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Chapter Text

"Excuse me.  Sorry.  Pardon me."

Julian shuffles to the rear of the shuttle, squeezing past people busy settling into their seats and stuffing their luggage into the overhead compartments.  Just as he's resigned himself to standing for the two-hour trip, he spies – unbelievably - an empty seat. 

He cranes his neck around, but everyone is accounted for.  If it was being held for someone, there's no hope of them coming now: the shuttle doors have already closed.  Hopefully, he advances.  The individual in the adjacent seat is bent over, arranging their bag neatly under the seat ahead.

He catches a glimpse of slick black hair and green-grey scales. 

A Cardassian.

Even enroute to the largest medical conference in the quadrant with its thousands of attendees and hundreds of species, Julian is surprised to see a Cardassian.  They are xenophobically aggressive, jealous of their secrets and protective of their borders.  Their society is closed, hierarchical and militaristic.  They are said to be cold blooded, in all senses of the word, both literal and metaphorical.

No wonder the seat is unclaimed.

Julian chortles gleefully. 

He's never had an opportunity to observe a Cardassian up close.  They were barely referenced during his Academy training and even the literature is scanty.  All he's had to go on so far have been a handful of inadequate, incomplete diagrams in his medical texts.

"Excuse me," he says as he comes up.  "Is this seat taken?"

The Cardassian's head whips up.  

Julian blinks, his eyes widening.  The man is stunning.  His eyes are cobalt blue gemstone set in sculpted scaled ridges, framed by shadows of black hair.  He watches a brief flick of a pale pink tongue against soft grey lips.

Julian swallows.  

There's a cough.  Other people are waiting behind him - impatiently and a touch rudely, he thinks.  He can't recall if the Cardassian replied, but his eyes are glinting in amusement and Julian chooses to take that as an invitation. 

He checks the overhead compartments in vain.  Every crevice has been claimed.  Sighing, he shoves his bag under the seat in front of him, smushing it in with his foot.  He turns his attention to the Cardassian, who is staring disbelievingly at Julian's mangled bag.  Julian suddenly remembers he had a banana in the bag, and blushes in embarrassment.  He coughs.

"I'm sorry I was staring," he says, "I know it's terribly rude, but I've never seen a Cardassian before ... I hope you'll forgive me?"

In response, the Cardassian spreads out his hands, speaking in a language Julian doesn't recognise but assumes is Kardassi.  He's never heard it before, but he likes its mix of rough and smooth syllables.  He likes the Cardassian's meltingly smooth voice even more. 

He picks out the word Federaji.  He doesn't speak Federation Standard.  Of course.  Julian's knowledge of Kardassi is as empty as a rain barrel in a desert, but he has an ocean of optimism.  Undaunted, he trots out a bit of Romulan and, when that falls flat, Klingon and finally Bajoran.  With his genetic enhancements, words and grammar fall easily into his grasp even if the pronunciation gets smushed in the process.

The Cardassian stares at him in mild confusion.  Julian starts over.  It's time for the simplified agenda, the old Me-Tarzan-You-Jane standby.  He points to himself. "Julian."

"Ah, Shulijan," the Cardassian responds.  He points a scaled hand towards himself.  "Garak."

"Garak," Julian repeats.  "Nice to meet you, Garak," he says, holding out his hand.

Garak smiles, then takes hold of Julian's hand and turns it so that his palm is facing forward before pressing his own hand against Julian's.  His hand is refreshingly cool, the skin soft and supple like pebbled leather.

Julian points at himself again.  "Doctor.  I am doctor."  He then points at Garak, hoping the gesture isn't rude.  "You doctor, Garak?"

"Dok-tor?" Garak says.

Julian rummages in his pack and yanks out his PADD.  He scrolls through the meagre (100 word) Kardasi-Federation Standard dictionary then shouts in triumph.

 "Shu-eyeore-raha?"

The eyes laugh at him.  "S'h'iosr'ha," Garak corrects him, the sleek syllables rolling off his tongue.  The word is accompanied by another lovely, incomprehensible string of Kardasi.

Garak grabs the PADD from him and scrolls through the dictionary.  He hands it back.

"No, Shulijan.  No Dok-tor."

"Maybe you're an interpreter?" Julian asks, pulse quickening at the thought.  It's rumoured that spies often travel as interpreters.  In a quadrant rife with warring planets, language is the key to knowledge, and knowledge is the key to power.   Julian's always scoffed at the idea (while avidly consuming every interpreter-spy holovid that's published) but suddenly, far from home, surrounded by the clicks and squawks and hisses of a hundred languages and an unknown Cardassian, his scepticism is faltering and his excitement rising.

"Interperator?"

Julian glances through the dictionary.  "Damn, it's not in here."  As he's rereading the list, wondering what words he can string together, Garak suddenly taps him on his arm.  Julian looks up. 

"Sleep, Dok-tor," Garak says, pointing at himself.  He then settles back, closing his eyes.

Trying not to feel rejected even as his ego deflates with an audible hiss, Julian reluctantly turns to the company of his medical journal.  He's brought along several cutting-edge articles in preparation for the conference, including one he's been dying to read on genetic enhancements. 

The time passes in relative silence – relative because Julian's ballooning outrage as he reads the article is fit to burst and, as he often does when intensely focused on something, he starts muttering to himself.

"Garbage.  Utter nonsense.  How can they make a conclusion like that?  Prejudice, not evidence, that's what."

Finally, he throws his PADD down in disgust.  When he surfaces from his outrage, he becomes aware of  Garak inspecting him as if he's a particularly unusual specimen pinned to the wall of a museum.

"Sorry," Julian says.  He exhales loudly, then waves a hand at the offending PADD.  "I just – I get so frustrated with some of the culturally guided research conclusions that I – well, you know."  He knows he won't be understood but he feels the need to explain regardless. 

Garak, an impish grin on his face, leans towards him and Julian's breath hitches.  Garak clicks a claw against Julian's PADD, deleting the article, then leans back smugly.

Julian laughs.  "Yes, that's probably the appropriate response."

Garak responds at length, and though Julin has no idea what he's saying the tone is teasing, the words lush, and the eyes ...

"You have gorgeous eyes," Julian blurts out, breathing in deeply and catching a hint of leather and spice.  "And your voice – God, I could come just from listening to you."

"Dok-tor?" Garak questions.

