Disclaimer: I own nothing, save for the things that belong to me.

A/N: Trigger warning in this chapter for discussion of past abuse. Thank you to all who have read/reviewed/favorited/left kudos! I greatly appreciate it! All kinds of love to my beta-reading baby sis yet again…I love you, Xaraphis, even when I hate you! ;)

(Ten Days Later)

She didn't know what to do.

As Duval lingered beneath the hot spray of the shower – hand braced against the wall, head down, shoulders slumped – that thought ate at her. Taunted her.

She lifted her hand, fingers curling into a tight fist that she let fall back against the water-slick wall, tired and frustrated and wishing like hell that she could just take it all back. That she could turn back the clock and make it so that this whole stupid situation had never happened in the first place.

This...this...ridiculous, self-scripted drama, penned and plotted to ruinous perfection by her own arrogance and folly.

You can figure it out, her voice mocked from within, bitter and venomous as it spit the words into her mind, shoulders bowing even further beneath the weight of them, you can handle anything. You can make it all work.

You cocky, short-sighted idiot.

Duval let out a shuddering breath, leaning forward to press her forehead against her fist, eyes screwed tightly shut against the onslaught of internal remonstration and recrimination.

The past week had been miserable. Absolutely miserable.

With the knowledge of Marcus' imminent, if indeterminate, arrival hanging over her head, she had been constantly on guard; constantly looking over her shoulder for the old son of a bitch to appear. The ambiguity, she well knew, had been deliberate on his part – the first shot fired in what would undoubtedly prove a devious and intensive campaign to punish her for her transgressions. Leaving her on tenterhooks with no clear idea of when or where he might turn up was just the sort of thing that would appeal to Marcus, who played the sadist even better than he did the martyr.

Why she had ever, even for a moment, imagined that it was a good idea not to tell Marcus about the developments in her relationship with Khan, she had no idea. At the time, her reasons for doing so had felt perfectly rational. Now, not a one of them made even the slightest bit of real sense. Khan, it pained her to admit, had been right – she should have told Marcus straight off that first day.

Words of wisdom she'd have done well to heed all those weeks ago when she'd decided instead that she could out-maneuver Marcus. Words of wisdom she'd have done even better to heed only one week ago when she'd somehow imagined that she could out-maneuver Khan.

And now look where all that self-congratulatory chest-thumping had gotten her? Marcus had her over a barrel and Khan...

Well, shockingly enough, Khan had seen straight through her, not fooled in the slightest by her repeated attempts to divert and deflect. He had looked at her...looked into her...and he had known almost immediately that something was wrong, that something had happened. As had become his habit where she was concerned, he had said nothing, donenothing; had, rather, given her the space and time to come to him with the truth.

Something that she, so stubbornly convinced that she was doing the right thing, hadn't done...and for which she was already suffering the consequences.

Nothing better, she thought to herself as she pushed away from the wall and turned into the spray, reaching out to shut off the water with a swift crank of her wrist, than gettin' shot in the ass with a bullet you loaded into a gun that you made. She snatched up her towel from the hook just outside the shower, whipping it around her body with a snap.

"Outstanding work, Duval," she sighed as she stepped out, the floor chilly on her bare feet. "Seriously...outstanding work."

Weary and heart heavy, she gave a huff and headed straight for the door, towel tucked tightly around her, hair dripping trails of swiftly cooling water down the back of her neck and onto the tops of her shoulders. The room beyond was empty as she padded through, all evidence – the closed door, the light glowing from beneath, the faint sound of movement from within – suggesting that Khan was still in his room.

Had been in his room, in fact, since the previous afternoon. Conceptual work, he had claimed just before the door slipped shut behind him, closing him in and her very much out.

Conspicuously out.

Deliberately out.

Watching that door close from the wrong side for the first time in months had stung; so much so that she'd had to blink, look down, look away. She had sat on the edge of her chair, hunched over, elbows on her knees, gaze wide and unfocused as a thick, tingling cocktail of guilt and dread had bubbled up from her stomach and flooded her chest.

They hadn't fought. Hadn't even bickered. In fact, not a single harsh word had been exchanged.

Khan had simply...asked. He had asked her what was going on and he had asked it plainly, without even a suggestion of anger or censure. He had stood watching her once he had spoken, his eyes raking her up and down. So hopeful – so expectant.

The flash of disappointment on his face when she had brushed his inquiry aside with a flippant dismissal had silenced her, froze the forced smile on her lips. But it was the darkness that came next that truly stunned her. Accusation had hung thickly in his gaze, a gathering shadow that grew darker the longer she remained silent.

