SUMMARY: What if Odo and Kira had become intimate at the time of
their first meeting on the Cardassian space station Terok Nor?

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copyright infringement is intended here. Please ask before
reposting, republishing, or archiving.

FEEDBACK ADDRESSES:
czb@comcast.net; odosgirl@yahoo.com

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following story is set during an alternate
Cardassian Occupation, and has previously appeared in the fanzine
Love and Justice VI. It is being posted here with permission of
the zine editor (me :-).

Save the Stranger
by C. Zdroj
 ~~~~

She looked up at the approach of the pale figure
clothed in shadow. She felt the heat creep up over her
face and was glad of the dim lighting, of the pervasive
grayness of the space station. She had schooled herself
into a pose of belligerence while waiting in the
storage bay, her arms folded over her chest, one hip
thrust out. She made her gaze and her voice defiant as
she met his eyes. "The Ferengi said you wanted to talk
to me."

"How interesting," said the constable -- his resonant
voice full of chilly amusement. "He told me that you
were waiting here for me with new information on the
Va'atrick matter."

She had told Furel this was a stupid idea. The alien's
loyalties could not be bought. This she knew
instinctively -- and yet she also knew, just as surely,
that he might be appealed to in some other way. This
was why she had finally agreed to go through with it.
Now that she was here, and committed, she had a strange
and unexplainable desire to see what lay hidden behind
his mask. For his assumed toughness and indifference
was a mask, a mask that had slipped very briefly during
their first meeting, when he had apologized to her for
a perceived sexual come-on. He was attracted to her,
she sensed, but did not know how to act on it.

"Lying is standard procedure for most Ferengi," she
offered with a smile, still trying to sound insolent.
"I've told you everything I know."

"So why are you here?"

It was a simple enough question. The ready answer that
she had formulated some hours earlier suddenly eluded
her. Her arm still ached with the bruising where
Dukat's hand had clutched her. The reminder made her
feel dirty. Violated. The constable's hard, bright eyes
gave her no place to hide. What had she hoped to find
there? Absolution? To confess herself, after he had
promised that she would surely be turned over to the
spoonheads in that event? Guilty she undoubtedly was --
not of killing Va'atrick -- that had been necessity,
survival. But she was guilty of other things, things
that couldn't be covered over with words like
collaborator, freedom, mission, acceptable losses ...
What was it about this man's face that made her want to
confess every wrong she'd ever done, every life she'd
ever taken?

He looked at her, through her ...

She reached out and took his hand, turning it palm-up
and laying hers over it. His skin was warm, and it felt
as smooth as it looked. Unscarred and uncalloused,
long-fingered and elegant, his was the hand of someone
who'd "never been in the mines." He'd spotted her
initial lie because of such close attention to
detail -- a lifetime of learning to imitate humanoids,
or so she'd heard.

She looked at his face again and his eyes didn't
flinch, and so she pressed his palm against her breast
through the fabric of her clothing, almost savagely,
and held it there. He didn't resist this presumption,
this invasion upon his private nature. He only lowered
his eyes and said, "Don't play games with me." But his
voice was soft now, as if she'd located the crack in
his armor. Suddenly she wanted to see more of him. With
her free hand she allowed her fingertips to come up and
touch his chin. That did make him flinch. He tried to
look away from her, tilting his head a fraction,
directing his gaze at the floor.

*Who did this to you?* She wondered, for she knew this
posture, and the fear it signified. She'd see it in
countless Bajoran refugees who'd had their will to
resist drained away through the constant round of
Cardassian brutality and oppression. And yet, only
moments ago, the man before her had been utterly
different. Hard, uncompromising. Resilient.

Working quickly, she undid the first three buttons of
her tunic to admit his hand. She had to push his
fingers underneath the fabric, but once there they
traced lightly and cautiously over the swell of her
bare breast, grazing the nipple. She bit her lip and
her breath caught in her throat, as his touch became
surer, as though a switch had been flipped. He began to
caress her with a kind of agonizing slowness. Her body
quivered at the warmth of his tentative touch,
universes different from the iron grip of the
Cardassian's hand. She had needed to know that. There
was hesitation in the alien's touch, discrimination, a
sensitivity to the faintest degree of pressure. Yet
there was power too, written on that impassive,
mask-like face and rigidly held body. Yes. From
somewhere this outwardly shy creature had summoned
strength and courage enough to face down the Cardassian
Prefect of Bajor. In spite of herself she had a sudden
need to touch that power, to feel her own body vibrate
against it.

