Chapter Text
When you first joined Starfleet as an engineer, you had never imagined where the job would take you. The work was usually what one would expect from an engineer: long hours in maintenance bays, fixing power conduits, and rerouting damaged systems. Sometimes aboard the station, sometimes on ships passing through. After your shift, you would often unwind with a glass of synthale (or even springwine if you were feeling a little frisky) at Quark’s. It was a life of steady work, small victories, and enough responsibility to keep you alert.
You were on one of the lower docking stations when the attack happened. A sudden and brutal strike by a band of rogue Jem’Hadar aboard a civilian ship. The chaos was merciless. Alarms blared, sparks flew, and the whole station shook under the impact.
“You okay?” someone asked, voice tight.
"-m fine,” you brushed the dust off your uniform with trembling hands.
Your hands still trembled when the call came through the comms. ‘Extra engineering staff to the Defiant. Prep for immediate departure’. You pressed your combadge without hesitation. “Chief, where do you need me?”
“On the Defiant. We’ll need steady hands with the power systems if we’re going to stretch our engines to the limit. You’re being reassigned. Prepare to move.”
“Copy that,” you said, ducking under a hanging cable, sparks flying above, as you made your way to the nearest turbolift.
The Defiant had been away during the assault, and when it returned, the Jem’Hadar had already vanished into the wormhole. Captain Sisko’s orders were clear: the Defiant would track down the attackers before they struck again.
Minutes later, you were aboard the Defiant, its corridors buzzing with urgency. The ship was undamaged, but its systems were being pushed to the limit for the chase ahead. Your tools clinked against their belt as you rushed to your post. The hum of the engines was evidence the ship was already accelerating to find the assailants.
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The Defiant prowled through the void, sensors fighting through the static haze left behind by the Jem’Hadar’s magneton pulse. The trail was broken, fragments scattered like breadcrumbs meant to mislead. You tried to focus on the readouts, but every flicker on the main screen made your stomach tighten. It had barely been a day since your reassignment to the Defiant, and the bridge was still an intimidating place. Even the hum of the engines sounded louder there, more insistent, like a warning.
That was when something flickered on the screen. A Jem'Hadar attack ship. The core of the vessel was unstable, already tearing itself apart. Lieutenant Commander Worf studied the readings, his jaw set, eyes narrowing. “This can’t be the vessel we’re looking for. Major Kira said the Jem’Hadar strike team that attacked the station used a transport ship.”
You glanced at the Klingon officer only briefly; his presence imposing and immovable. If Worf believed this wasn't their target, then it wasn’t. Captain Sisko gave a single nod. “Beam them aboard. No weapons,” his voice firm but quiet, carrying an authority that left no space for doubt.
Dread filled your guts. A Jem’Hadar Troop. On the Defiant.
You swallowed and returned your eyes to the readouts, fingers moving automatically over the controls. Every order spoken at the center of the bridge reverberated in your chest, the uneasy feeling that you were standing on the edge of a cliff, watching a storm roll in, already brewing inside. You knew there was nothing you could do but wait for the chaos to reach in.
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Your fingers paused over the console as the transporter shimmered to life. One could only see the Jem’Hadar at first; imposing, faces impassive, movements taut with lethal precision which radiated danger. Every gesture was sharp, predatory, and impossible to ignore.
And then, there was him.
“Control your men.” A Vorta, stepping lightly among the warriors. You had never seen one in person before. He was remarkable. Pale, porcelain-like skin with subtle hints of violet, dark raven hair, and violet eyes, sharp but measured. Unlike the Jem’Hadar, he carried no threat in his stance; no tension, no coiled energy, only a controlled elegance, like a finely crafted bibelot displayed in a cabinet.
“These people saved our lives.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes… were calculating and exacting. The accent in his voice had a precise quality that made you examine him further. Everything about him seemed curated, refined, beautiful. Almost unnatural in its perfection.
