Chapter Text
Damar’s time in Engineering now involves careful subterfuge. When one of the scientists asks, “Sir, isn’t it time to attempt at real-world test?”, he snaps back, “You know what happened with some of our past tests. Unless you’d like to explain the loss of yet another Jem’Hadar ship to Weyoun?”
“No, of course not, sir,” the man says, and goes back to his tenth simulation of the antigraviton beam’s effect. He’s not wrong.
Damar has variations on that conversation with three different scientists and he’s exhausted by the time he finishes his second shift in Engineering. He very nearly goes to Quark’s as usual, but something makes him pause, and he tells the turbolift, “Habitat ring.” He’s never been very aware when Weyoun has dragged him to those cleaner quarters, but Damar is a trained soldier and he manages to find his way there with only a few wrong turns. It takes him a moment to ring the door chime.
“Damar!” Weyoun looks stunned when the doors open. “Do you need something?”
He doesn’t have a good answer for that. He only knows that he wanted to come here, that he wanted to see Weyoun and reassure himself that yes, this—whatever they’re doing together—exists as more than a manipulation. “Can I come in?”
“Of course!”
Damar walks in and finds himself standing at attention, the way he would in front of Dukat. “I only…” Weyoun fixes his fey eyes on Damar and doesn’t help. “I wanted to…see you.”
“Oh.” Weyoun looks stunned. “You’ve never come here before on purpose.”
Damar grits his teeth. “No.” This is almost worse than Weyoun Five. “I can leave.”
“Oh, no!” Weyoun bounds forward. “No, I was just shocked. I never thought you would.” Damar can’t stand to keep talking about his feelings. He shucks his armor and drops it by the door. Weyoun kisses him—light, no intent behind it—and it throws him, badly. He removes his boots and Weyoun says, “Are you—planning to stay?”
He freezes. “I don’t have to.”
“You keep assuming there is a hidden meaning behind my questions.” Weyoun looks puzzled. “I just want to know the answer.”
Damar forces himself to say, “Yes. I want to—stay.” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. “Do you sleep?” he asks abruptly.
Weyoun cocks his head. His voice takes on that rote cadence. “The Vorta do not sleep.” He hesitates. “I—have found that I sleep, at times.”
Damar walks past him to sprawl back into one of the chairs. His head is killing him after a long day with no kanar to soothe it. “The Founders had strange ideas when they—made the Vorta, and the Jem’Hadar. You don’t sleep, you can’t taste, you’re hatched or cloned.” He closes his eyes. “You have sex, at least.”
“We do, on occasion. We tend to enjoy it.” He hears Weyoun settle into the chair next to him. “We don’t reproduce sexually.”
“Are there—male and female Vorta? I thought you were a man, but you seem to—”
“Change myself?” Damar opens his eyes to look at Weyoun. “It is the—little bit of divinity, supposedly, that the Founders gave us. Our genetic coding allows us to become—physically compatible with any sex of any race that the Founders have encountered.”
Damar tries not to think about why the Founders saw fit to do that. “But you have preferences?”
Weyoun looks a little uncomfortable. “The two you have seen, yes. But that may be due to my continued—proximity to humanoids with roughly similar types of genitalia. We have no fixed gender, but I find it simplest if those humanoids perceive me as what they consider male.”
“Ah.” Damar’s headache is only getting worse and he doesn’t know how to respond to that. “Well. Do whatever you prefer when we—” He breaks off. “Do you have anything to drink here?”
“No. But I can—help with your head, if you wish.” Weyoun stands. When Damar begins to follow, Weyoun pushes him back down and goes to stand behind Damar. “Close your eyes.”
Damar obeys. Weyoun lays his forefingers very lightly on the ridges that begin at Damar’s hairline and strokes softly along the ridges, down to those that frame his eyes. The heat of his fingers is soothing and Damar lets out a long breath. Weyoun repeats the motion over and over, until the headache retreats. He touches the tip of Damar’s nose and runs his fingers slowly up the nasal ridge until he reaches the oval on his forehead. Weyoun leans down and presses his warm lips gently to the center. Damar groans. “You are—” he starts.
“Shh,” Weyoun tells him. “Don’t undo it.”
Damar feels him move away. He doesn’t mean to doze off, but his headache has finally abated and he’s exhausted. He’s not sure how much longer it is that he wakes up, only that he springs into wakefulness with his hand to the place where his knife should be. “Weyoun?”
“Lights to half,” Weyoun says. “You can relax, Damar.” He’s sitting at a table with an array of food in front of him.
“I was asleep?”
Weyoun lifts an eyebrow. “Apparently.”
Damar rubs at his eyes. “Thank you. What are you doing?”
“This quadrant has a magnificent variety of sweet things. Here, have you tried this?” Weyoun offers him an ikri bun.
Damar accepts it and takes a bite. “It’s the one I know best. My mother used to make them.” He hasn’t had one in years. “She was a chemist.” He finishes the bun.
“You have jam on your chin,” Weyoun observes.
“Do I?” Damar pulls a chair too close to him and sits.
“You’re hardly sneaky, Damar,” Weyoun says. But he leans in anyway to lick the jam off and then kiss Damar with its flavor still sweet in his mouth.
“I don’t want to interrupt your meal, but—” Damar wants to touch Weyoun all the time, and it’s disastrous, this vulnerability. He might as well as have told Kira everything, when he asked her not to kill Weyoun.
“You certainly do,” Weyoun tells him. “But I don’t actually need to eat. I only like it.” He lets Damar pull him even closer, strip off the layers he always seems to wear. Damar sees movement from the corner of his eye and turns sharply, half-throwing himself in front of Weyoun— “It’s only a mirror,” Weyoun says, but there’s something queer in his voice. “Nothing to worry about.”