The constable tilted his head. "Not for money," he
said, almost sadly. "Not for food?" He seemed almost
disappointed. His hand had become still against her
breast.

"You saved my life," she said, as though this explained
everything.

"I assumed you were innocent," he said evenly.

*None of us are innocent,* she thought, but said nothing.
She gripped his fingers, making him squeeze her flesh.
She gasped in pleasure, a gasp that was almost a groan,
and his gasp echoed hers. A moment of brief, silent
accord. "Please," she whispered, feeling a deep, hidden
throbbing in her body, a sudden, irrational desire for
him to hunt out all of her secrets and expose them, to
break her open and see her as she was.

He averted his eyes, almost as if her unspoken desires
were radiating out of her and causing him pain.
"Haven't you heard?" he said, bitterly sarcastic. "I
know nothing about sex. I don't require it."

She made her look a challenge, her breathing hard now,
her heart racing. "Don't you wonder, though? Aren't you
even curious?"

He continued to stare at her with that measuring look.
He was not picturing her body, she knew, but was trying
to see something more elusive -- not even the truth or
falseness of her words -- but something more
fundamental, something that went to the core of her. He
was trying to see *her.* He let his hand fall slowly from
her body, but kept his gaze fixed on her.

She began to open the rest of her tunic, peeling it
down, baring her upper body to him in the chill and
dimness. Her breasts, no longer hidden, were soft and
small and pale, their nipples raised and hard, aching
with wanting his hands on them. He stood silently,
taking in the sight of her body only briefly before his
eyes settled back on her face. Her cheeks were burning.
She imagined her body alight with suppressed desire.
Glowing with white heat in the gray-blackness all
around them. She took his hands once more and drew him
closer, let her lips graze his thin mouth in a kiss.
His hands slipped out of hers and then traveled to the
small of her back, gently but surely pressing her body
against his own. She felt the heat and solidity of
him -- the body underneath the clothes. Was there a
real body underneath real clothing? A man inside that
ash-gray peasant garb that both did and did not
resemble a uniform? His fingertips kneaded the place on
her skin where they had come to rest, pushing on her
hips and rocking them gently forward until her pubic
bone was rubbing against the front of his trousers. He
held her still, making sure she felt it, the swelling
rise of his pseudo-flesh. The humanoid solidity of his
hips liquefied suddenly, molding to fit the contours of
hers, filling the space between her thighs with
suggestive heat that licked over the dampness of her
crotch. She gasped. It was true then. He was alien, not
only to her world but to her entire notion of
existence. Strangely, the thought did not disturb her
at all. Shapeshifter, so she had heard Dukat call him.
Her nipples rubbed painfully against the rough fabric
covering his chest. It felt genuine enough. She arched
back and his hands deftly shifted to the back of her
head, his mouth covering hers with unexpected skill,
his tongue like warm honey sliding past her lips to
entwine with her own. She moaned, arching against him,
startled by both her own rising desire and his sudden
eagerness.

His hands anticipated her, pressing her back against
one of the metal packing crates, bracing her hips
gently before sliding her trousers and dingy white
briefs down her body until they were crumpled around
her calves. He said nothing this while, and neither did
she. There was only the sound of their breathing in the
close, gray air. Did shapeshifters need to breathe, or
had he simply learned to mimic humanoid body functions?
His hands returned to her breasts, massaging their
cold, stiff nipples, rubbing them gently, warming her.
Then his touch moved down over her ribs and smooth
belly, making trails of heat on her skin in the cool
air of the docking bay. His fingers tickled through her
pubic hair, then explored her thighs and buttocks,
defining her shape delicately, until one hand slid
firmly between her legs. She bit back a cry at the
suddenness of the gesture, and he stopped, his eyes
seeking hers. The expression on his face was not
readable.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

She did not look away, but held his gaze firmly. Her
body was taut and shivering. "No," she whispered. There
was a small movement, a slight shift in his facial
expression.

"Why me? Did you come here to be amused?" he grated,
and in that moment she heard it clearly. The pain in
his voice, the explanation for his skill with her body.
