A/N: So...a few months ago, I invited a few friends of my story Somewhere I Have Never Travelled to select certain chapters from the story that they wanted to see written from Khan's perspective. This is the first that I have actually managed to finish (others will be coming!). I will try to keep them fairly chronological, but no promises! I do promise though that I will clearly label them to avoid as much confusion as possible.

The following is Chapter 10 from SIHNT from His Majesty's perspective. Amusingly enough, I was SUPPOSED to have written Chapter 11 instead...however, when I posted this to tumblr a while back, the reception was fairly good. So I decided to just go with it!

And to the ladies involved in choosing the chapters (and you know who you are!)...keep heart! I haven't forgotten! You shall have your chapters yet! ;)

Thanks, as always, to my beta, my sister, my friend, Xaraphis. You're the bestest baby sis in the whole wide world.

Chapter 10

He woke with a shout, bolting upright, limbs tangled in sweat-drenched sheets. Heart hammering violently in his chest as he stared unseeingly into the darkness, Khan fought against the last, fading echoes of his dreams.

Dreams…nightmares…

Like nightly plagues, they haunted him. Images of suffering. Of blood. Of fire and pain and swift, violent death. They looped through his mind like a film reel, endless possibilities clawing at his insides and leaving him raw, wrecked. Khan brought his hands to his face, pressing the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, fingers curling painfully into his hair, his scalp. He embraced the sting, welcomed the pain – sharp and clean as it licked along his nerves, burning through the sickening taint of lingering fears.

You cross me, Khan, and I'll end them. I'll kill every…single…one of them and you better believe I'll make you watch.

Those words, sneering and hard, seared through him, taunting and lashing in equal measure. It was too much. He needed to move – to breathe – lest the storm of his anger shatter the control that he fought so hard to maintain. Throwing himself from the bed, he began to pace, bare feet silent against the chill floor, his hands in his hair, gripping hard as he fought to leash his fury.

Too soon, he was at the far side of the room, the wall looming up before him and making his anger burn all the hotter. He spun round, growling and stalked back the way he had come. He hated this room, these quarters – hated everything about this future he had been thrust into. Nothing but steel and glass, cold and frustratingly utilitarian where he longed for the warm, sumptuous opulence of a long gone past.

He ached for the scalding heat of a noonday sun and the lazy warmth of a moonlit night. For soaring palaces of intricately carved sandstone with wide floors of cool, white marble, shot through with veins of gold. For the tactile delight of smooth silks and rough brocades against his skin. For air sweetened by the perfume of jasmine and champa and spiced by the mingled scents of cardamom and clove, cinnamon and coriander.

He longed for the familiar, for home, with a bitter intensity that was difficult enough to swallow on a good day. Now, that yearning swelled to bursting inside of him, stealing his breath as he stumbled to a stop, the walls suddenly pressing in on him.

The room was too small, too close and he made for the door, seeking the relative comfort of the far larger – though no less utilitarian – lounge beyond. Stopping in the middle of the room, he braced himself on the sleek, squared back of the chair nearest to him with one long fingered hand. He sucked in long, deep breaths, allowing each one to escape slowly from between his pursed lips, feeling the constriction in his chest loosen with every exhalation.

It was a relief – the openness of the space around him, the chill of the empty air against his heated skin – and he took it in, soaked it up. Finally, feeling slightly less caged, he pushed himself away from the chair and began to pace again. Up and down the room he stalked, arms held behind his back, hands clasped together tight. His eyes stared blankly forward, boring into the darkness that he could see through as plainly as daylight and yet seeing nothing of the room around him.

The film reel in his head was turning again, spinning out images behind his eyes – scenes from the past, faces that he had not seen in hundreds – hundreds! – of years. They were all there in his mind's eye, exactly as they had been when last he saw them. But those diamond bright memories were a sword that cut both ways, deeply. Blessing, yes; but so too a curse like no other. They were all there, in flawless detail. Every man who had been his brother, every woman who had been his sister – they formed ranks in his mind, their eyes on him, a twisting kaleidoscope of disapproval. He could hear them too – a cacophony of tones and timbres as their voices swirled around one another, combined and then raised as one…paralyzing him…accusing him…

Condemning him.

You failed us.

Letting out a sharp, snarling growl, Khan struck out blindly. His fist slammed hard into the nearest surface, the groan and grind of bowing metal loud in the silence. Standing there – his mind gone gloriously blank for the moment – he blinked hard, banishing a burn from his eyes. A burn which he refused to call tears.

Not out of shame, that denial – no, never that. Tears had their place and their time. But this…this was neither.

Straightening, he turned his eyes to the wall in front of him, his lips thinning unhappily when he saw just what had borne the brunt of his outburst. He eased his hand from the twisted wreckage, examining his undamaged knuckles perfunctorily before returning his attention to the mess that he had made.

The food synthesizer would not, he feared, be useful for synthesizing much of anything any longer.

With a sigh, Khan turned, eyes drawn to the door that led to the other room of the flat– her door. Lieutenant Rebecca Duval. His keeper.

