Love Lessons
by Roxane Gilbert

Received: 17 Mar 1999
Subject: Love Lessons [PG-13]


Legalese: Paramount owns the characters and the universe of Star Trek. The story is mine.

Please do not post anywhere without the express permission of the author.

A bit of fluff.

Love Lessons

by Roxane Gilbert

He has learned how to fight with her.

Finally he understands her temper, a quixotic flame that flares, lingers, then dies. Eventually.

He knows this temper. It is the same temper she had before they became lovers. It kept her pagh strong during the cold nights of hiding in caverns from the Cardassians. It drove her to stand against Romulans and Klingons alike. It gives her passion.

"...All I'm saying is that you could have handled the situation a little differently," she rasps. "Security needs to be on top of this at all times. We're lucky no one was killed or that station security wasn't compromised. Security has to work with engineering on this. The Chief just needed for you to...."

"You're right," he interjects.

He loves this moment. She stands before him, all anger expelled in a single sigh. Whatever crescendo she was building toward has now crashed. Deflated, she stands before him mute and stunned.

"Why do you do that?" she says finally as she sinks into the chair opposite his desk. "I'm not always right, Odo."

"No," he concedes slowly, watching her temper fade, "but it gives me a chance to say something."

Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she shakes her head, the anger still fueling her indignation. Sometimes she just glares. Today she cannot help but smile.

"All right," she offers, the smile giving way to his commanding officer, "Your turn."

Not all their fights go this way. He doesn't always give in. He sometimes gives her back blow for blow. He sometimes starts the fight.

But he knows that they can talk about it. And they don't have to agree. He might have to wait her out. He just sometimes needs to break through the anger to get her ear.

He knew that before they had become lovers. They had fought before: fights without fear. He rarely doubted then they would remain friends. Funny, love did not change the rules, it only altered the consequences.

"The Chief should have called for a security team before allowing his engineers into the cargo hold of that ship." His voice is as calm as hers was agitated. It helps. "Security should probably be notified at the same time as engineering when a ship docks and requires assistance like the La'Dof'lan. It's a gray area, but we're at war, Colonel, and I would rather they erred on the side of caution."

As First Officer of Deep Space Nine, she looks thoughtfully at him before nodding and ceding victory. "You're right, Constable. Maybe we should review security protocols with the engineering teams. We don't need any more incidents." It is her Colonel voice. "Is that your recommendation as Chief of Security?"

Game, set, match. He pronounces his agreement in the slight dip of his head. He has learned.

As acting commander of the station, she returns his nod. "Set up a time with the Chief," she orders. "Other suggestions?"

He anticipated this. "I'd like to revise security protocols to eliminate that gray area," Odo says. He hands her a dataPADD. "Civilian-run transports don't follow the same security measures as do Starfleet ships. Their cargo may be important to the war effort, but we don't have to play dabo with our people."

"I don't want unnecessary delays," she says. She commands a space station near the Cardassian border. The battle-ready and the battle-weary exchangeplaces there daily. She controls the blood flow of the war in this limb of the action. "But no more incidences like the one this morning. We can't have another breakdown in communication."

Kira carefully reads his suggestions, her left thumb tapping against the dataPADD. He imagines she remembers the beat of the music they danced to last night within the privacy of her quarters. Her duties demanded she break their date but he forgave her with music to accompany the small meal he had prepared for her. She remains surprised by his kindnesses; they continue to touch her.

She gives him a curt nod and hands the dataPADD back to him. "Implement these right away. We'll include it in the station packet for incoming ships." Their eyes lock. In hers he reads a promise like lovemaking in the morning. "I'll see you for lunch, Constable." Then she turns and is gone.

He knew how to fight with his friend. He knows how to fight with his lover.

As he makes his way through the throngs of people on the Promenade, he considers the changes in his life since their kiss.

They are many-- subtle and profound. Some on the station have whispered that he has become soft. Love has made him weak.

He knows the anger has subsided. The lonely outsider, the crusty cynic, the acerbic misanthrope resurface at his command. None now command him. Love has given him the strength to change.

As a Changeling, he understands adaptation. As a Changeling surrounded by humanoids, he knows differences. But as a Changeling immersed in love, he admits he is in new territory.

Yet he is more than willing to be a pioneer, an explorer. The great discoveries he has made already spur him forward. Her love has been his reward.



She has learned how to fight with him.

Now she understands the rigidity, the remoteness. Mostly. The man whom she most respects still seems surprised by her love. Their first fight as lovers confused him, devastated him. It left them dancing to a discordant beat that found them circling each other. Again. When she finally confronted him, she understood just how much had changed. How much she had to change.

Not that he expects change. But now she fights fairly, listening when her Bajoran stubbornness would close her ears. Trying to understand his opinions. Letting him recognize that love survives. She gently guides him. Impulsive by nature, she sometimes pulls him along with her. But, impatience has been schooled to patience. Sometimes.

On the way back to Ops, she reminds himself of this fact as she thinks about their dates. Too often they have bowed to duty. Postponed lunch dates become dinner dates become breakfast dates. She still teases him about watching her eat. When they can eat together. He points out how often she forgets to eat.

"If you don't want me to eat with you, just say so, Nerys," he had said a few days earlier when another lunch date had faded into a late afternoon cancellation. His voice took on the flinty edge of sarcasm. "At least you could have informed me of that fact instead of making me wait at the Replimat for an hour while you were meeting with Admiral Ross." They both had had losing skirmishes all day with others and each needed to win a battle. "I have things to do, too, you know. Or have you forgotten that the acting commander of this station asked me to do a complete review of security procedures?"