You quickly shook yourself out of the daze, returning yourr focus to the work at hand. The Defiant needed your attention more than the presence of anyone. No matter how striking they appeared to be.
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The team-up between the Starfleet crew and the Dominion, surprising as it was, meant you saw them more often. Or rather, you saw him. You learned from Chief O'Brien over supper in the mess hall that his name was Weyoun. A representative for the Dominion.
"Charming fellow," O’Brien muttered into his mug, "if you don’t mind someone smiling while planning your funeral."
You tried to keep your distance. Still, could anyone blame you? Enemy or not, it was something new. To have a whole new culture aboard their ship, waiting to be discovered. Watching the Jem’Hadar was fascinating in itself. They were rigid, controlled, yet at times almost childlike in their need for order. But the one who intrigued you most was the Vorta. He carried himself with poise, always smiling, but behind it, there was something else. A weariness he never let slip. Ennui, perhaps?
Whatever it was, it pulled you in like a magnet.
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You lingered by a corner of the mess hall, pretending to look over the replicator's menu, when in reality, the new company left you feeling restless. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Lt. Dax’s voice carried across the room as she described things she had learned about the Jem'Hadar to Lt. Commander Worf and Chief O’Brien that, frankly speaking, made you shiver a little.
Your stomach twisted as you tried not to stare at Weyoun sitting alone in the corner. He had that infuriating, patient smile. His eyes glued on Odo, who looked comically stiff. Weyoun looked, dare you think it, slightly pathetic. You stifled a laugh; it looked ridiculous, almost cartoonish, and unsettling, especially knowing who this Vorta represented.
When Weyoun seemed finally ready to eat, the Jem’Hadar came marching in with military precision. You saw Weyoun’s indulgent smirk disappear as he reached for the white dispenser on the table. With a sigh, he interrupted his meal to unlock it, passing out the next dose of White to the soldiers.
“First Omet’iklan, can you vouch for the loyalty of your men?” Weyoun asked, his voice wearisome but commanding.
“We pledge our loyalty to the Founders, from now until death,” the Jem’Hadar said in unison.
“Then receive this reward from the Founders. May it keep you strong.” Weyoun handed the White to them. As the ritual was completed, the soldiers’ eyes gleamed, renewed and terrifying.
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You felt the steady vibrations of the console under your hands as you leaned against it, eyes scanning the readouts and tracking the away teams as they approached the ziggurat on Vandros IV. You were tasked with monitoring the beam transporters in what you could only call a suicide mission. With a sigh, you remembered the altercation between Lt. Worf and one of First Omet’iklan's soldiers back at the mess hall. Plates clattered, chairs overturned as you pressed yourself as close to the wall as you could, willing yourself invisible. Now, there was a very real chance that they could wind up dead at the hands of either set of Jem'Hadar.
A quiet shuffle, the soft echo of footsteps, and a sigh drew your attention. You glanced up, and there was Weyoun, impeccably composed, hands clasped behind his back, observing the operation from the safety of the ship. His gaze swept over the screens; perhaps he hadn’t noticed you.
Your eyes wandered over to the Jem’Hadar at the monitor. They looked completely ready to die. You realized, too late, that you had said the thought out loud when Weyoun's head tilted towards you. Though his expression remained polite, the faint quirk of his brow showed surprise.
“My apologies,” you added quickly, “I forget myself. It is… interesting, watching them work. Not that I’d want the job.” Please, just shut up.
The Vorta's expression remained neutral, but the minute tilt of his lips and the way his posture straightened ever so slightly as he regarded you told a different story. He leaned closer.
“You have an observant eye,” he said, his voice smooth as silk.
Wait. Was he… humouring you?
You heard Omet'iklan's voice through the comms. Something about their weapons being sabotaged. You checked your display. Every weapon was functionally inert. Well, shit. Nothing you did seemed to work. You both could only watch as a team of Jem'Hadar materialized, ambushing the crew, who fought desperately.
