The second he set foot into his accommodations, Julian knew the supposed dark emptiness to be the first barrier of deception.
“You’re a bit late, aren’t you?” he muttered into the flame as he inclined his head to light a cigarette.
“Is that right?” the shadows said, feigning surprise.
The room illuminated dimly, and the shades melted from Sloan’s form, reclined in the parlor chair just in front of the northern-facing window, his hands clasped together neatly across his abdomen.
“That’s kind of excessive, isn’t it?” The operative said, with a subdued gesture towards the ribbons of smoke that wrapped around Julian’s well-dressed frame. “I know you’re supposed to blend in with the environment here, but method acting doesn’t strike me as very subtle.”
“New Sydneysiders are a unique lot,” Bashir replied coolly as he eased himself down onto the edge of his bed. “A bit old fashioned, but surprisingly perceptive. I’ve had too many close calls to throw away caution at the expense of a more professional image.” He leaned back, exposing his neck to the air as he blew a seemingly endless tunnel of smoke towards the ceiling.
“Well, in that case…” Sloan leaned over the right arm of his chair and pulled a small parcel into his lap. “I have something for you that’ll improve your credibility for the part. Come here.”
Intrigued, Bashir let the remains of his cigarette fall to the steely floor and crushed it underfoot as he stood. Hands halfway deep in his front pockets, he let the electrifying link between their eyes pull him towards Sloan as if being led forward by a string. He stopped directly before Sloan with his legs parted, towering over him.
Glaring up at him contemplatively, Sloan said, “You’ve come a long way from the obnoxious know-it-all you used to be.”
Bashir raised a slim eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”
“It could be.”
He swung one long leg over Sloan’s thighs and magnetically reached out towards the parcel in his lap.
“Before I give you that,” Sloan interjected, sweeping the item from beneath Bashir’s fingers and replacing it on the floor, “I need to know if you’ve done what I asked.”
He nodded. “To the letter.”
Sloan’s fluid hands began to work on freeing himself from his trousers. “Then your partner will be exactly where he’s supposed to be, at the appropriate time?”
Bashir glanced down at the tip of Sloan’s cock as it emerged, and then as the older man slid the waist of his pants down his thighs, the organ sat heavily against the toned, flat stomach, the head resting well above his navel.
“Yes,” he breathed, almost like an afterthought, his own groin stirring at the implications that his situation had placed him in. He gasped as Sloan took hold of the front of his shirt and jerked him down towards his erection.
“Good,” he said as Julian, taking the hint, went to work on moistening the length of his cock. “I have nothing else to discuss.”
Bashir was fascinated by the almost Spartan manner in which Sloan conducted himself during their brief liaisons: he rarely ever said a word, but bore down into Julian with his shrewd, calculating eyes that seemed to burn through him, like being caught under a magnifying glass. There were all sorts of vulgar things that he was sure the man was dying to say to him, for there was no person in the universe who would take more delight in reminding Julian of his ironic fall from grace more than Sloan.
Except for maybe Garak, of course.
Once Sloan was adequately prepped, Julian stepped back to shed his clothing. He climbed atop the chair and took Sloan’s cock in his hand, sliding down onto it and slipping his legs into the gaping spaces beneath the arm rests.
Seconds after he began to move his hips, prickling heat singed paths all the way up his neck to his face and ears. Sloan’s hands latched on to the younger man’s hips, bringing his ass down to meet the hilt of his cock in time with Julian’s gyrations.
“Would it offend you if I told you that this new job of yours is very much fitting?”
“Quite the contrary.” Bashir gave a low chuckle and a smirk before turning his head to look back at their coupling. “Shows that I have a better chance of surviving this ordeal.”
There were many merits attached to training Doctor Bashir in particular, the main one being that Sloan took a particular enjoyment in seeing this poster boy dismantled—primarily by Julian’s own hand. Yet, contrary to popular belief, Luther Sloan himself had the same base urges as any other human male. He admitted to himself as he watched that smooth, waifish figure writhe on his dick, that there was nobody quite like him. Julian, manipulating his inner muscles to coax Sloan along the path to orgasm, seemed to be enthralled with the prospect of his own self-destruction. That concept alone made Sloan twitch and jerk up inside of him, emptying himself into his trainee.
With an air of professionalism that he was sure the ex-doctor hadn’t acquired until after he resigned his commission, Julian ignored his own erection and waited until Sloan was finished before peeling himself away and wordlessly making for the shower.
