#lieutenant!reader

Soap did. Technically.

But over the next ten months, things only became more suspicious. Ghost always sat beside you during briefings. You always looked for him first after nasty fights out in the field during missions. Neither of you were affectionate, but somehow that made it worse. Every interaction carried this unbearable intensity, like a live grenade with the pin halfway pulled.

Then the operation ended with the enemy successfully neutralized.

The team crowded into a dim pub near base, Soap sat across from you and Ghost, still mentally trying to solve whatever strange thing existed between the two of you.

That’s when he noticed the silver ring on your finger, he could swear it wasn't there before.

He blinked. “Ye married?”

You took a sip of your beer. “Yeah, for a few years now."

Soap stared at you in disbelief. "Ten bloody months and ye never mentioned that?”

You only shrugged, amused, "I don't really talk about my personal life at work, MacTavish"

“What’s next?” he laughed, turning toward Ghost. “You married too, Lt?”

“Yeah,” Ghost answered calmly.

Soap barked out a laugh. “Aye, right.” He took a sip from his whiskey, "Good one, Lt"

“He’s not joking,” you said as a matter-of-factly.

Soap looked between the two of you slowly.

Everything clicked into place at once.

The staring. The arguments. The tension.

Soap rubbed his temples with one hand, speechless. “Steaming Jesus.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, unfazed. “Took you long enough.”

How did Ghost and lieutenant!reader meet?

he also knows he doesn’t give a fuck

you’ve worked with him for years; saved his life, let him cry into you arms when the PTSD got bad - he does not give a single fuck about professionalism. you’re his.

he gets hard whenever he watches you give orders. he loves seeing you with so much power.

he knows you can hold you own, but when the new recruits decide to get a little too mouthy, he goes to step in.

he only stops because you speak before he does, you immediately put those recruits in their place, giving out punishments.

as soon as they walk off, price is dragging you to his office, and he’s fucking you right on his desk.

“so fuckin’ sexy”

“love watching you yell like that”

“don’t think i’ve ever been harder in my fuckin’ life.”

“pull your pants down, love. gotta fuck you right now.”

“please, i fuckin’ need you.”

“no one treats my lieutenant like that.”

“put them in their place, baby.”

“put me in my place”

definitely keeps giving you the bratty recruits and gives simon the more compliant ones because it means he gets to see you yell even more

this is me saying that i think price is a switch and he loves subbing every once in a blue moon

ok i’m tired this is all i can give u i’m sorry

That was definitely for the best. With the intimacy of the connection that Weyoun and I shared, my lack of knowledge kept myself and the rest of the resistance members safe. I’d have to be content helping in my own little way. Thus far, Dukat trusted me almost as much as Weyoun did, and Damar was slowly coming around to the belief that I wasn’t his enemy. All I had to do now was keep it up and find a way to contact Starfleet Command. Discreetly.

Seated beside each other one evening, Weyoun and I worked on our respective reports. I wasn’t particularly curious about the file he was reading until he picked up a stylus and wrote something. It was an odd group of symbols and marks that I’d never seen before. Without much thought about how rude it probably was, I tilted my head and watched how fluidly his fingers drew the stylus across the data PADD.

“What is that?” I asked quietly, and Weyoun gave me a perplexed look.

“A report about troop movements...?”

“Oh, not the report, I mean this,” I said pointing to the symbols he’d drawn out beneath the final paragraph. A look of understanding washed over him, and he gave me a small smile.

“That is my signature,” he answered simply, and I felt my eyes widen. “Have you not seen Dominionese written out before?”

“I’ve barely heard Dominionese, much less seen it. Is that really your name?” I asked unable to keep the wonder from my voice. I examined the markings a bit more carefully, wondering what each meant in order to form a name as precious as his.

Weyoun set the data PADD aside, picked up an empty one, and wrote the symbols a little neater this time. I watched the way his stylus glided over the PADD’s surface in practiced, fluid movements. When he was finished, he tilted the screen toward me to show me his handiwork, and I couldn’t stop a smile from splitting my lips. The more I looked at the symbols, the harder it became to shake the feeling that I’d seen something like them before.

The pendant! I pulled it out from beneath the collar of my uniform and sure enough, the symbols were similar. The engravings were in Dominionese.

“Weyoun, the pendant you gave me...what does it say?”

“Would you like me to tell you, or would you like me to teach you to read it yourself?” He asked with a twinkle in his eyes, and I felt myself perk up at the implication.

“Would you? I-I mean, are you willing to teach me? I know you’re busy with the station and the war, so I understand if you don’t have the time–” He cut me off with a quick kiss and set the PADD aside as he took my hands in his.

“My dear, I would be honored to teach you the language of your people,” Weyoun murmured. “I’m sure you’ll take to it quite easily. You’ve always been a fast learner, at least from what I’ve seen.”

‘My people.’ Both of us knew they weren’t anything of the sort after what they’d done, but I still appreciated his sentiment. Besides, the hope that he held about a potential reconciliation between myself and the Changelings, while utterly futile, was also incredibly sweet. After all that he'd been through, the fact that he still had hope was just a testament to the strength that the Founders chose not to see in their Vorta followers.

Giving his hands a gentle squeeze, I looked up at the gorgeous purple-eyed being on my sofa. How in the stars did I get so lucky?

Purple blush spread quickly across his cheeks, and Weyoun let out a shy little laugh. Right, the feelings. It had become more natural over the duration of our relationship for us to share our emotions through the strange telepathic connection we'd been granted, but there were still moments where it caught one or both of us off guard.

"As much as I wish I could keep you all to myself tonight and demonstrate exactly how much I adore you, didn't you say you were meeting a friend tonight?" His question pulled me from my reverie, and I blinked in comprehension.

“Computer, what time is it?”

“The time is eighteen-thirty hours,” it responded, and I got to my feet. Shit, he was right, and I was going to be late at this rate.

“Meeting Damar again?” Weyoun asked as he stood, too, and grasped my waist lightly. When I nodded my head, he gave me a gentle smile. “I’m so glad you’re making more friends. I know you were already acquainted with some of the Bajoran officers, but knowing that Keevan and Damar along with some of their officers have become close to you...I’m overjoyed! To tell you the truth, I thought you might feel isolated here given the personnel changes. I-I thought...you might regret staying.”

Shrugging my shoulders, I wrapped my arms around the Vorta’s neck.

“Well, I still feel a little out of place at times, but there are a few people here who’ve been kind to me," I murmured placing a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. "For the record, you make staying here worth it. As long as I have you, I won't regret leaving Starfleet."

I knew this was only temporary - that as soon as the Federation regained control of the station I'd be back to being a Starfleet officer - but I was going to make the most of this while I could. Sure, I still had my mission and a very important job to do, but I wasn't about to waste my opportunity to soak in Weyoun's presence while I could.

A beautiful, joyful smile stretched his lips, and he pressed his forehead lightly against mine.

"Good, because running this station and protecting Bajor for the Dominion...it would be mind-numbingly dull without you, my dear." That brought a smile to my own lips, but probably for different reasons than he would've anticipated. The Founders would likely have blown a gasket hearing that one of their Vorta toys was bored with the job they'd been created to perform. If that wasn't proof that the Vorta were capable of being so much more than the Changelings thought, I didn't know what was. "Don't be late, now. I'll be here when you get back."

I nodded my head quietly and gave him a tender, parting kiss before making my way toward Quark's.

The Bajoran station was humming with the partially-exhausted crowds that naturally accompanied the end of a shift. Used to the tired throng of people either going for a meal or heading back to their quarters, I used a few of the back corridors - less-traveled areas, of course - to make up some time.

Rather quickly, I found myself slipping into the doorway to the Ferengi's bar and zeroing in on the seat that was held for me out of habit by Dukat's right hand man. Without preamble, I plopped myself on the padded stool and gave a polite nod to the Cardassian in question.

"I was wondering when you'd get here. Usually you're early," Damar said as he brought his glass of kanar to his lips. He seemed in unusually high spirits tonight. Either something minor and gossip-worthy had happened, or I should be very concerned about the state of the war.

"There was a lot of foot traffic tonight. Apparently everyone decided this was the night to be in my way," I said with a dismissive giggle. Quark caught my eye and nodded in acknowledgement. "You look like the cat that got the cream, Glinn. What's got you in such a good mood?"

The Ferengi bartender set my drink in front of me with a wink - I knew for a fact that he flirted with all the patrons who wouldn't kill him in the hopes that he'd get a bigger tip - but before he could leave, Damar's hand landed on his forearm.

"Anything the Lieutenant drinks tonight is on me. This is a celebration," the Glinn said with a smug smirk. Looking at him in surprise, I lifted my glass of kanar in salute.

"Why, thank you, Glinn. If I may ask, what's the occasion?" He tapped his glass against mine, and after we both took a generous swallow - clearly not his first of such this evening - he turned to face me on his stool.

"My impending promotion!" He said puffing up his armor-covered chest.

Uh oh.

