the dark backward and abyss of... dax.
Because we all need a little angst, to get us through the day, and because Kira never really got any screen time to deal with the Dax Dilemma.
Title: A Living Record
Canon: DS9
Characters: Ezri Dax, Kira Nerys/Jadzia Dax
Rating: M
Count: 966
Summary: Mid-'Afterimage', Nerys remembers Jadzia.
Ezri all but ran out of the temple. Nerys knelt, but couldn’t pray. ‘It must be disconcerting for you.’ Disconcerting. If this girl had all of Jadzia sitting in her mind, it was more than disconcerting. This frail girl - she saw things when she looked at Nerys that no one else had ever seen. Disconcerting? It was disturbing, embarrassing. Frightening. She had tried so hard to forget, to block it all out, but when this girl looked at her, she had no choice but to remember.
The temple was wrong for this. Her mind swam as she made her way to her quarters, a hand on a bulkhead to steady her. Jadzia was dead. She’d said the words to herself - she’s dead, she’s gone, Jadzia is gone - so many times these past weeks, months. She never believed them. And now?
She stumbled through her living room. Paused before her mandala and sighed. No. She’d tried prayer. There had been a special service, just after. She’d insisted. No one had understood. She’d needed it. But faith wasn’t in her now.
She discarded her uniform, watched herself in the mirror. Her hands ran over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Did Ezri see this, when she looked at her? Her belly, her breasts. The taut skin of six years ago; the sighing, fertile skin of now. No one else had known both. She had tried so hard to forget, but Ezri remembered.
She fell onto her bed. Jadzia.
First, and most vivid: when she’d returned to the station from that awful encounter with Mullibok. Jadzia had been waiting in her quarters, had known, somehow. She’d yelled and growled and tried to scare her away, but Jadzia had stayed. Nerys had ignored her, stripped off her uniform and its dust and ashes, watched herself weep in her mirror as she scrubbed sweat and grime from her face. She’d struggled against Jadzia’s cool hands on her shoulders and she’d said ridiculous things, she’d been cruel on purpose. But Jadzia’s lips, soft and sure on her own, had stilled her. Jadzia’s hands, cool on her fevered skin. She’d hated herself, but Jadzia had wanted her.
She closed her eyes. Rested one hand on her hip, thumb hooked under the waistband of her underpants. Her fingertips, thoughtless, grazed her thigh. Jadzia.
A late night at Quark’s, not long after. Drunk, feeling riotous, Nerys had surprised herself, winding an arm around Jadzia’s neck from behind, scoring her skin with her nails, whispering in her ear. ‘I want to fuck you senseless, Lieutenant.’ And she had. Every lover since had asked about the dent in the bulkhead behind her bed, the lacerations in the metal of the bedposts. And she’d never told.
Ezri. Ezri knew.
In the shuttle back from Bajor when they’d defeated the Circle. Her wounds still aching and Jadzia so sweet, slow, gentle. The sound of her own voice, begging her not to be. The exquisite crash, when she came, of pleasure with pain.
She covered her face with one arm and winced, fighting tears. The hand that had strayed over thin cotton, strayed thoughtlessly between her thighs, pressed harder now. Memory was a terrible business. She whimpered into the crook of her elbow, remembering.
Shaking, when she returned from Cardassia and her own skin felt new and raw and wrong. ‘What do you see when you look at me?’ she’d asked. ‘What do you see?’ Jadzia had kissed her in answer, kissed every part of her, every inch of her skin. ‘Nerys, Nerys, Nerys,’ over and over, and she could still hear it, Jadzia’s voice low and melodic, repeating her name.
Her hips swayed at the memory, her fingertips pushing thin cotton aside. Jadzia’s voice on her skin. Her fingertips. Jadzia.
And Bareil had asked about it and she’d lied and he’d died believing her, and she blamed Jadzia for her guilt and her grief. And Jadzia had hated Shakaar for his arrogance and she’d blamed her for that, too.
Then Lenara had left her. For the first time, she’d looked abandoned and small. For the first time, Nerys had had something to offer her. ‘I love her, Nerys,’ Jadzia had sobbed. ‘I love you, Jadzia,’ had been all she could say. But it had been enough.
She wept freely, breathing hard, tracing circles across her own skin. She drew her arm down, her eyes shut, palming her breast. Jadzia, Jadzia. And Ezri, who remembered.
The comfort she’d found. How many dozens of times, she’d come back from disaster and Jadzia had found her and held her together. The last time, the very last, the one she could never forgive herself, when she’d come back, yet again, torn and unhappy. Gaia, a whole world destroyed; all the long years of her faith in Odo betrayed. Eight thousand full, brilliant lives for her poor single one. Jadzia had held her, undressed her slowly. ‘Worf,’ she’d objected. ‘Never mind,’ Jadzia had whispered. The kisses soft on her neck, hands sure on her hips, ‘But-’ she’d objected again. ‘You’re a thing apart, Nerys,’ Jadzia had sighed. It had mattered, suddenly, that she was alive. ‘My Nerys,’ Jadzia had called her, the first and only time. The slowest and longest, that last time, the sweetest and the darkest. My Nerys, my Nerys, my Nerys. It echoed still.
She sobbed, clutching her sheets, curling her knuckles inside her, almost painful, her thumb on her clit vicious, like penance, and she sobbed. Jadzia’s hands, Jadzia’s lips, her tongue, her cool eyes and the warmth of her breath. It hurt; she pressed harder. Jadzia.
She wailed as she came, pain and pleasure, no longer exquisite. Her hand, sticky and sore, fell to the bed.
Was this what Ezri saw, that frail girl, when she looked at Kira Nerys?
