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Damar had seen Weyoun order someone's execution on a whim and with a cool indifference that was unsettling. He had seen Weyoun schmooze his way through dinner parties with a smile on his face as he was leered at and blatantly insulted. He had seen him order Jem-Hadar soldiers to their deaths with a flick of his fingers, a bored expression on his face. Then, with a callus attitude, let those same soldiers debase themselves for a drug only he could provide. He had also seen Weyoun obviously stressed, wringing his hands as he stood alone in ops waiting for a call from the founder. But he had never seen Weyoun like this.
Damar couldn't shake the feeling that he was seeing Weyoun truly happy for the first time. He was probably seeing him more relaxed. He was definitely seeing him drunk. Exceptionally so.
“I thought you couldn't get drunk?” Damar said, skeptically.
He had found the man roaming the halls of headquarters and had brought him to an empty conference room only to have him crawl up on the table and sit cross legged, his face more relaxed and open then Damar had ever seen. He looked nervous and eager to please. The genuine expression was doing things to Damar.
“Ah, Damar,” Weyoun said. He drew out his name, accentuating the syllables and making it sound like Dam-AR. Damar was not amused. Especially since the breathlessness of Weyoun’s voice made his heart rate kick up as his brain supplied several scenarios where his voice might sound similarly breathy.
“What?” he snapped, knowing it wasn't a question but needing to add words to the space so he stopped concentrating on the blush that painted Weyoun’s cheeks and the shell of his ears.
Weyoun’s face broke out in a smile that actually looked genuine; awkward and shy but with just enough enthusiasm that Damar felt a surge of emotion. He took a deep breath to clear his head. Damar made this effort in vain because just then Weyoun leaned back on his hands and tilted his head back, exposing his slender, milky-white neck. He exhaled a truly lascivious sigh and let his legs un-cross and fall apart.
Weyoun reached for the collar of his tunic and opened it up, letting his coat fall halfway off his shoulders. “It's hot,” he said, by way of explanation, “and I'm not drunk, I'm drugged.”
Damar resisted the urge to bite his lips. “Drugged?” he asked.
“The White,” Weyoun sighed. He wrestled himself out of his tunic and lay back on the table. A tiny sliver of white stomach peaked out from the bottom of his lavender shirt. Damar stared at it transfixed.
“Ketracel-White?” Damar asked. He thought of the bubbling substance he saw the Jem-Hadar routinely inject into their bodies. Nausea rolled in his gut. “Why would you be drugged with white?”
Weyoun's smile turned manic and he raised his hands above his head before dropping them to his stomach. He played with the hem of his shirt, his fingers trailing over his pale skin in aimless, dancing patterns. Damar watched the trails his fingers made. His voice cracked when he spoke, “Weyoun?” he prompted.
Weyoun sighed, a sound that was more blissful than irritated. “I had to know if it was contaminated.”
“Is that a requirement?” Damar demanded.
“No,” Weyoun said. He sat up and began to remove his pants.
“What are you doing?” Damar took a step backwards. In doing so he realized how close he had actually gotten to Weyoun. Weyoun used the freed up space to stand on unsteady legs and remove his pants properly. He, of course, wore nothing underneath.
He reached for the hem of his shirt but lost his balance and Damar caught him before he fell sidewise. “Take this off for me.” Weyoun’s muffled voice was demanding, yet playful. He did not pose his words in the form of a question.
“Why?” Damar inquired. “What possible reason could you have for removing your clothes?”
Weyoun managed to doff the shirt himself and stood before him in glorious nakedness, all his pale white skin on display. “So that we can fuck, of course,” he chided gently. “Honestly Damar,” a laugh, “you are not that slow. I know it's all an act.” Weyoun approached him, gesturing in a pontificating way with one hand. “The drunkenness, the blank looks, sure you fool that idiot Dukat, but not me.”
Weyoun draped himself against Damar’s body, his slightly shorter stature made it easy for him to tuck his head under the other man's chin. He slotted his hips against one of Damar's legs and grinded hard against the meat of his thigh.
Damar took a long slow breath to clear his head. His ajan had become aware of the processings and was pushing against the inner wall of his slit, making him want to grind back against Weyoun's soft belly. “Why did you have to know if the White was contaminated?” He asked slowly. He took Weyoun's shoulders in his hands and pushed him back firmly.
Weyoun gave him an absolutely scathing look, his eyes dancing over Damar's face. “Because the Jem'Hadar can't exactly process tainted White. It will kill them. Their systems are very specialized, you know. The Founders, in all their glory, have really done wonders with them-”
Damar cut him off, his voice hard, “why do you care that they die? You send them to their deaths as if they are nothing and make more.” This thought made his arousal flag. This man was a monster. Nothing more than a tool for a sadistic warlord.
And yet…
“And what of your life?” He continued.
Weyoun began to kiss his neck.
“Weyoun,” Damar insisted, pushing the man back by his shoulders once again.
Weyoun gave him a simpering smile but his eyes were tight. “I haven't died yet,” he purred.
“You were stupid to take White,” Damar said sulkily. He did it to protect their lives.
This time when Weyoun leaned in to kiss him he didn't pull away.
In the quiet moments afterward. When hours had passed. After Damar had brought Weyoun back to his room (because he would not take him in a conference room. He would not) and fucked into his small, soft body to an accompaniment of whimpers and little moans. When they had satiated themselves, and then by mutual and silent agreement, didn't speak of it. Damar had to know, “would contaminated White have killed you?”
Weyoun gave him a bleary look. He was still not himself. Quieter, more subdued than before, but not quite himself. He looked at Damar for a long time. He nodded and turned away.
He stood to rise. He stumbled to grab his clothes, throw them on -inside out and rumpled- and walk out the door.
“Your life is worth as much as theirs,” Damar called after him. He did not expect an answer but Weyoun turned at the door.
“It is not. There are six Jem’Hadar warriors in my regiment. I am but one clone. I can easily be cloned again. To lose six or to lose one? There is no question.”
He left then and Damar stared at the space he had occupied moments before. He remembered small hands clutching at his neck ridges. That sweet voice as he pleaded and moaned Damar's name. Damar was not in love, he was not as foolish as that. But Weyoun was a person, he knew it to be true, Evan as the man himself acted like he was nothing more than a thing.
Damar sighed. They needed this war to be over, desperately, unquestionably. But what side was he really on?