"Wait a minute," Quark cut in as he polished a glass, "you started a fight in my bar and they're making you a Gul? What kind of way is that to run an army?"

Weyoun had mentioned the fight only a couple of days before. Apparently, it had been between Cardassian officers and Jem'Hadar soldiers. Quark's concern was completely valid. How the hell did that track?

"Dukat wasn't happy about what happened," Damar started refilling his glass and topping mine off, even though I'd only taken a single sip. "I had to find a way to make it up to him."

"I hope it was something big," Quark chimed in.

"Must've been a hell of a blowjob," I teased, and the tipsy Cardassian let out a raucous laugh.

"Nothing so personal. Let's just say it will change the course of history," he said before draining his glass once more. Quark's eyes met mine. This reeked of trouble.

"As a businessman," the Ferengi started, refilling the Glinn's glass himself, "I'm very interested in the course of history. This one's on me."

Damar accepted the drink with a nod and a raised glass.

"That's very kind of you, Quark, but I can't talk about it." Down the hatch went that drink, and I sipped slowly at mine as I formed a plan. Quark looked over at me, and sighed as he grabbed a third glass.

"Of course, I understand. Have another," he offered, refilling Damar's drink, topping up mine, and pouring one for himself. I'd never imbibed heavily before, but there was a first time for everything.

--

Making our way to Kira's quarters while intoxicated was more difficult that I'd anticipated. Not only did I have to keep myself upright, but I had to try and steady Quark as well. The dirty bastard's hand roamed several times, but a threat to remove them at the wrist seemed to sober him up just enough for him to process how bad of an idea it had been.

We were practically dragged into the Major's quarters when we got there, having seemingly stumbled our way into a meeting of her resistance group. So much for me not knowing who was involved. She'd clearly bet on the probability of me forgetting the night's events by the morning, otherwise she wouldn't have let me in at all.

After several rambling attempts at conversation, Quark got a little agitated, and Kira tried to drag him back on course.

"How can I relax when there are thousands of Jem'Hadar ships are sitting on the other side of the wormhole, waiting to come through?" He slurred, and Jake shook his head, trying to placate him.

"Don't worry about it. They're stuck there." He sounded so confident - so naïvely certain.

"Noooo, Jake. They're coming," I said, clutching at his arm as if I could make the young man understand. "If Damar was telling the truth, they'll be able to get through soon."

"What are you talking about?" Kira asked, and together we managed a somewhat intelligible, if slurred, explanation of what happened. Odo and Kira shared a look, and I was ordered to head back to my quarters.

How I got back, though, was a mystery to everyone, myself included. All I recalled the next morning was the vague impression of Weyoun helping me into clean clothes and letting me cuddle him until I fell asleep.

I really hoped that I'd dreamed saying how pretty he was so many times. He deserved to know he was handsome, but I didn't exactly want to sound like such a moron when conveying that to him.

Gentle lips against my cheek brought me back to consciousness in the morning, and I burrowed farther into my lover's embrace. My head ached and everything felt dry and scratchy and too loud.

No wonder I heard so many people warning about how strong kanar was. If this is how it felt the morning after, I was quite happy never to taste that syrupy shit again.

"Come, my love. It's time to get up," Weyoun crooned in a gentle, careful whisper. An involuntary groan escaped me, and he ran his fingers softly through my hair. "I'm sorry. I know it hurts. I have something that'll help, though."

"I don't think even your gorgeous cock can fix this," I rasped as I forced myself to sit up - an utterly monumental task in that state.

"As honored as I am that you view me as a potential cure to many ailments, I was talking about this," he said reaching for a hypospray sitting on the bedside table. "It'll take away the majority of your symptoms."

I tried to nod my head, but it just ended with me wincing and lying back down. A quiet hiss sounded against my upper arm, and a few moments later, the pain melted away as if Weyoun's fingers trailing over my scalp had behaved like a poultice, absorbing the Evil Hangover straight from the source.

Featherlight kisses landed on my closed eyelids, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief at the sensation.

"I take it you and Damar had fun last night?" He teased, and I groaned.

"For your own health, never ever try to match drinks with a Cardassian soldier." I cautioned, but before I could say more, the comm system chimed.

"Dukat to Weyoun. There is an urgent meeting in thirty minutes. Bring the Lieutenant with you. She'll want to be a part of this." He didn't wait for a response, simply stated the message and cut the line.

A long-suffering sigh escaped my lover's lips, and he fixed me with a stare. Those soft, warm purple eyes of his filled with a playful sort of calculating stare. He then picked up a glass of water and gave me a wink.

"Computer, deactivate Universal Translator in this room," he ordered, and my eyebrows shot upward. The acknowledging chirp from the computer stirred my curiosity. Holding the glass of water between us, he pointed at it and murmured a single word. "Na."

I blinked, and he, noticing my blankness, smiled and repeated the word before gesturing a hand at me. I repeated the word, still mildly confused, but it pleased him, and just like that something clicked.

Apparently, this was my first lesson in how to speak Dominionese. My pronunciation had been right on the money, but I didn't know if he meant the cup itself, or what was in the cup.

"Na?" Reaching forward, I tapped the glass as I asked, then I dipped a fingertip into the liquid, "or is this na?"

A look of comprehension flickered across his face, and he touched the liquid as I had, repeating the word confidently. He had me say it once or twice more, and offered me the glass with a cheerful little kiss on the forehead.

As we dressed for our meeting with Dukat, Weyoun tapped items of clothing and various objects around the room, giving me their names in his language and having me repeat them until my pronunciation was satisfactory. By the time that the translator came back online, I couldn't help but feel proud that I'd absorbed so much while recovering from a hangover.

--

The Changeling standing in the wardroom sent a bolt of anxiety rocketing through me. Why was a Founder here? Wasn't it enough for the Vorta to keep their people informed? Odo stood at her side, looking confused, a little suspicious, and...was he happy? I supposed that he must be. After all, he wasn't the one who'd been exiled from ever returning to their homeworld. The slightly guarded yet curious glances he threw her way said more than words ever could.

How long had she been on the station? How deeply into him had she sunk her claws?

I had my answer when I glanced at the table and noted that Major Kira was conspicuously absent. For the safety of the resistance and the Federation's future, I had to assume that Odo had been compromised.

"Founder, it is an honor," Weyoun said sinking into a low bow at my side. His hand still rested squarely in mine, but I didn't copy his actions. Lifting my chin in defiance, I merely looked at her as her hawk-like eyes watched us - or rather, me. She didn't seem to even notice Weyoun, choosing instead to stare at me.

"We meet again, child of Meris," she said, but I just lifted an eyebrow. What sort of response could I possibly give after she banished me? I'd chosen Weyoun over my people - a decision I could never regret - but I had no intention of discussing my logic with one so cruel that she could not comprehend that what she'd almost done was wrong in the extreme. "Have you nothing to say to your kin?"

Glancing around the room in faux contemplation, I shook my head blankly.

"I see no kin here. Besides, the last time we spoke, you made your opinion on my existence quite clear." I was proud of how calm and logical I sounded despite the anger boiling within me.

"Perhaps our opinions of you have changed," she said taking a few steps toward me. Looking away from her, I spotted Dukat and was, for once, grateful for his presence.

"What did you call us here for, Gul?" The smirk that met my inquiry sent a shiver down my spine. "I trust it wasn't just for this...reunion?"

"Come, Lieutenant. Have a seat by me. We have a breakthrough to discuss," he called, and I did as he suggested. Pulling Weyoun gently along, I ensured that the Founder wasn't given the chance to sit on either side of me. All the meeting gave me were specifics on the plan to remove the minefield. Nearly everything Dukat and Damar said were things I'd heard from the latter the night before, and I forced myself to act surprised.

I caught Damar looking at me a few times, doubtless trying determine how much he'd said the night before and how much I remembered. When I gave him an innocent smile and acted engrossed in Dukat's speech as if it was all new, he seemed to relax.

Very well. Let the drunkard believe that he'd averted a crisis. The more his people underestimated their opposition, the easier it would be to catch them off their guard.

"You will keep me informed," the Founder said rising to her feet as if she was a queen. Without waiting for an answer from Gul Dukat, she turned to Odo. "Come. I wish to speak with you alone."

I expected him to toss out an abrasive comment, but instead, he followed her like an obedient puppy.

What the hell was going on?

Before I could say a word to Weyoun, though, the Founder tossed a glance over her shoulder.

"Come, Weyoun. We require your service," she called not waiting for an answer as she swept out of the room. He gave me an apologetic kiss on the cheek before rushing after the pair of Changelings, and then I was left alone with the two Cardassians.

"Well, well, that wasn't exactly what I was expecting," Dukat murmured, and I let out a heavy sigh. I still had the edge of a headache from this morning's hangover. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back against the headrest of my seat. "Oh dear. You do seem stressed."