When he had eventually given up on an answer, he had simply turned his back on her and walked to the door of his room, not even turning around when he informed her that he had work to do and would be occupied for the remainder of the day. He hadn't said that he wanted to be left alone, but then, he hadn't needed to; the 'keep out' had been implicit.

Forlorn, banished from his sight and his side, Duval had sat there for far longer than she should have, his resolute withdrawal and her prideful culpability eating holes in her heart. She had, eventually, retreated to her own room, though she had purposely left her door open, wide and waiting.

Just in case...

She needn't have bothered.

He hadn't come and she had spent a miserable night, tossing and turning fretfully in a bed that felt far too large and entirely too empty. What sleep she'd gotten hadn't been restful in the slightest and she'd risen that morning feeling tired and sad and just...wretched.

In her own room now, she dried herself and shrugged on a pair of dark gray pants and a loose white tank – staying-in clothes, because she didn't think she had it in her to leave her room, let alone their quarters. Not today. Not when she felt like...this.

Duval took up her brush and pulled it through her hair, impassive gaze falling flatly on her reflection in the mirror above her dresser, noting with faint concern how haggard and pinched she looked. Her skin, though always pale these days – the unavoidable consequence of her current, sun-starved living arrangements – was now positively ashen and dark, bruise-like half-circles hung beneath her eyes. Her unsmiling mouth cut a pale, colorless line across the bottom of her face, her unhappiness written in the wistful downturn at each corner of her lips.

She looked sad. Mournful.

Tragic.

It was hard to look at, this truth in her reflection – hard to look at and damned uncomfortable to see. She had come to think of her face as a blank canvas, open and waiting for her expert hand to paint on whatever emotion was required, depending upon the situation at hand. But this...there was nothing the least bit feigned about this sorrow and the sight of such raw, honest emotion staring back at her from the familiar planes of her own face...

It made her stomach clench and roll, turning unhappy somersaults in the pit of her stomach and leaving her faintly breathless. With a short, sharp exhale, she dropped her eyes from her perusal of her face, unwilling and unable to map it further at present, though the sight she focused on next was hardly much better.

The wound at the base of her throat had become, as expected, a very visible scar.

Finished with her brush, Duval dropped it to the already dinged and dented surface of her dresser top. Her eyes traced the angry red gash and she leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. Absently, she brought one hand up to touch the mark, her fingers skating lightly along the raised rope of flesh, her eyes skipping back and forth between it and the fainter, but still very much there lash marks around her wrist.

"It has healed well."

His voice was quiet; as reserved as she had ever heard it. She didn't jump, didn't turn, just kept staring at the livid reminder of yet another mistake, this one writ in sinew and skin. "Guess so," she said, voice thin, scratchy. "Still hate it."

For a long moment, there was silence, though she could hear a faint rasp of fabric so she knew he was still there.

"If it offends you so, there are...ways...to erase it."

Duval's hand fell to her side and she stood up straighter, though she kept her back to him. Memories of waking up in the bed just behind her, well and whole and sporting a body wiped clean of its hard-earned topography danced across her mind's eye, the remembered thrill of a clean slate sending a ripple of regret down her spine. "Tempting," she admitted, "but no. Whatever you did...once can be forgotten. Twice would be a mistake." She turned slightly, head cocking to look at him over her shoulder he was leaning against the doorway, shoulder to the frame and arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark and expression inscrutable. "Not to mention, I can't afford three days of downtime right now."

Khan pushed off the frame, approaching her with measured steps, hesitant as if he questioned his welcome. "It would not be as before," he hastened to assure her, stepping up behind her, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "I have considered the...process. I am positive that I can duplicate the results without duplicating the side-effects."

"No," she repeated, shaking her head slightly. "you do whatever you did again and I'm gonna end up having to answer even more questions than I did the first time around. So really, don't worry about it."

His eyes, which had been on her throat, flicked up to meet hers once more. "If you are certain..."

"I am," she said, nodding her head once. "I'm absolutely certain."

Khan nodded and she watched his gaze dip, wander. One big, long-fingered hand came up to touch the back of her neck, his first two fingers pressing against the soft spot at the base of her skull gently before slowly sweeping down the length of her spine. His fingers stopped in the middle of her back, just where pale skin met stark white shirt. "I was surprised at the thoroughness of the process," he said, tracing lazy zig-zags across her skin. "Admittedly, I did not take the time to consider every eventuality before implementing treatment, but," he flattened his palm between her shoulder blades, fingers splayed wide, "I would never have anticipated this."

His touch burned hot as ever against her skin, but Duval could barely feel it. Could barely feel anything at all beyond a tingling horror that started in her chest and radiated out into her extremities."This? Exactly what this wouldn't you have anticipated?"

