Too Many...

Copyright 1997 by Terrie H. Drummonds 

STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is the property of Paramount Pictures,
Inc. Salute! But this story is mine since TPTB don't have the guts to show
*this* particular scene:>. It does not intend to infringe on Paramount's
copyright in any way. Do not change or alter in any way.

TIMELINE: Hmmm... after "Children of Time" but before "Empok Nor."

*********************(((()))))*********************

Too many glasses of wine. Definitely too many.

I knew I shouldn't have, but I didn't care. I was celebrating! "Mardi Gras!"
Captain Sisko had declared and proceeded to turn the Promenade into one
of the most festive places in the quadrant. Being from New Orleans, the
captain certainly knew how to throw one hell of a party.

One of the rules was that attendees could not wear their uniforms.
Klingons were the exception since they didn't have anything *but* their
military armor. I fingered the cuff of my dark violet Bolian silk shirt and
glanced with appreciation down at the dark gold, loose fitting trousers.
Garak insisted that this ensemble fit perfectly with the theme. Who am I to
argue his sense of fashion? Being a tailor meant - at least I guess - knowing
such a detail about a Terran festival.

The music started again and people began dancing. The Promenade was
filled with noise and light and the savory scents of true Creole cooking. It
was a spectacular sight and was one of the few times the station actually
celebrated a Terran holiday on such a grand scale. I'm sure nothing like this
ever happens on a starship.

My fellow medical students would beg to live the life I lead. Why not? I
had chosen DS9 deliberately while the others lamented losing the USS
Lexington posting to Elizabeth Lense. But I had had the first taste of
adventure. The first taste of the frontier. And my life had been one red alert
after another since then.

I felt wondrous.

For the first time, I was free. No more hiding the fact I had been genetically
enhanced. No more excuses about shying away from more intimately
romantic relationships for fear of my lover discovering the horrid truth I
was a fraud.

During those days on Gaia I had discovered that I eventually had settled
down and started a family. Me. A "family man" like Miles. And oh how I
had needled Miles about it. Serves him right for that "rule" he insisted upon
when we play darts. We were still friends even though, according to him,
my choice of lovers left a lot to be desired. Yet he never said anything
against it. He never said anything in favor of it either. I think he simply
stuffed it into that little corner of "things one didn't discuss."

He was trying. Oh, was that man *trying* to be every bit the decorated
Starfleet officer he was. He was trying to give me the benefit of the doubt,
trying not to be judgmental, trying to offer me the same type of friendship
as I had offered him during those months when Keiko was down on Bajor,
trying to be supportive in his own wonderfully archaic way.

He didn't approve. I knew he didn't. He didn't try to ignore it either, as if
he
knew turning a blind-eye would not be the solution. Damn fine friend, that
Miles O'Brien.

I clapped him solidly on the shoulder, jostling his arm and causing him to
spill some of his precious stout. Rumor had it Specialist Cafia Gates
brewed the damned stuff in her quarters and had chosen this particular
night to share her homemade concoction. Miles looked up, cocking an
eyebrow at me which clearly said, "You've had too much of the drink
taken, Julian." By Allah! Those Celtic phrases were catchy!

And then he did the most amazing thing. He crooked a finger, beckoning
Garak. Him. Miles O'Brien, whose hatred of Cardassians matched Kira's
and every other Bajoran on this station, was calling upon my Elim.

The captain did say strange things happened on Mardi Gras.

My lover ceased whatever discussion he was having with Rom and came
over, wearing an affable expression but wariness clear in his eyes. With that
odd little way of his, sounding patronizing to me yet thoroughly
understanding of Elim's situation, Miles told my Elim, "You'd better take
him home."

"Thank you, chief," Elim replied, giving a polite nod. I knew that nod of
his. It was one of respect, acknowledgment, and gratitude. "I think I shall."

Elim grasped my upper arm with his right hand as his left hand settled on
my glass of shiraz that Ensign Mogan had smuggled all the way from
Australia. Damned fine vineyards those Australians had! I made a
disapproving sound; I heard Miles snort and mutter, "Good luck with that,
tailor," nodding toward my glass.

What an interesting comment. MIles didn't even say it maliciously. He said
it with that weird tone of semi-amusement.

"Doctor, I think Ms. Mogan is most appreciative that you approve of her
homeland's offerings, but an entire bottle?" Elim chided quietly. "Surely,
my dear doctor, you know better. What if there is a medical emergency?"

"I'm not the only doctor," I slurred belligerently. "I have two Bajorans and
one Starfleet under my command. You just never see them."

"Of course not," he humored me and then steered me toward the nearest
'lift. "I trust my care to no one else but you, dear doctor."

I beamed dreamily at him and then caught sight of... my nemesis. Despite
the fact I had too much alcohol in my system for my own good, my
competitive nature surged forth. Elim was mine. I would allow no other to
even *think* they could wrest Elim from me. I immediately straightened,
eyes sharp and lips curving into a superior smile as I stopped dead in my
tracks.