It was all I could do to keep my eyelids from snapping open when one of his large hands rested on my thigh, squeezing the muscles there in what I guessed was supposed to be a soothing gesture. I hummed low in my throat - the sound's meaning was one that I let him interpret on his own.

"Did I wear you out last night?" Damar asked with a huff of laughter, and Dukat let out a scandalized gasp. I could imagine just how wide his eyes had grown as he looked between his officer and me.

"Don't tell me you were with another Cardassian!" He sounded sufficiently playful, but still just jealous enough to bring a smile to my lips. Good. I had him hook, line, and sinker.

"Only for a drink," I replied, and Damar took that as his cue to leave. The door hissed closed, leaving me truly alone with Dukat. Why shouldn't I use this as an opportunity to deepen his trust in me?

"No wonder you look so tired," Dukat murmured sounding much closer than before. His other hand touched my forehead and his lips met my cheek. "Poor girl. I can massage that headache away if you like...?"

Letting out a harsh, skeptical laugh, I finally opened my eyes and tilted my head to face him.

"And trust your hands not to wander? Forgive me, Gul, but I've heard stories of your dalliances during the Occupation–"

"Are you truly telling me that after all we've been through over the years, you wouldn't enjoy a little...dalliance of our own? Especially considering that your pretty little Vorta toy will likely be busy serving the Founder's wishes while she's aboard. We wouldn't want you to grow lonely, would we? I could keep you entertained," he challenged as he skimmed his fingertips down the side of my face. After seeing the Founder in the flesh and how unquestioningly obedient Weyoun was to her, suddenly Dukat didn't seem so bad.

Relativity, indeed. Tilting my head, I skimmed my lips ever-so-lightly over the palm of his hand and looked up at him - a nice touch, if I do say so myself.

"You wish," I breathed, and a devilish smirk stretched his lips. Oh, I was playing with fire.

"Would such a wish really be so surprising?" The Gul's voice was low and intimate - soft, as though he thought that was what I needed.

I did. I needed gentleness quite badly. Just not from him.

"Coming from you? Not in the slightest." I put as much condescension in my tone as I dared, hoping he'd take it as a clumsy attempt at Cardassian-style flirting. A raspy chuckle vibrated deep in his throat, prompting me to get to my feet.

"You're not leaving so soon, are you?"

"I should. After all, Weyoun–"

"–will be busy with the female Founder and Odo for quite some time. You are free to do as you wish," he argued, but I shook my head quietly.

"I have duties."

"You don't. I took the liberty of having Major Kira clear your schedule for the day." I froze, and obviously didn't hide my surprise well, because he continued in a more amused tone. "Initially, I believed that you'd want the time for a family reunion, but given your reaction to your long-lost relation, you could use the time for something more...enjoyable. Improving interstellar relations between Bajor and Cardassia, perhaps...?"

He stood and moved in front of me, tilting my chin up so that eyes met his.

"There's no need to be coy," he whispered. "Obviously, we both want this..."

"You want me?" I asked, attempting to sound as innocent as I could while my hand slid up to his neck ridge. He practically moaned out a 'yes,' and I grabbed the section of his ridge that Kira had taught me was a weak point for Cardassians. Dukat let out a pained hiss, but the delighted smirk on his face spoke more of arousal than discomfort. "Then work for it. I'm not one of your comfort women from the previous occupation. If you want me, then you need to earn the privilege. Understood?"

"Oh yes, Lieutenant." Though strained, he still managed to sound flirtatious. I released him and spun on my heel. Sparing him a single glance over my shoulder as I walked out, I noted the tent in his uniform trousers.

--

This was a mess. Everything was a mess. If the Federation didn't retake the station soon, the resistance might be in shambles. Damar was clearing the wormhole, Odo was wrapped around the Female Founder's little finger, and Dukat's actions today might have finally convinced Major Kira that I wasn't worth trusting...that I'd truly betrayed the Federation and Bajor. Besides that, I might have to close my eyes and do something I'd very much regret with Dukat.

Guilt wound through me every time that I acknowledged how much I'd encouraged his attraction. I knew I needed information for the Federation and the Resistance, and I needed the Gul to trust me, but was flirting with him even the right move considering everything at stake?

I had no idea how long I was stuck in my thoughts, but at some point that evening, I became vaguely aware that Weyoun had returned to our quarters. His voice washed gently over my ears, but I didn’t hear a word. My eyes remained lost in the stars just outside the window, and my arms had been crossed protectively around my middle for goodness only knew how long.

What could I do to stop the minefield being removed when I hadn't even found a way to communicate with Starfleet Command? I mean, what had I been doing all this time besides playing house with a Vorta?

A wave of concern flowed from Weyoun to myself through our odd link as he sensed my emotions, but I didn’t move a muscle. Even when his hands took up careful residence on my shoulders, I couldn’t bring myself to do more than blink.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” Weyoun’s smooth, concerned voice asked from behind me as I stared out into the oblivion of space. He could read people better than they could read themselves, and I was certainly no exception, not that I was making it particularly difficult for him at the moment. Even if we hadn't been empathically linked, it wouldn't have been hard to see how wilted I felt. “You’ve been quieter than usual since you returned from that late night with Damar, and now with Founder here... You’ve been preoccupied. I realize that you don’t want me to think of you as the offspring of a deity, but...I live to serve you in whatever ways you may require, my love. What can I do to help you?”

I felt too vulnerable and too closed off all at once, like a frayed wire being strangled by what little remained of its casing. Who else could I say anything to? Who else cared about what I said, even if this all turned out to be a ruse - a long game that he'd been playing so patiently - in the end?

Weyoun was the only one. I couldn’t trust anyone on this station, not anymore, not where it was important. Hell, I shouldn’t even fully trust him, but what other choice did I have?

For this...could I risk it just this once? He thought of Changelings as gods. He regarded the being who was my biological father as a god, and I myself as a demigod of sorts. Would this be taking advantage of the programming the Founders had included in his genetic makeup? Would he feel obligated to listen to me drivel on without regard for his own feelings despite my protests that I wanted only his honesty?

When I turned and my eyes met his, I felt something in me break. Weyoun looked so worried. Precious man. His almost neon purple eyes were moist as though he were on the verge of tears like I was - he truly was distressed over my current state. I knew my own eyelids were most likely puffy from the tears I’d shed - the emotions threatening to spill over again at any moment - and I knew that he’d have noticed that by now. He was much too clever for his own good.

A low whisper of my name brought me out of my thoughts enough to notice that the Vorta’s brow had furrowed just a little bit more than before.

“Please...it pains me to see you like this. I beg you, please let me help,” he said barely above a whisper, and whatever cracks had formed in my defenses extended far enough that I could no longer keep up my flimsy facade. My eyes burned, my vision blurred, and tears began rolling down my cheeks. A flicker of fear passed over Weyoun’s features and through our bond, and although I wanted to comfort him, all that escaped me was a quiet sob. There wasn’t much space left between us to begin with, but he still stepped forward as much as he could and lifted his hands, allowing them to hover on either side my face as if he was afraid to touch me. “H-How do I help you?”

In answer, I reached out and wrapped my arms around him. Pressing my face quietly against his shoulder, I felt his own limbs envelope me without hesitation - one around my middle and one around my upper back - holding me close to him. Weyoun was nearly trembling from how fiercely and protectively he was embracing me.

“I’m here,” he murmured against my temple in that soft, comforting voice. This time instead of it being filled with steady lies as it so often was in meetings, I could hear it wavering with emotion just as it had so long ago on that Dominion ship and when he found that I'd remained on the station despite its occupation. “You are not alone. You have me; you always will. I promise. No matter what happens with the Dominion, the Alpha Quadrant, the Gamma Quadrant...you will always have me. I know what it is to be alone, and I swear you never will be again.”

Safe in his arms, I found myself no longer caring whether this was just a ploy or not, because I so desperately wanted to believe that I wouldn’t be alone anymore. He'd been here, but I hadn't allowed him to see just how stressed I was trying to toe the line between the Dominion and Bajor. I wanted to believe he was telling the whole truth. Just this once.

Just this once.

So I nodded my head against his shoulder and simply let myself be comforted by his embrace, by his promise, and by this one act of kindness, dangerous though it might eventually prove to be.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to get out around my stuttered breaths. I was. He didn’t deserve to have someone sobbing all over him for no reason. He was the one who needed kindness, especially after the way I’d seen that Founder treating him. He wasn't some pet for them to order around. He deserved so much more kindness than he was being shown.

Yet he was the one showing it to me. Whether incited by genuine concern or by his programmed devotion to the Founders - and myself by extension - Weyoun had never been anything less than sweet and gentle and courteous to me.

But how could I allow a shred of doubt into my head? Just thinking back to the first time I'd felt the extent of his love for me, I remembered how different his emotions had been compared with those he'd felt for the beings who had cloned him.

Shame wove hot and heavy through the ravages of my sorrow.

“You of all people have no reason to apologize to me,” he said before pressing his lips against my forehead in a tender kiss. “What could you possibly have to be sorry about? You have never been unkind to me, you’ve never hurt me. You’ve only ever shown me love and compassion. You are the most remarkable person I’ve ever encountered.”