He was quiet, but his fingers once more began sketching lines upon her skin. Lines that slowly began to form a pattern. A familiarpattern.

A hated pattern.

Swallowing against the sudden burn of bile in the back of her throat, Duval shrugged away from his touch, hands bracing against the top of her dresser as she leaned as far away from him as she could get. "You told me you didn't look," she said hotly, glaring at his reflection. "Those first few days, while I was unconscious…you told me that you hadn't looked!"

Khan's hand hung in the now empty space between them, his eyes lifting to meet hers in the mirror, wariness sharpening his gaze. "Nor did I," he growled, fingers curling into a fist that he dropped back to his side. "Rebecca – I did not touch you beyond what was absolutely necessary."

"Then how do you know? How could you possibly have found out about those scars?" She was losing her grip on her temper, and after everything...after Marcus and a week of constant stress and a god-awful night...she didn't know if she could reign it back in. More than that, she wasn't even sure that she wanted to. The anger felt good – so much cleaner than the guilt, so much more manageable than the regret.

Spine straightening, Khan cocked a brow at her. "I certainly did not learn of them from you. You, who shares only what is required while concealing everything of real import. You, who retreats at even the suggestion of true intimacy."

"Don't you dare," Duval spat, slapping her hand down upon the dresser top with a crack. "Don't you dare try to make this about me. Tell me how you know!"

She was shouting now, all of those disparate emotions she had been struggling with merging, finally, into a consuming, blistering fury. One that, it appeared, Khan was more than prepared to meet head on. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, narrowed gaze icing over as he stared her down haughtily.

"Your personnel files, of course," he snapped. "Both the standard file and the so-called restricted one. Not that accessing the latter was more difficult, despite its name. As with everything else about this bureaucratic behemoth that you have indentured yourself to, the encryptions on secured files are woefully ineffective. I had learned every documented detail of your history the very day we arrived here."

The words dropped into the air between them like rocks into a pond, ever-widening ripples fanning outward. Reeling in the turbulence, buffeted by the wake of his blunt response, Duval's jaw clenched so hard that it began to ache.

…he plows through firewalls and accesses secured files whenever the mood strikes him…

Marcus' words from their last conversation. She hadn't given any thought to them at the time; had never even considered the full ramifications of what had felt like little more than a petty gripe at the time. But now, full realization hit her hard, like a fist to the stomach. She whirled around to face him, livid spots of color high on her cheeks. "How…how could you do that? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Khan rolled his eyes. Hard.

"Oh do spare me your righteous outrage," he scoffed. "At best, it displays a stunning lack of self-awareness; at worst, a piteous attempt at deliberate duplicity – either way, I expect far better of you, Rebecca."

"Fuck your expectations," Duval snapped, fisted hands pressing hard into her thighs. "That's was my life in those files, Khan. My whole life and…"

"Hardly," he cut in with a huff. "I highly doubt your Academy transcripts, a smattering of old mission debriefs and a handful of vague medical documentation constitutes your whole life."

Duval shook her head, glare intensifying. "Really? You're gonna lie now? About that? I know what was in those files, Khan…and it was a hell of a lot more than that."

"Perhaps once," he allowed, "but I can assure you, Rebecca, the files I read contained nothing save for what I've already described. It was, I must admit, something of a disappointment."

That made exactly zero sense. Those files…if he'd read them, he should know everything. There had been psychological work ups in there. Family history. Everything. That those things weren't there…

Later, she told herself firmly. Worry about it later. It doesn't matter anyway. It doesn't matter whether he saw it or not…the point is…

"You had no right to that information, Khan." She hurled the words at him. "Empty or full, detailed or not, you had no right to look at any of it. No right at all. What is or isn't in those files is none of your business unless I say it is!"

"And my life was yours?" He lobbed back at her, absolutely snarling the words. "Tell me, my little hypocrite...did you take my privacy into consideration before you scoured the file Marcus had assembled on me? Did you hesitate in the slightest when you had the facts of my life laid bare before you?"

It wasn't the same thing. It wasn't even remotely the same thing, but she wasn't going to even attempt to argue the point with him. There was no point – he was determined to paint her the villain of this piece. Far be it from her to ruin the fantasy for him.

"Well you know, I considered feeling bad about invading your privacy, but after the third article I read detailing the way you had systematically murdered, pillaged and plundered your way to that throne you're so proud of, I pretty much stopped giving a damn about your poor, put-upon little feelings."

If that barb hit the mark, she couldn't tell. He didn't even flinch.

"Murdering, pillaging and plundering for personal benefit, you say? Forgive me, are you speaking of my history or your own?"

"I am nothing like you!"