Julian licks his lips nervously.  Emboldened by the loud hum of the engine, the buzz of conversations around them, and the adorable incomprehension on his companion's face, he voices his desire.  "You're gorgeous, Garak.  What would you think if I told you I wanted to suck your cock?  To fuck you?  To make you moan, lose control?  Would it turn you on?"  He keeps his face carefully neutral, notwithstanding the slight flush creeping up his neck.

Julian can't believe he's doing this, can't believe he's publicly pouring out filthy words and propositioning a stranger, even if Garak has no idea what he's saying.  It's shameful. 

It's also thrilling.

Liberating.

But he has to stop.  The heat is pooling in his stomach and there's only mortifying embarrassment in his future if he continues.  He smiles blandly and retrieves his PADD to cover his burgeoning erection.  He scrolls back to the index  and immerses himself in a drier, less inflammatory article.

They ride the rest of the way in silence, sharing only a smile and a nod when they disembark.  Julian registers for the conference and stows his bag in his room before heading down to the Replimat for a bagel.  It's a cavernous maze of a conference hall; luckily,  he's memorised the floor plan and he finds the first lecture he wants to attend without trouble.  Sometimes being an augment has its advantages.

It's a decent lecture, though not as good as he hoped, and he finds his mind indulging in lewd, exotic fantasies featuring a naked, panting Cardassian.  He considers going to his quarters to jack off before he gives his own talk but he's stopped by an acquaintance and when they've finally parted there's no time.  Fortunately, his fear of public speaking conquers his libido – he is an exact if unexciting speaker – and he gets through the next two hours unscathed.

By lunch he's in the swing of the conference, brain firmly focused where it should be.  He's looking forward to the next symposium - along with most of the other attendees judging by the size of the room in which its held.  He's a bit late, so he takes a seat near the back by the door.  The microphone sounds tinny way at the back, but it doesn't matter.  For the larger talks there is simultaneous interpretation in numerous languages, and although Julian understands Bolian well enough, he prefers hearing it in Federation Standard. 

He picks up the headset and taps his name and conference code into the terminal; his data is on record and he will be patched into the appropriate language line.  A few minutes later the speaker – a distinguished Bolian scientist Bashir has never had the opportunity to meet, begins. 

"Grexx acona, grexx aconi.  Pelima luddor a ima.  Juff empa akktor ...."

A moment later the interpretation begins.

"Distinguished colleagues and guests.  Thank you for your attendance.  Today I will be addressing ..."    

Julian freezes.  That voice.

It can't be.

Can it?

Garak.  Garak is an interpreter?!?? 

With horror he flashes back to the shuttle ... to his words ... his innocently filthy little words ...

Julian flushes red, shrinking down into his seat.

Garak knew.

Julian's breaths come quick and ragged.

It can't be, he reassures himself desperately.

Be rational, Julian.

It's a coincidence, the voices are similar.  That's all.   Why would a Cardassian be interpreting Bolian into Federation Standard?

Because he's a spy, that's why.

He tells himself he's being ridiculous.  That he's imagining things. 

He takes a deep breath, focusing on the words, not the voice.  He listens to a description of an invitro vaccination technique.  Calmer, he relaxes.  It isn't Garak, it's just his brain playing tricks on him.  He refocuses on the talk.

It's not Garak.  It's not.

Ten minutes in, Dr. Trebb takes a brief break to speak to an aide and get a glass of water.

In the lull, Julian manages to get at a troublesome itch between his shoulder blades.  He's just settled back in his seat when it happens. 

"Enjoying the conference, doctor?" says the voice in his ear.

Julian bolts upright, his PADD crashing to he floor.  The voice continues, almost a purr.

"I have to say, I'm enjoying it considerably more than I anticipated – and I'm hoping to enjoy it more still."

Julian swallows, his face shining red.

"What was it you said?  That you wanted to suck my cock?  We call it a pr'Ut by the way.  A very generous offer - along with a rather presumptuous suggestion of you fucking me.  How terribly, terribly vulgar and forward of you, my dear."

Hearing Garak repeat his own coarse words back to him is causing Julian's knees to tremble and his cock to thicken.  He snaps his legs shut, somewhat painfully, and tries to take a deep breath. 

"Still ... conferences are so boring, don't you think?  I might just take you up on your offer - that is, if it still stands.  If you'd like to pursue the matter further, Julian, and find you can tear yourself away from the lecture, you'll find me at the end room of Hallway A009."

At that moment the Bolian resumes her talk and Garak – in a calm, unruffled voice – begins interpreting once again.

The bastard.

Julian grips the arms of his seat, sweat starts to bead on his forehead.  He looks around guiltily, certain that everyone else knows what he is thinking, but, no - there's only the usual:  people listening, making notes in their PADDs, occasionally yawning.

He hesitates.  He isn't going to ... is he?

Suddenly he finds himself scrambling to retrieve his fallen PADD.  He jams it into his conference bag and jumps up so quickly he smacks his knee into the seat in front of him.  Cursing and apologising, he stumbles out of the room.  Five minutes later he's sprinting down Hallway A009 past closed doors and empty rooms until he comes to the last one.

He hesitates. 

This is a mistake.  He doesn't do this sort of thing.  Yes, he has sex with people he barely knows.  Yes, he has sex with aliens.  But there's always a polite dinner first, a polite getting-to-know-you conversation, a polite glass of wine in private quarters, a polite and routine seduction.  He doesn't just fuck strangers in public places in the middle of the day like some kind of sex-starved teenager.

He should turn around, go back to his quarters, go back to the lecture.

He should, but he doesn't.

He opens the door and steps inside.

The room is dark, only a single soft light in the corner.  He can barely see.   Julian takes a deep breath –

And is thrown back against the wall.

His feet skitter on the floor as he's hoisted up – his assailant is strong, unbelievably so.  Scaled hands slip under his shirt, sharp claws graze his skin.  A skilled mouth sucks and nips at his neck. 

It's unexpected and unexpectedly erotic.  Julian tilts his head back and groans.

Garak chuckles against his neck.  "I thought you were the one who was going to make me moan, doctor."

"Just wait," Julian replies.  He doesn't know a lot about Cardassian physiology, but given the attention Garak is paying to his neck, he figures that's a good place to start.  He latches onto a ridge on Garak's neck and sucks firmly.  Garak's hands tighten on him in response.  Julian wants more.  He slips his hands under Garak's tunic and runs them over the supple scales.  At the same time he bites down hard on the ridge and is rewarded with a gasp and a low, lingering moan.

