The BLTS Archive- Supposed To by Terrie H. Drummonds (TDrummonds@aol.com) --- COMPLETED: June 26, 1998 STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE and characters are the property of Paramount Pictures, Inc. Salute! But this story is mine. It does not intend to infringe on Paramount's copyright in any way. Do not change or alter in any way. Copyright 1998 by Terrie H. Drummonds Feedback is always welcomed. COMMENTS: Not my usual duo, but a story I had been meaning to write just to do it. Would it ever happen? Who knows? Blame it on sweltering heat and a bottle of cold Chardonnay. It's an experiment in style if nothing else. --- Vanilla. Such a mundane scent. Such a sweet, rich, sugary smell. At least the scent bcoming from the candle wasn't too overbearing, wasn't too sickening. But it reminded him of home. A home far away. Rolling green hills. Fresh, crisp air. Children charging across fields. Picnics underneath an oak tree on top of that one hill that overlooked the valley. How many months had it been? The whiskey slid down his throat and warmed his belly. Water. It should be hot. Steamy. Bubbling from the jets. He preferred it to be cool. Placid. Tame. Warm enough to keep him relaxed yet cool enough not to blister his balls. Warm enough to soothe the aching in his muscles yet cool enough to make him stop sweating after playing racquetball or crawling around ventilation shafts trying to repair something. The candle. The bath. How many months had it been? The whiskey slid down his throat and warmed his belly. How many was this now? Freesia. He had no clue what the hell it was. It was just a type of bath salts. The kind he'd grab a handful of and dump under the running water. The kind that turned the water a pale blue. The kind that made the water feel somehow softer, almost like a sheer silk gauze. The kind that she had lotion to match. It smelled nice. Fresh. Clean. A contrast to the heavy, rich vanilla. He had no idea why he had lit the candle, filled the tub, and set out the lotion. It wasn't as if she was going to come walking through the door. Oh, music was supposed to be playing. There always had been before. It was her way of relaxing. But she was on Earth, where she was supposed to be during this awful war, where she was taking care of their kids. No. He did know why he'd done it. With all the things that had happened in the past few months, the past few hours... he needed to remember what it had been like during happier times. Back when he had a house full of women. Back when he had a family living here. Back when.... The whiskey slid down his throat and warmed his belly. How many was this now? Kira had dismissed him with all the chilly authority of Captain Jellico. Icy. Impersonal. As if she hadn't spent the months living under his roof, becoming part of his clan, endearing herself to his family. Driving him absolutely nuts. They would argue for hours over the stupidest things "just because." He couldn't even remember what their arguments were about, just that they were long and involved and earned him "the look" from Keiko because he was upsetting Kira. Ziyal was dead. And in the moment when he should have been able to assume the role of Nerys' kinsman, to chant or pray or whatever needed to be done, she turned him away. It wasn't as if he hadn't known Ziyal. She'd come to dinner at least once a week, spending a few hours coloring with Molly. Being the little girl she hadn't been allowed to be. Keiko had even tutored her some in mathematics and science. So he had been stunned by Ziyal's death too. But Kira didn't want him around, didn't want him to pray with her, didn't want him to be supportive and all that crap that went along with being kin. She wanted to be left alone. Fair enough. He'd done the same before. They were so much alike in that respect. He slowly stood, wondering why he had been sitting on the toilet almost fully dressed, slugging down whiskey, staring at a bathtub full of water, smelling the vanilla from the candle and the freesia in the water and thinking about how much he missed what his life had been a few months ago. Must be time for his damned medication. Better stop with the whiskey now. He didn't want a headache. But he'd only had three. The door chime sounded, breaking the silence. He set the bottle down on the credenza. He wandered toward the door, dressed only in the mustard tunic and black pants of his uniform. His boots and socks were by the door, on the mat like they were supposed to be if he had been at his mother-in-law's house; his jacket was on the chair where he had tossed it. He pressed the control. The doors opened. Kira stepped forward, tears streaking down her face. She choked out his name and then fell into his arms. Oh... that's right. He was only allowed to be a clansman in private. He pulled her to his chest, stepping backward and allowing the doors to close. She sobbed. He crooned. It was, after all, what he was supposed to do. "I did this to her... I made her do it... I made her betray her own father... all because of me..." Self-hatred. He knew all about it. After all, he'd almost blown his head off over it. "Shhhhhh...." It was all he could say. He held her, stroking her hair, her back. She wept, her tears soaking the fabric of his tunic. They were a lot a like, he and she. They were soldiers. They had seen atrocities. They had fought back. They had conquered. This time, her victory caused a death too close to home. A death in a time in her life when deaths like this weren't supposed to be common. Ziyal wasn't her daughter but she was still family. Family in that weird sense. Family in the weird sense that Miles understood. "... Should have heard him... howling in the corridors... protecting her... wouldn't relent until Odo spoke to him... wouldn't listen to anyone but Odo...." She thumped his back, hard, with