“You have better things to do than put up with someone crying all over you,” I muttered daring to tilt my head back enough to look up into Weyoun’s eyes. He looked almost startled at my statement.

“My dear, you act as though you are a burden to be borne. I assure you, nothing is further from the truth,” he murmured in a pained voice. One of his hands lifted and cupped my cheek. His thumb skimmed gently across my skin wiping away the last of my tears. Leaning into his touch, I let my eyelids flutter shut. I knew I shouldn’t be this open with him - he was the Female Founder’s puppet while she was aboard the station, after all - but I couldn’t help it. Who else could I possibly be vulnerable with? Considering the cruelty and violence of this war surrounding me on a daily basis, was it really so wrong to enjoy a simple moment of self-indulgent intimacy? I raised my hand to cover Weyoun’s and turned my head just far enough to kiss his wrist.

It wasn’t even close to an adequate thank you for all he’d done for me, but it was all I could manage. I knew he’d understand - he always understood me with a startling degree of accuracy, even when I couldn’t express myself correctly or fully.

“Why do you think so little of yourself?” He asked in barely more than a whisper as his eyes slid from our hands to meet my gaze. “You are lovely and kind to everyone, even those like me who don’t deserve it–”

“But you do deserve it. You always have, Weyoun, no matter how the Founders may have treated you,” I said quietly looking up into his eyes. He blinked owlishly at me, and I leaned in, kissing his cheek. “Can you still not see that after all this time, darling?”

“I suppose I...still have a bit of trouble separating myself from the way the Founders created us,” he admitted as a lavender blush colored his cheeks. “Forgive me–”

“Hush. There’s nothing to forgive,” I promise coaxing him into resting his forehead against mine. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I knew his excellent Vorta hearing would still register what I had to say. “We are, always have been, and always will be equals.”

“I believe you,” he murmured as his hands took up a timid grip on my waist. He took a slow, deep breath and as he exhaled, I rested my hands gently on his shoulders. Nothing had technically changed - the war was still raging, my father was still a missing murderer, and Dukat was still playing a tyrannical, slutty version of king of the castle with the station.

And yet...there in Weyoun’s arms, such a fundamental shift had occurred that it felt as though I suddenly could take on the universe. Perhaps it was a part of the Vorta coding which bound them to the Founders that made me feel reassured as I stood there, his own confidence in me bleeding over and restoring my own.

Or perhaps there was another explanation. The relationship that had been developing between us had shown no cracks until Dukat tried to worm his way between us. Even now, I was acutely aware that the Gul had plenty of reasons to try and manipulate me on that front. Why had I ever allowed myself to listen to a single word he said? Was I so afraid of losing Weyoun that I assumed it was just my luck that I would?

I had doubted myself and my judgment regarding him for so long that I suppose I didn’t feel like I deserved to be loved with the kind over unwavering affection Weyoun had shown me. Even as that thought crossed my mind, doubts filtered through from my subconscious that I shouldn’t have allowed myself to take this much liberty with his affection as it was - that I was weak for doing so.

But I needed him, and I loved him. Weyoun had assuaged my fears on that front so many times before, but was that justification enough for continuing?

“Such chaos thrust upon one person... Let me be your shielding."

The soft earnestness surrounding Weyoun's words had me crumbling in his arms. Almost without conscious thought, I tilted my head and caught his lips in a kiss that I hoped said all the words I couldn't muster. My lover didn't hesitate to return the gesture, kissing me with such tenderness that it took my breath away.

Slowly, naturally, our movements gained momentum, becoming hungrier and more desperate by the second. Just as he'd done after my encounter with Keevan, Weyoun easily took control. Something urgent and lurid passed between us, and in a blur of discarded clothing, we fell into our bed.

We'd experimented with each other over the time we'd been together, but we hadn't quite taken that final step. With his fingers pumping between my legs and mine caressing the base of his length and the folds of his slit, he whispered in my ear.

"I want to make love to you. Please, I'm ready. I'm aching for you, my love. I've dreamt of you so many times..."

I couldn't possibly deny him. Why would I even want to after all this time? I loved him, and I would never pressure him into doing more than he was comfortable with. I would, however, be lying if I said that I'd never imagined what our first time together would be like.

My imagination paled in comparison to the sweet sounds he made as he entered me for the first time. His name was a prayer on my lips, just as mine was on his. Our pleasure was reflected, doubled, then increased exponentially by the bond that formed between our minds. We merged so completely that I couldn't tell where Weyoun began and I ended.

The wet slap of skin-on-skin sounded less obscene and more...restorative. We both needed this. Our reasons might have been different, but our desires, our love, stemmed from the same source.

When he finally spilled within my trembling body, tears dampened both our faces. Weyoun's teeth had left bite marks down my neck, and I'd left a few scratches down his back.

Aside from murmured declarations of love between kisses, we didn't speak. What could we say? What could possibly need to be said so desperately that either of us would risk disturbing the peaceful, content atmosphere that had settled over us like a blanket?

Gentle touches, cuddles, and affectionate looks carried us delicately into dreamland that night.

--

The next morning as I blinked hazily into awareness, I thought the Vorta was still asleep. Trailing my fingers ever-so-softly through his mussed, silky, black hair, I couldn't help but smile. He was supposed to be unsettling to the Dominion's enemies and charming in equal measure, but all I could see was how gentle he was. I knew he had it within him to be manipulative, charming, and underhanded all in a matter of moments - that was how the Changelings had cloned him to be - and I'd witnessed it. But there was something satisfying about seeing the head of station's occupying force curled up like a kitten in my arms.

"That feels good." The words breezed from his lips, carried on his breath as easily and lightly as a feather. I couldn't stop the smile that tugged at my lips.

"I won't stop, then," I whispered, and he let out an appreciative hum.

"I meant it, you know. Every Weyoun since our very first iteration over a hundred years ago has seen your face in our dreams. Seeing you on the Defiant...I recognized you immediately."

My hand slowed atop his scalp. My lover's voice was low and nervous, as if he was afraid I'd mock him or accuse him of lying. Instead, I watched as he lifted his head from my chest and looked up at me with wide, gentle eyes.

"But...that was so long ago..." I was confused, definitely, but I wanted to hear him out. Across our bond, I could feel tension, as if Weyoun was taking a chance saying any of this.

"My very first memories are images of you from prior iterations' dreams. They all saw your face so frequently that they knew you were someone vitally important...that the Founders were allowing us visions of a blessing they planned to give us. The fourth Weyoun...he'd almost lost hope the day you met him," he murmured. "Only the important memories - the ones that stand out - are encoded for future iterations to retain. You...your face has survived every activation."

A lump rose in my throat. How was that possible? I'd heard of people having visions they thought were from their deities - hell, even Captain Sisko had visions from the Bajoran Prophets - but I knew for a fact that the Founders weren't gods. Even they couldn't predict the future like that. Otherwise, I had no doubt that they would've stopped my father from mating with a Human.

"In the dreams, you called out to me...said my name...promised you'd find me no matter what. I've never told anyone this before, but in my darkest hours...the moments where my faith in the Founders was at risk of falling apart, I clung to the image of your face hovering over me...and it strengthened me," Weyoun admitted in a whisper as he cupped my cheek, gliding his thumb over my skin. "I-I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."

Unable to make my tongue work, I shook my head and kissed his lips. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? What could I say about that revelation?

I hadn't even begun to sort through the messy tangle of emotions in my chest when the comm chimed.

“Damar to Weyoun.” Of course, there was never a calm, quiet moment on this station, even with it under the Dominion's thumb. The Vorta sighed quietly, the warmth of his breath caressing my skin as softly as his lips had in the wake of our intimacy.

“What is it?” He asked quietly, sounding more reluctant than I’d ever heard him. He didn’t move away from me any more than I did from him. If anyone had been watching, they’d doubtlessly assume that our nude bodies were stuck together beneath the blanket by some immutable, unseen force.

“You’re needed in Security. Now.” The Cardassian sounded smug, a fact which never seemed to bode well in his company. "We've just arrested a saboteur. The Ferengi bartender's brother, Rom."

~*~*~

Dominionese:

Na = water

~*~

Taglist:

Then the pain starts settling in.

At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.

“We managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.”

You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.

“You’ll be off active duty for several months,” the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. “You’ll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.”

His voice sounds farther away now, as though he’s standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.

“Okay,” you rasp out, "thank you."

Even speaking hurts.

You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.

The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.

Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.

You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.

With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.

That’s when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.

At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediately—you could’ve sworn the men’s and women’s recovery rooms were separated.

As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.

The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. There’s faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes you’re awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression you’re giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.

Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.

“Why are you here?”

Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.

“Too many casualties,” he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. “Hospital’s full. Had to stick you in a spare room.”

You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.

“Okay.”

And just like that, silence returns.

─☆*:・

You can’t sleep, not even close.