"Like that?" Julian teases.

Garak growls and pulls Julian forward.  They kiss.  Garak's tongue is rough as fine sandpaper, and the drag of it against his lips makes Julian's cock twitch.  Julian pushes back, slipping his tongue between Garak's lips and pressing his knee between Garak's legs.  His hands slide over the hard muscles of Garak's back, run down to rub and grasp the smooth curve of his ass.   Garak's own hands are splayed against Julian's chest, teasing at the nipples, then sliding down his stomach, dipping into his pants and –

Julian feels a rush of air and disappointment as Garak pulls back.  He opens his mouth to protest, but stops when he sees Garak's heated gaze.  He swallows and watches.  Slowly, Garak begins to divest himself of his clothing.  Julian luxuriates in the way the soft lighting frames him, the ridges casting soft shadows across his body.  The scales glitter green with hints of gold.

Julian yanks his own shirt over his head and drops it on the ground.

Garak, naked and magnificent as an old world god, backs up against a desk.  He grips the edges and opens his legs in an obscene invitation.  "It's retracted," Garak explains.  "Although you might be able to convince it to come out."

Julian licks his lips.  He walks forward as slowly as he can, then sinks to his knees.  He looks up into bewitching blues eyes as he runs a light, teasing finger down and up the seam.  Once, twice, a third time.  Garak's eyes narrow and there's a faint, almost menacing rumble in his chest.  

Julian grins impishly and complies with the unspoken command.  He places his hands on Garak's thighs and pushes his legs further apart, roughly, and then swipes his tongue along the seam.  He likes the sweet salty taste, the fine texture of the scales, the hint of more within.  He presses his tongue flat and rubs.  Garak's thighs tense and he breathes in sharply.  Emboldened, Julian licks again, and again, teasing, prying, urging. The scent, the taste, the feel are intoxicating.  The seam becomes slick, the lips parting.  Julian's tongue steals inside, finding the tip of Garak's cock.  He sucks on it, hard, and it surges forward into his mouth.

Garak's moans, his head tipping forward, eyes unfocused with lust as he watches Julian's mouth engulf him.  Julian moves in and out, setting a slow, sensual rhythym.  He moves one hand to stroke and squeeze the base of Garak's cock.  Slowly, he slides the fingers of his other into Garak's slit.  He rubs against the slick walls as Garak clenches around him.  

He inhales the scent, the taste, the sounds of Garak panting, gasping, moaning.  Garak twists his hands in Julian's hair, pulling on his head as he pushes in deep.  Julian whines in encouragement.  He swallows eagerly as Garak pumps his hips in and out, in and out, pushing and pulling, fucking Julian's mouth, faster, faster, Julian's tongue swirling and sucking.

With a cry, Garak pulls Julian up roughly, deft hands unfastening Julian's pants, shoving them down.  He reaches out to grasp Julian's hard, leaking cock.  Julian nearly explodes in pleasure, pushing into his hand.  Garak snakes an arm around his waist and yanks him forward.  The feel of Garak's hard body against his, of cool scales on hot skin, of Garak's wet slit against his cock is staggeringly good.  They kiss again, deeper.  Garak's claws rake down Julian's back and grab his ass to pull him closer, guiding Julian's cock towards his slit.  Julian gasps at the contact, shutting his eyes and just feeling.  When he opens them again Garak is staring at him, eyes burning, blown wide with desire, determination.

Julian grabs Garak's hips, pushes the tip of his cock into the tight, wet hole. 

"Yesss," Garak hisses.  "Push it in."

Julian hesitates, groans, wanting to move, needing to move, but it's so tight and ... "I don't want to hurt you."

Garak whips a hand to his neck and squeezes forcefully. His eyes glitter. "Do it.  Now."  Julian responds to the demand, to the danger, his blood pulsing as the sharp tips of Garak's claws prick his neck. He slams in hard, Garak's slit clutching at his cock.  Julian whimpers as he bottoms out.

"Fuck," he breathes.  He stills, catching his breath, trying to let Garak adjust.

Garak has other ideas.  Keeping his grip on Julian's neck he leans forward and whispers hoarsely into his ear.

"Deep, Julian.  I want you to fuck me deep and hard.  Do you hear me?"

It's all the encouragement Julian needs.  He wants to move so badly he's shaking.  He pulls his cock out and shoves it back in.   He sets up a hard, fast rhythm, his hands gripping Garak's hips, bruising and tight, as he pulls himself out and thrusts back in. His hips pump faster and faster as he picks up the pace,  cock sliding out and surging in, hips smacking against Garak's thighs. 

Garak shudders and hisses, hands latched firmly on his ass, urging Julian on in short, panting breaths.  "Yes.  Yes, Julian.  That's it.  Fuck me.  Fuck me hard."

Julian loses himself in his lust, in the thrusting and grinding, the tension building and building.  It's too much.  He's close, so close – and then Garak lets out a ragged shout, his slit clutching and gripping Julian's cock as he comes.  Julian cries out as he pushes forward, buries himself to the hilt, groaning and shuddering as his orgasm explodes and he spills into Garak over and over again, emptying himself.

Gasping for air, he collapses his head forward so it's resting on Garak's shoulder.  Slowly, coldly, reality settles on him like a morning dew.  He feels suddenly embarrassed.  He isn't sure what to do.  Then Garak gives his ass a squeeze and whispers in his ear, "Enjoying the conference, doctor?"

Julian laughs, the tension broken, and pulls back to look into those eyes.  "Immensely."  He reaches up the back of the hand to brush against Garak's cheek and thinks he sees a flicker of surprise, quickly masked.  Gently, Garak disentangles them.  He obtains wet towels from the replicator, passing one to Julian. 

Julian cleans himself and fastens his pants, looking up with surprise to see that Garak is already perfectly put back together, every tousled hair miraculously in place.  Julian quickly zips up his uniform and hands the towel back to Garak, who throws it in the recycler.

"Are you really here as an interpreter?" he asks.

"I can assure you I'm not a doctor."

"That didn't really answer my question."

"Mmmm, didn't it?"

Julian laughs.  "All right, I can take a hint.  Just – tell me one thing.  Will I see you again?"  His voice is wistful, hopeful.

Garak sighs, his smile fading.  "I'm afraid it wouldn't be a good idea."

"I don't want to know why, do I?"