“Your team is remarkably… resilient,” he said.
You blinked, startled that he was still speaking to you. “Yes, though I’m not sure I’d call it resilience. More… stubbornness.” You couldn't help but let exasperation creep through.
“I see. A trait common to your race, I presume?” A faint smile touched Weyoun’s lips. You instantly returned it.
You glanced at the tactical readouts, then back at him. “The Jem’Hadar really do throw themselves into missions, don’t they?”
“Yes,” Weyoun replied smoothly. “And even when ineffective, their efforts are… commendable,” after some hesitation, he said, “though one wonders how long such methods can endure.”
“I…” you shook your head, “sorry. I just can’t stop noticing the absurdities,” you somehow admitted, cheeks warming, “like the way you manage your soldiers. Perfectly polite, but clearly exhausted by them.”
He didn’t respond beyond a hum, only adjusting his pristine clothes. “Observant,” he said at last. “And unafraid to comment on matters beyond your… rank.” Weyoun’s lips curved just barely, your eyes meeting across the console for a fleeting moment, before his expression fell and he turned away. Way to kill a conversation.
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The exchange had been brief, but something about it lingered. Your mind replayed Weyoun's words over and over. Boy, had you taken a risk running your mouth like that. You didn’t know if it was fear, respect, or something else entirely. It didn’t help that you found him attractive.
…Fuck.
Maybe if you ignored it, it would just fade away.
The mission unfolded successfully. The ziggurat was destroyed, the gateway neutralized. As the away teams regrouped, Weyoun appeared again, a smile on his face and the White dispenser in hand. He moved toward the transporter pad, preparing to beam down. Before stepping aboard, he paused, his gaze flicking briefly to you across the console.
“Officer,” Weyoun said, “it has been enlightening observing your perspective today. I hope the Federation and the Dominion may find ways to work together again.”
The attentiveness in his tone, even if it was fake, and the understated charm of the words made your cheeks burn. You tried to keep your composure, but the smile Weyoun gave you before stepping onto the pad made it a very difficult task. What on earth was happening here?
“You, uh, you've also been helpful,” you managed to murmur.
Weyoun inclined his head slightly, ever the picture of refinement. “I trust we shall meet again, under less… perilous circumstances.” You could only nod in response.
And with that, the transporter activated, and Weyoun vanished from view, leaving the echo of his presence and an inexplicable warmth you couldn’t quite explain.
It was stupid the way you were feeling flustered. But more so, it was stupid feeling hopeful. As if seeing him again wouldn't mean that the Dominion would follow through with their pretenses.
After some time, you activated the transport pad, watching as the Starfleet crew was beamed up one by one. Relief settled over your shoulders like a warm weight.
Then you heard it. One of the crewmen was muttering under his breath. “You can’t trust those Jem’Hadar… they’d shoot one of their own without a second thought.”
You thought, surely, they meant the rebels. But upon hearing him describe what happened, your stomach twisted. They were talking about Weyoun. Dead. Just like that.
You forced yourself not to react, not even a flinch.
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Later, on the station, the celebration at Quark’s was in full swing. Laughter and the clink of glasses surrounded you. Everyone was filled with relief at another mission was successful. You were too, but your smiles were stiff, your laughter measured.
Weyoun's death left you with the ghost of a question of what might have been. Relief curled inside your chest, but it mingled with a quiet, unspoken loss you didn’t yet know how to name. On the bright side, there would be no need to untangle these feelings. Not now. Not ever.
“Hey, you okay?” a crewman asked, nudging your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you said, forcing it into your tone. “Just… taking it all in.”
You nursed a drink, intending to drown your thoughts in its warmth. Ironically enough, the liquid was a deep shade of violet. How ironic. You stared into it, the color glowing faintly in the dim light, as you felt both the comfort and the sting of memory. Surrounded by so many, you could only let the memory linger between the laughter and the clinking glasses, sharp and quietly insistent. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to wonder.