dark_sinestra

Author Notes: This story spans The Adversary and The Way of the Warrior. It's sadly not at all stand-alone. I'm thinking most of them in the series probably won't be from here on out. Too much has happened. Some of the dialogue comes from The Way of the Warrior, more than in other stories simply because it was a longer episode.

Summary: The Dominion shadow grows longer and darker, and a new, unexpected threat shakes life on the station, Klingon aggression. Worf joins the DS9 crew. Newly promoted Julian Bashir gets a further taste of combat. Old enemies and old friends are reunited with disastrous results.

Author: Dark Sinestra

Date Written: January 2010

Category: Het, some slashy angst and flirtation

Rating: NC-17 for adult situations, mild adult language, explicit sex, mild BDSM themes, and violence.

Disclaimer: I am not Paramount. Therefore, I don't own Paramount's toys. I don't profit from playing with them, either, but I enjoy every minute of it.

Word Count: 17,276

 

Decla Lisane

Private Quarters

 

With green eyes locked to blue, Lisane found herself slowly drifting between memory and the here and now, a languid oscillation facilitated by the movement of the man atop her and the sleek feel of a scaled back beneath her spread fingers. Her room was hot, a courtesy she extended to her guest whenever she found herself entertaining him, something that had been happening with greater frequency of late. With just a slight loss of focus and lowering of lashes, she could swim in that blue and diffuse it gray, blur the edges of the sharp eye ridges to something a bit softer and rounder. Then, with that image in mind, she could close her eyes and thaw her heart for a short time until she felt as liquid as her sweat. She didn't think his name, didn't dare, lest she say it aloud and remind the man with her of what she hoped he had forgotten, or never thought to bring to mind to begin with. Still, she knew Cardassians. It meant she had to try harder.

 

She flexed her back and pushed him, wrapping her fingers around one of his thick wrists. He allowed her to do this, to flip him to his back so that it was she looking down and he looking up. Even recumbent he gave no impression of vulnerability. She could feel his strength as a palpable thrum between her legs, centered where they were joined. Always, he managed to drag her out of her past and force her to face him, Garak, whose guise as a tailor fit him considerably less than his well made clothing.

 

He reached for her thighs. She pushed his hands back, twined fingers to fingers, pressed palms to palms, and shoved the backs of his knuckles into the mattress. With extra pressure for emphasis, she released them and lightly traced her fingertips over the elaborate scroll work in scale and ridge of his chest and ribs. Again he allowed this, kept his hands where she put them and curled his fingers inward toward the palms. His gaze was pressure enough, claim enough, so intense at times she could hardly bear his touch. She wasn't fooled into mistaking his cooperation for submission. She knew better.

 

She also knew this was her fault, all of it. Had she left well enough alone, he never would have wounded her pride; she wouldn't have lashed out as soon as she saw the opportunity. The two of them wouldn't be embroiled in this nerve wracking game. Maybe on some level, she blamed Feylan, too, sought to punish what remained of him within her with this completely unsuitable lover. It didn't matter how it started. They were too deeply involved in it now to back off and quit. She realized she was digging her nails into both of his main pectoral ridges, and by the darkness of his eyes, she could tell that he liked it. At least there's that, she thought, leaning forward to bite at his jaw. He likes when I hurt him as much as I enjoy doing it. He gave a soft warning growl and shifted his head suddenly. She drew back with a thin ridge surface scale between her teeth, translucent once separated from its mates, smiled and spat it to the side with a careless flick.

 

“You really are a savage, my dear,” he purred in the tone of voice that turned half of her innards to jelly and made her damp even when they weren't so intimately engaged. “Those aren't made for tearing off.” He ran his hands up the tops of her thighs, and this time she allowed it. She readjusted herself to his grip at her hips but resisted his attempts to quicken her rhythm.

 

“Aren't they?” she asked, flicking a finger over the fresh one in its place. “It's not as though they don't self replenish.”

 

“Skin heals. Would you say that makes it made for cutting?” he retorted with a significant look.

 

She tilted her head curiously and pretended to consider the question. She glided her hands down his chest and over his smooth belly. Curving her fingers inward, she dimpled the rows of scale and used her thumb nails to flick at the undersides. He inhaled sharply, and his grasp of her hips went from tight to punishing. She smiled again, wider. That was more like it. Before he could stop her, she ripped one of the scales loose and sent it sailing into a fold of the twisted covers.

