Secrets by Sue Castle. Rated NC17. No infringement intended.
Referent
episodes are The Wire, Life Support, Distant Voices, Our Man Bashir and Dr. Bashir I
Presume. As always, no copyright
infringement intended, just a little wistful thinking.
//begin
log entry//
All
the stories are true.
Especially the lies.
My dear Garak. My very dear Garak. You
say I don't know you. I do.
I
know you better than anyone I have ever met.
All
my stories are true, as well.
Most especially, the lies.
Withdrawal
is the hardest thing in the world for a patient to go through and survive. Coming down from a high, a prolonged high
that made life bearable and distorted your own central nervous system to work
against you, was the bravest thing I've ever
seen. It wasn't courage that took me to
the Arawath Colony, into Enabran
Tain's home territory. It was desperation. I couldn't lose you.
You're
the only person I've ever met who has more secrets than I do.
You
wear a mask. As do I. You seek forgiveness. I strive for obscurity. Neither of us can say
why. Both our lives depend on it.
I
learned by the time I was seven years old that the only way to survive was to
live a lie. I have a gut feeling you
started even earlier. Perhaps that is
what makes me wish we could know one another.
That, and the loneliness I see in your eyes. You hide it very well. But I see it every morning when I look in the
mirror, and I know what it looks like.
You can't hide from someone who has made his life in the shadows.
The
only place I can tell the truth is here.
Have to let it out somewhere, can't do it in the official logs. God forbid.
No, only on a datachip,
hidden in a batch of useless data files, to be destroyed in the event of my
death, nothing but old inventories and class notes in here, that's all, not the
meandering of a lonely mind.
You
make me shiver when you touch me. Do you
know that? Probably.
Or you wouldn't touch me so often.
You
held my hand, and looked at me, and asked my forgiveness. I gave it, but I don't know what it was
worth. At least you slept. You healed.
And that's what I'm supposed to do, isn't it? Heal you?
I
want you to touch me again. I haven't
been touched all that often. And it seldom made me shiver.
I'm
looking forward to lunch tomorrow. I
scanned the book you gave me. You were right, it was
much more interesting than never-ending sacrifice. Lots of bloodshed, and of
course, the Cardassians won, and of course, the Klingons lost, and of course, there was honor on the losing
side and treachery and duty and, oh yes, mustn't forget, _sacrifice on the
winning side. I wonder if I can make you
believe, this time, that I stayed up late, reading. So you don't find out I stayed up late,
thinking of you, touching me. And shivering.
//end
log entry//
//begin
log entry//
I
may never look at a tailor's dressing room quite the same way again. Next time,
I'm bringing my camera. No, strike
that. Next time it will be here. And the camera will already be in place.
Dinner
was lovely.
Desert
was better.
//begin
visual recording//
Two bodies, seen through a doorway at a distance, laughing
over something too low for the recording devices to pick up. The image is crystal clear, as one man leans forward
and drops a bite of food on the other's lips. Fingertips are caught along with
the delicacy, and nibbled, to both men's evident satisfaction. More talk, more laughter, until the plates
are empty and the chairs have been moved to sit, side by side.
Fingers
give way to mouths, one running his hands along the other's neck ridges, slowly
pulling off the heavy, intricately patterned tunic, the other sliding his hands
into the fastening of the first's uniform.
With some awkwardness, not as much as might be expected for a first time
at this activity, the men strip one another.
The younger leads the older into the bedroom, bringing the pair
completely into frame.
Mouths
connect again as hands begin to rove, seeking, exploring, caressing. The
recording device picks up individual sounds now, panting, pleading, inarticulate
moans. A dark, curly head wanders down a
pale, heavily muscled torso, elegant hands spread over a broad chest, fingers
massaging ridges as the head begins a steady rhythm at the older man's
groin. Then impatient hands grasp at the
head, drawing it up, as the positions are reversed, and white-grey hands work
honey brown skin. Long legs are drawn
up, separated, rubbed and petted. A
sleek black head disappears between tawny thighs, and exquisite agony is drawn
on the younger man's face as he tosses his head against the pale blue of the
linens.
Motion
again, as the broad, scaled back moves upward, and the slender legs curl around
the sturdy waist. Ankles lock, hips
begin to thrust, strong lean hands pull at broad shoulders, clutch along
sensitive neck ridges. Heads dip, mouths sliding against and off one another as
they come to rest sheltered against each other's shoulders. Rhythm falters, picks up, sweat sliding along
the ridges, as fingers clench and release spasmodically. Muscles tense, there
is a moment of perfect stillness, then the curly head moves, full lips opening
to show a flash of white as teeth sink deep into a neck ridge. A sound, a cross between a howl and a plea,
nearly overloads the recording device, and the bodies explode into a frenzy of
motion. Another sound, a nearly mute whimper, a name. "Garak." An answer.
A prayer.
The
broad back relaxes, the strong arms collapse, and the long dark limbs wrap
around the grey scaled back and hips, drawing the weight closer. One eye opens, stares over a pale
shoulder. A hand reaches out, shakily,
toward a small panel beside the headboard.
The
screen goes dark.