She was going to be quite irritatingly put out when she discovered that he had ruined the source of her morning coffee. Guilt, faint but unmistakable, stirred in his gut, inconvenient and galling. He did not want to care in the slightest about her inevitable disappointment. That he did was irritating enough; that the catalyst in this case was something as ridiculous as a cup of coffee made the whole thing infinitely worse.

A muffled sound from within her room caught his ear and he went still, eyes riveted to her door. Another low hum sounded then – a sleepy murmur that faded away into a gentle sigh, the cadence of her breath soft and delicate and already far too familiar. He took an irresistible step forward, listening intently…but after several long moments of silence, his tension eased.

Still asleep.

And, as she had been accumulating a rather impressive sleep debt of late, likely to remain so for several more hours at least.

Turning slightly, he shifted his gaze from her door to the synthesizer and then back again.

He supposed that he could attempt to repair the damage his carelessness had wrought. He glanced toward his room, lips pressing together into a thin, contemplative line as he considered it. He did have a veritable cornucopia of parts and pieces stockpiled in his room – every spare drawer teeming with various bits and bobs, supplies necessary for those times when he could not bear to face the false-bright torrent of 23rd century life beyond their door. He looked back to the synthesizer, eyes narrowed, head tilted to the side.

Perhaps, if repair proved feasible, he might even attempt to improve its functionality...

Either way, he would have made the effort. She would appreciate that at the very least.

As he made his way back into his room, already assembling a mental checklist of potentially useful items, he very consciously chose not to reflect on just how far he had fallen.

"What did you do?"

His jaw clenched, the honest dismay in her voice sparking that tiny flame of guilt anew. He lowered his head and gave a particularly rough twist to the bolt he was tightening on the very large weapon resting across his lap. "You are referring, I assume, to the synthesizer…"

"You killed it," she cut in, accusation thick in her deceptively sweet voice. "Why would you kill our synthesizer?"

She sounded so thrown – so wholly perplexed – that his guilt swelled. As it swelled, so too did his disgust. Bad enough that he had been bested by that pitiful excuse for technology; now he wanted nothing more than to apologize for it.

How far the mighty had fallen, indeed.

"I was testing a hypothesis."

Khan took some small comfort from the fact that he at least sounded unaffected.

"The last time you did that, I spent two days in a coma."

It was astounding to him sometimes, how sharp that habitually soft drawl could go when provoked. In fact, the same could be said of the woman in her entirety – she could be…impressive in her anger. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder in her boots, but she loomed far larger in the landscape of his mind.

Of course, she also suffered the most appalling tendency toward exaggeration. Far better to focus on that.

"Specious," he barked, "and hyperbolic besides – you were not, in fact, in a coma." He cranked the bolt again, old guilt compounding with new and making him very much want to break something. "And while your temporary incapacitation was regrettable, it was hardly the intended outcome. It was merely an unavoidable side-effect of my end goal, which was, I might add, achieved to the satisfaction of all involved."

He did not look up, keeping his eyes firmly on the prototype in his lap, though he could feel her looking at him – glaring at him, more like, if the weight of that gaze was anything to go by. He could picture the arch of her dark brow in his mind's eye – the left, always the left – and the precise jut of her pointed chin. If there was one expression that he had grown familiar with over the weeks of their association, it was most assuredly her glare.

"So is that," he could see the angry motion of her head toward the synthesizer at the very edge of his periphery, "another regrettably unavoidable side-effect? Because if that was your end goal…"

"It is hardly my fault," he snapped, his temper boiling over ever so slightly, "that the machine was in such ill-repair." He lowered the ratchet, head coming up and eyes meeting hers over the top of the counter that stood between them. She was a mess – dark circles beneath her eyes, uniform shirt wrinkled, hair tied into a drooping, half-hearted knot at the back of her head, a single tendril hanging lower than the rest. He followed the fall of that lone curl, tracing it as it kissed the delicate skin beneath her jaw. It would be soft, he imagined. Soft and warm; a tactile haven, so very different from the rest of this austere existence he had been thrust into. His fingers clenched around the wrench, which bowed slightly in his grasp as he forced his gaze back to her face.

She was a mess – and he was a man whose entire existence had been spent in strictly regimented order.

And yet…

He had never realized just how tempting disorder could be…

Giving himself a sharp mental shake, Khan lifted his chin, pushing those horribly inconvenient thoughts to the wayside. "I had intended," he continued, irritated by his momentary distraction, "to improve its function, as per your contention that its performance was less than it should have been. No sooner had I set to work when the entire system shorted out."

He dropped his head, fingers flicking sullenly at the quick release on the back of the ratchet. "Yet another example of substandard engineering in a facility full of them."

It was true enough – had the machine been better built, he might have had some chance of actually repairing it. But it had been beyond saving, despite his best intentions. He saw no need to mention any more than that. As he had done away with all the damaged bits when it became clear the machine was destined for the scrap heap, she would certainly never be the wiser.

Based on the pointed silence that met his last words, he counted himself wise for staying silent on that score. It appeared that the temper he seemed so peculiarly gifted at provoking had fuel enough as it was without adding his own culpability to the fire.

