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icykalisartblog · 3 years

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A Dayoun Drabble: “Aged”

Synopsis: In which Damar thinks about ageing and is trounced by his vastly-older partner. I guess this was inspired by those scenes about Bashir’s birthday from “Distant Voices!” Also on AO3.

@evenmyhivemindisempty because I know you enjoyed my Damar POV!

Aged

Damar's first speech as a Legate was invigorating. He felt a tingle in his blood that rivaled the effects of kanar, and it was mostly because he was finally able to recite his own words instead of having to listen to Dukat grandstanding and butchering his meticulous compositions. But Damar's good mood was soon torpedoed by faint praise from Dukat: "The role of legate suits you, Damar. Though I'll stick with the rank of gul. You know I prefer action." Damar gnashed his teeth as he walked back to his quarters, cursing his cowardice. He should have struck back with, "Is that why you almost blew up a ship with your daughter and me on board?" but had held his tongue because he was a miserable wretch who had only risen in the ranks because he was the good, efficient Cardassian in the eyes of their Dominion handlers.

He put his hand to the panel with more force than intended and then walked inside without waiting for the door to slide open all the way. The heady smell of fermented fish touched him as he entered and he almost let it whisk him away to happier times of bars in the capital before he shook his head, rejecting the nostalgia. A table had been set in the middle of the room, with one heaping plate of dumplings on one side presumably for him, while Weyoun sat across from it with his own, an expectant grin on his face.

Damar sighed. Why not take the bait? Things could not get any worse. “What is this ab—”

“Happy birthday, Damar.”

“What?”

Weyoun tilted his head to the side. “Did you forget your own birthday? How sad.” But he was still grinning. He motioned for Damar to sit.

Damar scowled deeply. Weyoun never bothered to pretend to be sympathetic in private, and Damar had no reason to bother masking his displeasure in return.

When Damar made no move to take a seat, Weyoun leaned back in his chair, eyes sorrowful enough to make him look like a kicked riding hound puppy. "And here I thought you liked these. Your psychographic profile mentioned you cried again and again when you couldn't afford any at the street vendors in your youth."

Damar sat down, struggling to keep stone-faced. He was not going to give Weyoun the satisfaction of being tackled—not that Damar had ever been skilled in that tradition anyway. Suffering Weyoun's continued presence was the first thing to give him the energy to try, and he still failed to muster up the required aggression. Even worse, as soon as he sat down and he saw Weyoun's grin, he knew he had done exactly what Weyoun had wanted him to do. But Damar’s stomach won out over his battered pride, as it always did, and he picked up his glass. He paused and did not take a sip. “This isn’t even a drink, Weyoun. This is fish sauce.”

“Is it? I thought it was the fish juice your people are fond of.” Weyoun stared into his own glass. “That would explain why it was so thick,” he mused. He picked up the glass and had the nerve to take a swig of it without flinching.

“Do you want me to eat or projectile vomit? I won’t do both.” Damar poured some of the sauce he had been served over the dumplings. The translucent brown over the pale dumpling skins actually made a pretty picture, but the knowledge that Weyoun would not be able to comprehend that made him quash the thought.

Weyoun regarded him with his mouth open partway and gave him that aside glance he always utilized when he thought Damar had said something particularly stupid. “If you aren’t brave enough, I’ll make a substitution.” He got out of his chair and sank down to the floor, pulling the tablecloth aside and taking something from under the dining table. He emerged with a bottle and two new, clear glasses. He popped open the bottle and poured out the liquid inside, then handed Damar a glass.

The delicate, floral bouquet took caught Damar off-guard. “Is this k’hava wine? Why are you giving me this?”

“It’s your birthday. You’ve taken one step closer to being middle-aged. You gave your first address to your homeworld as legate,” Weyoun said. “I’m just doing my job. It’s my duty to ease these transitions. And what better way to ease yours and celebrate another year of your life than with something of a higher caliber than the swill you’re always guzzling?”

He knew Weyoun was playing the game, being opaque, but hearing about his “duty” still hurt. Damar took a sip to hide his grimace. The wine tasted like a sunny day. “You wouldn’t know quality if it boxed those good ears of yours.”

Weyoun moved his hand in tight circles, watching and listening to the wine in motion. He smiled slightly, probably because he already knew he was the victor, and Damar knew if they had been in public Weyoun would have made a show of chuckling or grinning. Here, he knew he did not have to. In the negative space of Weyoun’s smile Damar could perceive the ravages of his own age, but the little wrinkles around Weyoun’s eyes were making an appearance as well. A pulse of warmth shot through Damar’s chest despite the fact that the wrinkles showed up whether or not Weyoun’s happiness was fake—he was such a skilled performer—and Damar refused to continue down that line of thought and instead dove into his dumplings and stress-ate. Stress-eating, stress-fucking—really, any action Damar took could be prefaced with “stress-” and it would be accurate. From experience, Damar knew it was difficult to eat and cry at the same time, and thus one could help stave off the other.

The repulsive noises Weyoun made as he squished the soft insides of a dumpling and contrasted it with the crispy seams kicked Damar out of his miserable reverie. He knew Weyoun was probably tormenting him on purpose over his past snoring problem, but that just encouraged Damar to retaliate by flicking his tongue into the k'hava wine and slurping it up like a child.