Elim sighed. "My dear doctor...."

I turned, poised to lay claim to my Elim, when I heard Miles groan and
then utter a few colorful phrases in Irish I think I'm glad the translator
can't
translate. Keiko and Dax suddenly stepped between myself and my rival
while my Elim and Miles, *Miles* of all people, determinedly moved me
toward the 'lift. 

I protested, of course, but Elim's sharp hold on my arm cut off any loud
argument I was trying to make. "You're mine!" I told him with a hurtful
stare. "I won't tolerate her...."

"For the love of God, Julian," Miles hissed as he pried the wine glass out of
my hand, "there is a time and a place for everything. Don't embarrass him."

I shut up, my eyes wide as I glanced into Miles' scowling features. Miles?
On the side of my Elim?

Was this an alternate reality?

I remained silent as the chief ushered us into the 'lift and told Garak, "Make
sure he stays on one piece." His tone conveyed the message that, if my
Elim didn't, there would be all kinds of hell to pay. Then my Elim and I
were blissfully alone. Angry I could not declare my love for him, I pouted.

Elim sighed. "Dearest Julian, you really are quite charming when you're
inebriated but you're also quite stubborn as well."

"I saw the way she looked at you," I sulked, swaying slightly. "I wanted to
tell her in no uncertain terms that...."

Gray fingers pressed gently against my lips. My Elim smiled patiently at
me. "She knows. There is no reason for a public declaration. Being half-
Cardassian she understands. She hasn't made any threatening gestures
toward you, has she?"

"No... but I see the way she gazes at you...."

"While I do admit I enjoy your possessiveness," he chuckled as he patted
my arm gently, "making a drunken spectacle of yourself on the Promenade
is another matter entirely. Hardly fitting the ideal image of a Starfleet
officer, a *senior* officer I might add. I assure you, my dear Julian, your
affections are the only ones I entertain. There is no need to... what is that
charming phrase Chief O'Brien uses? 'Get all riled up' over Ziyal."

"Still...."

"Still *nothing*, my dear Julian. You know as well as I do the certain
considerations we have to take when we're in public...."

I muttered, "I know..." and I refused to look at him. A thought occurred to
me. I cocked my head toward him. "Miles understands, too. Never thought
*he'd* do that," referring to his calling upon Elim to take me home.

"Ah, my dear dear doctor. He's simply biding his time until you come to
your senses and end this relationship with me."

He spoke the words so casually, using that majestic, playful air which
penetrated the haze of alcohol, and I knew he believed those words to be
true. Me. Brazenly in love with Elim Garak. Me. Shamelessly thrilled Elim
Garak loved me in return. Them. Putting up with the whole situation
because they knew if they challenged me on it, it would only drive me
closer to Elim. Smart people, my friends were. And Elim knew it as well.
Was he simply wringing every micron out of this relationship while he had
it, secretly terrified I would "come to my senses" and leave him? The
thoughts were sobering.

Elim guided me off the 'lift and down the corridor to my quarters. Better
for people to locate me there than in my Elim's quarters. Games. Shadow
dancing. Elim didn't seem to mind a bit. I think, in fact, he relished
sneaking
around with me. While it lasted.

Possessiveness.

Too much wine. It dredged up emotions and fears I normally stowed away
in the darkest corner of my mind.

If that was going to be his damned attitude, then so be it. His was a
stubborn mind to change.

The doors closed behind us and my Elim called for one-quarter
illumination. He looks so natural in dim lighting. He released my arm and
took a few steps forward, probably heading toward the replicator to get
something to sober me up.

Nope. I had been denied my chance to proclaim myself to him earlier.

The room began to spin. Too, too much wine. I forced myself to become
sober again, calling upon every last reserve in my system to do so. I had a
plan... a wonderful plan....

I made a sound of distress and wobbled backward, just enough to catch his
attention, cause him to turn and come back toward me. I continued my
"sad face" even though I readied myself to....

"Julian?" he queried, concern in his eyes.

I launched myself at him. He captured me easily, as if he knew what game I
was playing. Hell, I doubt I could really hide anything from my Elim, he
was so aware of things. A bottle of wine doesn't help when trying to be
covert about your movements.

My hands settled on the front clasp of his tunic, one which covered those
delicious neck ridges of his and made him look prim and proper. This was
one of the few articles of his clothing I detested. The garish teal and
maroon made me wonder what he had been thinking when he put *this*
ensemble together. Even I, who was hardly an expert in fashion, thought it
was putrid. I pulled. He watched me with curiosity shimmering in his eyes.
The tunic opened. He raised an eyeridge at me.

"You're mine," I declared again as anger began to seep into my system. He
didn't think we would last. His statement in the 'lift indicated that much, as
if I were fickle and incapable of such a long term relationship, as if he were
a simple whim of mine. Hah.

