Chapter Text
Five hours later, Dukat calls him back into the office. “There’s been a transporter accident,” Dukat tells him, voice innocent. “I’m afraid this Weyoun was—too badly damaged to survive.”
“A transporter accident?” It sinks in slowly. Dukat has killed Weyoun. He’s heard this story before. “Do we know the—cause?” Dukat has killed Weyoun to protect Damar. There is something inside Damar, deep inside, that is screaming. He never said—what would he even have said to Weyoun, if he’d known Weyoun was about to die? Goodbye? Weyoun was prepared to execute him. Would he have sought a final few hours together? Would Weyoun have wanted that, if Damar had failed to meet the deadline?
“I thought we could use a few days without the constant annoyance,” Dukat says. “The pressure. A few more days may be just what you need.” And Damar may be drunk on kanar most of the time, but Dukat has just proven that he’s drunk on power, on his own success—on his belief in his own invulnerability. That’s far more dangerous than anything Damar might say when he’s had a little too much. Dukat has killed the only Dominion authority on this station. Until a new Vorta arrives, there will be no one to distribute the white to the Jem’Hadar, no one to keep them in their place. The Dominion may even decide that Dukat’s unpredictability is not worth his position as head of the Cardassian government and find a—replacement.
Whatever consequences actually do ensue, though, Damar doesn’t witness them. He spends the days (three? four?) between Weyoun’s death and the arrival of the new Weyoun in his deepest kanar binge yet. He has sex with two dabo girls and four dabo boys and a traveler of another gender, some at the same time; attempts three new solutions to the minefield, all of which fail spectacularly; and misses a particularly pointless ruling council meeting because the only people there are Dukat and Odo. Damar does his work from his quarters and spends far too much time trying to decipher his own notes. The most dangerous thing to do would be to consider why he’s doing this, why he’s chosen now to fully decompensate, and the only solution to that is to distract himself further. After his latest attempt at disabling a mine—sending a Jem’Hadar ship to tractor it away from the rest of the field—results in the destruction of the ship, there are probably unhappy rumblings among the Jem’Hadar, and he wonders how far he can go before one of them decides that it’s worth risking Dukat’s anger to just execute him.
He’s half-conscious in his bed, a naked dabo boy sprawled at his feet and another one feeding him fingerfuls of kanar, when he hears the familiar voice say, “Damar.”
“Ngh,” Damar says, because he’s heard that phantom voice before in the last few days and he doesn’t need to hear it again.
“Get out,” the voice says, and through his slitted eyes he dimly sees the dabo boys gathering what passes for their clothes and hurrying away. “Damar.”
“Next test’s at 1400, leave me alone until then.” The sweetness of kanar in his mouth is already turning sour. He has a vague memory of locking the doors when they came in, but it’s entirely possible that he didn’t. A lot of details are escaping him these days.
“Damar.” Someone cups his cheek with one hand, too gently, and Damar opens his eyes and scrambles away in almost the same motion. Only when he has the bed safely between them does he manage to focus his eyes on the person across from them.
“Took them long enough,” is the first thing he can think to say to the new Weyoun. “What are you now, Weyoun Six? Weyoun Seven? We go through you pretty quickly.”
“Sixth of my line,” Weyoun says, and there, there’s that familiar tilt of the head. There’s something unusual about his eyes—stranger than usual—something sad about the shape of his shoulders, and he doesn’t look quite like the Weyoun that Damar knew. “There were—complications in my cloning. It required several days to resolve.”
What world does Damar live in, that the reason for a commander’s absence was complications in his cloning? “Do you—” He starts to ask the question and then realizes he fervently doesn’t want to know the answer.
Weyoun tells him anyway. “I have all of my predecessor’s memories. Until the moment of his death.” His gaze travels down Damar’s body—it’s sticky with various substances, and Damar can’t remember if he’s showered since Weyoun Five died. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Damar wants to get away, but Weyoun is between him and the doors. There’s nowhere to retreat to, and it doesn’t matter, whatever Weyoun is about to say will be brutal wherever Damar is standing.
“My predecessor was—unkind to you.” Weyoun actually looks like he believes this, like the Weyoun model is capable of understanding kindness or affection or anything but disinterested curiosity. Damar’s first instinct is that this is only another trick, another way for Weyoun to lure him into vulnerability.
“You’re the same person.”
Weyoun approaches him very slowly. “Not exactly.” He’s only a meter away now.
“You’re cloned. With his memories.” Damar could get past him, even as unsteady as he is right now. He doesn’t have to listen to this, doesn’t have to put up with Weyoun’s pretense. “Stop,” he says, when Weyoun is very close.
“Why?”
“You see, you’re the same. Weyoun was always asking why.”
Weyoun is too near, his eyes bright and fixed on Damar. “Would you prefer that?”
He’s having trouble breathing. He hates that Weyoun—whatever version—can have this effect on him. Any of the answers he could give will tell Weyoun too much. “Why are you here?”