//end
log entry//
//begin
log entry//
I
can hear Kira crying in the recovery room. Not that Bareil is
ever going to recover. Despite my every
effort, and my staunch defense against that horrible woman passing herself off
as Kai, I wasn't able to save him.
I
can't help but wonder, if I had been able to truly utilize
all of my talents on the case, if I might have caused a different outcome. I will never know, of course, because to
expose myself, who I am, what I am, in such a manner, is something that I will
never willingly do.
I
have lived my life knowing that I am a freak.
No one else need ever know. That
is my secret to keep. I simply hope that
keeping it safe didn't mean I inadvertently sacrificed Bareil.
If
only the thoughts could end as easily as the recording of them. Staring at the screen, I see only the
reflection of my own face. Short, wavy dark hair, large brown eyes, prominent brow, full
mouth, my Mother's nose, my Father's chin. My neural surgeon's eyes.
One secret among many.
I
sincerely hope Garak is not busy tonight. I need to forget for awhile. Forget who I
am. Forget who I can never be.
If
there really are Prophets, may they take Winn and damn her to hell for all
eternity. Some people get the chance to
love. There aren't enough of them. To lose it like this ... Kira
knows too much of pain and too little of happiness. For all she's been through, she deserves
better. We all do.
I
don't know how long I'll be able to keep up the dance. Let him in, lie a little, listen to a few
lies in return. Let him hold me, hold
him back. Ask him to touch me.
Shiver. And forget.
//end
log entry//
//begin
log entry//
I've
never felt so tired in my life. There
are so many voices in my head, and they all had their part in bringing me out
of the coma. Altovar
thought he knew me. But he didn't know
my secret. The surgeons knew their
work. Accelerating the development of
the neural pathways must have somehow strengthened them as well, weaving the
neural net to bear unusual loads, and aiding me in surviving the telepathic
attack without sustaining irreparable damage.
There's at least one paper in that.
Too bad I won't ever be able to write it.
Interesting that my enemy should take the form of my
lover. Of course I don't trust him. I can't.
Not with myself. Not at the
heart, not behind the curtain that holds the darkest secrets. We're both exiles, in a way. He, cast out from his own kind, for a public betrayal
sheathed in lies. I, always outside even
while surrounded by my own kind, for a private crime hidden in plain sight.
There's
a reason I didn't become a world class tennis player. That much hand-eye coordination would draw
envy, and speculation, and scrutiny. And
of course any first year medical student knew the answer to the question that
kept me from becoming valedictorian. For
over twenty years I've stayed one step away from the spotlight.
Shadows
can't survive direct light.
He
said I wouldn't have him any other way.
I
wouldn't. Because I
can't.
I
don't trust him. He can't trust me. His distrust is inbred and buttressed by years
of training. Mine is enhanced by need
and fear.
He
thinks there is hope for me yet.
I
know better.
//end
log entry//
//begin
log entry//
Two
years.
Ended tonight.
Half
expected it to, really. I let him get
too close. Let him see behind the
screen, to the little man pulling the levers.
Showed him what he thought I had learned from him. Gave him a glimpse of the
secret hiding behind the shields.
I
shot Garak today.
Oh,
it was only a flesh wound. God, what a ridiculous phrase. 'Only a flesh wound.' Posturing garbage.
A
bunch of Cardassian fundamentalists calling
themselves the
I
was willing to let the world go to hell to save them. Threw the switch myself.
It
was only a game.
The look in his eyes when he saw the blood on his hand. Felt the sting in his neck. Death of innocence in such
a small wound, in such old eyes.
I
think I might very well have been in love with him.
Not
that it matters now. As I was patching
him up in the infirmary, he complimented me on my aim. On my calculated
risk-taking. On my ruthlessness,
even if it was a game. Of course, it
wasn't. Not then.
Not
when I warned him, and most assuredly not when I shot him. Such a small projectile to
have such a resounding impact.
He
had considered himself my mentor. Now he
sees me as achieving some sort of equality with him. Not complete, to be sure. But enough. Enough that he will expect more,
and I can't give him any more without taking the risk of allowing the truth to
show through the obfuscations.
Two
years of touching. Two years of
shivering. Two years of pretending
secrets didn't exist.
He
asked me to come to him tonight.
I
can't.
He'll
heal. It's just a flesh wound, after
all.
I
don't think I can say the same of myself.
//end
log entry//
//begin
log entry//
Nearly
three years. A long
time silent. No more
secrets. No more logs. I'm spending all
my time with O'Brien. Talk about
transference. I saw Garak
at Quark's today. Lunch
with Ziyal.
They're sleeping together. I'd
lay a wager on it.
My own fault, of course. He only asked once. Then he smiled at me, in that closed, knowing
way, and went off to eat with Odo.
And
sleep with Ziyal.
We
smile when we pass in the corridor. He
doesn't touch me anymore.
Now
the secret's out. Father's in
prison. Mother's back on earth. Someone else will be the model for the
medical hologram. I don't have to hide
what I am any longer.
What
I wouldn't give to have a secret to hide.
And someone to hide it from.
//begin visual recording playback. endless loop//
The End