NEW! (DS9) Eye of the Storm 8/10 [NC-17] Jake/Salene

[Macedon]

[Disclaimers in part I.]

EYE OF THE STORM
Macedon & J, c1997

VIII.

Brilliant red against black, spreading out in a gossamer burst
from the white-hot center, then twinkling slowly down, down. A
million Terran fireflies.
"Ah!"
Around him, human voices murmured their appreciation of the
pyrotechnic display in the sky over Lake Ponchartrain. "It's like
fairy dust!" someone said.
Salene turned to speak into a round ear. "What is 'fairy dust'?"
Glancing over, Jake replied, "It's this dust, this magic dust stuff
that Peter Pan sprinkled on people so they could fly to Never-
Neverland."
Salene blinked. Jake's response had made...absolutely no sense.
Perhaps not unexpectedly. Jake was drunk.
Of course, it had begun as an accident.
This was Re-opening Gala--the city's celebration of its survival
of Hurricane William. Jake had used promises of music to coax Salene
out into a shouting, shoving, manic crowd. And there had been music.
New Orleans tonight was a city of music and light. Wildly conflicting
melodies blew from open bar doors, from little stages under green and
white awnings, from parties in perfect French rooms in the apartments
above, from blossom-trellised pergolas in replanted city gardens. Tiny
white lights lit the park trees, neon and chinese lanterns lit the
buildings and shops, and archaic gas lamps lit the streetcorners.
Nostalgic recreations of open-sided trolleys ran on tracks through the
streets. There was food in restaurants and in street-side booths.
There were meandering entertainers: a pair of jugglers, acrobats, a
woman with a tame, oversized animal walking upright. "A bear," Jake
had named it. Shadow-dancers and sketch-artists, painters who painted
in water color and those who painted in laser light. A glass blower.
A hologram artist. Even a potter working at a wheel.
Once, they had run into the Duke. He had been standing outside
his jazz club when the two of them had strolled by. He had waved;
they had waved back and Jake had used the opportunity to duck inside
for a rootbeer, leaving Salene alone with the man. Salene found few
humans too opaque to read, or too intimidating to address easily. He
found the Duke both. After a few awkward minutes of silence, he had
ventured, "If I may, how did you come to be called 'the Duke'?"
"I am one."
"I beg your pardon?"
"One of my white ancestors belonged to the British aristocracy.
When that branch of the family died, the whole kit and kaboodle passed
to the American side. So now they got a New Orleans nightclub owner
in the House of Lords." He had winked.
Salene had looked off up the street. Clowns were coming down it,
followed by a figure costumed in bright bird plumes. How long did it
take Jake to get rootbeer? The Duke spoke again, "Be gentle with that
kid in there. He's in love with you." It was so unexpected, Salene
had jerked around his head to stare. The Duke had held his eyes until
he was the one forced to look away first. "Ah," the man had said. "I
thought that might be the case."
To which Salene had snapped, "What might be the case? I said
nothing from which you could derive conclusions of any sort."
"You didn't have to say anything, chi'pah."
The use of his title had grated on him. "If you know I am
chi'pain, and what that means, then you must also know that what you
suggest is impossible."
"Impossible, or merely difficult?"
Tightening his jaw, Salene had turned away, "It is impossible."
The reappearance of Jake spared him any need to reply. His friend had
dragged him back out into the madness of carnival and for once, he had
been glad to go.
It was that very madness which had resulted in Jake being served
a beer he had not ordered.
Under normal circumstances, Jake Sisko ate at least once an hour
if he could manage it. Tonight, he had eaten his way around the City
Park so when he had stopped at yet another mobbed street-side kiosk to
get them a drink and "something salty," Salene had waited patiently.
A full eleven minutes later, Jake had returned with a bag of wilted-
looking fried food and two cups of very dark liquid. "It's beer!" he
had called over the crowd noise. "The real thing--not synthehol."
And he had held one out to Salene.
Salene had stared at it. "I did not request this."