"You kept me up until nearly dawn," she drawled, her accent blunting what her frustration had honed. His eyes drifted back up to her, reading the tension around her mouth and the glint of fire in her eyes. "You've kept me up until nearly dawn every night for over a week. I'm at the mercy of your genes and your genius and between the two of them, I'm just about to the end of my rope. I'm doing my absolute best to deal with all of this, but that's going to be so much harder to manage if I can't even get…"

"…your morning coffee." He dropped his eyes once more, seating the socket on yet another bolt and giving it a crank – reluctant to draw attention to the uncharacteristic surge of generosity that had seen him navigating the chaos of the mess hall less than an hour ago. "I am well aware of your habits at this point, Lieutenant. If you had bothered to look beyond the synthesizer, you would have seen the cup of coffee that I procured from the mess this morning."

Determinedly not looking at her, he focused on the weapon in his lap. The silence stretched, and for several moments, he heard nothing at all. Then, in swift succession came the light shuffle of her step as she moved to the table, the lap of the coffee against the sides of the cup when she took it in hand and then, once more…silence.

Silence where there should have been the atrociously uncouth slurp that heralded her very first sip of a fresh cup of coffee.

Khan frowned, popping the socket off the wrench and plucking the next size up from the heap of tools laid out around him on the floor. "It is prepared to your liking," he assured, fitting the new socket onto the drive before setting to work at a new line of bolts. "Or as close as may be – the synthesizer in the mess was not programmed for chicory coffee."

Silence. And then…

"You really do pay attention, don't you?"

He stopped, ratchet pausing mid-turn, and looked up at her. Her expression was guarded, as usual, though he was pleased to detect a hint of real surprise in the tiny gather between her brows and the slight part of her lips. Thoroughly proud of himself for eliciting even that much of a reaction from her, he let his inappropriately good humor show on his face. He arched a brow, smirk tugging at the right hand corner of his mouth.

It would likely result in yet another of those slit-eyed glares she so favored, but he could not bring himself to care. From nearly the first moment he had laid eyes upon her, she had been knocking him back on his heels with maddening regularity – it was heartening to know that he might, in fact, be capable of returning the favor every now and again. For that, he would suffer her ire gladly.

But then, in true Lieutenant Rebecca Duval fashion, she defied his expectations yet again. Rather than the sharpness he had anticipated, her lips curved up into a bright but tentative grin. There was something so hesitantly delightedin her face – so unexpectedly sweet – that it triggered a rush of warmth in his chest, a surge of something dangerously akin to fondness.

And it felt good. Worse still…he rather liked it.

"Right," she said, her nose crinkling in an absurdly appealing way, "stupid question." She lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip – slurped a sip – and he watched the pleased lift of her brows with resigned satisfaction.

Because he did, in fact, pay attention. In this case, too well.

She lowered the cup, eyes meeting his once more and the grin on her face widened as she started toward him. "Stop fishing for compliments," she said primly. "You know it's perfect."

Yes, he did.

"Obviously. But I do so enjoy leaving you no choice but to admit it, Lieutenant."

She sauntered past him, the swing of her hips drawing his eye before he caught himself and forced his gaze back to his lap, annoyed afresh by this truly tiresome fascination with her. He heard her crawl into her customary chair across from him, followed immediately by the sound of her taking a sip from the cup in her hands.

"Here's a thought," she said after a moment of silence, pausing once the words were out to take another, longer gulp of her coffee. "As this is the one place on this heap that we can speak freely, how 'bout we leave the titles at the door from now on, huh?"

It was, yet again, not at all what he had expected her to say and he jerked his head up, the movement sending a lock of hair tumbling into his eyes. He watched her from beneath it for a moment, taking in the sight of her, so small against the bulk of the chair. "I suppose," he said, flicking the curl away impatiently when it caught against one of his lashes, "that we are sufficiently acquainted to allow for such liberties," he paused, considered, "Miss Duval."

He frowned, not at all pleased with the sound of that particular address, no matter how correct. It somehow sounded even more formal than her rank – and he found that, despite his misgivings, he was growing less and less interested in maintaining the formalities where she was concerned. To his relief, she grimaced, clearly liking it no better than he had.

"Yeah…I had something a bit less formal in mind. Though I do suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to read a Jane Austen novel."

Surprised by her yet again, Khan lifted a brow, heartened to find ever greater depths beneath the Section 31 mantle that she cloaked herself in. "I have always preferred the Bronte's myself," he admitted, excited at the prospect of a conversation that had nothing at all to do with weapons. "Wuthering Heights in particular has always been a favorite of mine."

It had been, he realized at that moment, an extraordinarily long time since last he'd had the pleasure of good company and quiet conversation. That he should find both here and with her of all people…

Dangerous, he recognized. It was dangerous how contented he felt.

Her entire face scrunched, her opinion of his preference clear. "I hate that book," she declared with that unapologetic bluntness that he found far more charming than he should. "It's a long, miserable read made even more long and miserable by the fact that there isn't a single likable character in the whole miserable bunch. Give me Jane Eyre any day."

He matched her distaste with his own, frowning at her pointedly. "While there is absolutely nothing at all long or miserable about that novel."