Garak's smile was sly.  "On the contrary, I think you want desperately to know."

"But you're not going to tell me," Julian said flatly.

"Where's the fun in that?"  Garak holds up his palm, like he did in the shuttle.  Julian presses his own palm against it, then slides his fingers so their hands are intertwined.  Again, the faint flicker of surprise from Garak, just as quickly masked.

"I'm glad I sat next to you."

Garak removes his hand and bows.  "As am I, doctor."

Later, alone in his room, Julian hacks into the conference computer system but there's no mention of Garak at all.

He doesn't see Garak again -  not at the conference, not on the shuttle home - but when he opens his PADD, there is a message.

At least, not exactly a message.  A single subspace comm number, blinking invitingly.

Talking to Garak again, seeing Garak again, would be a monumentally stupid idea.

Julian's finger hovers over the delete command.

His finger hesitates, then descends.

The code disappears from his screen.

It wouldn't do for anyone else to see it, after all.

Chapter Text

Julian has been dancing on the knife edge of decision for what seems like forever - painfully long days and agonisingly slow weeks - while his cock wages war on his brain.  It's a familiar battle.   His mind is stubborn but his cock is persistent.   There's little respite from the constant skirmishes.  His cock is waging a war of attrition, pestering his mind with lurid fantasies and pitiful pleas. 

It's at it again, now.  It's the end of a long day, he's tired, and he doesn't want to write a report on the recent bout of Bolian flu that vomited its way through the station.   What he wants, his cock gently suggests, as he sits in front of the computer terminal resolutely trying to work, is to send a message to Garak.  It accompanies the suggestion with a vivid image of Garak's ridges, of blue-green scales slithering down to a seamed sheath.  It's a bad idea.  He knows it is.  His tired mind tries valiantly to hold its ground, but probity is a poor defence against lust. 

He sends the message. 

He's jittery the rest of the night.  His eyes ping-pong back and forth between his half-written report and the comm signal.  Hours pass, night falls - but the signal stays dark and the report remains unfinished.  Bed isn't any better.  He sleeps little, and when he does his dreams are full of naked Cardassians vomiting reports.  When he wakes up, he goes straight to the terminal, ignoring the protests of his bladder. 

The light is blinking. 

There's a message, a sub-space message. 

He taps it open impatiently and his eyes rush forward only to stumble over the garish words splashed across his terminal.

For the wonderful universal luster after literature!  In contacting us, you have taken the first step on a path strewn with knowledge, adventure and friendship!  Let us help you connect to some of the richest minds and most diverse species in the quadrant!  Why choose Lust for Literature?  We are the only truly interplanetary literary organisation in existence, with millions of excellent communication companions at quality prices.   Interested?  Of course you are!  Meet Gren Sossa - a retired Bolian botanist who loves interpreter-spy thrillers and speaks Federation Standard so well he could have served in Starfleet.   Gren Sossa is waiting to meet you!  Not convinced?  Try it out for free!!!  Merely choose a novel for discussion and send it, along with your thoughts, to the address below. 

Julian nearly deletes it in disgust, but that doesn't seem like punishment enough.  Instead, he flogs himself for his folly.  He chooses the first book he sees (a mediocre translation of a plodding Vulcan classic that Ensign T'Par foisted on him), churns out a few words on it, and launches it off over subspace to the lauded Gren Sossa.

He's almost forgotten about it when the reply comes a week later - all fifty-three pages of it.  Fifty-three pages of scathing sarcasm and caustic criticism.  Fifty-three pages in which his words are ripped to shreds, his insights are belittled, and his intelligence is repeatedly called into question.  His choice of novel fares no better than his analysis of it.  It is dismissed as a thinly veiled piece of Federation propaganda that fails to convince, educate or even amuse.

Julian finds himself scrambling madly in defense of a book he'd found so boring he'd barely finished it.  He types furiously, fingers darting over the keys at inhuman speeds.  He has little doubt now he is dealing with Garak.  He can hear his voice – sugared, sultry, sarcastic - lifting the words off the page.  Strangely enough, Julian is incensed – he's furious – but he's not angry.  He's exhilarated.  He once heard that Cardassians consider heated debate the highest form of foreplay.  He didn't understand then but he does now.  The sharpness of Garak's mind entices him, the sharpness of the words intoxicates him.  He is led – compelled – to thrust and parry in reply, his cheeks flushed and his eyes burning in pleasure. 

He has to wait a week before another blistering missive comes hurtling through the depths of space to attack him.  He launches his counter-attack the same day.  After that a pattern develops.  He begins to anticipate the day when he can expect a reply, calculating the probable arrival time down to the minute.

As that day approaches, he becomes taut with expectation, like a hound before a hunt.  He is restless and eager, pacing the infirmary, checking the computer terminal.  It's not merely an intellectual anticipation, either.  His fantasies – his very vivid fantasies thanks to his perfect recall - are getting out of control.  They're no longer confined to the safety of his quarters – no, they've escaped to play havoc with him and his made-to-conceal-nothing Starfleet uniform.   

And their communications aren't even erotic – not in any traditional sense.  Julian had hinted at his desire for a "photo" – and had received an image of a smiling, older Bolian man in a striped suit.  Whenever Julian pries for information, Garak answers verbosely ... as Gren Sossa, with such detail that Julian would think he was a real person if not for the little "tells" that, like breadcrumbs, Garak scatters through his tales for Julian to follow. 

He's read 19 communications from Garak.  The 20^th now sits on his terminal like a Siren on its rock, calling him from his duty.  It's tempting to let himself be tempted.  He's been corralled by Kira into another round of greet-the-dignitary, one of his least favourite and one the most frequent duties of a senior officer.  As a crossroads, DS9 teems with dignitaries.  Most are only petty officials or minor royalty, but their capacity for taking offense seems inversely proportional to their consequence.

Dutifully, though, he shrugs himself into his dress uniform and trudges off to the airlock.  He hasn't even bothered reading the brief.  It's all the same, no matter the species.  All you had to do was smile and listen and look impressed before the Captain took over and you were finally released.

"What is it this time?"

Jadzia shrugs.  She doesn't read the briefs either. 

He could ask Kira, or the Captain, but he isn't quite willing to admit his ignorance (and thus his dereliction of duty)  to his superiors.  He's not all that curious anyway. 

He settles in for a long wait but is surprised.  Unlike most dignitaries, these ones have arrived on time.  After only a few minutes, the dignitaries appear.

