Deep down, maybe buried too far for even *him* to see, I wonder if he thinks I'm ugly? Even though I know he'd deny it, that it's my own insecurity, I can't help wondering if the difference between us sometimes bothers him. For all I know, it could plague him constantly.

God! How can I even think he'd be that shallow? Jumping to conclusions about him is always a bad idea because he never reacts to anything the way you think he might. Keeping some perspective, considering who he is, is just so damn hard sometimes. Like trying to indefinitely hold water in cupped hands.... My calm, clinical training deserts me and I know. Nothing will matter should he decide to leave me.

Oh, I suppose I'd carry on: pick up the pieces and show the world a brave face.

Quit the melodrama! Really, it doesn't suit you. Such craziness, anyway, to torture yourself with the thing you fear almost more than anything else. This terror is unfounded --- at least that's what I want to believe, despite his half truths and outright lies.

Under the standard Star Fleet issue bedclothes, he stirs. Very blue eyes are suddenly upon me. When a strong Cardassian arm snakes around me, I surrender immediately.

"You awake?" he mutters and I know it's a query as to why I am.

Zillions of snappy, sarcastic replies are usually on the tip of my tongue but at this moment, because of the look in his eyes, slowly clearing of sleep's fog , the feel of that slow heartbeat against mine, they all fail me.

As he sighs, he pulls me even closer.

"Back to sleep, my love," Elim Garak whispers against my ear.

"Carry me there," I reply and press myself against his smooth, dry skin, warm with the heat of us both.
 

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