"No, you are not," Khan agreed. "I, at the very least, am capable of speaking truth. While you, on the other hand, appear incapable of managing even the simplest honesty, let alone larger truths."

Slippery ground, this. Very, very slippery ground. Guilt slowly but surely eating its way through all that lovely anger she'd been cultivating, Duval forced herself not to look away from him. "You act like all I've ever done is lie to you when you know – you know – that I've gotten myself in trouble for being too honest with you. I've tried harder than I've ever tried before with you; given you more of me than I've ever given to anyone. What more do you want?"

Khan took a step forward, standing now toe to toe with her, forcing her to look up at him out of sheer force of will. "Full truth," he said, each word a whip-crack of sound. "Real honesty, rather than the lip service you seem to think should suffice in its stead."

"And if I can't?" She swallowed, took a deep breath and still didn't let herself look away despite the growing coldness in his eyes. "If I can't give you any of that? What then?"

Slowly – so slowly – Khan lowered his head toward hers, his lips just barely brushing against hers. Duval's eyes slid shut, overwhelmed, as she always was, by the sheer force of nearness. She let out a shuddering breath, her face instinctively turning up to his, offering herself to him the only way she knew how.

Khan hummed low in his throat, dark and delicious and she could feel the rumble of it across her skin. "If you cannot give me that – if you will not give me that…," one of his hands came up, fingers sweeping delicately up the line of her jaw to rest just beneath the point of her chin, "…then you may inform your master…" and suddenly, his fingers grabbed her chin, rough and painful and Duval's eyes shot open, finding nothing but ice and venom in his gaze, "…that I have no further use for you."

And then he was gone, the door of her room sliding shut behind him, leaving her standing there, eyes wide, mouth agape and heart in shreds. Numb, she stumbled back against her dresser once more, arms hanging limp at her sides.

Of course. Of course.

This was the price of her poor choices. The cost of her arrogance.

This was every single one of her birds come home to roost all at once.

This, all of this – Khan's anger, Marcus' distrust – was her fault.

Slowly, brokenly, Duval slid to the floor, legs drawn up in front of her, arms wrapped round her shins. She turned her face to the side, resting her cheek on one knee as she stared, dry-eyed and unseeing at the blankness of the wall beside her.

There was so much crowding her brain; so many different thoughts and feelings. Justifications and accusations and recriminations and rationalizations...all of them careening through her mind, ricocheting off her heart and leaving her just…bleeding inside.

Aching inside.

And she just…accepted it. Her arms tightened around her legs, her fingers bit into the loose fabric of her pants, but she allowed no other outward expression of her inner turmoil – just sat there, staring at the wall.

Because it was all her fault.

Because she had brought this on herself.

Later – she didn't actually know how much later – Duval was pulled back to the present by the distinctive sound of Khan's heavy boots thudding heavily upon the floor, sounding very much like they were approaching her door. Sighing deeply, she lifted her head from her knees and dropped it back against the drawer behind her, staring at the ceiling now rather than the wall.

In true Khan fashion, he didn't bother with knocking or permission…he simply activated the door and walked into her room. Stalked in, more like; stalked in and didn't even bother to look to her before he began striding up and down the length of her small room – all lean lines and predatory grace; a captive tiger, pacing back and forth at the bars of his cage. She was as silent as he was, content to let him control the silence; satisfied with just watching him.

Looking at him, she realized then more than ever before, was a luxury; one that she wouldn't be able to afford for long. If earlier was any indication, she was running dangerously low on that particular currency at present.

Finally, he stopped, clearly having come to some decision. Whirling around to face her, posture rigid and his arms behind his back – parade rest, his military training on impeccable display – Khan met her eyes, his own flaring briefly with what looked like surprise before quite suddenly shifting his gaze ever so slightly to the side. "You…have not moved."

"Not really, no," she said hoarsely, letting her eyes slip shut – looking at him was beginning to hurt. "I sat down, if that counts."

A pause.

"It has been nearly two hours…"

"Has it?" Duval shrugged, a barely there lift of one shoulder, eyes still closed, the rest of her expression blank, inscrutable. "Hadn't noticed."

He took a step forward; she could hear the scuff of his boots across the floor. "What is this, Rebecca? What are you doing?"

Letting out a deep sigh, Duval cracked her eyes open, finding his eyes focused once more on her face. "What's it look like I'm doing? I'm sitting on the floor feeling sorry for myself, Khan. Is that all right with you?"

His frown deepened. "It is simply unlike you to behave so."

"How would you know? Or are we pretending that you didn't accuse me of being distant and emotionally barren? I mean seriously, it's fine if that's your plan…I've been told I'm a hell of a liar so I'm sure I can fake it if…"

"Enough," Khan growled, storm clouds building in his eyes. "That is enough, Rebecca. This petulance does not become you and it will hardly aide us in mending our disagreement."