"Neither did I! The guy just gave it to me--mistook me for
somebody else, I think. They're so swamped, I didn't want to say
anything. Besides"--he grinned and led the way to a rare empty spot
on a park bench--"who am I to turn down free beer?" Then he had taken
a sip, only to spit it out all over the grass. "This is awful!"
Sitting down, Salene had sniffed the cup Jake had left him.
"Stout."
Eying Salene suspiciously, Jake had asked, "How would you know?"
"Given the color, consistency...and the odor...it is a logical
deduction."
"Chief O'Brien swears by this stuff." Jake had taken a second
sip, then a third. "Y'know, when I'm ready for it, it's not so bad. A
little strong--well, a *lot* strong--but not so bad."
In the end, he had drunk his cup and Salene's too; Salene had
honestly not thought to stop him. Then he had gone off to find more.
"I want to try something else!"
He had tried at least four something-elses and had ended up
leaning on Salene all the way down to the boardwalk by the lake where
the firework display was set for midnight. Salene emphatically *did
not* understand how humans could enjoy the experience of alcoholic
inebriation.
They had found a spot in the shadow of a closed boardwalk stall,
the stall front providing something to lean against. Sagging down on
the pine boards, Jake had declared--loudly--"I feel so weird!"
"You are so drunk, that is not surprising," Salene had replied.
Jake had laughed and leaned companionably into Salene, who had tried
to move away. "Perhaps we should not-- And in public--"
"Your hair's down," Jake had said, words slurred. "No one can
see your ears. They won't know you're a Vulcan."
But it was not the reactions of others which Salene feared.
They had studiously avoided touching since that awful, wonderful
encounter two nights ago. Despite their intimacies and confessions--
or really, because of them--a profound uncertainty had slammed down
between them since, leaving them scarcely able to look one another in
the face if they were alone. It had been a relief to use the burst of
preparation for this reopening festival in order to avoid one another.
Busy all day yesterday, they had fallen into sleep immediately last
night and, this morning, had been waked early to finish what had not
been finished the day before. Through it all, they had kept their
distance--until tonight. Until now.
Now Jake was leaning against Salene's shoulder to watch the
fireworks and Salene was experiencing a completely different sort of
fireworks inside his body. They went off in regular bursts low in his
chest, radiating out to the ends of his toes and tips of his fingers.
Shifting a little, he slipped an arm around Jake's waist and pulled
the warm body closer against the chill air of late October.
No--be honest, he told himself. It was not chill air that drove
him, it was the extraordinary rush of touching Jake. He was not the
least bit cold. Jake's Peter Pan must have spilled fairy dust on him.
He was flying.
"Where is this 'Never-Neverland'?" he whispered in Jake's ear.
Maybe they could go there and escape the expectations heaped on him,
the training which said that what he felt--yes *felt*--was wrong
because it was illogical. His brother's words on the comm this
morning had been a cold, blunt reminder of reality. "Where is Never-
Neverland?" he asked again.
Jake gestured vaguely at the sky, lit now by another explosion in
green and blue. "Out there. Second star to the right and straight on
till morning."
Poetic metaphor no doubt. Jake was gesturing at Sirius and
Salene sincerely doubted that Never-Neverland could be found orbiting
Sirius. "What is Never-Neverland like?"
"It's magic. Peter Pan didn't have to grow up as long as he
lived there." He sounded half-asleep. "I'll tell you the story
tomorrow." And shifting closer, he dropped his head on Salene's
shoulder, settling down in the blanketing shadow and the cozy
anonymity of an indifferent crowd.
Salene stroked Jake's side and told himself, You are quite mad:
mad for permitting it to get this far, and mad for entertaining any
hope that it might continue. What place in the universe was there for
them?
Never-Neverland, indeed. He watched the fireworks and dreamed of
impossibilities.

Someone was nudging him and saying his name. Jake came up out of
dreams enough to mutter something and curl closer to his improvised
pillow...except that it was his pillow which nudged him. "It is time
to go, Jake. The fireworks are over. You slept through them."
