May. 25th, 2011

ladderax: (pic#)
So I cannot even believe I wrote this. 
It's my very first piece of fanfic that's gotten beyond the planning stage. 
But I love Arthur/Eames and I megalove Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, especially the Cardassians, so it was sort of inevitable.

I have no idea what I'm doing. Well, I sort of know what I'm doing, but I hope I can get there. 


Title: As-yet untitled Cardassian!Arthur fic.
Author: Adelaide 
Warning: Sex, emotionally abusive Cardassian spies, prejudice against humans
Disclaimer: Neither of these wonderful universes is mine.  
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, Arthur/OMC (male) 
Rating: NC-17, to be safe
Summary: Arthur is actually a Cardassian spy disguised as a human and sent to 24th century Earth. Unfortunately for him, he gets thrown through a temporal anomaly and lands in the 21st century. After working through a whole lot of self-pity, loneliness, and angst, he tries to find something productive to do to keep from losing it, which is how he winds up in dreamsharing. And then he makes an interesting new friend. 



 
It had been ten years since the mission had gone awry through no fault of his own or anyone else’s. Nilor and his superiors had worked assiduously to make him look human, to train him in human idioms and mannerisms. It was a relatively simple assignment: go to Earth, infiltrate the Maquis cell working there, and relay information about them to the head of the Order.

He had his alias: Arthur Hollander, ex-Starfleet cadet who’d been missing for the past two years. With the skin transplant, he looked enough like an older Hollander that no one would ask any questions. On the face of it, the worst that could go wrong was that he’d be discovered and killed by the Maquis. And that wasn’t even too horrifying a prospect. He was Cardassian, and he was Obsidian Order. It was better for it to happen sooner rather than later, while you were still young and still used to being uncomfortable and itching to prove yourself for the glory of Cardassia.

He never imagined that what happened might be worse than death.

He had caught a routine transport from Alpha Centauri, full of Starfleet officers back from shore leave. The assignment was only to last a year, but he was already sick of humans. They were like silly, loud birds, with their bright colors and graceless movements. They were always trying to have fun. They always wanted to be comfortable. Playing tonga, rushing off to the holosuites to jump around and roll in the dirt and act like children. Their lack of sense was no doubt part heredity, but he knew plenty of Cardassians who failed to discipline their minds.

He could have been among other Cardassians right now. If only Rochal had chosen him as a secretary to the replacement to the conveniently disappeared diplomatic attaché to Denobula. He could have been with Rochal himself, could have learned for certain exactly how Rochal felt about him. Though he was certain he knew anyway.

*

The last night they had spent together didn’t even have to be the last night. It was a night marred by the cold, damp winds that made even the most stoic look like they were about to whimper. As always, Rochal had declined his invitation to come to his module in Lakarian City; Nilor had to travel. He wore the light blue suit Rochal had complimented him on the first night they met as anything other than supervisor and junior operative.

Rochal had used the excuse that he had been told to stay as near the transport pad as possible, in case Tain needed him elsewhere in the system at short notice.

“It isn’t against the law for you to make an effort to see me,” Nilor had said once, instantly regretting how needy he sounded. “The entire order knows what Lok and Dejar are to each other, and as long as they keep their feelings separate from their work no one cares.”
“People will overlook a lot from Lok,” Rochal answered calmly, “He’s got far more powerful friends than I do.”

Nilor never brought it up again.

There were times, though, when there was a fleeting look of unguarded tenderness in Rochal’s pale eyes. And after one of Nilor’s peers had been brutally executed by the Klingons, once—just once—Rochal had looked at Nilor with a brief expression of pain, then pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the faint ridge over his cheekbone. After that he had been exponentially colder.

A moment of sentimentality at losing one of our own. It had nothing to do with you in particular, he had written. 

*

Nilor knew for sure, though, that he had everything he wanted. Rochal at least kissed him on the mouth, which was more than some of his friends’ lovers would do. Rochal reached around and jerked his cock when he fucked him, prepared him however briefly before he entered him. There was once or twice a kiss to the shoulder, once or twice a hand run down the sensitive spinal ridge before Rochal grabbed his hair and drove his thick cock into his ass.

As hard as Rochal tried to hide it, he was the best operative in his cell, the one Rochal trusted to be most thorough, most clever in his means of gathering information. If the older man was hard on him, Nilor thought, it was only because he wanted to make sure he didn’t go soft. It had been know to happen to operatives. Rochal was doing him a far bigger favor by ensuring that he stayed sharp and didn’t get too entitled.

And he was fortunate, if such a thing as fortune existed. Every relationship was a sort of training, and he was not being trained to be used to comfort, tenderness, romance. He was being trained to expect anything, to perform his duty in bed or in the field and then to move on to the next task with cold efficiency. Ultimately it would make him a better spy. And therefore a better Cardassian.


Part 2
ladderax: (Default)
Title: Your Fake Name Is Good Enough For Me, 2/?
Author: Adela 
Warning: blood, pain, angst
Disclaimer: Neither of these wonderful universes is mine. Also, some of the characters mentioned in passing and the Cardassian background are taken from Andrew J. Robinson' amazing Garak novel, A Stitch In Time
Pairing: Arthur/Eames (eventually), Arthur/OMC
Rating: NC-17, to be safe
Summary: Arthur is actually a Cardassian spy disguised as a human and sent to 24th century Earth. Unfortunately for him, he gets thrown through a temporal anomaly and lands in the 21st century. Eventually he becomes the dream-thieving, Eames-loving Arthur we all know and love. In this part, he hurts, angsts, meets some very important people, and eats some bread.