Duval's jaw clenched and she let her eyes slide back shut. "Considering the last I heard from you was that you wanted nothing else to do with me, I hadn't figured there was anything left to mend. That being the case, I figured it didn't matter much how I acted."

Silence.

She could hear him breathing, the steady ebb and flow of it echoing in her ears. He was thinking something fierce – she could almost hear that too. Again, no point in interrupting him; he'd talk in his own time.

Besides, she had nothing else to say – nothing that he'd be interested to hear anyway.

"The scars on your back," he barked out at length, sounding immensely put out, "you received them prior to your Section career, did you not?"

And we're back to this…

Duval let took a long, slow breath through her nose before letting it out on a rushed sigh. "Does it even matter one way or the other, Khan? I mean, honestly, does it really matter?"

"It certainly appeared to matter to you before."

God, she'd been so stupid. What the hell had she been thinking, showing him that much? If he hadn't caught her so far off guard, she would have just brushed it off…brushed him off. "I think we both know there was a whole lot more to that drama earlier than just those scars. I…just…can we just call it an overreaction and move on? In all honesty, that's really not too far off the truth."

His eyes flashed and Khan took a small step toward her. "Though that may be true, I insist on knowing…" he took yet another step forward, his expression turning fierce, "who gave you those scars?"

Her stomach turned over and now it was her who looked away, chewing on her lip and reveling in the sting when she bit down just a little too hard.

"Who beat you, Rebecca?"

Son of a bitch.

Son…of…a…bitch…

He just…he had to go there. He had to ask…

Duval shook her head, shoving all those old demons – stirred from their slumber by his prying – back down into the depths where they belonged. "Why are you even asking me this? It doesn't even matter."

"It most assuredly does matter, Rebecca," he said sharply, his voice going low and ragged, passionate.

Her eyes snapped up to his, drawn to him despite herself, iron filings caught by the inexorable pull of a strong magnet. There was determination in his eyes, in his expression – the kind of determination that she knew there was no point fighting against. Especially since she would not only be satisfying his current curiosity, she would also be putting to rest all those accusations of her not sharing herself with him from earlier.

"If I'm gonna tell you any of this, I might as well tell you all of it." She shifted slightly, stretching her legs out in front of her and then crossing them beneath her. She could do this; she knew how to do this. Neat, concise, tidy – pertinent details only. The perfect post-op breakdown. Easy as pie. "So I'd get comfortable if I were you."

Khan straightened, shoulders going rigid once more. "I am perfectly comfortable. You may proceed."

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, then sighed, sliding her eyes closed – it would be easier that way; easier not to watch him watching her. "My momma was only eighteen when she married my daddy. He was older; twenty-five and fresh out of Star Fleet Academy. My granddaddy hated him on sight, forbid my momma to have anything to do with him. But they ran off and got married anyway. Almost exactly nine months later, I came along and for the next seven years, my life was about as normal and uninteresting as it gets."

She took a breath, let it out.

"I was seven when everything changed," she continued. "Daddy was in space, had been for months. My Gram had shown up outta the blue, wanted to take me and momma to lunch – I remember it was a Sunday; she was still dressed for church, hat and all. Momma said she had errands to run, sent me on with Gram alone. When Gram and I got back, momma still wasn't home, so she stayed and we waited, but Momma never did make it home."

Deep down, underneath the calm and the matter-of-fact delivery, memories of that day played in her mind, dusty and disused but still so damn vivid. Duval, with the ease of long, deliberate practice, ignored them. Entirely.

"It was a car wreck," she explained coolly, dispassionately. "Daddy was the one who told us when he got there that night – he'd been on his way home when the authorities got hold of him about it. He sent Gram on home and stayed with me that night."

Strong arms, holding her, cradling her all night long. Talking to her…words she didn't remember…just the tone, the cadence…the sadness. He'd promised her everything would be all right. He'd promised…

She slapped the thought away, mentally turning her back on it.

He'd lied…

Duval brought a hand up, pinching at the bridge of her nose wearily. There was a reason she avoided…this. It was fucking exhausting.

"The next morning, he drove me to my grandparents' house, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and then left me standing there on the porch while he drove away. Two days later, a representative from Star Fleet came calling, informing us that he'd killed himself and that, by dint of being my only living relatives, my grandparents had full custody of me. Grandaddy was thrilled, let me tell you. He didn't even wait for the man in the crisp Star Fleet dress uniform to leave before he started letting us all know just how thrilled he was."

A faint, bouncing creak broke her concentration – Khan, it appeared had decided to sit after all. She smiled faintly. "Told you it was a long story."