He let himself be roused and, sleepy and still drunk, rubbed at
his eyes, tried to focus on the figure beside him. The mountain was
moving. He looked up and up.
"Come."
Snorting, he set his hands one to either side and heaved himself
to his feet, wobbled. Strong hands steadied him. "Lean on me." He
did as the voice commanded.
They were half-way back before the night air woke him further and
cleared his head moderately. Salene still had him, one arm around his
waist, his arm over Salene's shoulders. Irritated, he pulled away. "I
can walk under my own steam!"
Salene's voice was stiff. "As you wish."
Jake breathed out. "Sorry, I--"
But Salene had turned away, headed back for the restaurant. Jake
knew he couldn't return home in his current state. His grandfather
would kill him. He took a few hurried steps after Salene, set a hand
on his friend's shoulder. "Slow down."
"I am fatigued," Salene said, not quite turning. "A rapid return
seems in order, so that I may all the sooner sleep."
It wasn't even a convincing front. "I know you were just trying
to help," he said. "Sorry I snapped. I just...feel kind of dumb. I
didn't plan to get drunk."
"Six glasses in two-point-eight hours would seem to argue to the
contrary," Salene said.
So. Forgiveness would not come that easily. "What's wrong?"
Jake asked.
"*Nothing* is 'wrong.'"
"If nothing were wrong, you wouldn't be so emphatic about it."
Salene spun around to glare. It put Jake off a little. Those
Gypsy magician eyes could frighten or hypnotize. But it wasn't a
violent face, just a sad one: moody, distant, sometimes dreamy,
sometimes sullen...all the things the Vulcan in him would deny to the
end of his days.
Jake grabbed his wrist and pulled him under one of the new
lattice-roofed park arboretums. Honeysuckle vines had been twisted
artfully above, the work of gardeners, not nature. It was dark
beneath and heavy with scent. Outside, the crowds passed by, headed
home for the night. Pulling them further inside, away from prying
eyes, he finally turned to face Salene, started to speak. But there
was nothing to say. It wasn't words that had caused them problems.
It was what they didn't want to talk about.
He leaned in for a kiss but unable to see in the shadows, missed
Salene's lips and hit his chin instead. Abruptly, he was being shoved
back to a wooden arbor strut, one of Salene's long hands over his
mouth, another against his chest, holding him still. He said nothing
because he couldn't; Salene just said nothing. They breathed. After
a moment, Jake felt Salene's hands release him. He didn't move.
Salene's fingers touched his cheek, his lips, brushed a thumb over
them, then drew the thumb down over the chin and along the jaw and
throat to rest gently against Jake's adam's apple. Jake swallowed,
let his own hands go out to grip either side of Salene's waist, pull
him closer. Hip to hip. One thing about being drunk--it made him
brazen. And horny. Leaning forward, he bit at Salene's lips. The
hand came up again to cover his mouth. He bit the fingers, gently
enough, but Salene sucked in breath. At first, Jake took it for
arousal but after a second, he realized Salene was in pain and let go,
took the hand in his and raised it up until he could see it in a shaft
of gas lantern light.
It was bruised, tattooed in a neat pattern of teeth-marks. "I
didn't do that!" It was half protest, half fear.
"No, you did not," came the reply. "I did." Salene reclaimed
his hand, turned away.
Silence.
Finally, Jake said, "Why'd you bite yourself?"
There was no reply. Jake stepped up behind him, slid arms around
his middle and pressed up against him from behind. "Tell me." Salene
shook his head; Jake could feel strands of loose hair tickle his
cheek. He was no longer feeling so drunk, just tired and worried and
defeated. "Then if you won't tell me why, at least tell me when."
"Two nights ago."
"Two *nights* ago? You've been hiding it that long? What is
this--some kind of bizarre Vulcan penitence?"
Salene shoved him back and away so hard, Jake stumbled, kept from
falling only by luck.