 

Just as quickly, he surged beneath her and flipped her to her back, pinning her flat to the mattress and seizing both of her wrists. She didn't make it easy for him, struggling and forcing him to put real effort into securing her arms above her head. “That,” he growled low, his face mere centimeters from hers, “was not nice.”

 

She laughed and lunged for him, her teeth snapping on air and not his lower lip only thanks to his reflexes. “Since when am I ever nice?” She knew he'd hurt her for crossing a line, and he didn't disappoint. She liked his wrath most of all, because it was when he least resembled her Feylan. It was when she could despise him with a clean conscience, and when it was over and he crushed her beneath his lax weight, it was when she could admit to herself that anything less no longer had the ability to move her at all. Tears slid freely from the corners of her eyes and mingled with her sweat to darken the hair at her temples from flax to wheat.

 

He pressed up to one elbow and shook his head. “You should have said something.” He flicked away a tear with distaste curving his mouth downward into a line that flirted with contempt.

 

“Right,” she whispered, expressing the same in reverse, her lips curving upward. “No, Garak...stop, Garak...you're hurting me, Garak. You'd have eaten it with a spoon and gone for a second helping. I don't think so.”

 

“This is the second helping,” he said drolly.

 

She smirked. “True, and not bad for a man your age.” She kissed him on the nose, something she knew he didn't like.

 

“Speaking of that, aren't you a little long in the tooth yourself to be quite so insatiable?” he asked, rolling off of her with a soft grunt and settling on his back.

 

“What can I say?” she rolled a bare shouldered shrug, glad of the chance to let her sweat dry and cool her in the stifling air. “You bring all sorts of things out in me that I find surprising.”

 

“I'll just bet.” He stayed quiet for a while after that. She wasn't lulled into believing he was falling asleep. He rarely fell asleep first. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked, breaking the silence.

 

She sighed. “We've been through this. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to go, go.”

 

“Yes,” he agreed, “and it occurred to me that in forcing my hand at showing a preference, you keep me at a distinct disadvantage. Tonight, you decide.”

 

Rolling to her side, she rested her head on her upward extended arm and prodded at his calf with a toe. “I could just as easily not decide, and the result will be the same. You'll either stay or you'll go.”

 

“Yes, I'll stay, and I'll keep you awake. My job doesn't require much of me. Being well rested or not so much, I can cut a pattern and stitch a straight line. With the doctor away on the Defiant, can you say the same of yours?”

 

For the first time that night, she felt genuinely cross. “That's very childish of you,” she said.

 

“So is your insistence that I always choose.”

 

As satisfying as she knew it would be to dismiss him and make it clear to him that he had served his purpose for the night, she also knew it wouldn't further her own agenda. “You're an irritating man,” she said, lifting up onto her elbow and propping her cheek in her hand. “So we're discussing insistence?” she asked, very careful only to show him her irritation and not the fact that he just gave her the opening she had been angling for ever since they began this dance.

 

“Yes,” he said, suddenly cautious.

 

“Then why are we always here? Why my quarters every single time and not yours?” she asked bluntly.

 

He blinked his surprise. “My dear, you've never expressed an interest in visiting me in my quarters.”

 

“Inviting myself? I may be a savage, as you say. That doesn't mean I have no manners,” she said, tightening her mouth.

 

“How deftly you imply that I have none,” he said, dryly amused. “Very well, Lisane. When next we meet privately, we'll meet in my quarters. I never realized this was such a thorn in your heel.”

 

“No more than I realized exerting your own free will to stay or go taxed you so,” she said in saccharine tones. “Why not stay? If we awaken in time, we can argue for the full duration of breakfast and still manage to clean our plates.”

 

“I never knew you were such a sweet talker,” he said, matching her tone. “You make the prospect positively irresistible.”

 

Sleeping with him was actually one of the more pleasant aspects of the association. She had missed having someone in her bed since the death of her husband. Unlike her husband, Garak didn't snore, and he was cool and dry against her skin instead of oppressively hot and sticky. He didn't cling to her in his sleep like a drowning man to a life line. He didn't make her feel guilty for her uncharitable thoughts of him. He had the decency to deserve them.

 

She feigned sleep until he fell asleep and slowly opened her eyes. Starlight from her view port added its scant illumination to the faintly glowing night lantern she kept atop her dresser in case she needed to arise in the dark. The bluish light suited the Cardassian's pale gray skin, paler than many of his race she had seen during the occupation. She had always assumed it to be a regional variance in the species. Feylan, for all of his genuine devotion, was as tight lipped about his people as Garak. The only reliable knowledge she had of them came from her own experiences, as a professional in the medical field, a former resistance fighter, and an unlikely lover. It was more than most non-Cardassians possessed.