"That is not…," he stopped, voice going even lower than normal. "Continue…please…"

"Right, sorry," she shifted once more, letting her legs slide out straight in front of her, hands rubbing at her thighs. "I spent ten years living with my grandparents after that. It wasn't great – my granddaddy didn't have much use for me. Always said I was too much like my daddy. Which, since he blamed my daddy for my momma's death, didn't work out too well for me. Luckily, he was happy enough to ignore me most of the time. Grams was better, but not by much. She did, at least, take care of me, in as much as I ever really needed caring for. I learned pretty quick how to be self-sufficient, preferred just to do for myself rather than asking for things from people who made it clear that I was nothing but a burden."

"Rebecca…"

"I know, I know…the scars. I'm getting to them, I promise."

"You mis…"

"I needed to get out of there," she cut across him, not wanting to hear whatever he'd been about to say – there'd been an edge, a roughness to his voice that she just wanted no part of, not if she was going to be able to get through the rest. "So, about a week after I'd graduated from high school, I hitched a ride to the nearest station and caught a transport to New Orleans. Got myself all signed up for Star Fleet Academy at the recruiting office there. I was too young to actually go then, or believe me, I'd have been on a ship to San Francisco that day. There was also the part where I didn't have the grades or the recommendations to get in straight off. I was going to have to spend a few years working my way up to the level required for full acceptance. But frankly, I couldn't have been happier if they'd short listed me. I spent the night in a hostel on the edge of the Quarter and just about floated home the next day."

A beat.

"As you can probably imagine…my grandparents didn't exactly share my enthusiasm."

For the first time during her retelling, she opened her eyes, training them, unblinking, on the ceiling above her. She couldn't keep them closed now…not for this…

Because those memories were still far, far too close. So close that she could still feel the bite…the burn..

"Grams called me ungrateful," she said, tone gone flat, clinical. "When I asked what, exactly I had to be grateful for, she slapped me twice. Tried to go for a third, but I'd had enough at that point. Caught her hand and knocked it away. My granddaddy didn't take too kindly to that; popped me square in the face before dragging me out of the house and into the yard. He whipped me with a hickory switch until I passed out, probably after too…I don't know. Never bothered to ask. Suffice to say, I moved out as soon as I was well enough. Never looked back."

She stared up at the ceiling for a long moment after she'd finished, tracing seams and rivets with her eyes, surprised by just how heavy the silence suddenly felt. Finally, after it started to drag on just a bit too long for her tastes, she lowered her chin, looking at Khan for the first time since she'd started talking.

He was staring at her, his face perfectly blank, his eyes shuttered in a way that they hadn't been in months. At that moment, he was as unreadable to her as he had ever been; so very, very different from the openness she was only now realizing she had come to rely on.

Lost to her now…through no one's fault but her own.

Duval smiled, a sad, strained twist of her lips that didn't look very much like a smile at all. "So there you have it," she said sadly, "my own little tale of woe. I don't like to think about it – no point thinking about it when it won't change anything. Only time I ever really discuss it now are in the annual visits with my Section-issue shrink." Her grin shifted, gained a shadow of real humor. "Apparently, I have abandonment issues. Text book case, or so he tells me."

Still, Khan said nothing. Just sat on the edge of her bed, back straight and hands braced on his thighs as he watched her through those frustratingly hooded eyes.

"I guess that's not much of a surprise to you," Duval said when it became clear he wasn't going to say a word, "considering our earlier conversation."

"No," Khan agreed at last and his voice was like thunder rolling through the stillness of the room, "it does not."

Duval's grin slipped, turning swiftly to a frown and she looked away again. She knew what she had to do – what she needed to do, Marcus be damned.

No time like the present, she told herself bracingly. Just get it the hell over with.

"Speaking of things that won't surprise you," she lifted her hand up in front of her face, worrying at the catches in the skin around her nails, "I haven't been honest with you." She risked a glance at him – she'd seen the sudden shock of tension jolt through him in her peripheral vision – and immediately felt like kicking herself for wording the admission quite that way. "This past week," she said, drawing out each word for emphasis. "I haven't been honest with you this past week and if you could try not to tear into me quite yet, I'd like to try and fix that."

"Do – please – continue, Lieutenant."

She sighed again. She was getting really tired of sighing. "Marcus knows about the change in our association. More importantly, he knows that I didn't tell him about it – so I'm in shit yet again. So much so this time that he's decided to come here himself sometime soon to assess the situation. I don't know exactly when though; he was deliberately vague about it."

"How?" Khan leaned forward slightly, hands propped on his thighs, suspicion narrowing his gaze. "How did he learn of it? We have been circumspect."