"Do not mock me!"
"Sorry. And I wasn't. I just...don't understand."
"Why do you assume that I do?" Salene spun and stalked away,
threw back over his shoulder, "I do not understand any of this!"
Jake had to run to catch him up, back in the street. "Look,
let's go somewhere--"
Salene ignored him.
"Come on, Salene!"
Salene still ignored him. Jake was reduced to following at his
heels all the way back to the restaurant, but Salene froze about fifty
feet from the entrance. He was shaking, Jake noticed.
As bizarre as this feels to you, he told himself, think how it
feels to him. He's not even used to feeling at all!
But Jake wasn't sure he believed that. Salene felt, he just
wasn't used to *admitting* that he did. Two nights ago, he had
admitted it. "Come on," Jake said. "Let's go upstairs and talk.
Nothing else. Just talk."
"I do not see the point. We have already 'talked'."
"Yeah, and we need to talk again, don't we?"
"About what?"
"About us."
"'Us', Jake?"
"Yeah--*us*. Don't pretend there's not an 'us.' There's an us
or you wouldn't be here in the first place." He didn't want to have
this conversation any more than Salene did, wanted to just let it all
happen and then he wouldn't have to take responsibility for it. But
that wouldn't work. In the end, he'd still have to face what had
happened between them and he might lose Salene if they didn't decide
at the outset where this was going. This couldn't be a fling. Salene
was a Vulcan and Vulcans didn't have flings. Nor, Jake realized, did
he want it to be a fling, either. He'd never given much thought to a
long-term relationship--he was too young--but he had the sudden,
overwhelming sense that this was *it*. Salene was it. Youthful
romantic theatrics, perhaps, but he still felt it: down in his solar
plexus and deeper than thought.
This is crazy, one part of him said. That didn't change his
certainty any. "Come upstairs with me," he said, held out a hand.
There were a lot of layers in that simple question.
Salene looked at the hand, then up to his face. Warm fingers met
Jake's. "All right." It was acquiescence.
The restaurant was closing; it was one in the morning. His
grandfather was still up. Jake's father always said that he had
gotten his night-owl genes from his mother and grandfather. "There
you two are!" Joseph Sisko called, waving them over. Jake approached,
Salene a silent presence behind him. "You've got a visitor," his
grandfather said, nodding out towards the back of the restaurant where
Nog sat at his usual table.
Jake wanted to curse in frustration, felt Salene's hand close
gently on his elbow. "I'll be upstairs," Salene said. Turning, Jake
looked back at him, tried to read his mood. "I'll wait." There was
no expression on that Vulcan face, but the black eyes were calm. He
no longer looked ready to bolt.
"Okay," Jake said. Salene moved away and Jake turned back to his
grandfather, who had watched their exchange with wise eyes. Abruptly,
Jake realized that his grandfather knew. Blind terror seized him.
"It's not--"
"Jake, go see Nog. We'll talk about this later."
"But--!"
"Jake. Nog has been waiting for two hours." His grandfather
caught and held his gaze. "I'm not angry," he added, then returned to
oversee cleanup.
A little stunned, Jake walked out to Nog's table. He spent the
next hour listening to Nog's chatter and thinking hard about Salene
and his grandfather and how his life was suddenly changing faster than
he could keep up with.
Nog had been to New Orleans since the storm, of course, though
the restaurant had been closed and there were no tube grubs to be had.
Jake half-thought Nog was keeping an eye on Salene, as if he did not
trust him--though the idea of a Ferengi not trusting a Vulcan was
ludicrous. Now, Nog broke off in mid-sentence to ask, "What's up with
you? You haven't heard a word I've said."
Jake swung attention back to his friend and took a sip from a cup
of nearly-cold coffee. He hated coffee but needed it tonight to clear
his head. "I'm just distracted," he said.
"Yeah, I noticed. And the distraction has pointed ears."
Nog, too? Jake's eyes flashed up. But no, it was just Nog's
usual jealousy of Salene.