each sentiment. Extracting her frustration upon him. She was family. He would endure. It was, after all, what he was supposed to do. He touched her shoulders, trying to coax her into relaxing. She sagged against him, arms about his waist. "Prophets forbid...." He steadied her until he could move her to the chair. She refused to sit. She stared at him with tear-filled eyes. "I did this...." She held out her hands. He grasped them firmly, stroking the backs with his thumbs. He couldn't say a thing. He just listened. It was, after all, what he was supposed to do. "So dirty... Bloodied... bloody with her blood." She tried to pull her hands back, either to show him her palms or to hug herself. He refused to let go. "Bloody with her blood. Dead. Dead because of me. Bloody." Her eyes were full of tears. Her face was stained with them. "Never forgive...." Stories his grandfather had told him when he was just a child came back to him. He shuffled her to the bathroom. It was symbolic more than anything else, the washing away of sins. She wouldn't know. She believed in the Prophets. Grandda had believed in God. But it was still the same, wasn't it? He set her commbadge on the sink. They had been family, after all. People wouldn't think it extraordinary if they found her here. He unzipped her jacket. They had been family, after all. He'd done this before. He undressed her as he had done during that final month, when she had needed his strength to move about in this room. They had been family, after all. If she wondered why the water had already been prepared and the sickeningly-sweet aroma of vanilla was in the air, she didn't ask. They had been family, after all. He lowered her into the cool water, elbow deep and soaking his sleeves. It didn't matter. They had been family, after all. He lathered the sponge with the Freesia bath gel, running it gently across her body... cleansing her. They had been family, after all. Her breasts, her nipples... her hips... her thighs... her sex. He hadn't meant to touch her like that, but her hand had covered his and pressed it to her. His fingers had automatically stroked and thumbed.... it was second nature to him by now. Eight years of marriage did that. So did four months of only having his hand as company and fantasizing about things he wasn't supposed to fantasize about but did anyway. She arched, bearing down on his fingers. Reaching, she grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward her. Her lips locked onto his. The scent. The light. The water. It wasn't who it was supposed to be but it was close enough... wasn't it? Part of him remembered some obscure story about fucking away the demons. He'd done it himself, hadn't he? And maybe that was the only mechanism she had to cope with what had happened. Fair enough. Water splashed, drenching the front of him. A tongue touched his... a hand grasped him. A moan reached his ears. It wasn't who it was supposed to be but it was close enough... wasn't it? She unzipped his tunic, baring his chest. She raked her fingers through his sparse chest hair, across his belly, to the waistband of his trousers. Her mouth covered his. She made quiet sounds of yearning. She squeezed him. He groaned. The scent. The light. The water. Too much. It wasn't who it was supposed to be but it was close enough... wasn't it? She pushed him back until he lost his balance, thudding on his ass... his legs sprawled in front of him. She slid out of the tub, water dripping everywhere, and straddled his lap. She pawed at his trouser zipper, nails raking across him until she was able to unfasten and zip down his trousers. She pulled down his underpants, thumbing the head of his cock. He groaned. He leaned back, shifting until his back was against the cold deckplates. She reached and felt his balls, rubbing the flesh, rolling them in her hands. He grabbed her hips, pulling her forward. She wasn't as willing as he expected. She seemed confused. Riker's quips about courtship rituals popped into his mind. Maybe she just didn't know what to expect. But she eventually complied. She tasted like vanilla. And Freesia. And sex. Her moans bounced off the walls of the 'fresher. The first modification he had made when he had moved here was to install sound-proof walls in here. It was one of his favorite places. Her thighs trembled against his cheek. Nails sunk in at the base of his cock. He moved his hips, hoping to alert her to the pain before he had to throw her off. She just looked down at him and did the most amazing thing. She turned. His lips were on her. Hers were on him. And by every Deity in the Universe, she could suck cock. He pinched her nipples. Massaged her breasts and ass. She rode his face as if she never been brought off like this before. Perhaps she hadn't. And when his tongue bathed the edge.... She pushed down; his nose pressed against her. He'd thought he'd drown. Or suffocate. Her thighs clamped the sides of his head. Thank God she didn't bite when she came. He wouldn't have a cock left. She slid off of him, flopping to the side. Fingers still stroked his balls. Then, she clambered on top of him, guiding his cock into her. She felt like fire. She kissed him, licked his face. She rode him hard, pumping and pulling and squeezing with muscles he'd only read about in porn stories. There. There. There. THERE. It hit him so fast and so hard that he lifted her and came with his back arched off of the floor. She fell forward, breasts pressed against him again. She cried. He soothed. She sobbed. He shushed. She clambered into the bathtub. He scrubbed her down. She stumbled out. He dried her off. She wobbled out to the couch. He guided her to her old bedroom. She collapsed onto her old bed. He tucked her in. She fell asleep. He cleaned up. She snored. And he slept in his own bed. Just like they were supposed to. --- The End