The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.

But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You can’t walk—not yet, at least.

A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.

Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.

You glance toward the man again. “What happened to you?”

He doesn’t look at you this time.

“Got shot,” his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. “Upper abdomen,” he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter weakly.

“Yeah,” despite his—still flat—tone, there’s dry humor buried underneath it. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though.”

“Lucky, I guess.”

“Still feels like shit.”

A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.

“What’s your rank?” you ask once the silence stretches too long again.

“Lieutenant.”

That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.

“SAS?” you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.

Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesn’t ring any bells at all.

It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.

“You’re Simon Riley?”

That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.

How the hell did you figure that out?

“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Only lieutenant whose face I’ve never seen.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. “Yes. It’s me.”

Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.

Well.

That’s one hell of a roommate assignment.

─☆*:・

The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.

The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.

“You’re staring,” he says flatly.

You blink, realizing you absolutely are. “Just making sure you’re real.”

His visible eye narrows slightly. “Disappointed?”

“A little,” you admit. “Thought you’d be uglier.” A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.

“You always this chatty?” he asks eventually.

His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but there’s still something dryly amused underneath them.

You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.

“Just heavily medicated, don't get used to it,” you mumble and he just grunts in response.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way that’s starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.

You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting way—he got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skin’s paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.

Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.

"You're staring. Again."

"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"

"I'd say it's rude."

“You're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.”

Simon’s brow furrows almost immediately.

“You're dramatic.”

"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, “you've got quite the reputation.”

His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."

"Definitely," you agree with him, “probably terrorize recruits with it.”

"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.

You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The pain’s still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.

Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.

Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.

“You look less murderous now.”

You crack one eye open toward him. “Don’t worry,” you mumble sleepily. “Still judging your face.”

"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.

"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.

"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"

"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."

Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laugh—not a full one, though. He probably hasn’t laughed properly since birth, but it’s there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.

─☆*:・

Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.

Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.

The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."

"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.

His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.

“Go back to sleep,” you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.

“Tempting,” he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Doesn't look like it."

"Shut up."

The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.

"I hate this."

"Everyone does."

The room falls into a quieter silence afterward—not awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.

“First time being benched?” he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrong—being this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?”

“A bit.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know how to sit still,” the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.

Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Gets ugly in your head when you stop moving.”

The words settle heavily between you.

You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.

"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.

"Try not to kill yourself."

"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"

"It's true."

"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"

"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.

"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.

Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.

—☆*:・

 By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.

Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.

One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isn’t there before reality catches up.

The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.

You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.

Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.

You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.

Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.

You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.

One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.

You stare at him for a long moment.

“Riley.”

“I got it.”

You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."

"Said I got it."

“You look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.”

“'M fine.”

“I'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.”

His visible eye narrows immediately.

“Thought ya leg didn’t work.”

“Temporarily,” you shoot back. “Unlike your brain apparently.”

A dangerous silence follows.

Then, somehow, he takes another step.

Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.

You sigh heavily.

“Congratulations,” you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."

“I was getting water.”

“There is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.”

“I can do it on my own.”

You blink at him.

"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.” you say flatly. “You’re allowed to ask for help, just—go sit down.”

His mouth twitches faintly at that. You’re strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didn’t make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.

But there’s another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, he’s a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.

Doesn’t feel fair.

─☆*:・

The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.

The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinical—sort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.

You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nurses’ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.

Then the pain hits—one brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.

Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.

Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.

Your eyes snap open.

The ceiling above you blurs immediately.

“Oh, fuck—”

The words barely make it out.

Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.

Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists sharply.

Another pulse hits.

White flashes behind your eyes.

For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.

Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.

Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. There’s the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.

“What happened?” still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.

You try answering him—you really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.

You hate this—how helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.

You’ve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldn’t. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like you’re falling apart at the seams.

The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.

Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomen—he had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.

Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.

The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.

“Hey,” he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.

You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.

Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeeze—hard, maybe too hard.

The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.

His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.

Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.

“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.

Simon’s brows knit slightly.

“Whot?”

“Don't look at me like this,” the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.

For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.

“How’m I looking at you?”

You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know how to explain it. He is looking at you like you’re something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.

Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.

Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.

You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.

The movement is weak.

Exhausted.

Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.

Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.

“You need a nurse,” he says quietly.

“No.”

The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.

Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.

Simon studies your face for a long moment. There’s exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, there’s something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasn’t there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.

Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.

Simon’s grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.

Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like he’s trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.

Nobody’s ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.

His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.

The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just full—heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.

Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.

“Scared me for a moment,” the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.

He doesn’t look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.

You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.

Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.

The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.

Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.

The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.

Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.

Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.

That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.

His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity that’s become strangely familiar over the last few days. You’re beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough to—tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.

It should feel invasive.

Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.

“You should sleep,” he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.

The words settle into the dim room quietly.

You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.

Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.

He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.

And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact he’s still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.

"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simon’s eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.

“'M fine.”

“Go lay down,” your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.

"Said I’m fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.

The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.

"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.

"Negative."

"You're insufferable."

“Hm.”

“You’re injured.” you debate a second later.

“So’re you.”

“Yes, but I’m clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.”

That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadn’t realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.

The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.

Your eyelids begin growing heavier.

Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because you’re afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesn’t want him to leave yet.

Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.

“You don’t have to stay over here,” you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.

Simon glances toward you.

“I know,” the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.

You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.

Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.

"You'll get used to it"

"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.

"Everything about the job is scary."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."

"I can't even walk."

"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."

"Still sucks."

After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.

“I know.”

Just two words, but they land heavily.

Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.

Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. He’s already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.

And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you both—all of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.

Simon’s gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.

Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.

Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.

You study him quietly.

The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.

A strange tenderness catches you off guard.

“Go sleep,” you murmur softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

─☆*:・

 Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.

The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.

Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.

At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bed—advice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.

Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.

Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.

Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.

Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldn’t: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomen—fingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.

The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.

You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because he’s already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.

“You make it difficult not to,” you answer before thinking better of it.

The words settle into the quiet room between you.

His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.

A subtle movement.

Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.

“Should I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?” he asks eventually.

There’s dry amusement in the question.

You study him for a second before answering.

“No,” the honesty slips out easier than expected.

Simon’s expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.

Not surprise exactly.

Just awareness.

The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.

Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.

Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.

“How bad is it?”

“Better now.” You answer without looking at him.

Something flickers behind his eye at that—relief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.

No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.

You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.

“You stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.

Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”

He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.

“You know,” you murmur softly, “you’re not nearly as cold as everyone says.”

Simon’s eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."

"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."

He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.

You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.

His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. “You should sleep,” you whisper.

Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. “Eventually.”

You roll your eyes softly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

There’s a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, you’ve been staring at for the past three days while Simon’s stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.

The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.

“We should go out once we’re discharged.”

His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. “Are you asking me out?”

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Thought I was being obvious.”

A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.

“You know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?” you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, “not a problem.”

You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, “Date sounds fun."

His voice cut through the silence. It was low, rough with sleep and thick with emotion. The words were quiet, almost swallowed by the darkness, but they settled heavily in your chest all the same.

A soft smile found its way onto your lips.

"Yeah," you murmured, your eyes remaining closed as you listened to his heartbeat. "Me too."

His hand never stopped moving against your back. For a moment, you thought that was the end of it.

Then he spoke again.

"Will you marry me?"

The question was delivered with the same calm tone he used for almost everything, but beneath it was something startlingly rare: vulnerability.

Simon, the Ghost, has faced bullets without flinching. He has walked into impossible situations with unwavering confidence. Yet somehow those four words carried more uncertainty than anything you had ever heard from him.

Your eyes snapped open.

Propping yourself up on one forearm, you turned to look at him properly. Even in the dim light, you could see the careful neutrality on his face, the way he was trying to appear unaffected.

You knew him too well to miss the tension beneath it.

A grin tugged at your lips.

"Is this a hypothetical question," you asked, holding his gaze, "or you actually got a ring?"

One of his eyebrows lifted. For a second, he simply stared at you. Then, without a word, he shifted slightly toward the bedside table. Keeping one arm around your waist, he opened the drawer and reached inside.

When he pulled out a small black box, your heart immediately began to race.

Simon opened it with one hand.

Inside sat a ring.

It wasn't extravagant. There were no oversized diamonds or elaborate details designed to impress strangers. It was elegant, simple, thoughtful.

It was perfect.

The second you saw it, your smile widened until your cheeks hurt, you rarely smile this widely, but you can't help yourself.

And Simon saw it—the way your eyes lit up, the disbelief melting into happiness. He noticed every ounce of love written plainly across your face.

Something warm bloomed inside his chest. The feeling hit him so suddenly it almost left him breathless. After everything life had taken from him, after all the years spent believing certain things simply weren't meant for people like him, seeing that expression directed at him felt almost unreal.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

Then he said your full name. Not a nickname. Not some teasing variation. First and Last name. The seriousness of it made your chest tighten.

"Will you marry me?" he asked again, this time there was no attempt to hide what he felt. The vulnerability was bare, raw, fragile.