And oh, what was he going to do about Nog? How would the Ferengi
take it when he found out about Jake and Salene? Jake realized that
he'd never heard of a same-sex Ferengi couple either, but he knew
Quark had a whole selection of holodeck sex programs for "alternate
interests," as he called them. Jake and Nog had snuck a look through
the index, some years ago now. It had been quite educational. But
the same-sex programs hadn't been in the "alternate" category; they'd
been in with the usual programs. Maybe that said something about
Ferengi attitudes or maybe it just said something about Ferengi
business sense when it came to humanoid customers.
"What *is* it?" Nog hissed, leaning over the table. "He insult
you or something? I told you Vulcans don't have friends; they're too
arrogant to think they need them."
"It's not that," Jake said, took a breath. Should he tell or
not? "We're just...having some problems."
Snorting, Nog sat back and took a sip of his rootbeer. "You make
it sounds like you're a couple or something."
"What would be wrong with that?"
It was out before Jake could bite it back.
Nog's eyes got very wide. He set down the rootbeer. "What? But
you-- I mean, we've-- What about the *females*, Jake?"
Jake shrugged. "I still like girls. Salene's...an exception."
"That's an understatement! Any man who *chooses* to make himself
like a female!"
Nog's reply shocked Jake into several seconds of silence. They
had never settled the gender thing, just tacitly agreed not to discuss
it. Nog had accepted human women in command by deciding that Ferengi
women were just not the same: "Naturally inferior. It's a simple
matter of biology." Of course, human men had said that about human
women five hundred years ago, too, but it was easier for Nog to decide
that human women were different than to re-evaluate his opinion of
Ferengi women. And he retained enough typical Ferengi male chauvinism
to set Jake's teeth on edge.
But is it really all that different from human male chauvinism?,
Jake asked himself. The human version was just better hid, only
showing itself when confronted by the unexpected...like Salene.
"Salene isn't a woman," Jake said now. "He's a eunuch, and
unique." Okay, so it was a stupid play on words, but it fit.
Unfortunately, the pun didn't carry through the universal translator.
"Unique, maybe; weird for sure." Then Nog shrugged. "But if you
want to waste your time chasing a Vulcan--and a *castrated* Vulcan, at
that--it's your business. You'll get tired of him fast enough; gossip
around the Academy says they only have sex once every seven years."
Startled, Jake sat up straight. "What?"
Nog seemed pleased to know something Jake didn't, and leaned over
the table again in the habitual manner of all Ferengi confidences.
"It's called pon farr--hits them once every seven years and then they
go crazier than a pair of sex-starved Klingons. But the rest of the
time...." He drew a finger across his throat in a silent gesture.
Jake frowned at the table top and thought about that. Could this
pon farr explain Salene's inability to come two nights ago? But when
they'd talked downstairs after, Salene hadn't said anything about any
pon farr, and he had admitted to desiring Jake. Jake had assumed the
problem lay in a lack of testosterone, not some peculiar seven-year
itch. Was Salene not telling him everything? How could they have a
relationship if Salene didn't tell him everything?
Nog had slouched down on his side of the table, confident that he
had finally hit on something important enough to make Jake reconsider
a relationship that Nog clearly thought a bad idea. Jake wasn't sure
if he was more irritated with Nog, or with Salene. He stood. "Look,
it's late. I need to get to bed. And anyway, there isn't anything
between Salene and me, really."
"Then why'd you imply there was?" Nog demanded.
"I just...didn't like the assumption that there'd be something
wrong if there had been."
Nog eyed him suspiciously. "Whatever." He stood up. "I'll talk
to you later."
After Nog had left, Jake passed through the kitchen headed for
the second floor. He half-expected to find his grandfather still in
the kitchen, but found only Tad, running the last dishes into the
cleaning units. "JoePa went to bed half an hour ago," he said when
Jake asked. Relieved to escape *that* conversation tonight, Jake took
the stairs two at a time.