"Oh, please," she dismissed, her elbows propped on her knees as she leaned forward in her chair, all bounce and eagerness as she grinned down at him, "there's no comparison. If nothing else, Jane Eyre at least has a happy ending."

Khan leaned back, resting more fully against the edge of the sofa behind him. "And you require a happy ending in your literature?"

That earned him a look of amused incredulity, arched brows nearly meeting across the bridge of her nose. "Well…yeah. I'm already well aware of how awful and unfair life can be. Why the hell would I want to read a book that's sole purpose is to remind me of that?"

He nodded once, aiming a knowing smile her way. "An escapist reader, then. No doubt your bookshelves are teeming with dog-eared Tolkien's…" the words died on his tongue, remembrance– a vicious knife – stabbing at him cruelly. The differences between the world he had awoken to and the world that he still considered his own were vast…and it was often the simplest of those differences that he found the most difficult to reconcile.

"That is," he continued gruffly, "if anyone even keeps bookshelves any longer. Far more likely that your library is neatly contained on your personal PADD, I suppose."

"Most of it is," she said airily, "but not all. I actually have a decent collection of antique books that I've put together over the years. There's something, I don't know…soothing, I guess, about an actual, physical book in your hands. I know I'm solidly in the minority on that nowadays, but I'd give up the clothes on my back before I gave up my books," she paused, grin turning coy, "and that includes every single one of my very dog-eared Tolkein's."

And just that quickly, the raw ache in the center of his chest dulled, the keenness of his loss made somehow more bearable by the burgeoning amity in her eyes.

There was something horribly unsettling about Lieutenant Duval. Something that defied even his extraordinary powers of observation.

She was watching him now, green eyes meeting his without hesitation – an audacious refusal to retreat that she had exhibited from nearly the first moment of their acquaintance. As had been the case all along, he could read very little of her thoughts in the depths of that almost too direct gaze and it frustrated and intrigued him in equal measures.

She met him as if he were any other man, unimpressed entirely by the supremacy bred into his very bones. He was unaccustomed to such easy candor; to her casual assumption of – and demand for – parity. Watching her now, seeing her watch him right back, he felt his interest piqued in a way it had not been for far longer than he cared to admit.

In a way that should have been nearly unconscionable to him.

Once, so long ago now, when he had commanded the fealty of millions, there had been no one – man or woman; human or Augment alike – who would have dared presume to engage him as their equal. More than that, he would have suffered no fool stupid enough to attempt it. Yet now, here sat this utterly fallible creature, this mere slip of a thing who gave like for like and challenged him at every turn…

…and all he could think of was how very green her eyes looked as she stared down at him…

Imperial jade, his mind named the shade before he could stop himself and almost as if she had heard him, her eyes widened and her lips parted and the air around them electrified.

Blood roaring in his ears, Khan felt the determination to keep his distance begin to wither and a new, far more precarious notion rise up to take its place.

"We have strayed rather far afield from the impetus of this conversation," he said, eyes locked on hers, heat singing through his veins as her pupils dilated, black nearly swallowing all of that glorious green. "As fascinating as an examination of your literary preferences and reading habits would undoubtedly prove, I must insist that it become a topic for another day. You have piqued my interest, you see, and I find myself…curious. What would you have me call you, Lieutenant Duval? Shall I follow the inestimable Commander Vazquez's lead? Shall I call you…Becca?"

He knew the answer even before she flinched away from the name; had known it from the moment it had first been spoken in his presence.

"But no," he continued, silencing her denial, "that would never do. I have seen your face when the good Commander wields that weapon of past camaraderie against you; seen you wince every time the diminutive trips off his blundering, oblivious tongue. You despise that name. Is that not so…Rebecca?"

It was not the first time that name had passed his lips, but it was the first time he had meant it when he said it. There was a lushness to it, the syllables a treat – a delicacy – as they rolled off of his tongue and over his lips.

And her reaction…

She was leaning forward in her chair now, fear battling hunger in her gaze; short, shaky breaths puffing unsteadily from between slightly parted lips. Her chest rose and fell in fits and starts and her fingers clenched convulsively against the cup that she was gripping tight between both hands.

He found himself tensing as he waited for her response, his own pulse rate increasing as he watched the jump and thrum of hers along the side of her neck. She sucked in a breath and his eyes shot up to her mouth, anticipation surging like lightning down every nerve and his own breath catching as she parted her lips to say…

The high, piercing warble of her communicator shattered the moment, the pieces of which had not even finished settling around them before she was throwing herself backward into her chair, a look of mortified horror on her face. As he watched, she clawed at her pocket with her free hand, coffee spilling everywhere as all of that lovely heat he had been enjoying froze over, leaving him cold once more.

"Duval," she shrieked into the device once it was in her hand, looking everywhere but at him now.

"Lieutenant, I need to see you. Immediately."

Khan's mood plummeted and his temper spiked – Rafael Vazquez. Of course.

The man's timing was truly impeccable.

"Aye, sir," she barked out, nodding, a faint frown hovering at the corners of her mouth. "I just woke up, so if you don't mind…"

"My office, Duval," the Commander cut her off, voice sharp, "five minutes. No excuses. Am I clear?"