His eyes never left yours and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow until it contained only the two of you.

"Simon Riley," you said softly, still smiling, "I will marry you."

The relief that crossed his face was instantaneous.

You had seen Simon happy before. You had seen him amused, proud, satisfied.

This was different. It looked like peace, the kind he had spent his entire life searching for.

The following week, the two of you stood together in City Hall. There were no elaborate decorations. No crowded venue. No hundreds of guests.

Just you and him.

The ceremony itself was simple and quiet, yet somehow it felt more meaningful than anything grander ever could have.

When the vows were spoken and the paperwork signed, nothing dramatic happened. The world didn't stop turning. Fireworks didn't explode overhead.

Life simply continued.

Except now, you were husband and wife.

The Jem’Hadar had been uttering threats despite being transported onboard without weapons, but Weyoun was having none of it. As he stepped out from behind his soldiers, he ordered the First to control his men. His eyes - oh, his eyes were a vibrant, almost violently bright shade of purple. I shouldn’t have allowed my curiosity to run away with me. My concentration shifted from my duty to what it must be like to have irises that shade, to their shape, color, construction...

The eyes I’d been so focused on scanned us, pausing on Odo to my left then stopping entirely on me and widening a bit before he could control his reactions. The only move I made in response was to lift my chin a fraction and raise an eyebrow. Why would he look at me with more surprise than one of the beings he viewed as one of his gods? Oh. I’d concentrated so hard on his eyes that I must have allowed my own to mimic his. He must have been startled at suddenly finding his own gaze staring back at him from a complete stranger’s face. Blinking a few times and willing away the changes, I turned my eyes back to their normal shape and color. As quickly as he’d noticed me, his vividly purple eyes flitted over to Captain Sisko.

“My apologies, Captain. I’m afraid the Jem’Hadar are sadly deficient in the social graces,” the Vorta said in a smooth, polite voice.

“Two hours ago, my station was attacked by a Jem’Hadar strike team,” Sisko stated.

“I know. They attacked us too,” Weyoun replied, and I heard my own puzzlement reflected in Odo’s voice.

“Why would your own people attack you?” He asked in his usual suspicious, raspy voice. As Weyoun opened his mouth to answer, the Jem’Hadar First whom Weyoun had called Omet’iklan cut him off.

“Tell them nothing. This is not their concern,” he said in a low voice, and I couldn’t help but think how bold it was for a Jem’Hadar to attempt to order his Vorta commander around. Apparently, Weyoun agreed with my silent assessment, because he shot the soldier a stern look.

“Your next allowance of white will be in two hours. If you want it on time, you will be quiet and do as you’re told.” Turning back to us and giving the Captain a much friendlier look than the one he’d just turned on his Jem’Hadar, he took a small step forward with the box he’d transported in with still in his hands. “Captain, you and I should talk...in private. And perhaps this young lady could join us?”

I couldn’t hide the surprise I felt that he’d request my presence. What use was I to him or the Dominion?

“Are you comfortable with that, Lieutenant?” The Captain placed a hand gently on my shoulder, but I didn’t dare look away from the Vorta’s piercing gaze.

“Yes, sir,” I answered quietly, and the three of us made our way to the currently-empty mess hall. Neither the Captain nor I abandoned our phaser rifles. Since I assumed most of the conversation would be occurring between the other two, I took a seat off to the side and watched curiously. Weyoun moved gracefully and spoke with a dangerous sort of delicacy. The two went back and forth for a few minutes before Weyoun paced over to the table I was seated at and met my gaze as he took a seat beside me.

“Captain, Lieutenant, are you familiar with the Iconians?” He asked, and I nodded my head quietly.

“They controlled a vast interstellar empire about two hundred thousand years ago,” the Captain answered walking closer to the two of us.

“What’s important is how the Iconians controlled that empire,” Weyoun stated, and I raised an eyebrow.

“They used the Gateways,” I said, and the Vorta looked at me with a nod of approval.

“Exactly. Sophisticated transporters that allowed them to move instantaneously from one planet to another, one solar system to another, without the use of starships,” he elaborated, and I glanced at the Captain curiously.

“What does any of this have to do with us?” The Captain asked clearly running short of patience.

“Dominion scientists recently discovered a Gateway on one of our outlying worlds,” Weyoun started, and the thought crossed my mind that if the Dominion had control over Iconian technology, the Alpha Quadrant could be in serious trouble. “We sent a team of scientists to restore it, but their Jem’Hadar guards rebelled and are now trying to complete the Gateway themselves.”

“These renegade Jem’Hadar stole some equipment from my station. EPS power stabilizers, microfusion initiators, photonic amplifiers...” Sisko trailed off and Weyoun nodded his head.

“You think they’ll use that equipment to try and complete the Gateway,” I stated, and Weyoun nodded his head.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” He looked back at the Captain. “You understand the nature of our dilemma, then?”

“If the Jem’Hadar are able to make the Gateway operational, they’ll become virtually invincible.” The Captain was right, and that was a terrifying prospect. I could see why the Dominion was concerned.

“Our experts predict the renegades would gather support from other Jem’Hadar units, launch a general insurrection, and effect a complete takeover of the Dominion in less than a year,” Weyoun explained, and the Captain picked up his phaser rifle from the table where he’d laid it, turning toward the door.

“None of which is my problem,” he stated, and he gestured for me to come with him, which I stood and moved to do.

“That is very short-sighted, Captain,” Weyoun blurted and Sisko stopped in his tracks. I agreed with Weyoun - a thought that made me pause by merit alone. “Think about it. If the Jem’Hadar seize control of the Dominion, there’ll be no stopping them. Even shutting down the wormhole won’t protect the Alpha Quadrant. With the Gateway, they could put a million Jem’Hadar warriors on any Federation planet instantaneously. Would you care to see our projections of Federation casualties?”

I turned just enough to look at him and found his eyes already on me.

“Couldn’t the Founders just order the Jem’Hadar to surrender? After all, they have been genetically coded to obey the Founders, haven’t they?” I asked, and Weyoun gave me an almost apologetic smile as he turned and stepped slowly away as he spoke.

“Your- The Founders’ ability to control the Jem’Hadar has been somewhat...overstated,” he said stopping and turning to face us again. What had he originally started to say? “Otherwise we would have never had to addict them to the white.”

“Sounds like the Dominion isn’t as stable as you’d like us to believe,” the Captain said, and the Vorta’s expression hardened.

“The Dominion has endured for two thousand years, and will continue to endure long after the Federation has crumbled into dust. But we’ll leave that to history. Right now, we have a more pressing concern,” Weyoun calmed his tone into one of quiet resolve. “The Gateway must be destroyed. Agreed?”

Sisko took a few slow, intimidating steps toward the shorter man, stopping only a few inches from him.

“Agreed.” The word rumbled slow and dangerously quiet from between his lips, and when he’d turned away, I saw the Vorta release a quiet breath as though he’d thought Sisko had been preparing to hurt him. Was that the treatment he’d come to expect from the Founders? As perverse as it was and despite our opposing positions, I felt concerned for him. He must have felt the weight of my gaze still on him, because I very suddenly became aware of vibrant violet eyes meeting mine. Quickly averting my own eyes, I followed Captain Sisko out of the room.

--

As the Captain briefed the rest of the senior staff on the preliminary information from our conversation with Weyoun, I couldn’t help but wonder why the Vorta had requested my presence in the first place. Had he thought it would lull the Captain into a false sense of security if he had a second officer present to back him up? Had he thought that I’d side with him instead of the Captain or that I would be easier to manipulate? Or had it simply been an experiment to see if I’d change my appearance again?

I shifted my gaze to another spot to make it look as though I was actually paying attention, and I found Odo looking at me oddly. I shifted my eyes to the Captain so I could avoid his scrutiny for just a little longer. In my time on the Station, Odo and I had formed a sort of friendship - or at the very least, we trusted each other enough to confide in one another if there was a problem. There was something familiar about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. I’d even admitted as much to him, and to my surprise, he’d said he felt something similar.

Perhaps it was the fact that I was a metamorph and he a Changeling? He could change his shape into anything or anyone he wanted, while I could only change so far as my own body’s dimensions would allow. I could turn my eyes into somebody else’s, make my hair into somebody else’s, but I couldn’t change my size. I could be a Klingon, but only one of my height with rather undefined ridges. There was always something of my original human shape in whatever I became. I was never able to keep my altered shapes for long. As far as the doctors had been able to determine, I was a human with an oddly-mutated genetic structure which allowed me to morph the way I did. I was the only one of my type that I knew of.

Maybe that was why I felt a bit more at ease around the shapeshifter. I was the only one of my kind, and until he discovered the Founders, he’d thought he was the only one of his kind. He knew what it was like to be alone...to feel like an outsider. Perhaps it was only natural that we’d become friends.

