A/N: big technical breakthrough here: I finally noticed there's a way to put in one of those nifty break codes. So now I'm using them. I'm so proud :)

Thanks everyone (especially BBKN-13!) for the positive reviews. You're so kind! I am normally really wary of "modern" fics, also, and it would never have occurred to me to try to write one, only this scene of Daine feeling awkward at a cocktail party formed itself in my head and wouldn't go away until I wrote it down ... and once I wrote down that part, more parts started to grow from it. I'm hoping I can go somewhere interesting and believable with it.

And now, without further ado, chapter 3!


3: Confession

"Because it's my name," Numair said. "Well, it was my name. When I was Lindhall's student, my name was Arram Draper."

She looked at him expectantly, knowing better than to interrupt.

"I don't even know how far back to go," he said, helplessly. "Where do I begin?"

"At the beginning, 'Mair." Daine's voice was gentle and patient; she remembered feeling what he must be feeling now, the confusion, the stifling anxiety, the humiliation. "Begin at the beginning."


At the beginning. Where the hell is the beginning?

Relax, Numair. This isn't an interrogation. This is your wife, who loves you.

For a little longer, at least.

"I was born in Beirut," he said, finally. He did not meet her eyes; he knew she didn't expect it. "I've told you that much, haven't I? My father was a Canadian soldier, and somehow managed to be sent to Lebanon as a casque bleue—a UN peacekeeper." A mirthless laugh. "Hard to think of anyone less suited to keeping peace. I suppose the Canadians were glad to be rid of him. He met my mother, and when he got his discharge he married her and stayed there. It was difficult for them—for my mother especially. My father was thicker skinned, I suppose, or possibly he was just too pissed most of the time to notice that they were poor and that people shunned my mother for marrying an American. No, I know he wasn't," he added, forestalling her question, "but people in our neighbourhood didn't make those distinctions.

"They had three children. My elder brothers wanted to be soldiers like my father. Amin joined the Syrian army and got himself killed on the Golan Heights. Talal ran away at sixteen to join Hezbollah, of all things, and … well, he never came home, at any rate. Who knows. And then they had me. My sister, Mira …" he swallowed hard. "During the war she was killed while playing in the street. A 'friendly fire' incident. I don't think my mother ever recovered from that, really. All she'd ever wanted was fine, strong sons and modest, pretty daughters. And what does she finish up with, instead? Little, skinny, clumsy Arram, the boy the other boys pummel every bloody day because he won't hit back. She loved me, of course she did, but it wasn't the same.

"You can probably imagine what a disappointment I was to my father. I wasn't interested in target shooting or learning to fight, unless I could pretend to be Robin Hood rescuing Maid Marian or some sort of heroic knight-errant. I taught myself to read when I was three, and by the time I was six, every time I ran away from home my mother knew she'd find me at the library. Such as it was." A rueful grimace. "When I was a little boy and my father told me war stories, I covered my ears and cried, or just ran away. He liked to tell stories that … well, they were very detailed. I went … they sent me away to school when I was ten. The Irish Christian Brothers—have you heard of them?"

She nodded.

"Talking of pummelling—it was their primary teaching methodology, if you will." Another dry, mirthless chuckle. "But they were good to me, in their way. That school was my first introduction to the idea of 'book-learning' as a worthwhile ambition in itself, rather than simply the consolation you turn to when you've been thrashed too many times to show your face outside for a few days."

Daine squeezed his hand silently.

"I learned better English than my father's. I learned Latin, I learned proper French. I read ahead of my year, and then ahead of the next year. I saved my pocket money for months and bought a chemistry set imported from England, and I did experiments during prep time, till I blew something up and the housemaster found out. Finally the headmaster wrote his friend in Cairo, who spoke to his friend at the university, who spoke to his friend who was head of the Chemistry Department, who agreed to make an exception to their admission rules, and there I was …