 

It was said among her people that to see a true face, one had but to watch a sleeper. If such were true of Garak, it meant there was little behind his facade. He looked neither innocent nor guilty, malicious nor kind. His sleeping face reminded her of nothing so much as a death mask, his papery eyelids so translucent she imagined that she could see iris and pupil beneath. She knew, however, that it was a mere trick of light and shadow.

 

His chest rose and fell slowly. She spread her hand very lightly atop it and felt the strong, languid thumping of his heart at rest. So slow, she thought, recalling the first time she had lain her head atop Feylan's chest and how she thought he was in shock. We never had time, she thought, irrationally angry with Garak that they did, had they truly wanted it. They had nothing but time while waiting for the entire quadrant to exhale over this Dominion threat. Bajor had barely drawn her first free breaths in over sixty years, and already someone else was eying her hungrily.

 

The Prophets, she thought contemptuously, opening wide the Celestial Temple so that we can be devoured whole. She knew such blasphemous thoughts would get her in trouble if ever she spoke them aloud. She passed a fingertip down the soft, shallow depression over his sternum, the Cardassian navel. He opened his eyes and seized her wrist, both happening so quickly she had no time to react. “I'm sorry I woke you,” she murmured, inwardly cursing her own stupidity. He was never a heavy sleeper.

 

“What is it, Lisane?” he asked, matching her volume. He shifted to his side to face her, his clasp migrating upward to encircle her fingers in a loose grip.

 

“I don't know,” she said. It was only partially true, for she was aware that there were several things combined keeping her awake, keeping her unsettled. Any one of them could be the cause of her current discomfiture and inexplicable need to touch him. His eyes caught a sliver of starlight and glinted silver. She shivered.

 

“You can't be cold,” he said. He released her fingers and bridged the small gap between them with his outstretched arm, teasing her still damp hair off of her shoulder and releasing it to slide over her back.

 

She shivered again, harder. “I'm not,” she said, but it was a lie. Inside, she felt like ice. His cruelty was much easier to stomach than his kindness. “Go back to sleep. I'm sorry I disturbed you.” She tried to turn her back to him. He prevented her, shifting himself and pulling at her until she lay propped against his side with her head resting in the relatively soft hollow of his shoulder. “Garak...” she said uncomfortably.

 

“You didn't ask me for this, so don't be stubborn,” he said, a hint of irritability sharpening the murmur.

 

That felt more familiar. She smiled against his chest and let her eyelids set their own rhythm toward sleep. She didn't know if he slept again that night and didn't really care. In his arms, she was always undisturbed by dreams, like claiming a little death of her own.

 

Garak

Replimat Café

 

Sitting in the Replimat and people watching was such a habit for him now that he often found himself in the place when he wasn't really hungry or wanting company but wished to think somewhere that the silence wasn't deafening. For the first time since he could ever recall, Garak found himself worried about the stability and survival of his homeworld government. News out of Cardassia, scant as it was, wasn't good, and another of his contacts had recently gone mysteriously quiet, whether in hiding or dead, he couldn't be sure.

 

He had known that the destruction of the Obsidian Order would leave a power vacuum, and power vacuums were dangerous. They practically begged to be filled. Indeed, they drew in malcontents, the power hungry, and do-gooders alike, the dissidents wanting anything but what they had, the power hungry seeing opportunity, and the last naïve enough to believe that whatever they had to offer would actually be better than what was currently in place. He wondered if he hadn't made a mistake in remaining on the station, only to mock himself. Watch it, Elim. You're dangerously close to do-gooder territory. No, his presence on Cardassia Prime would not have been a stabilizing influence whatsoever. Those scarred by the legacy of Tain would associate him with the old guard and mistrust his motives, and those with grudges would see him as a threat to their own designs for power.

 

He wasn't interested in power these days. In his younger years, he had drunk his fill of it, glutted until he swelled and nearly burst. What had it gotten him? In an affair with a married woman with a powerful and dangerous husband. A handful of interrogations and executions of which he could feel genuinely proud. The illusion of security that once shattered very nearly shattered him as well. An irreparable breach with his father. Painful distance from his mother. The long, cold fall into the oblivion of his exile and blood on his hands that he knew he had no right to have shed. On the surface he could claim self-defense, but it was his own machinations and hubris that led to the attack by Palandine's husband. No, he'd leave power to those who still lived the dream. For him survival had become infinitely more attractive, not just his own but that of the Union.

