THE SIBILANCE of his name exhaled on that eerie, reedy tenor twists his stomach, his throat swelling tight as he swallows over and over again around the roiling tension clinging to every fiber of his muscles. The Vorta, despite their diminutive disposition, are far from powerless; Weyoun wields deception like a scepter in a bone-white fist, the mere illusion of intimidation somehow more imposing than a seven-foot Klingon with a blood-rusted bat’leth. This is all fake; his Cardassian military training has made the inner mechanizations of his thoughts an impenetrable fortress, disciplined and frigid, cold like bitter steel, but all it takes is for him to say his name, and the stifling fog between them dissipates. The look on Damar’s face is positively Terran: some terrible loneliness in those ochre eyes, the way the scaled ridges over the sockets furrow as if in acute agony. There’s a shuffled, half-step forward, following the Vorta’s lead, and when Weyoun does not coldly step back to maintain his distance, Damar closes the last of the space between them.
THE DIFFERENCE in height makes the gesture awkward, and he’s somehow distantly aware Weyoun must be terribly uncomfortable crushed in a constricting embrace against an armored breastplate. But there’s reassurance that he is alive – the warble in his voice was one thing, the tantalizing little flicker in his eyes when his placid mask leaves his face like dropped frames on a staticky video, but the solidity of him – and his strange, sluggish, alien heartbeat, the residual warmth from his unfamiliar, mammalian veins – is somehow all the confirmation needed. Not confirmation that Weyoun is telling the truth – he is still likely lying, even if he petulantly insisted he wasn’t – but that he is alive. That he was not another mistake felled by Damar’s brash decisions and blind loyalty to a lost cause. And that he’ll stay that way – he hopes, more than anything, he stays that way.
THE EMBRACE is short lived, and Damar roughly pushes him away after the briefest moment. Cardassian romance is often likened to a lovely flower with terrible thorns; it is, perhaps, the fondest sort of violent shove you could ever give someone you care about. ❝ You wouldn’t, ❞ he spits, ❝ because that involves risk, and you’re a sniveling little coward, always running away from the consequences of your actions. But, ❞ he admits, his voice dropping, the slightest adjustment as if to say he understands, ❝ you didn’t want to compromise your resistance. And I respect that. That is the only thing about you that I respect. ❞
IT HAS been a very lonely few months. His affection for him is as welcome – and persistent – as a particularly nasty infection. He loathes his smug, shitty face, that whiny drawl in his voice, the way he’s always making excuses. But there is comfort in familiarity – there is something to admire in the strange, selfless bravery of one aberrant little clone.
❝ … CORAT, ❞ DAMAR mumbles, suddenly very embarrassed. ❝ You should … call me – Corat. Well ? We’re going to die any day now, ❞ he sneers, setting his gaze out at the stars in the window, ❝ so just cut to the chase and use my given name. I didn’t have to tell you – you probably already knew it, didn’t you ? You vile little ingrate. It was in your psychographic profile, ❞ he scoffs, sarcastically imitating Weyoun’s posh accent.
“ It was, ” Weyoun’s voice comes out a breathless huff, “ in your psychographic profile. Corat. ” His smile, pleased and perverse, is equal to that most affectionate demonstration, which, yes, bent his twiggish bones in unpleasant ways and yes, perhaps left a metal imprint along his softened jaw, but it also ushered in a welcome vitality in an unwelcome place, assurance that all was right. By the Founders they’d been brought together, and by the Founders, in some way, they’d been brought together again, side by side, as it should be.
The hand that crawls like a church mouse along Damar’s arm is nevertheless concrete in its intent -- look at me, is its demand. “ You have changed, haven’t you? ” says Weyoun, as though there were anyone else present to listen. It's not because of the more intimate name, Corat, nor that wholly traitorous look, and it certainly hadn’t been evident in the embrace (certainly not); there is a line between the Legate’s eyes now that was never there before, a new burden that cuts deeper than the rest, and it is Weyoun’s distinct obligation to deconstruct it.
“ Yes... I never doubted it. The moment I heard the news of your little adjustment in allegiances, I knew you were on a desperate, hopeless, passionate fool’s errand. ” His loathsome smile twists. “ I knew you’d be all right. Just like me. ”