O’Brien and Dax made a few quips about banquets and dress uniforms and getting to know the Jem’Hadar. I couldn’t quite muster a laugh, although I did try. There were too many questions swirling through my mind. As we exited the bridge of the Defiant and strode down the corridors toward the mess hall, Odo called my name quietly. The two of us paused long enough to fall behind.

“Are you alright? You’ve seemed a little...off since your conversation with the Vorta,” he asked quietly, and I let out a quiet sigh.

“I...Yes. I just...have a few questions, that’s all. Questions that...well, I wouldn’t even know who to ask. I doubt anyone has the answers, anyway,” I said, and he gave me a curious look. “I wish I had some better way to explain it. I just need some time to think, that’s all.”

Odo nodded his head quietly.

“Very well. You know you can come to me if you wish to talk. Now, let’s catch up before the Captain finds a reason to become irritated,” he rasped, and the two of us continued on our way.

--

Moments later, both the crew of the Defiant and the Jem’Hadar we’d rescued were deep in a joint briefing about our upcoming mission. The strategy seemed simple enough, even if we were ridiculously outnumbered. O’Brien’s idea of blowing the Gateway up from orbit was a good one, but it was quickly dismantled by Weyoun’s explanation of the neutronium in the structure being able to withstand anything we could throw at it from the Defiant.

“Which means we’ll have to go in ourselves,” the Captain clarified, and one of the Jem’Hadar spoke up from beside our table.

“As it should be. It is our duty to punish those who would break their vow of loyalty,” the soldier said, and I looked over to find some of the Jem’Hadar looking pointedly at Odo. Some were looking at me, as well, and I couldn’t help but feel as though I’d missed something.

“Are you accusing me of something?” Odo asked in his usual blunt manner.

First Omet’iklan answered from the other side of the table.

“It is not for us to accuse gods of betraying heaven. The gods themselves will sit in judgment over you both,” he said, his eyes flicking between Odo and myself. ‘Both’? Did they think I was a Changeling? I looked at Odo whose confused expression mirrored my own. Conversation continued around us, but I had a faint buzzing in my ears. Was that what all this was about? A misunderstanding? Despite the argument, Worf was now engaged in with one of the Jem’Hadar, I forced myself to raise my eyes and look at the Vorta near my C.O. He was already looking at me with a mix of curiosity and concern. When the Captain dismissed us to begin battle drills for the mission, I practically bolted from the room.

--

After running several drills and receiving quite a bit of criticism from Omet’iklan and Weyoun, I found myself in the mess hall with the others. My appetite was seemingly nonexistent despite hours of physical exertion from our drills. I was sitting at a table with some of the senior officers when Odo spoke quietly from beside me.

“Why does he keep staring at all of us?” He asked, and O’Brien leaned in to speak just as quietly.

“I don’t think he’s staring at all of us. I think he’s staring at the two of you,” he said.

“The Vorta probably consider the Founders gods just like the Jem’Hadar do,” Dax stated, looking to Odo.

“If that’s the case, then why is he staring at me too? I’m not a Founder. I’m not a Changeling. I’m just a metamorph,” I murmured glancing over to see Weyoun’s eyes fixed on me. He gave me a polite nod, which I nervously returned before looking back at Dax and the others confusedly.

“Maybe that’s close enough for him,” Dax muttered. I could tell she was trying to appease my curiosity and concern, and I was grateful, but...it wasn’t exactly working.

“I wonder what would happen if you went over to him and ordered him to stand on his head?” O’Brien quipped and the others managed a quiet laugh. Odo and I seemed to be the only ones who couldn’t seem to force one. I glanced at Odo, then made myself stand up and ignore a look from Dax as I made my way to Weyoun’s table. I needed to speak to him and now seemed as good of a time as any. As he realized I was approaching him, his expression shifted through several different emotions - surprise, curiosity, elation, near-reverence - before settling on something approaching a polite, welcoming smile.

“Pardon my interruption, but may I join you, sir?” I asked with a polite smile of my own.

“Of course! Please, by all means, have a seat,” he said, and I thanked him quietly as I did so. Weyoun was giving me a decidedly encouraging look as I settled in. “What can I do for you, my dear?”

“‘Do’? Oh...no, I-I only...” I took a steadying breath and tried again. “I...was just hoping that we could talk.”

“Easily accomplished! If you wish to talk, then talk we shall. Did you have any particular subject in mind?” He asked and I was surprised at how easily he agreed.

“Well, I...” How exactly was I meant to ask this tactfully? After a moment’s pause, Weyoun gave me a concerned look.

“Is something troubling you? I assure you, Lieutenant, you can ask me anything and it will remain firmly between the two of us. After all, I live to serve you,” he crooned, and the alarm I felt at his words forced my eyes back up to meet his as my brows knitted together in confusion.

“What?” I was so stunned that I could only muster the single word.

“You are a Founder. I live to serve you. Anything you ask of me, anything you tell me will remain between the two of us,” he said in an attempt to reassure me, but despite his calming words, I felt my eyes widen.

“I-I’m not a Changeling, I’m just a human...a metamorph,” I stammered in protest, but before either of us could comment further, a large gray case was set on the table by one of the now-present Jem’Hadar. How much had they heard?

“It’s time,” Omet’iklan stated as he and his men stood at attention beside the little table. Weyoun looked up in annoyance.

“It’s time when I say it’s time,” he said, but when the case wasn’t removed and the Jem’Hadar remained stationary, he sighed and set down his fork. “Oh, very well.”

He unlocked the box and pulled out six vials of ketracel-white.

“First Omet’iklan can you vouch for the loyalty of your men?” He asked in a tone that suggested he was bored by this ritual.

“We pledge our loyalty to the Founders from now until death,” the First answered stoically. The Jem’Hadar obviously took this much more seriously than Weyoun did.

“Then receive this reward from the Founders. May it keep you strong,” he said and Omet’iklan accepted the six vials from the Vorta and passed them out to his men. Weyoun turned to me and gave me an apologetic smile. “Forgive the interruption, my dear. What was it you were going to ask me?”

With a nervous glance at the Jem’Hadar as they began to shuffle away, I felt what little was left of my confidence bleed away. Did my concerns really matter in the grand scheme of things? When my eyes met Weyoun’s, I had just opened my mouth to make some excuse about not wanting to bother him so I could leave, but before I could speak, one of the Jem’Hadar began harassing Chief O’Brien.

Worf defended him, and a fight broke out. As Weyoun grabbed the case off the table, I practically dragged him out of the way just as a pair of fighting officers toppled over in the spot where we’d just been standing. It only lasted a few moments before it was broken up by Captain Sisko and Omet’iklan.

“I want to know who started this,” Sisko asked looking between several Starfleet officers and Jem’Hadar. Worf stood a little straighter.

“I did,” he stated, and one of the Jem’Hadar admitted that he did too.

“You again. You knew my orders,” Omet’iklan said, clearly angry with his soldier.

“And I defied them. I deserve punishment,” the soldier said.

“And you shall have it,” Omet’iklan said ominously before stepping up behind his man and snapping his neck. I couldn’t stop an involuntary gasp from escaping me at the casual brutality of it all. I’d nearly forgotten that Weyoun was still there until he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. My eyes darted over to see him giving me an odd look. Those eyes...from that small of a distance apart, it felt as though I was flayed open on display for him. I felt exposed in a way that I hadn’t before, as though some silent communication was happening between us in this crowded room that nobody was privy to but us.

A shout from Captain Sisko to clear the room broke the spell, and the two of us scurried out with the rest of the officers and Jem’Hadar. Before I even realized what was happening, I found a hand in mine pulling me down one of the corridors. Watching the back of the Vorta’s head as he led me elsewhere, I should have felt some sort of suspicion or indignance, but all I could seem to muster was vague curiosity. When he reached a cabin that I assumed served as his quarters, however, I froze in place outside the door. When he felt me stop, Weyoun turned and his purple eyes met mine curiously.

“Why have you brought me here?” I asked quietly, and he set down the case he’d been carrying before facing me completely.

“I beg your forgiveness. I merely assumed that you would prefer to speak in private,” he said with a slight bow as his gaze dropped from mine.

“Why do you do that?” My words came out shakier than I would have liked, and his eyes lifted hesitantly to meet mine. Instead of seeing anger, all he’d find in me was confusion.

“...Do what, Founder?” He asked as he stood straight again.

“I’m not a Founder. I’m not a Changeling. Why do you treat me as though I am?” Weyoun looked bewildered at my question and took a small step toward me, holding one of my hands in his.

“You...truly don’t know, do you?” He asked looking surprised and almost saddened.

“Know what?” My voice came out a bit sharper than I’d intended making Weyoun flinch. The small action made me feel ashamed of myself. I hadn’t meant to scare him, especially after my observations earlier when Sisko tried to intimidate him. He had been nothing but polite and accommodating to me, and here I was losing my temper. Without thinking I reached up and cupped his cheek softly as I lowered my voice. “I apologize. I...this is all so confusing. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, even when I interrupted your lunch. you don’t deserve me taking out my frustration on you. Please forgive me. It won’t happen again.”