 

What a mess, he thought disconsolately. His tea was cold and almost untouched. A warm hand on his shoulder nearly sent him out of his own skin. It had been ages since anyone managed to startle him like that. He must have been thinking entirely too hard. “You're a million kilometers away,” Julian said with a soft smile, easing into a chair catty corner to him instead of across.

 

“Yes,” he said, brightening. “I can't decide if hem lines are trending upward or down this season. What do you think?” It wasn't one of his better lies; he'd be the first to admit. He narrowed his eyes as his gaze lighted upon Julian's collar, sheerly by happenstance, of course. He wasn't staring at the doctor's neck. Lying to himself could sometimes be entertaining, too. “You've been promoted,” he said, sounding almost accusatory.

 

The doctor nodded. “I think you're an abominable liar, to answer your question,” he said cheerfully.

 

“I am an excellent liar,” he retorted, sitting up a bit straighter.

 

Julian smiled warmly and shook his head. “If you're wondering why I didn't tell you about the promotion, it's just not something I felt like bragging about.”

 

“You should feel proud of your accomplishments, Lieutenant,” Garak chided him and teased him in the same breath.

 

“I am. I mean, yes, I feel as though I've earned this promotion. I worked hard for it, and we've all been through a lot facing the threat of war. It's just that my rank and position have never had much bearing on our friendship. We have much more interesting discussions.”

 

“Except about what happened aboard the Defiant,” the tailor said, watching for the uneasy flicker that showed itself in the man's eyes every time he mentioned their last excursion. He wasn't disappointed.

 

“Garak,” Julian said, warning in the tone.

 

“I know. I know. It's a Starfleet matter.” He had to resist the urge to cover the warm, brown hand resting on the table so close to his own. Feeling skittish for his own reasons was hard enough without seeing similar unease in someone he loved. At least one of them should have their equilibrium at any given time.

 

“What's bothering you?” the doctor asked, speaking more quietly and leaning closer, close enough that he could smell the infirmary still upon him.

 

“I need to start curtailing my late nights,” he said, knowing that it would deflect the line of questioning more quickly than almost anything else he could say. It would also put needed distance between them. No matter how much affection he had for the Starfleet officer, he had no intention of taking them a step back when they were making true progress as friends and when Julian's career seemed back on track.

 

The man leaned back again and slumped slightly in his chair. “Rest is important,” he said neutrally.

 

“So it is,” he agreed. Pushing to his feet, he lifted his mug. “I've wasted enough time away from the shop for one afternoon. I should have gotten back at least an hour ago.” He took the mug to the recycler and returned to the table. “Shall I walk you back to the infirmary first? I need to speak to Lisane about something, and I'd enjoy the company on the way.”

 

“I don't see why not,” the doctor replied, standing and falling into step with him. “So, things are going well with you two?” he asked.

 

Bless him, he almost managed to subsume completely the stress in his voice that accompanied the question. Garak admired the effort. He wasn't inclined to speak to him about his dabo girl at all if he could help it. “As well as you might expect,” he answered vaguely.

 

Julian tried unsuccessfully to hide a wry smile. “You're a Cardassian who was here during the occupation, and she's a former Bajoran resistance fighter. How well do you think I'd expect? Frankly, I'm surprised that one of you isn't dead by now.”

 

Garak smirked. “My dear man, it is never dull.” He closed his mouth in a way that indicated he was done expounding upon that particular subject and watched the doctor from the corners of his eyes, not easy to do with the wide curve of eye ridges in the way. He looked good. He carried himself a bit more confidently and wore his experience well. He was a far cry from the man Garak singled out at the Replimat those few years before. Although he liked to think that in some small way he had a part in the development, he knew that most of it was due to Julian's exceptional intelligence and dedication to his work.

 

When they reached the infirmary, Julian said, perhaps a tad more loudly than was called for, “So we're still on for lunch tomorrow?”

 

“Of course,” he replied, inclining his head. “I simply cannot wait to tell you my opinion of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream',” he added very, very dryly.

 

Snorting softly, the doctor cast one glance between him and Lisane as she approached and made a graceful retreat toward his work station. “Garak?” she asked when she reached him.