Damar tries to calm his heartbeat. “Of course,” he says. “Only a mirror.” Their faces are clear in the mirror, the contrast almost hypnotic. He takes Weyoun’s hand and pulls him to stand in front of the mirror. “Stay like this.” His pulse is pounding as he removes the last layers of Weyoun’s clothing, then roughly pulls off his own.
Weyoun is almost golden in the dim light. Damar presses against his back and slides one hand around his abdomen. The contrast between his own thick skin and Weyoun’s is mesmerizing. Weyoun seems just as hypnotized, his eerie eyes wide as he stares directly into the mirror. “You’re—unreal,” Damar breathes into Weyoun’s ear, and Weyoun shivers. He has a cock today and it’s rapidly hardening. Damar licks the edge of his right ear, dragging his hand firmly up Weyoun’s left ear, eyes fixed on him in the mirror. Weyoun is panting, shaking a little, and Damar holds him in place. “Is this standard?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Weyoun gasps. “Keep doing it.” He whines when Damar continues stroking his ears, deliberately tracing fingers across each notch and mouthing at the outside. He arches his back, pushing his hips back against Damar’s cock even as his own stands untouched.
“Let me fuck you,” Damar breathes against his ear, and lowers his hand on Weyoun’s stomach to brush lightly against his cock. “Like this.” Weyoun nods, chest heaving. “Don’t move,” Damar tells him, and goes to the replicator for lubricant. He takes a moment, though, to watch Weyoun watching himself in the mirror, before he returns. “Spread your legs a little,” he says, and bites the edge of Weyoun’s ear. When Weyoun obeys, Damar slides his hand down between his cheeks to press one finger against his hole. Weyoun chokes on his breath and Damar switches to his other ear. He works his finger in slowly and Weyoun lets his head fall back against Damar’s shoulder. It means Damar can nip at the top of his neck as he begins to slide his finger in and out. Weyoun’s cock looks painfully hard, but he’s grasping at Damar with both hands.
Damar doesn’t know how long they stay like this before he adds a second finger and Weyoun’s eyes flutter closed. He works his hips back onto Damar’s fingers until they’re both deep inside him and Damar feels Weyoun clenching tight on his fingers. “You could—fuck me now,” Weyoun pants.
“Thank you for the permission,” Damar says, and Weyoun gasps out a laugh. Damar hasn’t stopped kissing his ear, and Weyoun shudders around him every time he makes contact. Damar has barely put a third finger at his rim before Weyoun is fucking back onto it. “Fine.” Damar pulls his fingers out, slicks his cock and then pushes slowly—agonizingly slowly—inside. He puts his hand on Weyoun’s cock now, and it’s not much of an angle for either of them, but he can’t look away. “You’re beautiful,” and what are these words coming out of his mouth as he watches Weyoun move frantically on his cock, thrusting back onto him and forward into his hand as Damar works on his ears.
“Don’t stop,” Weyoun tells him, as though Damar is capable of stopping.
He takes his hand off Weyoun’s cock so he can grip both hips. “Touch yourself,” he tells Weyoun, and Weyoun seems to remember that he has hands. He holds one up over his shoulder to Damar’s mouth, and Damar licks his hand, sucks his fingers until they’re wet and messy, before returning to Weyoun’s ear. He doesn’t know which of them is more overwhelmed by sensation now; whenever he looks his head to watch Weyoun in the mirror, they both look wrecked. “This is going to work,” he tells Weyoun.
“What?”
“The rebellion—” He can feel the way Weyoun’s breathing is changing, see the way his hand is speeding up on his cock, and so he sucks a messy bruise just where Weyoun’s strange ear meets his face. Weyoun comes, shaking apart, clenching tight on Damar’s cock, and Damar bends him over so that Damar can speed up his thrusts, lose himself entirely, until he comes. How is it that every time it feels like he’s being destroyed, peeled apart one piece of skin at a time? This catastrophic awareness of the danger in growing attached to Weyoun rears its head too rarely to be self-preservation.
“I should go,” he says, when they’ve separated and he’s caught his breath a little.
Weyoun stares at him, his irises almost invisible behind his pupils. “What do you mean? I thought you were staying.”
Panic is sweeping through him. “I—I can only stay for a few hours,” he amends. He can’t bring himself to leave when Weyoun looks at him this way, but Kira’s voice has suddenly intruded into his head. You really think he’ll do it because he loves you? You’re just as delusional as Liana.
“You spent the night with—my predecessor,” Weyoun says. He sounds confused. “And he couldn’t even sleep.”
“I just—” If he invents a reason, Weyoun will tell him it’s not true, and he’ll be right. Damar can’t exactly ask whether Weyoun has been manipulating him all this time, can’t say that he’s—having an emotional reaction to his level of attachment to Weyoun. “A few hours. Then I need to get back to work.” Please, let him have this small lie. “I need to make sure no one decides to field-test the solution while I’m gone.”
Weyoun doesn’t argue, which does more to prove his distinctiveness than most of his other assurances. They lie in bed and Damar can’t help pulling Weyoun tightly against him, feeling his heartbeat beneath one hand. He doesn’t know if Weyoun falls asleep, but at least he doesn’t move a few hours later as Damar climbs out of bed and dresses himself again. He can’t bring himself to put his armor back on. Instead, he hurries into the corridor, almost directly into Kira.
“I was,” he starts. What’s the point of lying? “I have to go.”
“I see that.” She must see something in his face too, because she adds, “I’m not here to kill him.”
Damar doesn’t run, exactly, but he gets to the turbolift very quickly. “Promenade,” he tells it, and goes to Quark’s to drink his way through as much kanar as his stomach will hold.