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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