Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Wed, 14 Jan 2004 16:21:36 -0500 In: alt.startrek.creative From: "Ananke" aeteananke@hotmail.com Title: The Leopard and the Lamb Author: Ananke Email: AeteAnanke@hotmail.com Series: DS9 Rating: R Archive: Just tell me where. Disclaimer:: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and all related characters owned by Paramount Studios. No copyright infringement is intended. The mission camp, like so much else under the Federation standard of war, sits straddling a precipice. From your phaser hewn and force field shielded shower window you can see the ice pond that here is the sum total of available recreation; if your companion shifts in just a certain way, at it's center you can see the frigid, gaping missile entrance hole that not an hour ago very nearly proved your tomb. "A dozen metres more, and that one would have ruined the aft generators." The good Doctor's ministrations to the medical supply kit are as absent as his tone, you can't help but absorb his tired misery, can't help but clench fists and despise the unspoken and unceasing blame. Blood puddles on the floor and he seems vexed by it, forehead creasing. Somehow, it doesn't appear to be his blood. You speak, emptily, willing to indulge in survivor's shock, willing to stave off the shaking and eye-rolling terror until later. You still wear your command mask, the one with the hundred flaws no one will admit to noticing. "The aft generators are already ruined. It's the fore ones we can't afford to lose more of." "Mmm. Heaven forbid we cease to notice the difference." The rustle of feet signals his approach, shallow breaths puff in your ear, hardly a romantic gesture, and then a surprisingly strong hand pinches your neck abruptly. "And how did that feel?" "It hurt!" His sigh is unadulterated patience, gentle soothing. The counselor within you rebels at the obvious easement. "Yes, obviously the outer epidermal nerves are still functioning. I was referring to your spots. You appear to have a slight case of vitiligo." "What? Julian! My spots are disappearing?!" His long, rough-knuckled hands settle on upper arms, squeezing white flesh lightly, a gesture of sharp medical reprimand, a hint of comfort. Too little blood for coloration. You stand there, claiming the last precious drops of hot water, the final death throes of civilized living. Even half an hour later you still feel strangely numb, the blood doesn't seem to have stopped puddling by much, and human Julian looks rather like a prude, stuck in the shower with you waving his weather-proof tricorder like a desperate, nude gnome. It's then that Dax remembers the bizarre neatness with which he undressed and folded his clothing while you were bleeding and half frozen in a heap and you want to smack him, want to dig nails in and mark territory, drain his blood, tear Jules free. Instead you turn in his grip, a hand scaling wet golden flesh to rest gently against the easily thumping heart. "I want a child, Julian. We can raise he or she on Earth, even if the water is blue..." "You'll forgive me if all circumstances considered, I'd prefer to not engage in casual socio-reproductive activity." His starched coyness isn't something any of the hosts finds amusing. You lower your voice as the water sputters to a loss, wrapping both arms around his neck, forcing his gaze. "I want a Terran cat as well. Did you know that they supposedly have just nine lives?" "You would think that some could value just one life enough to at least attempt to preserve it." The tricorder falls to the rough floor with a crack and you move to block any attempt to retrieve the device, pressing up against the doctor's body and pinning him to a makeshift bulkhead. His reluctant erection digs into a thigh and you laugh at the sight he makes, brows climbing and mouth formed into a faint o. "Do you want me, Julian?" "You must remember, Ezri...emotionally I'm stronger than you." One elegant hand lifts to touch your aching throat and then drifts downward, a nipple gently entrapped and caressed between thumb and index finger. He needs you. That much certainty removes the sting from deliberate insult, that much understanding is given in the slight caress. You've seen the boy-man at his weakest and still been stronger than him at your weakest, and he needs you. It should be enough. You close a half frozen hand around Julian's arousal, fingertips dancing along the silky hardness of him, watching his eyes glaze and the all knowing doctor fade into a phantom. "Now." You order softly. "Hmm..." He thrusts involuntarily into your hand, pink tongue whetting thin lips before he manages a half-hearted shake for clarity. "Can't do that...medical prerogative...no ranks between us, as you promised..." "I need you, Julian." If nothing else, you recognize the power of words. Stronger creatures than Julian Bashir have been felled by need. Klingons have been felled by your need. Your hands move again to his head, stroking wet dark tendrils, your mouth brushes his, cold pants dueling with crisp warmth, the taste of peppermint, or maybe ginger. "Please." "I fail to understand why this is so important to you now, Dax." He manages, pulling back slightly. "I need to treat you immediately." "Why?" It's useless by then, you realize. The symbiont rocks weakly in it's inner cradle as you pull closer again, a hot spear of human flesh pressed between the two of you. The low rumble of other voices echoes just outside, even through strange and telling pain you feel heady satisfaction as a reflexive jerk leads him to your entrance. Your chief engineer pauses with Worf just outside to mull over generator repairs, the rise of her auburn hair scarcely brims the windowsill and Worf's forehead ridges bob dangerously above. Teeth gritted, your boyfriend stares at you, madness and annoyance in his eyes. "The spots, my dear." "They aren't important. I can live without them, will blend better on Earth." You shove forward one last time, taking him in as you both crash into the bulkhead with a resounding thud that stills all conversation outside. The silence is reciprocated in your cramped shower, a mute struggle of wet limbs and wills. Somehow you switch positions, spine scraping against cold metal as his palms spread flat on either side of your head. No time for foreplay, for fitful pretenses of affection. He moves with measured urgency, building fractional body heat even as the cold seeps into your toes and fingertips, as the bright sunlight falls into illusory dusk. Julian fucks you until you scream and then after surreal moments of stillness crumples to the floor. You follow, burrowing into his chest and closing your hazy eyes with hollow resignation. Thanks to the Xindi, there is no Earth. And you appear to be out of lives. FIN -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? 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