"Crystal, sir," she said, her frown deepening. "Weird," she murmured, clicking the communicator shut.

He watched, fury simmering beneath his skin, as she practically threw herself out of her chair, gaze distant – every inch the Section 31 Agent. Everything from only moments before had been wiped clean from her face, her expression falling into the false mildness that set his teeth on edge. Without a word, she turned her back on him, dropping her cup absently and heading for the door, never even glancing his direction.

Dismissed.

The word echoed through his mind, infuriating him. Hands fisting, he stared straight ahead at the far wall of the room, refusing – refusing – to let his eyes trail after her. How dare she.

How dare she dismiss him. Him.

The nerve of the woman – the sheer audacity of her. Who was she to…

"I'd like that, by the way."

Her voice, soft and uncertain, broke through the haze of his anger and he snapped his eyes to the side, his turn to glare at her for once. "What?"

She turned then, glancing at him over her shoulder, lines of strain bracketing her mouth and shadows gathering in her eyes, dulling their sparkle.

"If you would call me Rebecca," she said quietly, the words heavy with tension that she was trying very hard not to show. "I'd like that."

And then she was gone, bolting from the room before he had even begun to form a reply. Staring at the door long after it had closed behind her, he sucked in a long, deep breath and then blew it out in a huff. He lifted his hand to his head and raked it through his hair, frustration quickly becoming an almost permanent barb beneath his skin.

Blowing out a furious breath, he dropped his head back onto the seat of the sofa behind him, neck stretching as he glared up at the ceiling above him. She was maddening. Enraging. Completely and utterly vexatious.

With a growl, he brought his hands up to scrub at his face, wishing it were so easy to blot out the image of her demurely lowered lashes, so dark against the paleness of her skin.

I'd like that.

Another growl and he launched himself forward, hands seeking the comforting familiarity of the weapon he had abandoned in his rush to focus on her. Now, he caught it up to him gratefully, desperate for the distraction it offered. He wanted – needed – to focus on the immediate. On the tangible.

What he certainly did not need was to think about how deliciously her name had rolled of his tongue…

…call me Rebecca

…or about how he very much longed to taste its sweetness again…

I'd like that.

It was nearly an hour later that the outer door hissed open and her light, lithe tread thudded across the threshold. Khan did not look up from what he was doing – it had taken him far longer than it should have to regain his equanimity following her earlier departure; he was in no great rush to subject himself to the chaotic whirlwind of her presence yet again. Instead, he squared his shoulders and kept his eyes fixed determinedly upon where he was tightening the firing spring to adjust the trigger sensitivity.

He could feel her eyes on him – a quick shift of his own and he knew that she was standing just across the room from him, her black boots hovering just within his periphery. Her attention was an itch at the back of his neck, down his spine…but he was painfully well aware that no amount of scratching would offer relief.

Though, I suppose that rather depends upon the sort of scratching one is engaging in...

Khan grimaced at that, hunching himself even further over the weapon in his lap and recalling with bitter longing a time when his mind had not been ravaged by such banal absurdity. When war, strategy and politics had been the driving force behind even his most idle thoughts, leaving little room for the sort of snickering, puerile lechery that had spawned such a thought.

His fingers twitched, pinching hard against the spring wedged between this thumb and forefinger and he could feel the small twist of metal flatten out between them. He grit his teeth, ire flaring hotly at the unintended destruction of the part. Apparently, his descent into mediocrity knew no bounds.

After another moment of silence, he saw her take a single, decisive step forward but still kept his head stubbornly down. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, she would read his reluctance and simply go away. He was in no mood for conversation; had no desire to make nice. If she would not heed the warnings implicit in both his silence and his body language then more fool her.

"Does that thing work?"

The question, doubtful to the point of insult – particularly given his less than charitable state of mind – chafed his already inflamed temper. "Of course it does," he snapped, tipping his head up to lob a glare her way.

He looked back down quickly, irritated all over again at the sudden concern that flared up in his chest, just beneath his simmering ill-humor. She was troubled; he could see it in the tiny frown that sat just between her brows. Glaring now at the weapon in his lap, he willed the unease away, wanting precisely none of it.

"Right," she said softly, apologetically, "of course it does. Because you're utterly brilliant and I am, I promise you, well aware of that fact. But could you do me a favor? Could you just…humor me for a minute, please?"

She had moved toward him as she spoke and now those small, slim feet were just before him; he slid his eyes up the curve of her boot, lingering on the flare of her calf. Her words plucked at his grudging unease and the pleading with which they were spoken dispelled the worst of his ill-temper, despite his grasping attempts to hold onto it. Finally, he shifted his eyes up to her face, resigned. "Proceed."

Her eyes brightened, birthing an answering swell of warmth in his chest and he knew – without a shadow of a doubt – that he was in grave danger of committing a truly stupid error.

"When you say 'of course it does'," she said, squatting down before him, frowning thoughtfully as she reached out to skate her fingers across the surface of the weapon lying across his thighs, "does that mean we could take it out and shoot it right now and it would work exactly the way your big, bad brain intends for it to work? Or 'of course it does' as in it will work eventually, once you've fiddled with it for another couple of days and worked out all the kinks?"