“You’re full of surprises, Julian.”
“You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard that in the past couple of months,” he replied with a laugh.
Sloan didn’t miss the cynicism in his voice.
The piece made a weighty sound against the bedside table, even though Sloan had placed it quite gently.
After a pause, Julian—naked still, and sitting up halfway on top of his duvet—picked it up and turned it over in his hands.
“It looks terrifying,” he said, taking a drag.
“Again, I’m surprised.” Sloan passed the hot towel Julian had brought for him across his neck and face, and stood to dress. “You’ve used them before in your holosuite fantasies.”
The quick, irate glance that he gave Sloan told the man that Bashir none too happy about him knowing of his private hobbies.
“I’m sure you’ll agree that that’s quite different.”
“Glad to see that you’re finally starting to realize that this life isn’t anything like the holosuites.”
Bashir rolled his eyes and put out his cigarette as his mentor slid into his trousers.
Sloan pulled two large magazine clips from his pocket and set them down –one loaded, one unloaded. “Can you figure out how to use it?”
As if the question were a challenge, Julian sat up attentively, picked up the weapon, and pulled the slide back until it clicked. He took the empty magazine, loaded it, and punched the bolt and the imaginary bullet forward. He then popped the safety off, aimed at a non-existent target, and fired.
Sloan stifled a chuckle, as Julian was unprepared for the heavy recoil.
“It’s got a bit of a kick, doesn’t it?” He said as he waved his right hand, wincing.
“How many rounds in here?” He reached over and picked up the full magazine to inspect it, and replaced it soon afterwards.
“I can’t believe people still use this archaic shit,” he muttered to himself as he flicked the safety on, then off, practiced aiming, and then proceeded to disassemble and reassemble the weapon as quickly as possible. Sloan was just buttoning his undershirt, facing the mirror adjacent to the headboard that Bashir leaned against.
“Consider your surroundings, Doctor.” Normally, it annoyed Julian greatly to be reminded of his old profession, but Sloan had been doing it so long with the intention to irritate him that he no longer noticed. “A painful death by a projectile round is a lot more intimidating than the prospect of being vaporized instantly.”
“Yes, the mob does have its unique means of persuasion,” Julian said absently as he examined the open bolt of the weapon.
“Do we need to go over anything before I leave,” he said, neglecting to incline the end of his sentence in the form of a question.
“No,” Julian said firmly, his eyes affixed to the space in front of him.
“No second thoughts then?” He pulled on the hem of his black overcoat to straighten out the wrinkles.
“Then I’ll contact you when I’m finished with your friend.”
“You’ll know. And Julian?”
Bashir flicked his eyes in Sloan’s direction, holding their gaze.
“I don’t need to tell you again that this isn’t a game.” Sloan broke eye contact and turned to the door.
Sloan froze as the sound of the bolt sliding forward resonated in the room. He whirled on Julian, who wielded the old-world pistol with an almost elegant firmness that had been absent during his trial firing.
“Your predecessor reminds me quite often that it’s all a game.”
It was the last complete word he made before Julian discharged one fifty-caliber round directly into the center of his neck.
”Julian,” he attempted as he fell to his knees. The syllables came out in a gurgle as gobs of blood spurted from his mouth and the crater in his throat. Julian stared silently into the dying man’s astounded eyes, his expression frigid and yielding nothing.
Sloan’s hands flew to his neck as he collapsed on the ground face first, exposing the large exit wound on his right shoulder blade from which the round burst. Julian lit his third cigarette of the evening and watched until Sloan stopped making choking noises and the body ceased to spasm.
The handgun clattered loudly next to Sloan’s left side, the bolt slamming forward one last time, and the pool of blood spreading beneath it. The door beeped.
“That,” Elim Garak said as he side stepped Sloan’s body, looking down at it in astonishment. “Was loud.”
Julian slid from the bed and turned his back to Garak as he began the process of dressing. “I was afraid you’d bailed on me.”
“Really, Julian,” Garak clucked, leaning down to examine the hole in Sloan’s back. “Did you have to call in the heavy artillery?” Daintily avoiding the pool of blood, he stooped to pick up the shell casing, examining it. “Gods, these are huge. Even when it was in style to use projectile shots, my people would never have gone for something so… impractical.”
“Oh, pipe down. It was an opportunity.”
