Chapter Text
They’d made love after that, Elim fucking him possessively, unwilling to release Julian from his embrace unless absolutely necessary to remove clothes or adjust bodies. Half of the packing would have to be redone, because the piles had been knocked to the floor. Afterwards, they lay on their sides, foreheads pressed together, in the Cardassian way. Elim recited a few verses in ancient Hebitian, a farewell to a lover about to leave on a voyage.
“Is that why we didn’t get together until I’d been on Cardassia for over three quarters of a year? Because you wanted to be sure?” Julian asked after a respectful silence had been observed to appreciate the poem.
“The circumstances had changed. We needed to assess the situation to know if we were compatible for marriage.”
“You mean you did. No one,” he pinched Elim reproachfully on the hip, where he knew it wouldn’t hurt too much, “on this planet had the courtesy to explain Cardassian courtship to me. I had no idea. You were supportive when I got here, you spent loads of time with me, but you were distant. And you didn’t want to have sex. For nearly ten months! It was like I’d imagined our relationship on Deep Space Nine.”
“Would you call what we had on Deep Space Nine a relationship? We were friends who had sex when it suited us.”
“Well, yes, I would call that a kind of relationship.”
“Julian, whatever it was we had on Deep Space Nine was terribly shallow compared to what we have now. You must realise that, as much as I grew to enjoy your company, I started sleeping with you because it benefitted me to be close to someone on the senior staff.”
How very romantic. These glimmers of pure honesty came at the oddest times. Was this Elim attempting to improve communication?
“Mmmmm. I never expected you to admit that. But I knew. Actually, that was part of what excited me about you, at the start.”
“Your spy obsession.”
“I kind of wanted to be used by you. You were so mysterious and dangerous. You made me feel special. And extremely nervous.”
“You were easy to manipulate. That’s exactly how I wanted you to feel.”
“I know.”
Neither spoke for a while. Night had fallen while they’d been busy, and the glow of the Cardassia Prime equivalent of a harvest moon filtered through the window, along with the comforting squeaks, hums, and clicks of nocturnal creatures waking up in the garden. The room had cooled fractionally so that it was just about comfortable for Julian, but Elim drew the cover up from where it had been kicked and wrapped it around himself.
Julian thought about getting up to finish packing, given that he was due to board the Antelope in less than twelve hours, but there was so much to be discussed.
“I nearly didn’t come.”
“You seemed to enjoy yourself.”
“I mean to Cardassia,” he clarified, then realised Elim had understood him perfectly. “Oh, very good, Elim. That’s an ancient joke, you know.”
“Please, Julian. Standard is famously ambiguous. You should appreciate my efforts to master your language.”
“Yes, admirable. Puns are the height of linguistic sophistication. But I’m serious. I nearly didn’t come to Cardassia. I was about to cancel my plans and ask for my post on Deep Space Nine back. I wanted to be with you, and I thought I was being selfish. I thought I would be…intruding. It was only because Ezri convinced me you wouldn’t resent my help that I came at all.”
“Julian, in my letters I asked you many times to come to Cardassia because I thought we had potential for something deeper.”
“Did you? You’re going to have to show me where, because I didn’t get any of that from what you wrote. As far as I’m concerned, I took a huge risk coming here. I didn’t know if you really wanted me to come. Or to stay.”
“It was all there. The twinned central themes of every letter were emptiness and potential.”
“Twinned central themes?”
“Yes, Julian. The most basic of the twenty-three structures of letter-writing, as every Cardassian child learns in their first year of school. I tried to keep it as simple as possible”
“I think there’s more to the art of Cardassian letter-writing than I realised. You’ll have to tell me more about it sometime.”
“Hmmmm. We’ll add it to the list.”
“But even if I had picked up on them! Emptiness and potential? Those themes could have applied to…anything. Lots of things. To your work restoring Cardassia. How was I supposed to know you meant me?”
“Why would I write to you about them if they didn’t apply to you?”
“Because I was your friend and you were telling me about your life?”
“Julian. Had I ever expressed myself to you in that particular manner before?”
Julian thought back to the first letter he’d received, after Elim had been on Cardassia for nearly half a year. He’d written of sadness, great loss, and yes, an emptiness that Julian had assumed referred to the culture, the planet, the billions dead. And yes, constantly entwined throughout had been the thinnest threads of optimism about, or, one could say, potential of, the future. Such emotional openness had seemed very uncharacteristic of Elim. Julian had been shocked at the metamorphosis. It was nothing like their usual back and forth about literature, politics, sex, food, and so on. But he’d attributed it to the different medium - letters didn’t allow so well for witty repartee or spirited debate - as well as the fact that the war, the desolation of Cardassia, and the return home to a traumatised planet after years of exile, might just have changed Elim. And more letters had come, and the tone had stayed the same, and he’d just got used to it.