 

Despite what he had said to Julian, the two of them had not spent another night together in nearly two weeks since their discussion of where they met. He wanted to be convincing, that having her in his space was difficult and not what he had been working toward since formulating his plan. “I'm sorry for approaching you at work,” he said in a low murmur. “I simply wanted to extend this invitation before I could change my mind.” She lifted a brow and waited. “I'd like for you to join me in my quarters after dinner. I regret that I can't accommodate you before then, but I have some pressing business to attend that cannot wait.”

 

She considered for so long after he asked, that at first he thought she might refuse him after all. “All right,” she said. “Expect me at 2300, unless that's too early?”

 

“No, that will be perfect,” he said, letting his genuine relief show in his smile. She would almost certainly mistake the motive behind it. It gave him great satisfaction to see the hostile glances he evoked for both of them by his mere presence there. Her Bajoran co-workers were less forgiving of her than they had ever been of Julian for the association. He knew that for a fact from things both Rom and Quark had told him. “I'll let you get back to work,” he said, not taking things so far as to try to touch her in front of the others. He knew she'd never allow it. As he left, he only just avoided humming under his breath. This was the first real progress he had made in some time. He could only hope that she was as skilled and devious as he thought she might be, or he had been wasting his time and efforts.

 

Decla Lisane

Garak's Private Quarters

 

From the moment she set foot into the impeccable, tastefully appointed sitting room, Lisane knew that she was in trouble. She thought she had prepared herself for what she needed to do. She thought that getting what she had worked so hard to attain, access, would provide her with a tremendous sense of satisfaction. Instead, cold dread came to roost in the pit of her stomach and made itself at home. She thought for the first few moments after her arrival that she would literally be sick. Garak took her gift of a small cashmere throw from hands that felt like someone else's. His pleasant smile faded to a look of concern. “My dear?” he asked, setting the gift aside and taking her by the hands. “You're as white as a sheet. Come sit.”

 

She allowed him to direct her to his sofa and sank onto it gratefully. White spots danced in her vision. Pull yourself together, she thought angrily. This isn't your first trip into hostile territory. Stop acting like a green recruit. Had she already managed to grow soft in the few years since the occupation ended? Had three squares, a regular place to sleep, and a steady income quenched her fire completely? Her cold, pale cheeks flared red with self-loathing and shame. “I'm OK,” she said brusquely, “although I think I may be coming down with something. I haven't felt quite right all afternoon.” She could lie as facilely as he when she needed to. She met his gaze without hesitation.

 

“Your hands are like ice,” he said, rubbing them between his. The friction of his scales warmed her quickly. “I'll get you some tea.” She watched him stand and move to the replicator. If she allowed herself to believe the lines of concern in his eye ridges, she thought she might truly be sick. He was convincing, so very convincing, and it wasn't the first time he had taken her care into his hands with such solicitation. He returned to her and pressed her the hot mug, not releasing it until he was sure she had a good grip. “You should have sent me a message that you're not feeling well,” he chided her. “I would've understood.”

 

She smiled faintly and took a bracing sip of the tea, surprised to find that it was not red leaf, but deka. “How did you...” she started to ask.

 

He smiled. “Major Kira tells me that deka tea can be quite palliative, when the leaves have been aged.”

 

She nodded and took a few more sips of the astringent brew. Her tongue and throat tingled, and warmth settled and pooled in her stomach, easing its clench. I can do this, she thought. “I'm surprised Kira talks to you at all,” she said.

 

“We have...an understanding,” he explained. “Your color is returning. Do you want me to escort you back to your quarters so that you can rest?”

 

“No,” she said, leaning to place her mug on a side table. “I want to spend some time with you. We've hardly seen each other lately. I finally have more time with the doctor back. I don't intend to waste it.” She glanced about his living space, finding it not at all surprising in its décor. “The place is really you.”

 

“It suffices,” he said with a shrug. He rose from his seat beside her and crossed to where he had placed the throw. “You were kind to bring me a gift.” He brought it back with him, spreading it to have a closer look. “Green and rust,” he glanced at her. “You do pay attention.”

 

More than you could ever imagine, she thought. She offered him a brilliant smile. “You make it easy,” she said. “Do you like the fabric? I was quite taken with it. I ordered a cashmere sweater about a year ago. I only regret that I haven't had more occasion to wear it.”