And that is when he sees Garak.

Chapter Text

Garak.  Julian snaps his mouth shut just in time to prevent the escape of a stupid grin and a shouted greeting.  He tries to assume his usual bored-trying-not-to-look-bored face he wears on these occasions, but layered on top of his excitement and apprehension, he just manages to look constipated.

Sisko moves forward to greet the first (and thus most important) dignitary, an older woman wearing ornate jewellery and a long blue robe.  "Ambassador Pelek?  I am Captain Benjamin Sisko.  Please allow me to welcome you to Deep Space Nine."

Another woman, younger and wearing simple red robes, steps forward to stand beside and slightly behind the ambassador.  She speaks softly to Pelek, who nods, then turns to Sisko.

"The ambassador thanks you for your welcome, Captain.  I am Nan Orlan, the ambassador's interpreter.  I am, unfortunately, the only one of the delegation who speaks Bajoran or Federation Standard.  Our people, you must understand, have as yet little contact with other races, though Ambassador Pelek wishes you to know that she hopes for that to change."

She adorns her words with an elegant bow, which Sisko returns.  Julian – who knows very well that at least one other member of the delegation speaks fluent Standard and can put it to incredibly filthy use - steals a look at Garak.  Garak is playing dumb, staring straight ahead in a perfect facsimile of bovine stupidity.  Julian stifles a snort and thinks he catches just the tiniest flicker of Garak's eyes towards him.

"Allow me to first present the rest of our party," Orlan continues.  She nods to two men in military uniform, then waves a hand to indicate the rest of the party.  "Gul Renn and Glinn Amar, and the Ambassador's retinue, Aides Ulrin, Torak and Tarlan.

Julian processes this.  Is Tarlan Garak's real name?  Is he really an aide?  Or is all this a cover for something more?  He can't get close enough to Garak to ask. 

The procession starts on the obligatory tour of the station and, as befits their lowly rank, Ulrin, Torak and Tarlan trail behind.  When they reach the infirmary, Julian exchanges a few polite words with the ambassador, through Orlan, and then Sisko dismisses him.   Julian has never been so disappointed to be released from dignitary duty before.  His eyes trail after the departing group.  He wonders how long Garak will be on the station.

He spends a frustrating afternoon in the infirmary trying and failing to come up with a plan to see Garak.  He rushes to Ops as soon as his shift ends, only to find that the delegation is still in meetings with Sisko.  Discouraged, he wanders around the station, lingering in isolated spots in the faint hope that Garak will find him.  He tries Quark's for dinner – the delegation might be there, after all- but is disappointed. He accepts a game of darts with Miles, but makes a poor competitor and a poorer companion.  He keeps looking over his shoulder at the entrance, and manages to lose without even trying.

He has all but given over to despair when he leaves for the night shift in the infirmary – he is filling in for a colleague who has (ironically) begged off for a hot date. 

He walks in.  Garak is sitting there.  Garak, looking as innocent as a baby lamb, Interpreter Orland beside him.  They bow formally to him and he bows back as well as he can,  all angles and no grace.

"Doctor Bashir?  Aide Tarlan  was hoping you would be able to provide him with Prevlavila.  You are familiar with it?"

"Yes, of course."  Prevlavila was a Bajoran herbal mixture used to treat inflammation.

"What you may not know is that it is popular among Cardassians to treat headaches.  With trade regulations being what they are, " here she spreads her hands to indicate a deplorable state beyond her ability to fix, "it is unattainable, but many Cardassians, such as Aide Tarlan, are quite devoted to it."

"Do you suffer from headaches often?"

Orlan replies after a whispered exchange with Garak.  Julian wonders why the interpreter always whispers; surely she doesn't think anyone here speaks Kardasi, and even if they do, what is it that she's saying if not what he said?

His thoughts are interrupted by her reply. 

"Moderately so, but of long standing.  There is no serious condition underlying it, though he knows you will want to complete a brief medical examination before you prescribe anything."  Orland pauses.  "The exam can be conducted without additional information?  Aide Tarlan naturally prefers privacy, but I am available if needed."

"Yes, of course.  I'll comm you if needed."

Orlan bows and leaves.  Julian, who's certain he won't be needing Orlan's assistance in his examination¸ tries to maintain a professional demeanour, as if this is just what it appears to be, a visitor with a minor medical request. 

Julian extends an arm toward the exam room.  Garak nods precedes him.

As the door slides shut behind him, Julian leans against it and crosses his arms.

"Not a word of Standard, eh?"

Garak shrugs, but his smile is playful.  "Well, it seemed rude to question Orlan's assumption.  I wouldn't want her to lose face."

"Mmm hmmm.  Very kind.  Although I do wonder how she formed that impression at all – or why she seems to think your name is Tarlan?"

"What's in a name, as your poet says?"

"I was under the impression you weren't fond of Shakespeare."

"I don't believe we've ever discussed literature, doctor.  However would you know my thoughts on the subject?"

"My apologies.  I must have gotten you confused with someone else.  May I ask what your opinion of Shakespeare might be then?"

"The words absurdly melodramatic and sentimental come to mind."

"I suppose your position as an aide gives you plenty of time to read?" 

"It's one of the perks of an otherwise intolerably dull position."

"Of course."

"And now, doctor, though I must admit the Prevlavila was not my primary purpose for wanting to see you again, it would look odd if I were to leave without it, don't you think?"

"Oh, right."  Julian goes to the replicator and enters the formula.  He retrieves the bottle, turns around, and almost drops it. 

Garak is naked – magnificently, gloriously naked.  He leans casually against the counter, smirking at Julian.  The sight brings back vivid memories of the past and suggests graphic possibilities for the future.   Julian's cock jumps in excitement.  He feels Garak's gaze travel down to the now prominent bulge in his pants and he blushes.

"Of course you'll want to examine me.  Shall I lay here?" asks Garak, indicating the bio-bed.  At Julian's tongue-tied nod he stretches himself out languidly, as if basking on a rock.  "Please, take your time – be as thorough as you like," he drawls.

Julian swallows and takes a tentative step forward.  Garak watches him through half-lidded overly amused eyes.  Julian stands at the edge of the bio-bed, eyes travelling down from Garak's darkening ridges to the blue-tinged chuen to the tight seam of his ajan. 

