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

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May 2012

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