 

“I do like it, yes,” he said. He stopped before her and bent to wrap it lightly about her shoulders. “I should make something green for you. It sets off your eyes.” She sat perfectly still while he arranged the blanket, hardly able to breathe. When he stood over her like that with gentle hands and dangerous eyes, the contradictory impulses he evoked nearly overwhelmed her. To her relief, once he had the blanket arranged, he backed off and retook a seat further down the sofa.

 

“It is somewhat cold in here,” she said, not having realized it until the warmth of the cashmere brought it to her attention.

 

“You're kind enough to accommodate me when I visit you. I felt it would be boorish of me not to return the favor,” he said.

 

“It's not necessary,” she said. “I like the heat. It's one of the few times I ever get to sweat on this station. Set it to your comfort level.”

 

“You're certain? I don't want to tax you if you're becoming ill.”

 

She made an impatient noise, shrugging out of the throw and unfurling from her seat. In two quick strides, she reached him and lowered to straddle his lap. “I don't want your damned solicitousness,” she said, balling both fists in his thick tunic and narrowing her gaze, “any more than you want it from me.” She hadn't intended to do this so artlessly, but he just had to give her that covetous, hungry look when speaking of putting her in something green. She kissed him roughly, beyond pleased when he responded in kind, both of them careless of teeth.

 

“Computer,” he said when she let him up for air, “reset environmental controls to my usual default.” He seemed as though he intended to say more. She didn't give him the opportunity. When the ravening hunger had been awakened, she couldn't get enough. She didn't have to worry about taking care with him, physically or otherwise. She knew that had he chosen, he could easily kill her, and she believed that somewhere behind those passion dark eyes of his lurked a desire to do just that. Do you hate yourself when we do this as much as I do? She wondered. She hoped that he did, that deep within him there was a twin to the part of her that recoiled from this contact and watched, appalled and silent.

 

She felt pressure between her legs where there had just been none and smiled inwardly, lifting herself so that he had to arch upward to maintain contact. She laughed aloud when he grabbed her hips and forced her back downward; the laughter died off on a moan as he ground a tight circle. She continued to fight him, the sofa rocking and creaking with the force of their struggles.

 

He pushed one foot against the floor and twisted them to the side. Scrabbling for purchase, she managed to scramble down half the length of the couch before being dragged back by the back of her belt. She quickly unbuckled it and would have given him the slip had he not gotten a tight grip on her ankle. He jerked her back to a stomach down sprawl over the sofa seat and crushed her with his weight atop her. She felt his forearms thrust beneath her and the clutch of his hands over the tops of her collarbones, the pressure of his fingertips bruising and painful.

 

Jerking her head back, she popped the cusp of his chin. He withdrew with a hiss of pain between clenched teeth, and once more she started to scrabble forward. She managed to curve a hand over the sofa arm. His weight lifted and shifted to a straddle over her lower back. He yanked her hand free of its hold and pressed her face straight into the sofa cushion. Now she struggled in earnest, arousal giving way to fear that she may have pushed him too far. The harder she struggled, the tighter he pressed her face, until her breath came in sharp, painfully difficult wheezes.

 

“Why do you insist on making this so hard on yourself?” he asked, sounding only slightly out of breath from exertion.

 

She made a small, mocking noise in the back of her throat, earning herself a complete obstruction of all air. She lay still for as long as she could, her body finally taking matters into its own hands and thrashing when her lungs began to burn and spots danced in her vision. Only when her vision started to tunnel did he release the pressure and allow her a few ragged gasps.

 

“No answer?” he purred, pressing her face down again. “Is it the only way you can justify this to yourself, Lisane? Creating the illusion that I'm forcing you, when we both know all you'd have to do is say 'no' and mean it? Or perhaps it's that this is how you have to see me.” He snorted a soft, derisive laugh.

 

She worked her free hand from beneath her and reached back, stroking lightly over the side and top of his thigh. He always had the uncanny knack of hitting his marks with his pointed observations. It was just one more way he scored her, but she had her ways of wounding him, too. She felt his grasp of her wrist and her hair loosen, and she took the opportunity to turn her face to the side and take a few more unrestricted breaths. “Don't try to pretend you don't enjoy it this way, Garak,” she murmured. “For all of your veneer of civility, this is closer to your true nature. I'd think you'd appreciate having someone who sees it and doesn't force you to hold back.”

 

“I hold back,” he said. “You should thank your Prophets that I do.” His nails raked her scalp as he tightened his grip again.