His fingers are halfway to his collar to tear off his own clothing, but then he pauses.  There is something thrilling about having Garak naked and laid out before him while he himself is still fully clothed.  Garak is as dangerous and as quick as any cobra, and  the danger inherent in trying to tame such a predator makes his blood run faster.

He leaves his clothes on.  Garak watches him – Julian is sure he knows exactly what is going through his mind at all times – but says nothing.

Julian moves slowly, carefully.  He wants to explore Garak, learn his body.  He never had this chance before, and Garak is beautiful, worthy of discovery.  He runs light fingers over Garak's ridges and spreads his hands over the soft skin in between them.  He revels in the feel of the soft-snake scales and cool skin and armoured ridges, but what excites him even more are the reactions Garak sometimes fails to contain when Julian has been especially skillful or found an especially sensitive spot.  He notes every twitch, every tremor, every clench, every stifled gasp.  He observes what makes his scales darken, what makes his seam swell. 

Garak is coming undone, and he is taking Julian with him.  As he starts to twist and writhe on the bed, Julian begins to palm himself through his trousers.  With his other hand, he explores the low ridges that encircle Garak's pelvis.  They are extraordinarily sensitive.  As he works them, Garak's seam quickly becomes slippery, glistening with lubricant.  When Julian uses his nails on the ridges Garak gasps, and when he pinches them sharply Garak everts with a cry. 

Julian takes in the sight before him, Garak panting, legs splayed wide, wet with want.  Julian wants to rip off his clothes, plunge himself into Garak, lose himself fucking him.  Instead, he takes a deep breath and steps back.  Garak's eyes snap open and fasten on Julian.

Julian positions himself at the end of the bed between Garak's legs.   His hand inches slowly down.  Slowly, slowly, he tugs at the zipper, pulling the trousers open just enough so he can pull out his cock.  He holds himself, stroking himself, enjoying the way Garak follows the motion.  Julian keeps his eyes focused on Garak.  He removes his hand from himself and grabs Garak's hips, dragging him forward until his hips rest at the end of the bed.

He places his hands on the inside of Garak's thighs and shoves Garak's legs further apart.  Garak hisses and wraps his legs around Julian, trying to force him closer, but Julian resists.  He takes himself in hand again, running his thumb over and around the head of his cock.  Garak watches with greedy eyes, then groans and tilts his head back.

Julian steadies himself.  He places the head of his cock at Garak's entrance and pushes in, one slow centimetre at a time until he is fully sheathed.  He takes a deep, shuddering breath.  Garak is tight and silky around him and it is all he can do to maintain his composure.  He pulls out again, just as slowly.  It is so intense he has to force himself to remember to breathe. 

Their first time was quick and rough and delirious.  This time he is determined to savour the look and feel of Garak.  As he moves he felt ridges inside – inside! – rub and massage his cock.  "Fuck.  Garak, fuck," he pants.  He has his hands anchored on Garak's hips.  He pulls out and pauses, trying to make it last.

Garak's eyes blaze and his hands shoot out to grasp Julian's wrists.  Julian holds on harder, fingers digging in, staring him down.  Garak groans and tilts his hips forward to bring Julian back inside him.

Julian loses himself at the sight of Garak naked, wanton, below him.  Unable to stop himself, he begins to thrust in deep, long strokes.   Garak lifts his hips to meet Julian's thrusts, but Julian clamps down harder, keeping him pinned and immobile, held firmly in place for his pleasure.  He leans forward, getting his cock in as deep as it will go.  He thrusts become faster, shallower.  The bio-bed shakes as he pounds into Garak.

"Fuck, Garak.  I'm close.  I'm close.  I want you.  I want you to come.  I want to come inside you, take you, fuck you."

Garak cries out, screwing his eyes shut and writhing beneath Julian's hands as he comes.  Julian feels himself sliding over the edge after him and then he is coming, coming in great spurts as he spreads Garak's legs further apart and pushes in as deep as he can go, groaning and clutching the ridged hips as his body shudders and spasms. 

Julian comes to himself slowly.  He is breathing heavily.  He opens his eyes to find Garak watching him, that damned amused and oh so attractive look in his eye.  Julian grins back.  He takes a cloth and cleans himself, zipping his trousers back up.  Garak sits up and Julian passes him another cloth, then turns his back – ostensibly to put his cloth in the recycler, but more to allow Garak some privacy.

Half a second later his heart jumps in fear as a hand closes around his neck, sharp nails.  A voice – no longer soft with lust – whispers in his hear.

"I hope, doctor, that you don't take any willingness to submit in the interests of pleasure as a sign of weakness."

Julian swallows.  "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good."

The hand withdraws.  Julian composes himself.  When he turns, Garak is already dressed.

"Doctor, it's been a pleasure, as always." 

"Wait!"  Garak stops.  "You can't just – I mean – when will I see you again?"

Garak shakes his head.  "Alas, we leave tomorrow."

"I mean after that."

Garak tilts his head and regards him for some moments, apparently speechless.

Julian steps forward.  "Garak, it's not just – " he waves his hand towards the thoroughly debauched biobed.  Unable to put the feelings that have grown through the intrigue and yes, the sex, but also the letters, the debates, the humour, he moves closer.

 Garak watches, suspicion obvious in his eyes, but allows him to approach.  Julian wraps his arms around him and buries his face in the wonderful scent of his hair.  He can feel the surprise as Garak puts tentative arms around him.

"It's just ... I'll miss you."

"Humans are sentimental, aren't they?" Garak murmurs, but Julian notices he runs a hand tenderly through his hair before pulling away.

Chapter Text

Julian has been alternating between worry and annoyance for exactly five weeks and four days, which is how long it's been since "Gren Sossa's" weekly subspace communication failed to arrive.  Messages to that account – and Julian has sent an embarrassing number - have fallen into a silent grave.

The longer it's been, the more that the worry seems justified, the more he's stuffed it down and allowed annoyance to fill its place.  He tells himself that Garak’s off at another conference, having sex with some other naive doctor and has forgotten all about Julian.  Or he’s off adventuring, the type of adventure his interpreter thrillers were stuffed full of.  Julian lets himself feel envy and resentment.  Not worry, because Garak is fine.

At six weeks the hidden worry gnaws at him from underneath, like wood rot. 

At seven weeks he contemplates a ruinous exploratory into Cardassian space.