She turned her face to the wall. Disconcerting didn’t even begin.
*
Title: A Living Record
Canon: DS9
Characters: Ezri Dax, Kira Nerys/Jadzia Dax
Rating: M
Count: 966
Summary: Mid-'Afterimage', Nerys remembers Jadzia.
Ezri all but ran out of the temple. Nerys knelt, but couldn’t pray. ‘It must be disconcerting for you.’ Disconcerting. If this girl had all of Jadzia sitting in her mind, it was more than disconcerting. This frail girl - she saw things when she looked at Nerys that no one else had ever seen. Disconcerting? It was disturbing, embarrassing. Frightening. She had tried so hard to forget, to block it all out, but when this girl looked at her, she had no choice but to remember.
The temple was wrong for this. Her mind swam as she made her way to her quarters, a hand on a bulkhead to steady her. Jadzia was dead. She’d said the words to herself - she’s dead, she’s gone, Jadzia is gone - so many times these past weeks, months. She never believed them. And now?
She stumbled through her living room. Paused before her mandala and sighed. No. She’d tried prayer. There had been a special service, just after. She’d insisted. No one had understood. She’d needed it. But faith wasn’t in her now.
She discarded her uniform, watched herself in the mirror. Her hands ran over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Did Ezri see this, when she looked at her? Her belly, her breasts. The taut skin of six years ago; the sighing, fertile skin of now. No one else had known both. She had tried so hard to forget, but Ezri remembered.
She fell onto her bed. Jadzia.
First, and most vivid: when she’d returned to the station from that awful encounter with Mullibok. Jadzia had been waiting in her quarters, had known, somehow. She’d yelled and growled and tried to scare her away, but Jadzia had stayed. Nerys had ignored her, stripped off her uniform and its dust and ashes, watched herself weep in her mirror as she scrubbed sweat and grime from her face. She’d struggled against Jadzia’s cool hands on her shoulders and she’d said ridiculous things, she’d been cruel on purpose. But Jadzia’s lips, soft and sure on her own, had stilled her. Jadzia’s hands, cool on her fevered skin. She’d hated herself, but Jadzia had wanted her.
She closed her eyes. Rested one hand on her hip, thumb hooked under the waistband of her underpants. Her fingertips, thoughtless, grazed her thigh. Jadzia.
A late night at Quark’s, not long after. Drunk, feeling riotous, Nerys had surprised herself, winding an arm around Jadzia’s neck from behind, scoring her skin with her nails, whispering in her ear. ‘I want to fuck you senseless, Lieutenant.’ And she had. Every lover since had asked about the dent in the bulkhead behind her bed, the lacerations in the metal of the bedposts. And she’d never told.
Ezri. Ezri knew.
In the shuttle back from Bajor when they’d defeated the Circle. Her wounds still aching and Jadzia so sweet, slow, gentle. The sound of her own voice, begging her not to be. The exquisite crash, when she came, of pleasure with pain.
She covered her face with one arm and winced, fighting tears. The hand that had strayed over thin cotton, strayed thoughtlessly between her thighs, pressed harder now. Memory was a terrible business. She whimpered into the crook of her elbow, remembering.
Shaking, when she returned from Cardassia and her own skin felt new and raw and wrong. ‘What do you see when you look at me?’ she’d asked. ‘What do you see?’ Jadzia had kissed her in answer, kissed every part of her, every inch of her skin. ‘Nerys, Nerys, Nerys,’ over and over, and she could still hear it, Jadzia’s voice low and melodic, repeating her name.
Her hips swayed at the memory, her fingertips pushing thin cotton aside. Jadzia’s voice on her skin. Her fingertips. Jadzia.
And Bareil had asked about it and she’d lied and he’d died believing her, and she blamed Jadzia for her guilt and her grief. And Jadzia had hated Shakaar for his arrogance and she’d blamed her for that, too.
Then Lenara had left her. For the first time, she’d looked abandoned and small. For the first time, Nerys had had something to offer her. ‘I love her, Nerys,’ Jadzia had sobbed. ‘I love you, Jadzia,’ had been all she could say. But it had been enough.
She wept freely, breathing hard, tracing circles across her own skin. She drew her arm down, her eyes shut, palming her breast. Jadzia, Jadzia. And Ezri, who remembered.
The comfort she’d found. How many dozens of times, she’d come back from disaster and Jadzia had found her and held her together. The last time, the very last, the one she could never forgive herself, when she’d come back, yet again, torn and unhappy. Gaia, a whole world destroyed; all the long years of her faith in Odo betrayed. Eight thousand full, brilliant lives for her poor single one. Jadzia had held her, undressed her slowly. ‘Worf,’ she’d objected. ‘Never mind,’ Jadzia had whispered. The kisses soft on her neck, hands sure on her hips, ‘But-’ she’d objected again. ‘You’re a thing apart, Nerys,’ Jadzia had sighed. It had mattered, suddenly, that she was alive. ‘My Nerys,’ Jadzia had called her, the first and only time. The slowest and longest, that last time, the sweetest and the darkest. My Nerys, my Nerys, my Nerys. It echoed still.
She sobbed, clutching her sheets, curling her knuckles inside her, almost painful, her thumb on her clit vicious, like penance, and she sobbed. Jadzia’s hands, Jadzia’s lips, her tongue, her cool eyes and the warmth of her breath. It hurt; she pressed harder. Jadzia.
She wailed as she came, pain and pleasure, no longer exquisite. Her hand, sticky and sore, fell to the bed.
Was this what Ezri saw, that frail girl, when she looked at Kira Nerys?
She turned her face to the wall. Disconcerting didn’t even begin.
*