"Cairo wasn't a particularly good university, or particularly anything except, well, Egyptian. I'd have been much better off, in many ways, had I been able somehow to get out of the Middle East altogether and go to Europe or America. But two things about it were wonderful, utopian. Nobody knew who I was, so I could be whoever I wanted—a brilliant, dashing young genius, for example." A rueful smile at the folly of youth. "I could make friends. I could flirt with girls. Well—" Numair was nothing if not strictly accurate. "I could imagine flirting with girls. And Lindhall Reed taught there. He was the first person, I think, whom I genuinely admired. There seemed to be no 'dark side' to Lindhall—he didn't drink too much, or beat his wife, or say ugly things about people behind their backs. He was—well, it sounds maudlin and absurd, but he was the father I'd imagined having, the one who would be proud of me instead of ashamed, who would understand the sorts of things I was passionate about, instead of dismissing them. Dismissing me. It was—it was heavenly, vetkin. For a little while.

"I made friends, as I said. That is, I thought of them as friends then. They were all older than I was—I was only fourteen when I arrived in Cairo. God, it's more than twenty years ago. No wonder I feel so ancient." He drew a deep, shuddering breath, and Daine squeezed his hand again and brought it up to her cheek. "One of them was the man who's asked us round to dinner tomorrow—Ozorne Tasikhe."

Her sharp intake of breath told him she had not expected this.

"Only he wasn't king then, of course—just Crown Prince. He thought very highly of himself, even then, however." He knew he sounded bitter now, something he usually strove to avoid. "He was very clever—very handsome—very suave and well-dressed, of course, and positively dripping money and power—people were attracted to him, and I was no different. I liked being known as his friend because that made people want to be my friends. My ... my lovers, too. The girls Ozorne didn't want would sometimes settle for me." He hadn't realized before how ashamed he was of this particular facet of his former friendship."I had a sense, sometimes—more often, the longer I knew him—that he wasn't actually a very nice person. Well, that's an understatement. But I'd have felt silly saying to myself, 'There's something evil about him.' I ought to have trusted that feeling. I wish I had."

His voice growing hoarse—she left the bed for a few moments to fetch him a glass of water, but it helped very little—he described the experience recreated by his recent nightmares. He turned away from her, now, unwilling to see the shock and anger he expected even from the corner of his eye. Once she had heard the whole story, she could throw him out if she chose; but if he lost courage for even a moment before the end, he would never regain it.

"I didn't report it to anyone," he said softly. "I was too frightened, at first, of losing what home I had; Ozorne had more influence there than you might think, though it wasn't his country. And the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that no one would believe me—or take his actions seriously, if they did. Compassion for lab animals was not a high priority in that time and place," he added dryly. He could almost feel her outrage.

"Ozorne didn't invite me to witness any more of his 'breakthroughs.' Instead he began spreading nasty rumours about what I was up to. Finally I worked up the courage to confront him—to tell him what I thought of him. I got carried away and told him I hoped he'd manage to kill himself before he inherited the throne, because if he didn't he'd be the worst king his country had ever had. It was stupid of me, and he thrashed me soundly for my pains and told me that the next time he saw me, I wouldn't walk away alive. It sounds like adolescent posturing when I say it, but, believe me, he was in deadly earnest. Another friend" (he didn't name this one, and wondered whether Daine had noticed) "came along and found me, and fetched Lindhall, and they patched me up. And I did my best to keep away from Ozorne, of course. I finished my dissertation, said goodbye to Lindhall and ... and the friends I had left, and scarpered.

"It's amazing how well a person can hide, just by growing his hair and not trying to grow a beard and picking out a new name. You wouldn't think it possible, in this marvellous age of globalized communication, but it was—I dropped straight off Ozorne's radar, and stayed off it just long enough to put down roots somewhere else. Find a job, make friends, get British citizenship in case he tried to have me deported. Of course, it wasn't as easy as I'd thought it would be." A wry grin. "Haven't you ever wondered why I've got two PhDs? One's enough for most people. But I needed credentials, and I couldn't use the ones I'd already earned without someone back in Cairo twigging and running to tell Ozorne. Because a year after he—after what I've just told you, his father died and he went back home to be King."

He swallowed, considering, and then went on: "And there's another reason. Even once Ozorne knew where I was, and I could have gone back to being Arram Draper, I didn't want to. I'm not the person I was then, Daine. I don't think you'd have liked Arram much, let alone married him. He was—I was—"

He was desperate to see her face, now, though terrified that it would hold only anger and rejection. He steeled himself to turn and face her—and was caught off guard by her fierce embrace.