"Ah, I see." He was watching her fingers trail back and forth over the body of the weapon, captivated by the swirl of her finger as she drew a lazy figure eight against the barrel. "So Marcus has finally worked up the nerve to show his face. I had wondered how long it would take him to find his spine."

She had such small hands, he mused. Wide of palm and short of finger, they were not delicate hands; nor were they particularly elegant, with their closely trimmed nails and chapped knuckles. But they were strong hands – capable hands – lightly calloused and accustomed to use. Indeed, he could hear the faint rasp of those callouses now as her fingers skimmed across the surface of the weapon.

His mouth went dry. The itch beneath his skin ignited into a low, steady burn – flames fanning higher as his mind conjured an image of those skillful fingers dancing across his skin…

"He'll be here tomorrow morning," she said, the sound of her voice snapping him sharply – reluctantly – back to the here and now. "And as I promised him over a week ago that we would have a working prototype ready the next time I spoke to him, I'm kinda hoping this thing," and now she wrapped her fingers around the muzzle of the weapon, shaking it pointedly, "will fit the bill. I'd really rather not have to explain to the old son of a bitch that I can't deliver on that promise."

Furious at having allowed himself to lose focus yet again, Khan tore the weapon from her grasp, nearly pulling her off balance in his haste and striving not to care that he had. "As I am hardly responsible for your having made the promise in the first place, do please explain to me how your ability to keep it or not is my problem?"

Rather than firing back at him in her habitually robust manner, she confounded him yet again, folding in on herself, her shoulders rounding as she let out a miserable sigh. "So it's not ready then?"

Khan froze, caught and held by the sheer…disappointment in her voice.

His eyes locked on hers and his hands clenched hard on the weapon; disbelief warring with a roaring, desperate desire to do something. He did not like to see her like this – did not like to hear her sound so forlorn.

He blew out a breath, struggling against the weight of swiftly dawning understanding.

He wanted to help her, he realized, stunned. Whatever was wrong…whatever had caused her to look, to sound, like she did…he wanted to fix it.

Wanted to.

He was an even bigger fool than he had believed possible…

"I can have it in more than sufficient working order by tomorrow morning. Marcus will be," he stopped there, sickened by the words that were spilling out of his mouth, "well pleased."

He looked away brusquely, having no desire to see the triumph in her eyes – no matter how brightly it might make them glow. Staring at the wall beyond her, he tried to center himself, to focus on the fact that bowing to her request was not the indignity that it appeared on the surface.

Little as it pleased him to admit, satisfying Marcus was in his best interest as much as it was hers. If he were being honest, the promise she had made had been a sound tactic on her part. One that had the potential to prove highly successful. He might not want Marcus' trust, but he was not too proud to admit that, for the sake of his people, he needed it. If there was one way that he could truly earn it, it was through the weapons he would build. She had seen that and had turned it to their mutual advantage.

It was both efficient and impressive – the mark of an able tactician – and he found himself admiring her in new and even more maddening ways.

She was sitting now, arms around her knees which were pulled tight to her chest…and she was watching him. Closely.

Her unabashed watchfulness rankled – the woman had absolutely no concept of subtlety or good manners. Had no one ever taught her that it was impolite to stare?

"I would hope that you already realize this," she said, quiet now, oblivious to his once more looming bad temper, "but I'd just like to point out – for the record – that I'm not any more thrilled about this than you are. I don't want Marcus here anymore than you do."

Khan hummed, patience wearing thin – he was so very tired of being so very nice. "As you say. Though I doubt your admitted lack of enthusiasm will prevent you from prostrating yourself dutifully at his feet – ever the faithful, obedient lackey."

He could actually feel her bristling. "I am not Marcus' lackey."

Looking squarely back at her, he cocked his brow. "All evidence to the contrary."

And just that quickly, all of her sweetness and charm evaporated; burned completely away. In its absence, he found himself faced with the strong, calculating and utterly intriguing creature who had fascinated him against his will in the sterile silence of an interrogation room.

"Well forgive me for preferring alive and healthy over the alternative," she said, as coolly assured as he had ever seen her. "I know it must seem terribly boring to you, but some of us can't afford to be angry and defiant all the time. You can because you're irreplaceable – there's no one else quite like you, is there? But me?" She barked out a laugh that had not a shred of real humor in it. "I'm about as replaceable as it gets and quite frankly, I've already pushed what limits I have been allowed pretty much to the breaking point. If I push any harder, I'm just going to get myself into a whole new world of trouble. So no matter how much I don't want to do it – no matter how much I hate it – what I have to do right now is keep my head down, my mouth shut and kiss as much ass as I possibly can. Otherwise, I'm never going to gain back any of that ground that I've lost."

Her frankness, far from the irritant that it should have been, drew him in like a moth to a flame. He had lived in a world of political intrigue, of lies and liars; of those who dealt in betrayal the way others dealt in goods. He had known her kind before – the paid liar, quite often the most dishonorable of them all. And yet…

She was a liar-by-trade, her loyalty lying with the most unworthy man to ever draw breath…and yet she was somehow the most honest creature he had ever known.