 

She had seen what his people were capable of. She knew there was much truth in what he said. “Not for my sake,” she said spitefully, “but yours. What would happen if you crossed that line, not because someone back home gave you orders, but simply...because you wanted to? You crossed it with Bashir. Do you have to love someone to want to hurt them?”

 

Agony shot from her captured hand all the way up her arm to ball and throb in her shoulder. She couldn't tell what he had done. It felt like just the smallest shift of his clasp, and yet whatever it was, he had set her nerves on fire. She bit down over an outcry and held still for as long as she could stand it then began to struggle. Finally, she couldn't help herself. She let out an anguished groan. “Enough! Damn you, that's enough!” She gasped and shuddered with relief as soon as he released the hold.

 

“You won't mention that to me ever again, I trust,” he said very casually.

 

“Did I touch a nerve?” she asked, inwardly trembling at her own audacity. Do you want this man to kill you? Are you that far gone?

 

“Do you want to find out how many nerves I can touch?” he asked in that same casual way that chilled her far more than if he had growled his threat.

 

She tried to turn over beneath him, and he lifted enough to allow it and resettled. Watching his cold eyes, she reached down and felt for him, finding his trousers stretched taut and damp through the thick fabric. “You seem to like the idea,” she said, scratching her nails lightly over the upper curve of the bulge. “How far would you take it?” She pressed her palm flat and rubbed upward, feeling his cock leaping against the pressure.

 

“If you want to know that, mention Julian again,” he said, one corner of his mouth curving sardonically.

 

As much as she wanted to, her shoulder was still throbbing, and something about the look in his eyes made her believe that if she crossed that line, not only would it cost her in pain, he'd then toss her out and likely never look back. She closed her eyes to hide the resentment she felt toward him for what he might possibly hold over her and swallowed when she felt his hands unfastening her tunic. Dry heat greeted her bare skin, the environmental controls quick to do their work.

 

If she kept her eyes closed and didn't prompt him to talk, she could almost imagine Feylan now, except that Garak was more skilled, more...thorough. Divorced from her mind, her body responded to him with such visceral pleasure that it left her weak and panting. She allowed him to do as he wished, as having his way with her after dominating her seemed to please him, and that night more than any other before she wanted him exhausted. She coaxed and maddened him in small ways, playing his desire as skillfully as he hers. Indeed, she had studied him with single minded focus and knew how to drive him to the edge of his control.

 

She couldn't recall exactly when or how they made it to the bedroom. His bed was smaller than hers, forcing them to stifling closeness. It worried her, because there would be no way to get out of it without awakening him once he fell asleep. Even exhausted, he was much too light of a sleeper for that. She rarely bothered washing until the next morning when she was with him, so she knew that breaking the routine was a bit of a gamble. Anything at all could raise his suspicions. She had to try. “Ugh,” she said with a soft laugh. “You didn't tell me your bed was so small.”

 

He nipped the cusp of her shoulder lightly. “Had I, you would have simply accused me of trying to make excuses to keep you from my quarters.”

 

“Mm, probably,” she said, pressing her back against his chest and stomach. “Would you think me horrid if I insisted on bathing right now? The thought of being this sweaty so close all night just isn't at all appealing.”

 

“Do as you wish, Lisane,” he said, releasing his one armed hold of her. “I want you to feel comfortable here.”

 

“I'll try not to awaken you when I come back to bed,” she said, slipping from beneath the sheet and giving a careless caress of his cheek.

 

“You probably will, but it's all right,” he assured her. “You know what a light sleeper I am.”

 

All too well, she thought grimly. She retreated to his bathroom, as clean and well decorated as the rest of the quarters, and took her time getting clean. If he was true to form, he would take a little time to fall asleep, more than a Bajoran who had similarly exerted himself. He had marked her surprisingly little this time, almost gentle after their initial tussle on the couch. Almost. She rubbed light fingers over a purpling bruise at her collar bone and winced slightly. Instead of a shower, she took a bath, and when she was drying, she had the computer take the lights down nearly all the way. She needed to be acclimated to the darkness.

 

She stepped into the bedroom and waited. When she heard his even, deep breaths, she waited even longer. She had to be sure. Stealthily she slipped from the bedroom and padded on silent, bare feet into his sitting room. She sat at his terminal and pulled up a display of recent activity, using her medical override code to bypass the usual privacy settings. She noticed several transmissions back and forth between him and various contacts on Cardassia, none of them names she recognized.