"You're not—you're not angry with me?" he asked, still hesitant.

"With you? Ye gods, Numair, no." Hands on his shoulders, she drew back to study his face. "Is that what you thought? That I'd despise you?" He nodded, speechless. "It was brave of you to tell me, then."

"I ought to have told you long ago," he said. "It was—irresponsible of me not to. But I was so afraid of losing you—if I felt you couldn't respect me—"

"My respect for you was well earned," she told him seriously. "This doesn't change that. And I love you desperately—it won't change that, either. Heaven knows I've done things I'm not proud of. Only …"

He saw, and dreaded, the question in her eyes. "What is it, vetkin?"

"Did you ever—am I the only person you've told this to?"

"No," he replied, in a flood of relief. Is that all? "I wrote about it to Lindhall, after I left. He brought the matter to the attention of the university authorities, and there was an investigation. The only real effect was to make Ozorne angrier. He suspected I was behind it, of course. There was no evidence of anything—and in any case no crime, no legal crime. Lab animals do die; even had someone examined their bodies, there was only my poor, belated word to explain how they'd died, that it was deliberate and malicious. 'They're only animals,' someone would have said. 'Not even particularly intelligent ones.' People don't realize, sometimes, that someone who begins by torturing animals …"

"Usually moves on to people," Daine finished. Her blue-grey eyes were troubled. "That's what you've been dreaming about, isn't it?" He nodded again—close enough. "And this is why Alanna went all round our room looking for bugs? Numair, why … What are we doing here? Why has someone who wants to kill you invited you to a party? And, for heaven's sake, why are you going?"

"I've no idea what he has in mind. I won't deny that it seemed like a bad idea to come here in the first place. But it could be such an important conference … and as for me, I'm trying," Numair said softly, "to make some things right."


"It doesn't worry you," Numair asked, "that I talked you into marrying me without telling you the sordid details of my early life?"

"Not particularly," said his wife absently. It was early morning; she was seated cross-legged at the desk in their hotel room, fingers flying over the keys of her laptop as she revised her notes for the panel she was to chair later in the day.

"You don't feel I've kept too many secrets from you?" he probed, trying to imagine how he would feel in her position, fearful that this was the calm before some kind of storm. "It was a risk, you know, marrying someone—even moving in with someone—you knew so little about …"

Daine's fingers stilled; she turned toward him. "I knew enough," she said firmly.


"They tell dreadful stories about you, you know." This is how Daine greets him when they meet for coffee after her first week in the Dick School's veterinary program.

"Who's 'they'? And what stories?" he demands, though he has a very good idea.

"The other students. When people find out I know you, they all want to know if the rumours are true." She sniffs disdainfully. "As if I would have any idea."

"And the rumours are …"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "That you've slept with every female member of academic staff who isn't nailed down, and any graduate student who's willing. That you've never dated the same woman for more than three months. That—"

"All right, all right, you can stop now." He raises both hands in surrender. He is surprised and dismayed to discover that he is blushing.

"They also say," she remarks thoughtfully, "that you're very responsible about protection …"

"Daine!" How can this girl, twelve years his junior, make him feel so like an awkward adolescent?

"Well, people do have to talk about these things, Numair." Her tone is eminently reasonable. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. And it's not as though I don't know about condoms. I'm an undergraduate student—we're practically issued them by the Residence Tutor when we move into our halls of residence. I only mention it to show you the stories aren't all bad."

She grins wickedly, an expression he finds profoundly disconcerting. He casts about for a change of subject: "Which lecturer have you for Comparative Anatomy?"

They do not discuss this topic again, but his thoughts on his sex life, he soon discovers, have forever changed. Though comforted by the fact that he remains on good terms with nearly all of his former lovers (there are fewer than two dozen, in fact, a number that suddenly seems appallingly high), he becomes prey to morose moods and fits of self-loathing, and his latest girlfriend (if 'girlfriend' is not too strong a term for their relationship) drops him abruptly, complaining that sharing his bed is no longer any fun. The next one loses interest just as quickly, and after that there are no more.