Garak lays back and lets his muscles relax group by group, squeezing his toes and releasing again, rolling his shoulders, until he feels ready to start contemplating his goal.  He breathes slowly at first, then more quickly as he thinks about what it is going to feel like.  Something tickles at his neck and he finds a few scales peeling there in response to the warmth and moisture.  He rubs away the bothersome skin, scratches at a few places where he suspects more may be threatening to slough away and lets them disappear into the water.  From his chest down he slowly starts to tighten everything, his shoulders, arms, then down through his abdomen and just that tiny pressure sends prickling electric pain up his trunk, and Garak gasps a little.  He doesn't loosen his pose though, and a second later he squeezes again.  His insides are warring with him, but with his teeth clenched he begins to push in earnest.  The head emerges a little from his swollen opening and it feels like fire.  He lets a little whimper escape from his teeth and lifts his legs up over the edges of the tub to make more room.  It probably looks ridiculous, but it hurts enough that he really doesn't care how he looks to the empty room.  In fact, as he pushes, it hurts enough that he wouldn't care if someone walked in the door this very minute.  He isn't giving up now.  If he stops it will be just that much harder to get going again.  He pushes gently, and on a normal day it doesn't take more than a gentle push to unsheathe himself, but he can not be gentle enough today.  The head escapes and he can just see it under the water.  He keeps the muscles timidly poised where they are and takes a couple of gulps of air, then continues.  More and more it slips out into the water, and the water seems to be a good temperature, the section that is out is relatively pain free - it's just getting it there that hurts.  A few more quick breaths and Garak pushes again, letting out a strangled cry at the end as the cords take hold of him.  A little saliva runs out of his mouth, and he sits up quickly to keep his half-hard member from falling forward and slapping his stomach.  That would hurt.  He takes a lot of slow shaky breaths now, and groans at the relief.  His feet are getting cold out of the water so he cautiously brings them back in with his knees bent and plenty of room in between.  He's bright red and swollen, and healthy-looking.  Garak shakily squeezes a thick layer of gel onto his fingers and endeavors to lift it.  The gel won't last long in the water, but will hopefully cushion his fingertips enough that he will be able to inspect the underside.  Two gelled fingers beneath the head, and it protests with pinching pain again, but only briefly, then he lifts it up out of the water.  The temperature change and the difference between wet and not wet is a little uncomfortable too, but he only needs a quick glance with the mirror in his other hand positioned under the shaft to assure himself that after tonight, the worst is over.  There are no signs of any infection or damage from the swelling.  Now all he has to do to prepare for tomorrow is get off.

    Right.

    More gel in his hand, covering the whole of his palm this time, Garak breathes deeply and carefully takes his cock in hand.  The pain is actually delayed a few seconds, probably by the cold gel, but soon engulfs him.  Garak's stomach muscles contract more or less involuntarily, and his hand claws away from his cock.  He holds his breath as the pain washes away in waves, and then breathes quickly through his teeth when it is manageable again. He shakes a little as he recovers and then picks up the mirror again to take a second look.  There is nothing there that should hurt that much.  The startling redness, though out of place, just doesn't look bad enough that the pain makes sense, but he supposes that is what everyone thinks.  How bad can it be?  Then it happens to them and for a few hours at least, they regret ever meeting the person who inspired this affliction.

    He turns the mirror on himself.  "Garak," he says severely to the man in the mirror.  "If you don't do this now, tomorrow is going to be very disappointing.  Last time was twenty years ago.  You are a lot stronger now than you were then.  And aside from that fact, last time is immaterial.  Do what you have to do, or lose it all."  A moment of looking Garak seriously in the eye, and he puts the mirror down.

    The soft pads of his fingertips feel like stinging barbs, and Garak's strangled cries bounce violent echoes around the empty room.

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