 

On impulse, she tried a search of Feylan's name. The system pulled up a single file. Unfortunately, it was encrypted. Grunting softly, she systematically went through everything she knew about Cardassian encryption, trying various codes. Her fingers flew over the terminal, and always she kept a sharp ear to the room behind her. Sweating as much from anxiety as heat, she thought, Come on. Come on! All those intercepted transmissions have to count toward something now. She had almost decided that she'd have to give it up that night when a much older code, one of the first she ever learned, worked. She inhaled sharply and bit her tongue to blood when she read exactly what the “tailor” had managed to gather on her former lover.

 

How? She thought numbly. How did he manage all of this? Who has he spoken to on Bajor? She didn't have to know Garak to know that he could completely ruin Feylan Pa'Ren's career, his very life, with what he had discovered. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did you provoke him? Why didn't you think? If she could take back her ham fisted power play in the infirmary, she'd do it a hundred times over. She raked a shaking hand through her still wet hair and pressed her lips to a thin line. What can I do now? She wondered.

 

She knew she had no choice but to try to contact Feylan. She had to warn him of what she had potentially unleashed upon him. Hopefully, he would have enough contacts and political clout to bury anything Garak tried to throw at him. She hastily composed a brief but informative message and sent it on an encrypted subspace channel. She then did everything that she could to erase any trace of her presence in Garak's system. She knew that if Bashir were really paying attention, he might notice that she had made an unauthorized use of her medical override code, but he had been so distracted lately with training drills for dealing with changeling infiltration that he probably wouldn't be combing computer usage records that thoroughly. It was a risk she had to take, and it would be easier to lie her way out of any inconvenience from breaking protocol than it would be to sit back and let Garak destroy the man she loved.

 

Nausea twisted her gut at the thought of having to climb back into bed with him. Her worst fear about him, her very worst fear, was true. All of this time that he had been engaging her company, he had been working to undo her, not directly, but in the worst possible way. Every smile, every caress concealed cold, determined malice. The sour taste of bile burned the back of her throat, and she lifted a hand to her mouth. Any worse than your trying to seduce him out of his justified rage? She asked herself. Yes, came the fierce response. Feylan is an innocent in this! And Doctor Bashir wasn't?

 

“Prophets,” she whispered aloud, squeezing back the burn of tears. She stood on shaking legs and tottered to the bedroom. The sight of him beneath the covers finished what her disturbing discovery started. She rushed to the bathroom just in time and fell to her knees on the cool floor, retching again and again.

 

She didn't hear him enter the bathroom and very nearly banged her head on the waste basin when she felt cool, dry hands gathering her hair and lifting it away from her face. She couldn't speak, taken over with dry heaves. Eventually, she slumped to the side, gasping and trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. “You shouldn't have pushed yourself tonight,” he said, his voice having an odd, disembodied quality in the near total darkness.

 

“I'm fine,” she rasped harshly. “I really think I should get back to my quarters, though. I've made enough of a mess here.”

 

“I'll help you,” he said.

 

“No!” She dug her nails into her palms to try to calm herself. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I just...I hate having anyone fuss over me when I'm ill. It's a nurse thing.”

 

“I understand,” he said. “Let me at least gather your clothing for you.”

 

“All right,” she said weakly. She stayed where she was while he retreated and rested her cheek against the wall. Did you really think you'd be able to persuade him not to seek vengeance? You couldn't keep Feylan with you, and he loved you. Kosst Cardassians! She wiped her eyes before the tears could fall.

 

She heard his footsteps approaching and hauled herself to her feet, accepting the press of clothing into her outstretched hands. He left her alone so that she could dress herself. When she left the bathroom, she saw that he had the lights pulled up dimly for her, and she found him wrapped in a robe and waiting for her in the sitting room. She forced herself not to look at his computer terminal. “I don't feel good about allowing you to walk back to your quarters alone,” he told her. “You look like you can barely keep your feet.”

 

“I'll make it, Garak,” she said. “I'm just sorry for leaving you a mess to clean up.” She had no idea how she could sound so normal speaking to him when all she wanted to do was to bash his head against a bulkhead until it split.

 

“I can hardly hold that against you,” he said, moving to walk her out. “I just hope that you feel better soon.”

 

“I'm sure I will,” she said, her voice sounding hollow in her ears. “Thank you. Good night.” She walked the corridor until it curved and took her out of sight of his door, and then she began to run. She knew it was futile. She couldn't outrun the disgust she felt for him or herself, and no amount of bathing would remove the taint of his touch.