Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters and the series. I just try to read between the lines.

Written: July 26, 1999
Code: J/Kashyk
Rating: PG

Author's Notes: You really should see Counterpoint to totally understand this, but it's not a requirement. However, there are spoilers, so be warned. To Boadicea & Suz, whose phenomenal writing inspires me and to Lady Dameon who got me hooked on J/Kashyk in the first place.

Between the Lines
by Saffron

Mahler plays. He is here again. I don't like his game. He is testing me.

"Captain, do you trust me?" he queries

I do not hesitate. "Not for a second."

But I wanted to trust him. It was an instinctive feeling. I guarded against my instincts, knowing they were wrong. I tried to dislike him...but failed miserably.

* ~ *

He has returned... alone. No music. He says he wants to help. I want to believe him. I want to trust him. I can't do either.

* ~ *

Tchaikovsky  plays. I don't know why I'm surprised how well we work together. But I am. I am comfortable with him... more myself that I have been in awhile. A 'me' I hardly recognize.

* ~ *

I find myself smiling as we walk down the corridor. I forget about the guards. I see only him.

* ~ *

He asks me in. I am tempted. I hesitate, but finally make a lame excuse...kicking myself as I leave. I wanted to stay.

* ~ *

He says he has to leave. To help us. I know he is lying. I can see it in his eyes. His leaving saddens me. I offer him a way to redeem himself. I know he won't take it.

* ~ *

He is really leaving. I wish that didn't bother me. I am surprised when his lips touch mine. The kiss ends, leaving me wanting more.

I kiss him back, longer, stronger, deeper.

The kiss ends and he kisses my hand. His tenderness touches me.

He didn't have to go.

But he did.

* ~ *

Tchaikovsky plays. He has returned. To betray us. Yet, I am pleased to see him once more. His treachery disappoints me. I find that I still had hope.

He thinks he has won, sits smugly in my chair. I sit patiently - waiting for truth to be revealed.

"You created false readings," he accuses.

I look at him. "That's the theme for this evening, isn't it?" I take no pleasure in these events.

I change the music. Mahler plays.

He surrenders, defeated. He is gone. Tchaikovsky will never be the same.

FINIS

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