He sometimes very much wished that he had never laid eyes on her.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose – frustrated. With him, no doubt.

"Look, I know that none of this is anything that you want to hear and I'm sorry, but if you want me to be able to stay…if you don't want Marcus to yank me off this project and shove some new idiot down your throat…then you are going to have to cut me just a little bit of slack, ok?" Oh yes…she was without question frustrated with him. "You've got to remember that one day, you'll be out of here. You'll have your crew back, you'll have your life back and you'll never have to think about any of this ever again. But me? I'll be right here," she slapped her hand against the floor and he was quietly horrified to see a faint sheen of tears in her eyes. "I'll be right here," she repeated, "always. Until the day I retire or until the day that someone finally gets the best of me, this is where I'll be. So do you understand why I can't keep setting fires just for the thrill of watching them burn?"

Oh, but how he wanted to snarl at her; to rage and hiss and pray to Gods that he had never believed in that he would finally, somehow, scare her off for good. Damn her. Damn her for being sensible – for being reasonable – when the foremost thought in his mind was how prettily she wore her stoicism.

Resignation stole over him yet again, a weight that sat heavily upon his shoulders, and he nodded; one single dip of his head to acknowledge that he understood her. And then, there was silence. A long, weighty silence that he knew that he would not be the one to break.

Seconds ticked past, then a full minute…and then…

"Too bad you didn't come with me to Vazquez's office this morning. You missed a hell of a time."

It was a desperate grab for levity – transparent and heavy-handed. But it was, at the very least, an effort. One that he knew he would answer with his own attempt, however meagre it would undoubtedly prove. He tried for a smile, though he rather doubted he succeeded. "I suppose then that Marcus' visit was the catalyst behind the good Commander's urgency this morning?"

There. He had done his part; contributed to the conversation. He was trying. For her sake.

"He really has been behind a desk too long," she mused, chin resting now atop her knees. "He put together the most ridiculously elaborate accidentally-on-purpose eavesdropping scheme I've ever seen in my entire life. I mean, seriously, he'd even scripted the damn thing. Worse, he scripted it really, really badly. It wound up working well enough in the end, but that's no thanks to him; he made it so much more complicated than it needed to be."

She did not show her emotions in the broad, obvious strokes that most did. Rather, she expressed herself far more delicately than that. The subtle shifts of her expression were entrancing to behold, a foreign language that he had yet to decipher but found himself eager to learn. A fact that had never been truer than it was at that very moment. She spoke with a lightness…a joviality that was contagious all on its own, but made even more so by the tiny half-grin that graced her lips.

She was irresistible. Magnetic. And so very…luminous. She was not sunshine – nothing as trite or mawkish as that. No, she was a low-banked fire, warm and inviting; useful and comforting in equal measure.

Unable to help himself, Khan felt his own lips twitch up into a faint grin. "Is that what took so long then?"

A roll of her eyes. "Oh God, you have no idea. I spent most of the time I was gone just standing in front of his assistant's desk, waiting for him to finish, as was repeatedly pointed out to me in as dramatic a fashion as possible, his secured, highly-classified call."

"As clumsy as all that?"

"Oh, worse," she sighed, fingers plucking at her fabric covered thighs. "The only saving grace of the entire thing was his assistant. The little shit actually managed to impress me – she took the steaming pile of crap that Vazquez had planned for her and played it so well that I actually believed she was grossly incompetent when, in fact, she's pretty damn good at her job."

He found himself warming to the topic, asking questions for no other reason than to hear her speak; enjoying the rise and fall of her voice, her accent calling to mind the gentle sway of tree limbs tossed on a warm, summer breeze. "Indeed?"

"Oh yeah. I think she might actually have the makings of a damn good field operative. I'll have a better idea of just how good once she makes her play. You learn a lot about a person based on their ability to plan a good execution – I have high hopes that she'll at least give me a little bit of a run for my money."

"What?"

Had he heard her wrong? He must have heard her wrong.

Unperturbed, she simply shrugged her shoulders at him. "Well, she's clearly got her eye on my reputation – she made that clear. It's only a matter of time before she tries to retire me, so to speak. If she's as good as I'm currently giving her credit for, it should be a downright honor to completely fuck up all her well laid plans."

She was smiling – smiling – while he, for one, failed to see any humor in the situation whatsoever.

"Forgive me, but have you lost what little sense that I credited you with?" His voice was low, harsh and he could see her eyes go cold at the first hint of challenge – not that he cared in the slightest; not after her flippancy. "This girl is plotting your demise and your only concern is that she plans it well?"

She sighed. "You don't understand. This is…it's a thing. I've built myself a fairly sizable reputation over the years – people know me. They know who I am, they know what I've done. Hell, new recruits are trained on my success stories! It's only natural that some of them are going to get it into their heads to try and bump me off. It's a status thing."

It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. "So you would name this barbaric practice – and do, please, take a moment to consider the source of that observation – a tradition?"