Several emotions flitted across the Vorta’s features as he practically leaned into my touch with wide, reverent eyes: initial hesitance, wonder, veneration, surprise, and something else I couldn’t quite put a name to.

“There is no need to apologize, I assure you. I live to serve you. If you require someone to release your anger onto, then that is who I will be,” he said and I felt horror wash over me. I breathed his name as my other hand came up and joined the first in cupping his face.

“Weyoun...That’s not safe. That’s not healthy. I-Is that what the Founders require of you and the rest of your people?” I asked not caring that there was fear and concern leaking out in my tone. He nodded his head, confused and not quite seeing why I was so horrified by the thought. I may not trust him as far as I could throw him, but nobody deserved that sort of treatment. I tried very hard to keep the wobble out of my voice when I spoke again. “May I hug you?”

With a stunned expression, Weyoun nodded his head silently, and I wrapped my arms gently around his middle. After a moment, his own encircled me and he let out a shaky breath.

“You shouldn’t be treated like that. How can anyone knowingly, purposefully treat an entire group of people like that consistently?” I muttered against his shoulder.

“If...If it is what the Founders require of me-”

“Nobody should require that of another person,” I said gently but firmly. I felt Weyoun’s grip on me tighten just a little at my words, and he nodded his head silently. After a few moments of silent companionship, I leaned back just far enough to look into his eyes. To my surprise, they were misty and tugging at my heartstrings. This could all be an attempt to manipulate me, but...somehow I didn’t think so. I gave him the gentlest smile that I could. “Thank you for considering my privacy. What was it you were trying to tell me?”

“You said in the mess hall that you thought you were human...a metamorph, correct?” He asked as we moved inside far enough for the doors to his quarters to close. I nodded my head quietly, and he gave a small sigh. “You can do more than the typical metamorph.”

“Not really. I can only work within the confines of my body’s dimensions,” I said wondering what he was getting at.

“That may be, but when you copy somebody’s eyes, you don’t just mimic the color. You are able to copy the structure, the shape, everything in perfect detail. When you copied my own eyes earlier, for example, you didn’t just turn your own eyes purple. You were able to make your eyes into exact replicas of mine,” he explained, and I tilted my head curiously. “A long time ago, the Dominion scientists discovered a way to allow the Founders to reproduce with solids. It was a long, intensive process, and it was deemed unnecessary. The Founders believed it would pollute their species if there were droves of half-solids running around the galaxy, so the project was scrapped. One Founder didn’t agree. He secretly had the scientists perform the process on him. The rest of the Founders didn’t find out until it was too late.”

I hadn’t even noticed that the two of us had taken a seat on Weyoun’s bed in the midst of his explanation until he shifted positions in his excitement. He was speaking now as though he was a bard relaying the tale of a legendary hero or perhaps a cautionary one. Perhaps from his perspective he was.

“He left the Great Link in the direction of the Alpha Quadrant and didn’t return. By our projections, assuming he never found the wormhole, he would have reached the Alpha Quadrant about two and half decades ago. In fact, when we first started exploring this quadrant after the discovery of the wormhole, we found evidence that he had indeed visited your planet...Earth...” He trailed off, allowing the implication to roll around like a grenade in the middle of the room.

“Y-You think he’s my father?” I asked barely above a whisper.

“Actually, we know he’s your father. We were able to trace some of his movements from his time on your planet, and they led directly to you. We’ve confirmed your genetic structure is half human and half Changeling,” Weyoun explained. The Vorta looked almost joyful at the revelation, but all I could feel was shock. That couldn’t be right, could it? Slowly, I stood and paced the length of his cabin, allowing what he’d told me to filter through my mind. That would explain why Odo felt familiar. That would explain...well, a lot, really. But was it too convenient? Was this something Weyoun was making up to manipulate me?

“...Say for a moment that I believe you. Why are you telling me this?” I asked turning to face him with my arms protectively around my middle. “Why would the Dominion care about one half-Changeling in another quadrant of the galaxy?”

Weyoun looked troubled that I’d even ask such a thing. He stood slowly and took a few careful steps toward me as if he was approaching a skittish animal. Maybe at that point, I was one.

“Because it is the truth. Because you deserve to know that you are not alone,” he said placing his hands on my shoulders with no more pressure than a feather’s weight. “Your human half may exist, but your people consider you one of them. They care for each other and for you with the full depth of their devotion and love.”

I didn’t realize I was shaking until Weyoun’s hands took mine in his grip and steadied them.

“Your people love you, my dear, and they want you to come home,” he murmured with a smile that I assumed was meant to be encouraging. “I can make that happen if you wish.”

“How?” I asked quietly, and Weyoun shook his head.

“Let me worry about the ‘how.’ All I need to know is, are you ready to go home to your family?” He asked, and I blinked at the word. Family. My mother had died when I was little, and I’d never known my father. If I were to believe what Weyoun was saying, my father was a member of a species who wanted to take over the entire Alpha Quadrant...a species of murderers and tyrants. I had to admit, though...I was curious about them. I hated to disappoint him when he had such a hopeful look on his pretty face. With my hands still in Weyoun’s grip, I gave his hands a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sorry. You’ve been so kind to me, Weyoun, but...I just can’t,” I kept my voice as steady as I could despite the emotions crashing around in my head. “Thank you for making the offer - I really do appreciate it - but my place is here.”

If he’d been a puppy, his ears would have drooped, but as it was, his expression faltered for only a moment before he was giving me a warm smile again.

“As you wish. If you change your mind or if you need anything - anything at all - I am always here for you,” he said in an equally quiet voice. “I...I must admit that I am grateful to have been given the honor of explaining your lineage to you. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“No, thank you for telling me so much, Weyoun,” I said with a smile of my own. “I’ve never known anything about my father.”

“Then you do believe me?” He asked touching on my statement from earlier in a hopeful tone.

“I see no reason for you to lie about something like this. You didn’t even know me before today.” The risk of admitting I trusted him with this was worth it to see him light up with such a bright smile.

“Well, then, no matter your decision, I am glad to have been of assistance,” he said as he began to bow. Placing my hands on his shoulders and effectively pausing his movements, I met his confused gaze with a soft smile.

“I realize you see the Changelings as deities, and I understand that you’re just trying to be respectful due to my heritage. But I...I’m not comfortable being treated like the child of a god,” I said trying to explain how I felt a bit more tactfully than my initial instinct. “We’re equals, as far as I’m concerned. I would much rather have you be honest with me than treat me like I’m some sort of demigod. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, but...why would you not desire to be treated with the adoration that you are due?” He asked with an expression that spelled pure confusion.

“I’m not ‘due’ any sort of adoration. I’m just a science officer. I’m not more or less important than any person on this ship, yourself included,” I said hoping he could understand what I was getting at. “You’ll understand one day.”

On a whim, I placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, making him flush a beautiful shade of lavender. I shouldn’t be letting myself think of him as beautiful. Surely there were moral implications behind that.

“I should go finish prepping for the mission. Thank you for talking with me,” I murmured, and he nodded his head as his fingertips brushed lightly over his cheek where my lips had been. As I exited his quarters and strode through the corridors, I became aware of the warmth in my own face. It was all flattery. All lies designed to benefit the Dominion somehow. He didn’t mean a damn thing that he said. It couldn’t possibly be true...could it?

--

The joint mission was a hard-won battle, but eventually, we set the charges and destroyed the Gateway. The dampening field dissipated, our weapons came back online, and Weyoun beamed down with his case of ketracel-white. After receiving confirmation from Dax that the Gateway had in fact been destroyed, Weyoun seemed positively gleeful at the success of the mission. He set the case down and rubbed his hands together happily as he turned to me.

“You've all done quite nicely! Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to inspect the wreckage,” he said, but just as his eyes met mine, the Jem’Hadar First vaporized him. The last I saw of Weyoun was a flash of fear in his bright eyes as his body disintegrated. A feeling of horror and then numbness washed over me. Omet’iklan and Captain Sisko spoke for a moment, but I didn’t hear a word. My eyes were still frozen on the spot where Weyoun had been standing only moments before. When the Jem’Hadar had left and we’d beamed back aboard the Defiant, Odo got me alone.

“Are you alright?” He asked quietly, and I couldn’t figure out if I was or not.

“Weyoun...He knew who my father was. Odo, he claimed I was half-Changeling,” I said looking at him helplessly. His own expression was one of surprise. “I...I know he was probably lying, but...when we get back to the station, would you help me test that? Doctor Bashir will need something to compare my own DNA to.”

“Yes, of course. If...If you are, then...that certainly explains a great deal,” Odo said, and I nodded my head as I turned to one of the view ports.

“He...offered to take me home...to my...to the Changelings,” I said quietly, and Odo’s quiet footsteps brought him to my side.

“Do you think he was lying? After all, he looked at you with just as much...reverence as he did when he looked at me,” Odo asked, and I just shrugged my shoulders.