The dark history she knew he would not speak of, and
that yet hung between them, as tangible as a veil of
black silk. For a moment she just stood there quivering
as he studied her, looking at her, seeing deep into
her. Her vulva becoming warm and wet as his eyes
traveled over her body for the first time. His fingers,
gently, cautiously, moved to touch the velvet warmth
between her thighs, and she gasped softly. She gripped
the front of his tunic and pulled his face toward hers,
her tongue forcing its way into his mouth. She felt his
body shudder as she explored him hungrily, and when she
released his mouth finally she kept her fingers knotted
in the fabric, her eyes locked with his. "I came
because ..." *because two minutes ago I thought I was
dead?* "Because I'm sick of this place -- the cold, the
smell ... the -- don't you ever just get sick of the
cold?"

"The cold doesn't bother me," he said, his voice rough
with emotion.

"And what about the blood -- the *death*?" she pressed,
her voice biting. She looked up at him a for a moment.
The way the sparse light reflected on his face, he
looked as if he might cry. Could shapeshifters cry? "I
felt you wanting me. I know you do," her whisper was
harsh and pleading.

He didn't deny her accusation. For a moment his face
just hovered there before her. There was a long moment
of silence. "And you want me, is that it?" he said at
last. She nodded. His hands came up slowly to close
around her clenched fingers. "You're hurting me," he
said, calmly, gently. She slowly released him and he
sighed. He closed his eyes, concentrating, looking for
a moment almost like a vedek captured in meditation,
and he shimmered golden in that cold darkness, filling
it with warm light for a flickering moment as he
changed. He stood before her naked, as naked as she
was, a smooth, well-formed, anatomically-correct
humanoid male with smooth, flawless skin. Obviously a
body formed by long practice.

He knelt then before her then, almost reverentially,
his hands grazing her hips. She closed her eyes as the
warmth traveled downward, as his hands opened her again
and his lips slowly brushed the inside of her thigh.
She gasped as she felt his tongue darting out to taste
her, cautiously at first, then growing bold, stroking
gently over her moist lips and then between them,
opening, gently laving the pulsing bud of her clit,
tickling its ridges, reaching deep into her with sudden
authority and sureness, kissing her body deeply,
avidly. Kira stood, barely, on quivering, jellied legs,
partially collapsed against the metal crate, growls and
moans of pleasure spilling from her throat. When he
surfaced to kiss her mouth again, plunging his tongue
deep once more, she tasted herself, her sins, her
mortality, the blood on her own hands.

She ran her nails down his back, not gently, but like
an animal in a spasm of fury, feeling trails of
moisture beneath her nails and wondering if she was
somehow rending his silken flesh, but his gasp was not
of pain. She brought her hands up again, over a warm,
water-smooth chest. She reached hungrily for him now,
her fingers fanning out over lean, narrow buttocks,
sliding around front to discover a long, elegantly
smooth male organ that curved upward into her touch.
The two of them gasped at the same moment as he pressed
her tight between his body and the cold metal wall, and
she could suddenly feel that very real, very solid cock
pulsing warmly in the wet space between her thighs. His
hands gripped her shoulders, his eyes locked with hers.
Then he pulled her against him, into a deep, desperate
kiss, his hips moving slowly, rubbing himself gently
back and forth against her vulva. Kira groaned at the
teasing strokes, clutching his hips possessively,
wanting. She reached to grip his penis with one hand,
angling her hips until she could feel him at her
threshold. She cried out as he began to push his way
into her. His hips gave little, jerking thrusts at
first, and she growled and panted as he gradually sank
himself deeper. She moaned softly when at last he was
completely sheathed in her body, with the hungry walls
of her vagina throbbing around him.

There was a near breathless pause, then her defiant
shout of pleasure rang off the walls of the cargo bay
as he continued to thrust inside her, now pulling her
with him into a desperate, almost violent motion. She
heard him moaning with passion, with longing, as though
he reached for something just beyond his grasp. She
clutched his shoulders in triumphant possession, her
nails biting into his skin, and clenched her jaw as her
own hips moved in response, firm and purposeful. She
groaned and thrust back as he surged inside her. She
opened herself, wrapping her legs around his hips,
sharing his desperate rhythm. Their climax was hard and
sudden and Kira felt liquid heat erupt within her,
surging into her depths. The alien's cry was one of
anguish, hers one of deep relief. She felt him shudder
and as he did, for a moment his shape wavered, and she
thought he might slip away like water.