"Exactly," she said with a nod, dark brown tresses dancing against her neck with the movement. "I'm perfectly aware that it's twisted and strange – though you're right, hearing you call it barbaric really does put things into perspective – but it is what it is. It's the nature of the life I lead; the life I chose, I might add. If it was simple and easy, everyone would do it."

The life she led…the dangers she not only willingly faced but actually sought out…

He did not like to think of it. Did not like to think of it at all.

He glanced over at her, surprised to find her head cocked pensively to the side and her eyes studying him closely. "There's not actually anything to worry about though. She may be good, but I'm still better. I'll have her face down on the floor with a knife at her throat the first time she even so much as breathes wrong in my direction."

He drew back instantly, shutters slamming closed all through his mind. Obvious. He had been obvious – too obvious.

And at present, he simply could not afford obvious. He could not afford those things which obvious revealed.

What he could afford was disdain. Haughty…arrogant…disdain…

"I do hope you are correct, Rebecca. I should hate to have to start over anew with a replacement; not when I've only just gotten you trained to my satisfaction."

She smiled at that. She was not meant to smile.

"Oh, so it is going to be Rebecca, then? I'd started to think that we were just going to pretend that conversation this morning never happened."

Yet again, she refused to stay on script, veering off in her own direction and leaving him feeling decidedly wrong-footed. He could admit, if only to himself, that he quite enjoyed the…novelty of the sensation.

"No indeed," he said, leaning forward, propping himself up on his weapon, a thrill of excitement going up his spine. "You have stated your preference and I shall be only too happy to abide by it…Rebecca."

For a moment – a split second – he saw it in her eyes. Fear. Deep, abiding fear and it was strangely…heartening. It was a comfort to know that he was not the only one who looked at this situation they had entangled themselves in and felt fear. But then, as quickly as it had come, the moment was gone and her face was once more the very picture of cheerful simplicity, a too-wide smile gracing her lips.

"Fantastic!" She belted the word out lustily, a too-wide smile on her lips. "So glad we cleared that up. So anyway, we're going to need to test that," she reached out, poking at the weapon with her finger, words coming out in a rush.

She was, to his great relief, as ready for this conversation to end as he was.

"Unnecessary," he said simply, eager to oblige her clear desire for escape – the sooner they settled this, the sooner they could make mutually strategic retreats.

"Essential," she snapped back, extending her hands out in front of her. "May I?"

He found his grip on the weapon tightening, his eyes on her outstretched hands narrowing.

"Please?"

Please. A simple word; one that had never before held any sort of power over him. But now…spoken in her voice…

He lifted the weapon from his lap, handing it to her stock first. "Do be careful, Rebecca," he chided, not even bothering to feign disgust at this latest capitulation.

"Of course," she said, accepting the weapon from him and turning slightly away before shouldering it expertly. "This is a hell of a lot lighter than it used to be."

He ignored a new flare of heat at the picture she made – a tiny woman wielding a very big weapon – and nodded, though he knew she could not see him. "As it must be, in order to allow for the intended portability."

She dropped the weapon to her lap, her head tilting slightly as she ran her hands over the weapon, exploring it with clever fingers and even more clever eyes. She was caressing the weapon as any other woman might a lover and the flame in his middle began to burn hotter. "I have to admit, I'm curious about the capabilities you've built into it. And it is," she paused, a beguiling half-smile gracing her mouth, her voice dipping low…almost seductive, "a very pretty gun. If you don't mind, I would love to give it a go."

His breath caught at the unintentional innuendo– and he knew that it was unintentional, she was not, despite some half-hearted attempts, a deliberately coy creature. He sat utterly still for a very long moment, heat curling through his blood as he struggled to cage the long dormant beast that had stirred at her artless insinuation. But then she bit at her lower lip, white teeth sinking into plump, pink flesh and that heat erupted into a searing, visceral hunger as the beast – lust – lifted its head and howled.

It was, of course, that moment precisely when she chose to lift her head, seeking and finding his eyes.

In a move that he refused – categorically refused – to call panic, he lowered his head and reached for a tool, desperately grabbing fast to anything he could find to occupy hands that only wanted to reach for her…

"Khan?"

"Yes," he snarled – the beast, denied its prey, snapping its teeth in frustration, "of course you may test the weapon. However, if you wish for it to be complete upon the Admiral's arrival," his hand shot out then, snatching the weapon from her hands, "I really must ask that you allow me the rest of the day to work in peace. You have distracted me from my task for far too long already. I have remained on my best behavior, but my admittedly limited store of patience has worn quite thin. Perhaps, as you are so…eager to please, you might see to securing a test range for the morrow."

She flinched then, a look faintly like betrayal stealing over her face. "Right," she snipped and he could hear the thin thread of hurt in her voice as well, "so sorry to have bothered you." She stood up, brushed her hands down the front of her pants. "I'll just go…do as I'm told. You know, like the good little lackey that I am, right?"

He said nothing. Just continued to look anywhere but at her.

"Right," she said again, disappointment clear in the word. And then she was gone, stalking out the door and leaving him sitting on the floor, telling himself firmly to let her go.

That he did not care.

Reminding himself that he could not care…