When he reached the room, the lights were out. Salene was in
bed, apparently asleep. So much for waiting. But then, Salene had
said earlier that he was tired and while that might have been half
diversion, Vulcans didn't like to lie outright so it had also probably
been true.
Jake went to the bathroom to ready himself for bed, came back but
didn't climb under the covers. He sat in the corner chair. The chair
springs squeaked and the shape on the bed moved, made a noise of
waking. "Jake?"
"Yeah, it's me. I didn't mean to wake you." He tried to keep
the accusation out of it: You promised to wait for me.
Sheets rustled as Salene sat up. "I was napping until you
returned." A pause. "Come to bed."
And just what kind of invitation was *that*? Rising, Jake went
forward, felt for Salene and found his arm, his hand. Salene drew him
down under the flung back sheets, pulled him close. Jake got a shock;
Salene was completely nude under the covers. Surprised or not, Jake's
body still reacted, quick as a blush. He tried to shift away; Salene
didn't let him. "I thought we were just going to talk?" Jake asked.
Salene's hand came up to cover Jake's mouth, like earlier that
night in the garden arbor. "I do not wish to talk," Salene whispered.
"Humans talk entirely too much sometimes." He rolled Jake over, put
himself on top, a dark shadow against the light from the window. His
skin was...incredibly warm. And soft. And Jake was starting not to
care about talking after all.
But this was all out of character. Jake had been the one to
drink six beers, not Salene. He spoke between the fingers over his
mouth. "I'm not sure this is a good idea. I think you still have
some things to tell me--like about pon farr."
Salene's mood altered abruptly, as if he had been acting. Maybe
he had been. Jake was starting to wonder just how well he knew his
friend. Rolling off Jake, Salene lay flat on his back, one hand
languid on his chest. "Where did you hear of it? Or no, permit me to
speculate. It was the Ferengi. They will sell any information for a
price. Did you hire him to investigate me, or Vulcans generally?"
"*What*?" Furious, Jake scrambled out of bed, almost tripped on
the bedsheets. "Lay off Nog, Salene. Lay off me, too. I didn't go
behind your back and he didn't sell me anything. He told me. Which
is more than you've done."
Salene sighed in the dark, but it did not sound repentant. "Pon
farr is a topic of...much shame...to my people. As it has no impact
on me, there is no reason for you to know."
Jake waved an arm. "Maybe just for *honesty*-sake? Nog said
Vulcans only have sex when they're in pon farr."
"Nog does not know what he is talking about and would do better
to be silent! Very well, then. You would know? I will tell you. Pon
farr is the Vulcan mating cycle. Men suffer it every seventh year of
their adult lives. They must mate, or die. It is not considered a
pleasant experience. As I will never be an adult male, it will not
affect me. End of lesson."
Mate or die? Jake hid his shock behind his anger. "You're in a
mood tonight! Is this your way of punishing me for talking to Nog
instead of coming upstairs with you?"
"No."
"Yeah, right."
Salene snorted delicately. "If you had already made up your mind
regarding my motivations, why ask me at all?"
Jake collapsed onto the side of the bed, back to Salene, and
stared out into the room's dark. "What are we doing?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What are we doing, fighting like this? I mean, this is crazy.
We were supposed to have a conversation, not a war." There was no
answer behind him. "I know this isn't easy for you. It's not easy
for me, either. I don't know what happens next any more than you do,
but we managed to talk two nights ago without snarling at each other.
Can't we do it again?"
He felt a hand, light on his back, gentle. "Please," Salene
whispered. "I do not think that I am ready to...talk. Yet. Please."
It was almost pleading and Jake realized that he had never in the now
nine months of their friendship heard Salene plead for anything. Ask,
needle, rebuke, inform, tease even...but never plead. He turned a
little to look down at his friend. White moonlight from the window
painted Salene's face, cast shadows in his eyes and the hollows under
cheekbones. "Please," Salene said again.
Jake gave in, slipped back under the covers.

*** End Part 8 ***