"Stay with me," she whispered into his neck, "Stay with
me ..." She sought to soothe the distress that she felt
in his trembling limbs, caressing his shoulders,
rubbing her lips against his smooth throat. For a few
moments, all was harsh breathing in the stillness. They
clung together, and she imagined that his grief washed
over her, merging with her own guilt and regret. He was
utterly still in her embrace, and yet his pain, sharp
and piercing, was as clear to her as if he'd been
shaking with sobs. She drew back and saw his face
suddenly unguarded. Prophets, he was beautiful. His
face haunted, his eyes luminous. This was why she had
wanted him -- because she'd seen him stand up to Dukat,
because his very silence -- his stark, thin, resolute,
figure, had made the swaggering Cardassian look small
and insignificant. She reached up to lay hands on
either side of that remarkable face.

"You're beautiful," she whispered.

He shook his head sadly, deliberately turning his gaze
from hers. "Odo'ital," he rasped softly.

She drew in a short, astonished breath as she
recognized the Cardassian word. Nothing? Surely not.
"That's your name?" she asked in a low whisper.

"It's what they call me," he responded.

Strangely moved, she kissed his still-bowed forehead
and then his cheeks, nuzzling his face softly, allowing
her lips travel that smooth, gentle landscape. "Odo
..." she whispered, running her fingers gently through
the fine, straw-blonde hair. She pressed her lips to
the warmth of his cheek. "Not odo'ital ... never that
..." She went on kissing him in the stillness, her lips
finding his eagerly, wrapping her arms around him,
running her hands slowly down his back. Their two
bodies remained joined for several more minutes as they
became lost in each other, two, pale, thin, fragile
bodies frantically trying to hold to each other in the
vast, cold depths of that inhospitable space.

He gripped her shoulders in a way that suggested he was
afraid, just then, of holding too tightly. He trembled.
All that passion caged up by fear. Kira shut her eyes
and drew him against her, for a moment simply holding
him in the darkness. He was as afraid as she was, as
alone. She could feel his pain because she knew it from
her own bloody experience, like a tightness in the
muscles, always seeking release. It was his pain that
made him so beautiful, hidden, like the old and
stubborn thorns buried in her own heart.

"Show me yourself," she whispered against that pale,
soft, more-than-humanoid skin.

He met her eyes easily now, his voice very gentle.
"Will the Bajoran resistance want to know how a
shapeshifter makes love?" he said, quietly. She saw
now. She hadn't fooled him at all, not for one instant.

Kira's eyes filled with tears. "*I* want to know."

"I believe you," he said, kissing her forehead and
holding her close. She let her lips find his again in a
softer, more gently intimate kiss -- a kiss that
lingered and deepened until it came to seem endless.
And as she went on slowly, slowly kissing him, the wet
heat between her thighs, the solidity that had been
him, melted inside her and began to move within her,
bubbling up and surging deep until she was awash in it.
She threw her head back and groaned, a deep and
guttural sound, as he tenderly supported her body and
spilled himself into her, caressing her depths, washing
softly into her again and again, like ocean waves.
Relief -- cleansing relief, spilled down her
nerve-endings as she climaxed again and again. Behind
the sounds of her own pleasure, she could hear him
moaning softly as well, low, guttural little noises of
joy and pain that vibrated against her throat where his
lips were pressed to her skin. There was an ocean
inside her, big enough to swallow all of her sins. She
gave her self up to it, trembling and finally
collapsing into his arms -- into him.

She had no idea how long it lasted, only that when she
was herself again, she was lying on the ground with a
blanket covering her naked body, and he was sitting
beside her, dressed.

"So," he asked softly, staring out into the gray
distance, as though he had sensed her waking without
looking down at her. "What will you tell the Resistance
when they inquire about my abilities?"

"I'll tell them it's true -- that you're a
shapeshifter," she said quietly.

He nodded.

She knelt beside him, put her arms around his
shoulders, and kissed his cheek. When he turned his
head, she kissed his mouth again, and he did not refuse
it.

"I will also tell them you're a good man," she
whispered. She saw in his eyes that he knew -- knew
that she had killed Va'atrick -- and had let her go
anyway. An almost-smile quirked one corner of the
somber mouth. "But will they believe you?"

"I'll see that they do ..." She leaned forward to
deepen the kiss, and he accepted the offer gracefully.
This was not the end of anything, Kira realized in that
instant, but rather the beginning of something neither
of them would be able to control.

She didn't care.


 ~The End~