“I missed you,” Weyoun says, and oh, it’s like being stabbed in the gut, his hungry eyes, his hand reaching to Damar’s face. Then he kisses Damar and it’s worse, this feeling that Damar has lost for the last few days—the shape of Weyoun’s mouth, the curious movements of his tongue, the way that he lets Damar slide one hand into his soft hair, the encouraging noises he makes when Damar forgets himself and grips his fragile body too hard. Damar pushes him against the wall, holds Weyoun there with his hips and just strokes his hand over that hot skin. Weyoun shivers against him and there’s—emotion?—in his eyes, so he turns Weyoun’s head away and drags his teeth across that exposed neck. Weyoun jolts and moans and lets his legs fall open a little so that Damar can push closer between them.
“How could you be any different,” Damar says, but he doesn’t let Weyoun answer. He puts one finger to Weyoun’s lips to keep him from talking and tries to shove the first layer of Weyoun’s clothing off his shoulders. He wants to feel more bare skin, wants that heat draped against his entire body. He remembers the last time he touched Weyoun like this, that way that Weyoun reacted, and drags his thumb softly up Weyoun’s left ear. It provokes the same response in this Weyoun, a full-body shudder and a long high-pitched noise. Damar follows his thumb with his tongue and Weyoun is shaking against him, eyes wide. “Let me,” Damar whispers into his ear, releasing Weyoun just enough that he can work his pants down. “Can I?”
“You’re drunk,” Weyoun says, but his voice is high and breathy and he helps Damar, kicks off the last of his pants. He’s messy and wet between his legs, shaped with a clit today, Damar’s cock already catching against his entrance, and Weyoun asks, “Do you want me to alter—?”
“No,” Damar says, even as he begins to slide inside. Weyoun is tight around him like this, so tight that Damar has to stop when he’s partway in and ask, “Are you—”
“Yes.” Weyoun thrusts his hips so that Damar’s cock slides deeper inside until he’s buried all the way and can barely breathe. Weyoun is shaking a little and Damar pulls out slightly, then licks the delicate shape of Weyoun’s ear as he thrusts back in. Weyoun clutches at him, chest heaving, and then wraps his legs around Damar’s hips as Damar fucks him. Damar keeps stroking his ears, slowly kisses his way up and down them, and Weyoun shudders and comes—Damar thinks. But as he keeps fucking Weyoun, keeps touching his ears, Weyoun doesn’t stop shuddering, clenching around Damar’s cock over and over again, like he’s still coming.
Damar uses the last of his coherence to ask, “How does it feel?”
“Good,” Weyoun gasps. “Don’t stop.” Damar is barely keeping himself from coming at the feeling of being inside Weyoun, but he tries to control it, keeps thrusting hard and leaving sucking kisses on his ears, and Weyoun’s entire body is shaking hard now, so hard that Damar would worry if Weyoun weren’t begging “Don’t stop,” until Damar has to give in, grabs Weyoun’s hips and bites the edge of his ear very lightly and comes to the sound of Weyoun’s howling moan.
Damar half-carries Weyoun to the bed and collapses next to him. He’s entirely wrung out, drunk on kanar and Weyoun, but Weyoun pulls his head back to Weyoun’s ear. Damar obliges, mouthing along it as Weyoun clutches at him, almost writhing, until he seems to reach some kind of completion and cries out again, every muscle going taut before releasing into softness. Damar pulls back just enough that he can speak without touching Weyoun’s ear. “I missed you too.” He can’t help but admit it, with Weyoun here with him like this.
Weyoun turns his head to look at Damar. His eyes are wide, stunned, and he manages to lift one hand enough to brush his knuckles against Damar’s eye ridge. “I would have been here sooner if I could.”
Damar feels torn open. “You’ve broken me, you know,” he says. “Whatever you want—”
Weyoun closes his eyes and shakes his head minutely. “I don’t want to talk about—anything outside.” His voice is tight.
“Are you here to terminate me?” He can’t help asking it, despite Weyoun’s request.
Weyoun grips his arm hard enough that it hurts even through Damar’s tough skin. “I will not.” He draws in a deep breath. “I was able to—negotiate a reprieve. Please, can we wait to talk about it? I’ve been waiting to see you again.”
“You negotiated with—your gods?”
Weyoun’s face is terrifyingly empty. “I have no gods.” It’s barely louder than a whisper
Damar doesn’t believe in his gods and it’s still frightening to hear Weyoun say. “What happened to the Founders?”
Weyoun touches his eyebrow ridge. “When I was activated, I learned that I was—deficient. That the Founders had not intended that. I questioned whether the Founders were gods. But we were all designed to believe in their divinity, so if I doubted it, that meant there was an error in my creation—and that meant they were not all-powerful. So they are not gods.”
“Well, you’ve proven that you’re not the same as—the previous Weyoun.” Damar never imagined they could be this different.
“Enough,” Weyoun says. “Let me have—five minutes. Without thinking about it.”
“All right.” Damar puts a sticky arm around Weyoun. “Computer, five minutes.”