"Not as circumspect as we should have been, unfortunately." She thought about how it had felt, to sit there, to watch them on that screen…to watch Marcus watching them…and her stomach did a swoop and dive before settling into a sickening spiral. "Marcus has security footage."

"Impossible," he shook his head, emphatic. "I was careful – extraordinarily careful – to erase everything from the security feeds that could be even marginally telling. I even went so far as to encrypt a protocol into the surveillance feeds of our quarters, ensuring that they would be immediately wiped if anyone other than myself were to access them, be it locally or remotely. He was lying to you, Rebecca."

Duval cocked her head to the side, not quite knowing where to even start with all of that.

Small, she told herself. Start small and work your way up to the big stuff.

"I sure hope you meant for Marcus to know that you've been hacking the system, because believe me…he knows you've been hacking the system."

Khan said nothing; revealed nothing. As far as she was concerned, it was as good as a confirmation that he had, indeed, intended for Marcus to know what he was doing. Which, of course, led directly to the question of why he was doing it. That is was a cover tactic, she had no doubt – but what was he laying cover for?

Not now. Stay on topic; put that one away for later.

"And he's not lying, Khan – he has footage." She tipped her gaze up to his, hesitant and distinctly uncomfortable. "He played it for me."

Khan's expression, so fierce only moments before, fell; went completely slack with what looked very much like dismay before swiftly and soundly snapping back to that deliberate blankness. "What do you mean, he played it for you?"

"Exactly what it sounds like and let's leave it at that. I'm not exactly eager to relive that experience."

"Where was it from? When?"

How'd I know he was gonna ask that? Why oh why does he just have to know everything?

"Our late night excursion last week. Never even occurred to me that those security feeds would still be active, let alone monitored," she paused, wincing, shuddering, "but they definitely are – they're definitely a whole hell of a lot of both."

More silence – she could almost hear him seething. She'd never seen anyone clench their jaw that tightly before.

"And why, precisely," Khan said, his voice tight with the effort he was exerting to keep himself in check, "did you keep this information from me?"

"Because he ordered me not to say a word about any of it – not to even hint at any of it to you."

That…oh…he didn't like that. He didn't like that at all. That much was immediately apparent in the arch of his brow, the furrows across the bridge of his nose and the pinched downturn of his perfect lips – he looked disgusted. Absolutely, terrifically disgusted.

"Of course." Contempt dripped from every word, affront from every syllable – she'd been on the receiving end of his disdain more than once, but never before had it felt so…personal. "Of course he did. And of course you leapt to obey…"

"…like the good little lapdog I am, yes," Duval finished for him, tired and resigned and more hurt by his reaction than she would ever dream of showing. "Though in my defense, this time he pretty much told me straight out that it was follow orders or spend the rest of my life as a nameless number in a prison colony that no one's ever heard of because it doesn't technically exist. So yeah, I followed orders – or tried to, at least, given that I've just gone and done exactly what I wasn't supposed to do."

A beat.

"He threatened you with incarceration?"

"Not in so many words, but that was the gist of it. Hell, he might've meant that he'd just hand me my burn notice instead. I don't know – I didn't ask. Either way, it was definitely an 'or else' kind of situation, and with Marcus, the 'else' is pretty much always erasure of one kind or another."

Khan was leaning forward now, his hands on his knees and his gaze fixed on her, unblinking and a little bit unnerving. "All of this because you did not inform him of our activities? He would place your neck on the block for no more than that?"

"Doesn't exactly speak highly of my loyalties, does it? Especially when it's just the latest in a string of questionable decisions that I've made." Duval picked at a loose thread on the seam of her pants, her culpability a lead weight on her shoulders, in her stomach. "Keeping it from him…it wasn't the smart thing to do – I see that now. It was a bad call on my part."

"It was," Khan snapped, the agreement sharp and accusing. "In point of fact, I do believe I said as much to you at the time."

"Yes, you did," Duval conceded. "And you were right. I should have listened to you – I'm sorry I didn't."

"Why did you not listen?" He was studying her with a level of intensity she'd not received from him since the earliest days of their acquaintance. It was a look that was searching and cynical at the same time – a look that told her plainly that he wanted her honesty, but had no expectation that she would give it to him. "Why did you not tell him?"

Well…there really was no reason to hold back now. She'd already shared so much – might as well keep giving him what he'd asked for and hope that she could gain back at least a little bit of the ground she'd lost with her secrecy.

"Because it's what he'd wanted me to do in the first place," she said, grimacing at the memory, "and I knew how he would be when he found out he'd gotten exactly what he wanted. He'd have been insufferable about it and I…"

She stopped, studied him for a moment, drinking in the lines and edges and curves of him. When she'd looked her fill, she shut her eyes, turning her face up to the ceiling once more – she'd give him honesty, but that didn't mean she had to look at him while she did it.