“So it was.” Garak pocketed the spent casing and checked the time. “We have to be leaving, Julian. I don’t think your co-residents here will rest easy after the firing of a large caliber twentieth-century Terran hand-cannon.”
Julian moved across the room, still buckling his trousers, and knelt beside Sloan to frisk his pockets.
“Julian, we haven’t got much time.”
“Found ‘em.” He fished out three data rods and held them up. “One of these has to be linked to his accounts.”
“Very classy,” Garak said, not without a hint of sarcasm. “Now, if you don’t mind.” Garak activated the Cardassian combadge in his pocket. “Computer, two to beam up.”
“What ever happened to that Cardassian practicality?”
“If you’re making a reference to our florid accommodations for the following week, might I remind you that it was you who thought of robbing Sloan’s dead body before making the escape?”
“I thought we deserved a vacation.”
Garak sighed and rolled over to face his hazy-eyed partner, who looked as though he would sink through the soft Triaxian silk sheets. He would never truly get used to the sight of his doctor in a drug-induced state of wanton complacency.
“They will find us, Julian. You must know that.”
“Hm,” the human replied with warm smile, reaching out to drag the pads of his fingers along Garak’s exposed neck ridges. “Probably.” Garak closed his eyes and drew in a thick breath as the arousal traveled through his blood and straight to his groin.
“But not today.”
He seized Julian by the hips and pulled him close so that their erections touched, the shock of the contact sending lazy jolts racing up Julian’s spine. Garak stretched one arm out behind him to reach for a sealed capsule. He popped the tablet through the foil backing and into his mouth before joining with Julian, balancing the dissolving substance on their tongues, passing it back and forth as their cocks slid against each other.
“Mmm…” Julian moaned into Elim’s mouth as the narcotic channeled through his nervous system, making him feel weightless all but for the thickness between his legs, now slick with the Cardassian’s fluids. The vibrant colors of their suite bled into each other until the only object with defined features he could see was the older man before him, who had moved kneel between Julian’s legs.
“You’ll forgive me if I find what you did at New Sydney to be terribly romantic,” Elim murmured against the scar tissue of Julian’s neck as he distributed his natural lubricant into the snug confines of his accomplice’s ass.
“Romantic… hah,” Julian said breathlessly, unable to concentrate. “H-hardly.”
“I didn’t think you were serious about what you said,” Elim went on as he gave a slight nudge into him, sending the human into an almost violent set of shudders. Without warning, he buried himself deep into Julian’s ass. Julian, heavily sensitized by the drug, cried out much louder than Garak had anticipated, arching his hips off of the sheets and simultaneously bringing them closer, so that their skin was flush against each other where they were joined.
It was impossible for Julian to respond in his current state. Taking advantage of his lover’s form of complete submission, Garak wasted no time. He fucked him like this; pulling out agonizingly slow and slamming himself in torturously, for a half-hour. When he tired of that, he turned Julian on his stomach and pounded him into the mattress until he, gripping the sheets with enough intensity to tear them, cried for him to stop.
With enough time to burn, the assistance of alien substances and the luxury of decadent surroundings, they tried every position known to them. Garak finally came explosively as he sat cross-legged with Julian riding him on his lap, the human’s legs wrapped tightly around his lower back. Julian’s own orgasm manifested itself with the friction between their torsos, now dripping down Elim’s ridged chest.
Too exhausted to move, Julian lay listlessly amongst the rumpled sheets as Garak gently moved a cool towel across his tan skin.
“You don’t remember, do you?” he said as he pushed one of the damp ringlets of disheveled hair away from Julian’s forehead.
“You asked me if I would kill for you,” came the quick, unexpectedly level reply. With effort, Julian rolled over so that his head rested on Elim’s thighs. Immediately, Garak buried his fingers into his hair, locking them at the roots.
Julian locked eyes with Elim, his pupils tiny pinpoints drowning in a turbulent sea of green.
“I told you I would.”
Bringing his hand up to the back of Garak’s neck, he pushed the Cardassian in for a kiss, from which Elim drank like a man deprived of water. Warm droplets spattered from Garak’s chin onto various spots on Julian’s face.
The whole thing was so seamless that Garak never noticed the long, needle-like Cardassian blade pierce the uppermost jaw ridge until it made a slow, graceful curve across his jugular and to the other side.
Julian knew, even as Garak’s open throat poured out to him, that the look in his lover’s eyes was nothing short of pride.