“No. You hadn’t. So you were writing love letters?”
Elim caressed his cheek.
“Not exactly, dear heart, but if you prefer to regard them as love letters, that’s close enough.”
“Didn’t you even consider that I wouldn’t understand?”
“Julian, it did work in the end. You’re here, aren’t you? And how else could I have put it? ‘I miss you and think we could build a life together, even though I have nothing to offer you. Please come live with me.’”
“That’s exactly how you could have put it.”
“How indecently explicit.”
Julian lifted his head up on one arm so he could look at Elim properly.
“Are you sure you want me, Elim? You could still find some nice Cardassian to settle down with. Then these misunderstandings wouldn’t happen.”
Elim pretended to consider the possibility.
“That would make my life easier. And I wouldn’t have to accompany you to London in the coldest month of the year.”
“You’ll love it,” teased Julian. “You know, there’s a replica of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre in London. They do authentic Sixteenth Century outdoor performances of his plays. Maybe we can still get tickets."
“Fantastic, Julian.” This was punctuated with another eye roll. “I can’t believe you’ve found an activity that combines my abiding passions of Shakespeare and foul weather.”
“I know you so well.”
“I don’t understand why your parents had to bring you up exclusively in unpleasantly cold places.”
Julian shrugged.
“My father doesn’t like the heat. Anyway, London’s not that cold. We spent a year and a half in northern Manitoba when I was a teenager. You’re lucky I’m not taking you there. This time.”
“Oh?”
“The bears are white because there can be seven or eight months of snow every year.”
“Dear, if you love me you’ll never take me there.”
“I don’t know. It might be a nice honeymoon destination. Just you, me, and the bears. Too cold to go outside. Maybe too cold to leave the bed...”
“You might be right, Julian. Perhaps I need a nice Cardassian who won’t make me go places where water freezes.” Elim shuddered and pulled the cover tighter around himself. “What’s the name of that new doctor on your staff? He’s quite attractive.”
“Doctor Orniss? Yes, I think he’s single. He’d be great for you. He’s re-reading Aon’s Renunciation, did you know that? He does every year. You and he could sit around agreeing about Cardassian literature all night, and turning on the heat when the temperature drops below thirty-five.”
“That sounds very diverting, dear. It would be extremely gratifying to have a quiet home life. But I suspect I’m on the verge of a breakthrough with you regarding your appreciation of Cardassian literature, and I would hate to abandon such a worthy endeavour.”
“Do you think so?”
“You’re very clever, you know. It should be any day now.”
“Thank you. That’s optimistic of you. But if that’s your only reason for rejecting Orniss, I think I should tell you that I don’t believe you’ll ever convince me about The Neverending Sacrifice.”
“I do enjoy the challenge. Among other challenges you present.”
“Challenges, me? Like what?”
“Mmmmmm. So many to choose from. The way your body releases moisture even at the lowest of temperatures is terrible for the sheets.” He wiped a drop from Julian’s brow. “But the smell is intoxicating.”
“You’re saying you like the way I sweat?”
“I suppose I am.” Elim leaned forward to sniff Julian’s armpit. “It’s a pity your culture demands you conceal this odour. It’s quite…delicious.”
“Humans find it quite disgusting.”
“Well, it’s absolutely enchanting to Cardassians.”
“I think it’s just you who finds it so enchanting, Elim.”
“Who’s to say? It’s rare to find one of my people cohabiting with one of yours. Sadly for them.”
“Hmmmm. I’m fairly certain I’ve ruined you for other Cardassians. I guess that’s another reason to keep me.”
“I’m an incorrigible deviant, it’s true.”
“I suppose two good reasons are enough.”
A light breeze ruffled the curtain, a blessed relief to Julian. Elim shivered.
“Julian. This temperature is intolerable. Either get up and close the window or come here and warm me.”
“Three reasons,” said Julian, allowing Elim’s arm to pull him to his scaly chest, into a type of embrace that was decidedly not done after sex by nice Cardassians. “I like the way you deviate for me.”
“Mmmmm,” Elim buried his nose in Julian’s hair.
“Are you really going to make me that cream jumper?”
“If you like.” Elim ran his fingers idly through the dark curls, plotting the project in his head. “If I start tomorrow I should be able to finish by the time I join you on Earth. That gives you a week to wear that other monstrosity.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Maybe you’ll spill something on it.”