It's seven weeks, three days, fourteen hours, seven minutes when he finally, finally gets a message.  Relief is disguised as a rush of anger and outrage.  He opens up the message, fluttery and shaky, ready to savage Garak's no doubt smooth apologies for the lateness of his response.

There is no apology, however.  Nor any discussion nor even mention of their latest book.

What there is is a message.

A coded message.

Julian's heart does a hop, skip and jump.  He immediately cancels his darts with Chief O'Brien, lying that he has to catch up on work, and settles in to break the code.

Only he's got no idea where to start.  He may be brilliant, with the ability to learn quickly, but he doesn't come with prepackaged skills like a replicator.  So he does what he does whenever he has a new problem: research.

Two days later and his friends are starting to worry.  So is Julian, but he's worried about failing, about disappointing Garak somehow.  What he's missing is the key to unlock the cipher text.  Garak hasn't used any standard pattern so far as he can see.

Which must mean it's for Julian alone.

What do he and Garak have in common – beyond infrequent but incredibly fulfilling sex?  Literature.

Julian compiles a list of all the texts they've discussed and starts looking for patterns.

Six hours later he has it, and the message unfurls before his eyes.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, exactly.  Instructions on identifying a spy on DS9?  A knock-knock joke?  A pornographic novel? 

Whatever it was, he wasn't expecting what he got.

He wasn’t expecting a call for help.

Chapter Text

Julian has to get to Garak.  There's no question about that.  Already he's wasted two days just opening the damn message, so there's no time to waste.  He has to go, and he has to go now.

But – and this is key – no one else can know.  It's not that he doesn't trust Sisko and Miles and the others.  He does.  He'd trust them with his life.  But that's the thing.   It’s not his life.   He's not the one who's in danger, and he's not naive enough – despite what he lets everyone believe – to think that the same unquestioning loyalty would be extended to blindly help a Cardassian interpreter they know nothing about.  In fact the odds are good – 86.3% good – that they'd think him unduly influenced and try to "help" him iinstead.

Which means he's on his own.  Which would be fine - if he owned his own spaceship and didn't have to have a plausible excuse for taking it for a spin into non-Federation territory on a whim.  No, he needs a runabout and he needs plausibility.

It takes him another six hours to get it.  There is a small medical conference in the Kpqannkl system, and it will be easy enough to whip up a frothy explanation for wanting to go, given that no one bothers to listen to him when he talks about his research anyway.  What takes a little more finangling are the details – and if he's learned anything from his rabid consumption of interpreter spy novels, details are key.  No one’s likely to check up on his story, but if they do, there can’t be anything to find.  He doesn’t know what kind of danger Garak’s in and he can’t take chances.

There’s a 6.73% chance that Garak’s not actually in trouble and that the coded message is, in fact, an elaborate spy-interpreter roleplay booty call.   If it is – Julian doesn’t know what he’ll do if that’s the case.  Part of him thinks he’d be mad enough to give Garak the lecture of his life.   The other part finds the idea so erotic that he has to stop himself thinking about it so that he doesn’t walk around declaring to the station that he’s got his mind in the gutter because stupid Starfleet uniforms don’t hide anything.

Julian submits a false backdated conference registration, fakes an official decline of the request due to limited space, and then crafts a brand new notification about a cancellation along with an offer to register – which he does.

He trots off to the bridge and corrals Sisko to request an immediate leave an a runabout.  He turns up the volume of his always simmering passion for any type of medical research and less than five minutes later Sisko is practically pushing him out of his office and telling him to have a nice time before he politely but firmly shuts the door in his face.

It takes only another hour to pack, though in addition to the usual paraphenelia he throws in several disruptors, an emergency surgery kit, medicines designed for Cardassians and a pair of handcuffs – because you never know.

Chapter Text

From a distance, on the monitors, there’s nothing remarkable about the coordinates, except how unremarkable they are.  A smallish Class M planetoid, but not one large enough to support anything larger than some scrub plants.  Nor one with any metals worth mining.  It even lacks tactical advantage, being too far from the main navigation routes and too far from any significant border.

As instructed, Julian does a number of thorough scans of the surrounding area and the planetoid itself as soon as he’s in long range of it.  To his relief, he finds nothing, which means there’s nothing left to do but land.  He still thinks it would be easier to stay in orbit and beam down, but Garak in his message strictly forbade it.  He shouldn’t be surprised.  Nothing about Garak is easy.

He repeats the decrypted passcode comfortingly in his head as he slowly approaches what still looks like but can’t possibly be a solid rock wall.   At what seems to be too late – and might well have been if his reflexes weren’t so unnaturally good – he’s finally prompted for the passcode.  He enters it quickly, fingers tapping on the screen (because of course Garak had to send a 67 character long passcode) and is rewarded by the rewarding site of the cliff-face splitting to reveal a small hangar.

Julian eases the shuttle in and lands.  He wonders, not for the first time, sitting there in the dark cavern as the doors close behind him, whether it’s all a set up.  Whether he’s unwittingly become a patsy in a game he didn’t even know he was playing, if all of his literary exchanges with Garak were nothing but a front, a way for Garak to pass information or computer viruses into Federation space.  Maybe it wasn’t even Garak who went the message.  Julian doesn’t want to die on some shitty planetoid in empty space because he’s an impossibly naïve idiot.  What hurts most about the thought is not the dying but the fact that no one back at Deep Space 9 would be surprised in the least. 

If they ever found out.  His death could remain a mystery – Julian Bashir who left one day and never came back.  It’s too much like what happened to Jules.  It’s entirely possible he could die and he and the shuttle and whatever remained of Jules would never be found, entombed here until the end of the universe. 

Julian shakes himself loose from his morbid thoughts.  Sitting there freaking out is not going to help anybody, him or Garak.  He grabs a medical kit and a phaser and a light and opens the hatch.  He pulls out his tricorder but can’t read anything through the thick rock walls.  Visual inspection it is.

There’s another shuttle in the hangar, banged up and burned, but there’s no one inside.  There’s nothing else in the hangar.  There’s one corridor leading out and it follows it.  The ceiling is low, claustrophobically so, and he has to stoop.  It’s wet with moisture.  The occasional drip lands in his hair or his eye.

It opens into a (thankfully) larger room.  The lights are low, and at first he thinks there’s a problem with the power, but then he decides it’s set to Cardassian standards because it’s also on the disgustingly warm and humid side. 