"It meant something to me," she confessed. "It means something to me. I couldn't stand the thought of him ruining it with his innuendos and his smugness. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but…it is what it is."

Another round of silence. This one went on so long that Duval, starting to feel the weight of it, cracked an eye open to see if he was even still in the room – he could move with absolute silence if he needed to.

He was, in fact, still in the room. Still on the bed.

Still watching her. And the look on his face…

"You did not know," he said, his voice quiet. Rough.

Goosebumps raced up Duval's arms, her breath hitching in her chest, caught somewhere just above her heart. He sounded…she'd only ever heard him sound like that once before…

"I didn't know what?"

…in their quarters…on the couch…her bloody coat clasped so tight in his hands…

"When you admitted the truth," he rasped, "when you disobeyed Marcus' direct order…am I correct that you had no idea that you could do so freely? That you had no idea of the modifications to the surveillance systems that would allow you to do so?"

"Of course not. How could I? You never mentioned them."

Khan sucked in a sharp breath, his hands curling into white-knuckled fists. "You gave me the truth, all the while knowing that it could mean your very life to do so. You risked..." he stopped, shook his head, eyes closed and a pained furrow across his brow. "Rebecca…you risked your life for no better reason than to appease me."

Crossing her arms over her chest protectively – she didn't want to discuss this; she was frankly tired of discussing everything period – Duval shoved one shoulder up in a negligent shrug. "It needed to be done, so let's not make a bigger deal out of it than it is. I mean, I didn't know for sure that I wasn't being eavesdropped on, but I honestly didn't believe that Marcus would have actually bugged my bedroom. I thought – naively, I know – that he had more respect for me than that."

Pushing to his feet, Khan stalked across the room toward her, stopping beside her, the toes of his boots just brushing her thigh. He stared down at her, his eyes – stunningly blue as they stared down at her – were piercing. "And if he had heard? If he stood by his threat?"

Getting angry now – she was so tired; mentally…physically…emotionally, she was just exhausted – Duval couldn't help the glare that she directed up in his general direction. "I don't know, ok? Is that what you want to hear? I have no fucking clue." She snapped her head away, blinking hard against tears that were trying so hard to escape from her eyes. "But I couldn't not tell you. Not anymore. Not after this morning."

"Rebecca…"

"Stop it, Khan," Duval hissed, her heart leaping into her throat at the trepidation – the vulnerability – in his voice as he said her name and made it sound a promise and a prayer all in one. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, rubbing hard. "Please stop. I'm just…I'm tired. I'm so tired because it was a miserable fucking night and I barely got any sleep and then with everything else…I just want to crawl into my bed and not come out for a week so that…"

Duval's words cut off with a squeak – an honest to goodness squeak – as she was suddenly lifted from the floor, a pair of strong arms sliding beneath her and lifting her up until she was cradled against Khan's chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. Without a word, he turned back around and returned to her bed, leaning down to deposit her gently upon her narrow mattress before reaching down to haul the counterpane bunched at the end of the unmade bed up and over her legs.

Quiet now too, her words stolen by the tender way he was arranging her, Duval simply watched him, hating him just a little bit for making it impossible for her to hate him in the slightest. Once he was satisfied by the positioning of her covers, Khan straightened, a look of such fierce protectiveness in his eyes that it nearly undid her.

"Sleep," he murmured, leaning down once more to buss an entirely chaste kiss across her lips. "Sleep now, Rebecca. There will be time enough for discussion later."

Not trusting her voice – convinced that she would burst into tears if she even tried to talk – Duval simply nodded. Khan nodded back, then straightened, clearly preparing to move away from her. Up from nowhere, a shock of pure desperation jolted through her and before she even knew what she was doing, she'd reached out and grabbed his hand, stopping him…pulling him…keeping him near.

"Stay," she said, proving herself right – the tears began as soon as she spoke, tracking down her face and back into her hair. "Please…please stay. Last night…" she swallowed, mortified by the need in her voice and, most likely, her eyes as well. "Just…stay. Please, Khan?"

For several long seconds, he stared down at her, a look on his face that she wasn't about to even attempt to decipher.

But then, without a word, he sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned down, pulling his boots off. Turning toward her, he swung his legs up beside hers and Duval shifted, scooting backwards to make room for him and a heartbeat later, she was in his arms, her head against his chest, his lips pressed against her hair. Wrapped up in him, with the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear and the brush of his fingers up and down her spine, the sleep that had been so elusive for her the night before was suddenly right there, pulling her down into the best bit of sleep she'd had in well over a week.