“Clearly, Damar, you’re the one who doesn’t know how to handle quality,” Weyoun said. He cocked his head to the side. “...Which would explain why you never know what to do with me.”

“I know enough to treat you with contempt, you regnar.”

Weyoun did chuckle that time, highlighting his wrinkles again.

Before Weyoun could return to eating loudly—if his ears were so sharp, how could he bear it when even Damar found the sounds sickening?—Damar asked, “How old are you, Weyoun? Based on your looks, you’ve made it to being middle-aged already.”

“Damar, you were present when this body was activated. Really, the Cardassian eidetic memory must not be as impressive as your people claim—”

“Shut up,” he snapped, only to immediately realize he had been the one to ask Weyoun a question and that telling him to be quiet just made himself look even more like an idiot. “I don’t mean your body. I mean… how long your line of clones has been around. And what about your wrinkles? Are they for show, or…?”

“Although initially these features were bestowed upon me by the Founders because many species prefer to interact with a diplomat with life experience, I have since earned my wrinkles many times over.” Weyoun was always excited to discuss himself. “The Weyoun progenitor was activated over one thousand seven hundred years ago.”

Damar choked and spat out a half-eaten dumpling. He knew he must have been wide-eyed and reeling based on Weyoun’s smirk. Damar barely bit back on the urge to blurt out another stupid exclamation along the lines of “That’s a long time” and instead said, “And… do you remember what you were like before your body was engineered by the Founders? Do you ever dream about being a tree-dwelling creature or something?”

Weyoun hummed quizzically as he played with his food. “I think you misunderstand the situation. I was never primitive, and I was not one of the first Vorta to be created. The Weyoun line was created during a period in which the Founders paused their exploration of the universe and focused their attention inward. I was blessed with being activated on their homeworld, the birthplace of gods.” He pressed his fingers into the dumpling skin, breaching it and spilling its contents over his plate.

Damar swallowed hard. “Did you ever visit the Vorta’s homeworld?”

“I have, on several occasions. It’s often used as a place to monitor alien species and determine if they would make valuable Dominion allies. If you’re curious, much of the planet is covered by deciduous forest.”

“But you don’t consider it a home. And you don’t think of the Founders’ home planet as your home, either.” He knew the answer, but voiced it as a formality.

“It would be difficult to consider any one place my home when my assignments are temporary. This conflict with the Federation has caused this particular mission to last far longer than usual.” He leaned over his plate, as if he could fortune tell with it. Without his disaffected mask, the unimaginable exhaustion weighing him down was obvious. “And it would be arrogant of me to consider my place at the Founder’s side a home,” he added, quietly.

What had Damar been thinking earlier, nearly crying at the dinner table? He was the arrogant one. Yes, having a birthday feast without family made a mockery of tradition and made him feel like an exile. Throughout his life Damar had done nothing but fail upward, losing home, love, and family as he rose in the ranks. But he had still had them to lose. Whereas Weyoun had been alive for almost two thousand years and had survived without them. For a Cardassian, that was not even living at all. Weyoun had no home, and had dealt with being continually uprooted. Most people hated him, and not just because diplomats were eminently hateable. And without love, he had no hope of being part of a family. Yet despite everything, Weyoun remained a beacon of strength, finding space to play despite being enslaved and indoctrinated, always ready to crush any opponent in an argument, and eager to leave Damar feeling shaken, terrified, and in love. Damar was left in awe of his power.

“You certainly made quick work of that.” Weyoun gestured to Damar’s plate. It was empty, and Damar had not even noticed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to binge,” Damar muttered.

Weyoun shrugged. “It only makes sense. I'm not offended in the slightest. Here, take some of mine.” He slid his plate across the table.

“B-But you barely had any! You need to eat some too.” He did not think Weyoun knew what he had been mulling over, but under that scrutinizing gaze anything seemed possible.

“Actually, I don't. The Vorta metabolize food rather slowly. I've been eating at this pace to feel the textures and to indulge in your dining tradition. Though your concern is touching.” He picked up his glass of fish sauce, and downed it all, leaving himself as unctuous as his demeanor. “I should be full now if I wasn’t before!”

Damar heaved a sigh. “I know I should be used to this by now, but it is shocking to watching you drink things like that... and I drink a lot.” After a moment’s hesitation, he plucked a dumpling from Weyoun’s plate. He hoped the k’hava wine Weyoun was sipping would make it less disgusting to kiss him later, because he was definitely going to be kissing him after dinner was over. Even though it hurt, he made eye contact with him and said, “Weyoun, I’m glad we met. You know that, don’t you?”

Weyoun blinked. “Of course I do. Why, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

For Weyoun's sake, Damar did not argue. Instead, he let himself flush blue and then kept eating, providing Weyoun with an interesting array of sounds. Damar could never have asked for a better birthday.

#dayoun #damar #Weyoun #This was supposed to be a fluffy drabble about Weyoun's wrinkles #but Damar is so miserable and pathetic that it turned angsty #IcyKali's Writing

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