“Garak?” he calls out.  There’s no answer except his own voice bouncing off the walls.  He sweeps his light slowly around the room.  There’s a computer system … a replicator and a small table and chair … a weapons stash … a bed and –

“Garak!”  Julian rushes over.  Garak is sprawled half on the bed, half on the floor.  The covers are a mess of tangles.  The under sheet is soaked in blood, which is dripping on the floor where Julian sees the medical supplies Garak has used in an attempt to treat himself.

Julian flips the switch into doctor mode automatically.  He checks Garak’s vitals, checks the wound in his side, checks for other wounds, all the while calculating and formulating a plan so that by the time he’s done examining him he already knows exactly what he needs to do.

He lifts Garak up and carries him back to the shuttle.  He knows this is dangerous.  Garak will wonder how he did it.  There could be cameras.  But if he doesn’t operate soon – and the shuttle is the only place he can operate – there’s a good chance Garak will die, and he’s willing to trade the chance of discovery against keeping Garak alive.

Once inside, he strips off Garak’s shirt.  He gives Garak local anesthetic only – he’s already unconscious, deeply so, and Julian’s too unfamiliar with Cardassian toxicology to chance more – and cleans the wound.  It’s bad, or at least deep, and festering.  A knife wound, by the look of it, and not one that went in or came out cleanly.  He needs to remove the rot and close the wound.  Then he can work on the blood loss, fever and dehydration.

It doesn’t take long, as surgeries go.  It’s a deep wound, not a complex one.  No major organs or arteries are involved, thankfully.  Within a few hours Julian has Garak ensconced in a clean bed full of medication and replicated blood with Julian beside him.

Julian realises as he’s sitting there that he’s never had much time to just look at Garak.  He’s talked to him, albeit through letters, so deeply and for so long that it feels wrong for him not to be as familiar with the shape of the scales on his face or the small scar in the corner of his right eye.  They’ve only met twice in person and both encounters, though intense, were brief.  Julian soaks him in now as he watches over him, reassured by the soft rise and fall of his chest.

After a few hours Garak regains consciousness, of a sort.  He’s still weak, still feverish, and his eyes are glazed and his words slurred and rambling.  Most of it is in Kardasi, but he mutters in Standard too, repeating instructions he’d sent in his message.  He’s agitated.  Julian tries to soothe him with soft words, a hand on his brow, telling him that it’s okay, that he’s there, but it seems to make things worse.  Garak stares at him with glossy eyes that seem, on some level at least, to recognise him.  He shakes his head restlessly. 

“No, you mustn’t … I can’t … I can’t call you.  Need to leave you alone.  If he finds out … If Tain … sentiment … can’t afford … weakness.  But I can’t.  There’s no one, no one to trust.  Don’t trust them, Julian.”

“I won’t,” Julian promises.  It seems to help.  Garak subsides, his breathing finally slowing again.  In time, he falls asleep, a real sleep, and Julian relaxes, knowing the danger is past.  He falls asleep like that, in the chair beside the bed.  He’s tired, and he’s always been a heavy sleeper, so it’s not until many many hours that he wakes up, to an empty bed.

Garak is gone.

Chapter Text

Julian wakes with an undigifed snort and a dribble of – drool?  Yes, drool – smeared on his cheek.  He lifts his head, wincing at the crick in his neck.  He blinks at the bed.  The empty bed.

“Garak,” he mutters, angrily pushing himself to his feet.  A quick scan is enough to show the runabout is empty.  Julian vows to track down Garak’s scaly ass, make sure he is all right, and then murder him.  Unless whoever was after Garak already found him and dragged him off and now the tunnel is going to fill with poisonous gas.

Julian shakes his head.  He really needs to stop watching holo-novels.

He finds Garak back in the room where he’d first found him, though thankfully this time not bleeding out on the floor.   Garak is at the computer, but before Julian can see what he’s up to, the screen goes dark and Garak swivels around to greet him.

“Why, doctor!  Good morning!  You slept well, I trust?”

Julian narrows his already narrow eyes.  “Garak, dare I ask why you are out of bed not even eight hours after major surgery?”

“There were some things I needed to take care of,” Garak replies with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Things you – what?  What could possibly be so important?”

Garak spreads out his hands and widens his eyes.  “Would you count the imminent destruction of this planetoid if I didn’t shut down the self destruct sequence as sufficiently important?”

“Self destruct?  Why was the self destruct on?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was unconscious.  And also because the self destruct wasn’t actually set.  And also because there isn’t a self destruct button – I know you know how hard it is to blow up a planetoid.  Have you considered cutting back on the holo-novels, my dear?”

“But you said –“

“You asked a hypothetical question which I was kind enough to answer.”

Julian slumps down into a chair and drags his hands through his hair.  ‘You shit.  You’re not even going to tell me why I risked my career, maybe my life, coming here are you?”

“No.  And before you try your pretty Federation puppy eyes,  you’re better not knowing.  But … there was no one else I could call, Julian.  No one else I could trust.”

Julian nods.  It’s something, at least.  “What happens now?”

“That depends.  What was your story for coming here?”

Julian explains, and he can’t help the blush of pleasure at the obvious pride in Garak’s eyes as he fleshes out all the details of his deception.  Garak eyes him thoughtfully.

“Well done, doctor.  Perhaps I was wrong about the holo-novels.  But since you’ve got such a nice cover in place, it would be foolish – and unwise – to abandon it.  You’ll go on to the conference.  I’ll come with you.  When it’s over, you go back to DS9 and I’ll be well-rested enough to … take care of things.  Provided you’re willing to share your accommodation of course.  I promise I’ll make it worth your while, soothe your stress at the end of the day.”

Julian gulps as he looks at those intense eyes that always turn his feet to jelly.  He realises what Garak’s doing, that he’s trying to distract Julian with the promise of a week of mind-blowing sex.  It’s not exactly a win.  Julian still doesn’t know what happened.  He still doesn’t know anything about Garak apart from a few garbled fever sentences.

On the other hand, it’s not exactly a loss either.  Garak is all right.  Garak is safe.  And Julian does have the stealthy computer scan he did of the planetoid and its computer system before he fell asleep.  And the medical conference may be cover, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be good. 

And then there’s the sex.  Not just a brief encounter, but a whole week of sharing quarters with Garak and – do Cardassians do tantric sex?  They must, right?  And in between the sex there’s arguing about literature and trying to worm information out of each other …

Maybe it is a win after all.

Because the game isn’t over.  It’s just begun.