When it happened they were already in sight of Earth. The transport captain told them to sit and prepare for turbulence, that she would try to evade the giant-clam-shaped violet ripple in space. But it was no use.

They snagged the edge of it. It tore them into a maelstrom. He felt like he was pieces of thirty different bodies, each a different age and species and place. Everything was dizzy, blurred, like he was being volleyed back and forth between death and life and death and life again.
.
*

He must have been clinging to something. His hands were still crabbed as if gripping, and they would have ached immensely if everything else weren’t throbbing slowly and excruciatingly.

He’d forgotten how to identify times of day on Earth. The light here was cooler, brighter. It hurt his eyes. He was practically naked. His human skin was torn to shreds.

Grainy stuff clung to his face. He was wet. There was water trying to work its way through his cavernous wounds and into his body, and he was helpless. It was a hard thing for a Cardassian to admit.

His eyes were weak and unfocused, but he could see a house at the top of the slope up the beach. There was a slim Cardassianoid shape in the doorway. He willed it not to notice him.

Please. Just let me die with my pride.
If there’s anything left of it.

To die in a human skin, thousands of lightyears from home, having done nothing for your country, with your friends and leaders and colleagues and enemies having no idea whether you’re alive or dead or how or why? He couldn’t think of a more meaningless death. There was no one at his side to perform the shri-tal. What would he have told them anyway? That he’d screamed like a Ferengi as the ship was pulled apart by a temporal paradox? That his feelings for his higher-ranking colleague were untoward, were a weakling’s, that he was incapable of accepting a proper education for what it was?
All his secrets hurt him much more than they’d ever hurt any of his enemies.

*

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Dom, come down here,” a woman was screaming. It was muffled by his exhaustion and the water in his ears.
The woman was kneeling next to him. He could vaguely see smooth human skin of the lighter variety, curling dark hair, large eyes.
Her hands hovered above him anxiously, hesitating to touch him.
“No doctors,” he croaked.
“Oh, darling, what happened to you?” she begged.
“Boat wreck.”
Now there was a man at the woman’s side, tall and fair-haired.
“He said no doctors,” she whispered to the man, puzzled. “But I don’t see how we can help it. He’s not in good shape. He might have internal bleeding.”
“If he said no doctors, then no doctors.”
“Dom. Don’t be an idiot. I don’t even know why I’m asking you what to do about this. I’m calling the hospital.”
“Mal, look.” He pointed past her, to where Nilor was making a nearly successful effort to pull himself to his feet. They stared at him, bewildered.
“I’m fine,” he managed.
“You are not fine,” Mal replied.
“I will be.”
They paused and looked at each other.
“Do you have a home? Anyone who can care for you?”
“They’re a very long way from here,” he said, almost wanting to laugh.
“Well, at least you can rest here for awhile,” the man said. “What’s your name?”
“Arthur,” he said softly.

*

He could blame his lack of appetite on his injuries. But he had no idea how human food would ever not make him want to vomit. The young couple, Dom and Mal, cooked together—some sort of insipid white fish with herbs, bread, a round bitter-smelling vegetable. Nilor—or Arthur, it was now--could tell that they were uncomfortable around him. They hovered around him, offering him bread and applesauce and water after he declined the fish, and smiled broad fixed smiles. Arthur often saw them exchange significant glances, or move to whisper something in each others’ ears. It made sense. He was a strange man who had washed up on their beach, bleeding and asking not to go to the hospital. No doubt they thought he was some sort of criminal. He wondered if they’d call the police, wondered if he should run.

Plus, he’d been taught to act like a human of the 24th century. People acted differently. There were different idioms. Humans, at least humans here, seemed to move slower, to be more wary. They were still so trusting, though. No Cardassian he knew would ever take a stranger in in such a way.

They sat at the table together. He ate as they ate, cutting his bread with a knife and fork as they cut their fish. They appeared to be suppressing some amusement at him, and he couldn’t quite figure out why.

“So you’re married?” he asked them.
“Three months at the beginning of August,” Mal answered, looking over at Dom.
“And you? Where do you come from? Surely someone is looking for you right now.”
No. Of course not. No one would be.

Even if someone wanted to find me, it would be dazzlingly foolish to send a Cardassian ship into Terran airspace . Or even to send someone on some pretense. Not when there are more important things to be done. Even when Tain himself was shipwrecked for two weeks on Castellon Prime, the orders were clear. He was not to be looked for.
The agents are expendable. The intelligence is not.
“I’ve got family in San Francisco,” he answered. “But no one else, really.”

*

He could hear them talking about him. The walls were thin and the windows open.
“He didn’t ask if anyone else was safe,” Mal said. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“Maybe there was no one else,” Dom answered.
“You’re awfully confident that this strange young man is completely on the up and up,” she whispered loudly.
“Why wouldn’t he be? The odds are pretty good. Besides, even if he is some unsavory character, he’s weak. He seems pretty helpless to me.”
“Weak?” Mal huffed. “I hardly think so.”

He slowly went to sleep.
As he fell asleep he thought of Cardassia, unpopulated from space, covered in ochre sands and hot clouds. For a silly second he imagined he’d see it when he opened his eyes. That he’d be calmly floating, in a shuttlepod so slow it felt entranced, back toward a Lakarian City where there was no Rochal and no Tain and he would begin again with new handlers and new assignations. He would work a desk job in Lissepia, work as a bookkeeper to keep an eye on arms dealers. He’d be free to order yamok juice from the replicators, to argue for hours over which Order was most instrumental in winning the war with the Klingons, to be viciously irritable when he met a man he wanted in his bed.
He was conscious enough to identify that as the sentimental flak it was.

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May 2012

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