He, of course, was stronger than I, but I was more agile. I knew how to
use my height to my advantage; his hold on my shoulders did not prevent
me from moving my arms or using my fingers to pinch his center chest
ridge.

I loved it when his scales darkened. He may protest that he is "middle-aged"
or "old" or "past his prime," but that quick flush of arousal said
otherwise. He still held me away from him, eyeing me with caution as he
tried to decipher my intentions.

Too much wine.

If I had been sober, I would have never tried this particular trick.

I managed to use a martial arts throw to get him to the ground. He hit with
an outraged "Oof!" of surprise. I pounced upon him, lips locking onto his
neck ridge and hands ripping open his trousers.

"Julian!" he warned, hands gripping my upper arms.

I didn't care.

He was mine, I wasn't going to give him up so easily, and I was going to
make sure he knew it.

My fingers wrapped around him, nails dragging along the sensitive
underside scales. He hissed, arching his back. I could tell he was debating
whether or not to throw me off; he could if he really wanted to, but it
seemed he allowed me my bit of dominance.

His mistake.

I remembered a wrestling hold I had learned during my Academy days.
Starfleet security instructors loved torturing non-security officers with a
variety of self-defense techniques. This one in particular was effective
against an opponent such as my Elim. He felt me shift my weight and
perhaps then realized he'd made a tactical error. He tried to roll. He
couldn't.

A low, throaty chuckle escaped from my lips as I delivered sloppy kisses
and nips along his neckridge and then to his chin. His eyes glittered
dangerously but I ignored the unspoken warning. It was then I applied
pressure to that tempting ridge along his groin.

My poor Elim. Wasn't ready for that one, was he? He growled. I honestly
love it when he growls. He sounds so positively lusty, such a contrast to
the playful and flighty persona he shows in public.

I continued my assault, holding him tenaciously to the ground as he
struggled with a half-hearted effort. "You are *mine*," I repeated and then
bit down forcefully on a set of scales which I knew would send him into a
frenzy. "And I'm not going let you forget it."

Thrown down onto the floor by a drunk human, I was surprised my Elim
didn't offer any reproach to my behavior. Usually he was quite "strict"
when it came to how we interacted, "strict" in the sense that every time we
made love it wasn't just to have sex. Trust a Cardassian to acknowledge the
differences between the two, especially when it came to the Terran psyche.
No, for whatever reason he was allowing this to happen, it was happening.

I was still the aggressor, his movements more languid than mine, and I
managed to pull a good portion of his clothing off before he decided to
help me. I was still fully dressed, although my shirt was now gaping open,
and I continued to kiss and suckle his scales, the ones he had indicated
during our previous "sessions" as those which most aroused him.

His hand dropped to my crotch, thumbing me through the silk.

By *Allah* he knew how to touch me! My eyes shone wildly as I managed
to get the words out. "Let me...."

I didn't finish the sentence. Sometimes Cardassian pride and sensibility
charged in at the oddest moments. I was giving him a fair chance out; I
couldn't just assert my will in that manner. Groping around on the floor,
yes. Actual sex, no.

His hand was now in my trousers, grasping and pulling. Tugging in a way
to which automatically I responded to.

"Elim," my voice was ragged.

He looked at me curiously.

I nudged him, although I did allow him to strip me of my trousers. I think
he was genuinely surprised to find I wasn't wearing underwear. He peered
at me curiously before moving.

He was on his side. My hand slid up and down a few times, gathering his
natural lubrication and then applying it to myself and then him.

I wondered if he'd ever been in this particular position. Given the way his
shoulders were stiff and the rest of his body taut, I'd have to say no. I had
been like that the first time and I tried to remember through the haze of lust
and desire just what Elim had done to calm me down.

I felt him, probing carefully and gently, well aware he might balk at any
moment. He remained silent, not even a moan or a grunt, so I continued
until I sensed he was relaxed enough for me to....

I hadn't meant to slam into him like that. No, it wasn't really "slamming"
per se, I just began and the sensations were so incredible. The denial from
nights I had been refused such a connection with him only made me drive
at him with more gusto than I thought I could possibly have.

Harder. Faster. Surging.

I called his name, pumping his slick hardness in time with my strokes. I
could feel the orgasm building in my system. The alcohol only delayed it
slightly. I was calling his name, rolling him onto his belly and then
pounding with every micron of my body into his.

Harder. Faster.

Harder. Faster.

Harder. Faster.

Harder. Faster.

Harder. Faster. 

The way my flesh slapped against his sounded like some ancient tribal
drum.

"Elim!" 

My voice rose in pitch as my climax slammed into me like a sonic wave.

He was mine. He allowed me to possess him.

He truly loved me.

My Elim. My dearest, beloved Elim.

*** Finis ***