"Is it so unreasonable to think that maybe something came up that was more important than eating lunch?"

"Well, then it seems clear to me that you're missing too many meals, Nerys."

"Odo, I'm not trying to avoid you. I just sometimes get caught up in balancing all the demands that are placed on me."

"You said that yesterday, and the day before. So far, you've broken 11 lunch dates with me, 2 breakfast and 9 dinner dates." His recitation of the facts annoyed her as much for the truth as for missing their times together. "You've kept count?"

"Well, I have to do something with my time."

"Do you also sit there and count how many times I chew?"

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. Maybe to occupy your time?"

"That's ridiculous."

"You don't eat, Constable. All you do is sit there and watch me eat."

He snorted. "And what's wrong with that, Colonel?"

"Well, sometimes I wonder if I'm eating in a way that's entertaining enough for you, Constable."

"I'll be certain to tell you when your sequence of food selection and chewing technique isn't to my liking, Colonel."

Remembering how she had nothing to say to this, she smiles as the turbolift makes its way up to the station's operations center. For a long time, she had stared at him as he returned the gaze, the memory of their rising voices still fresh upon her ears. The absurdity of the fight gently crept in and they both broke into shy smiles, into chuckles, into laughter.

Love has gentled her. Given her perspective. Joy.

She emerges from the turbolift, the ebb and flow of people in Ops reminds her of duty. Of demands. Of the war.

The moment she emerges from the turbolift, she faces down reports and captains, docking procedures and command decisions. The air bristles with tension.
Impossibly, in the relentless bustle of the operations center, the thought of Odo makes her smile.



He has learned how to make love to her.

They ask nothing of each other. And still, they give all they can to each other. And somehow it is enough and yet, not enough. He finds the ironies in love both fascinating and frightening.

They both cherish independence, but in love, have found dependence. They both grew up under control of others and bristle at those who would control them now. However, Odo knows, love controls them both.

Discretion marks their movements these days which may turn into more weeks and more months while Captain Sisko remains on Earth. They continue to be creatures of duty, neither willing to compromise her new responsibilities. Outside her quarters or his, she is the Colonel, the acting commander of the station. Within, they are equals.

He knows that each kindness, each sympathetic movement musters the same powerful intimacy as the most erotic of touches. Kira manages to touch him -- even from a distance -- with a smile, a nod, a glance from her liquid brown eyes.

Their duties sometimes force them to be lovers from afar. Bajor cries for answers and she, the closest to the Emissary, must hold its hand as it weans itself from his presence. Bajor cries for protection, and she, who sits in the Captain's chair, must cover their needs before her own. Starfleet demands her attention, and she gives it, stealing her gaze from his.

She makes time to see him daily, their schedules pulling them apart more times than not. Today when she enters his office, weariness claims her and she collapses into the chair opposite his desk.

"Mmh," she sighs as the chair eases beneath her slight frame. Her eyes, deep pools of burnt umber remain hidden behind her eyelids. Her face sinks into weary relief. It is the same face he sees as she sleeps beside him, her exhaustion today edged with frustration.

She sits before him for some time, a long time, so long he wonders if sleep has claimed her and he listens for a change in her breathing to announce slumber's arrival.

But there is no change, just a slight relaxation in her features as her eyes slowly open. "What are you doing tonight, Constable?"

This face which he has thoroughly explored offers up no clues for him. "I was spending the evening with the acting commander of this station," he says, his voice deliberate and cautious. "But she might be canceling on me, again." There is no recrimination in his voice. He knows how she has struggled to maintain her equilibrium these weeks. He knows she refuses to give up faith despite the overwhelming evidence against belief. He knows that those qualities reside at the very core of her being, making her indomitable during the Occupation. It makes her seem invincible even now.

"No, she's not canceling." The voice remains even, strong, decisive. "I just have to go to Bajor in the morning. I have to see the ministers...." She shakes her head. Weariness commands her features, wrestles with her soul. "It has to be an early night, Odo. Would you mind?"

This is one of the costs of love. He nods slowly, a slight smile playing at his mouth. "Could I go to Bajor with you?" he asks, the words formed long before he realized they were there.

She shakes her head. Regret sounds in her voice, echoes in her eyes. "Starfleet is sending a team of security people tomorrow for an inspection of our procedures and systems. They want to talk to you specifically about Garak's work breaking codes." A tired smile quirks the thin line of her mouth. "I just found out about it. Worf will take them through the Defiant systems and strategic operations. You'll need to review station policies and the Garak's intelligence work. They're concerned about security."

"Because I'm a Changeling," Odo says, the words fiery against his simulated mouth.
"Because of the Captain's absence," Kira corrects him, her eyes sure, steady. "Because of Jadzia's death. Because of Bajor's treaty with the Dominion. Because we're headquarters for the Ninth Fleet." Her sigh embodies exhaustion, regret, annoyance. "They're checking up on me if anyone, Odo. But I have to be off-station for the first two or three hours of their inspection." She gives him a half-hearted smile. "Should give them plenty of time to find any problems and then present them to me on my return."

"There won't be any problems, Nerys. The station is as secure as it could be." He watches her face. She knows what pride he takes in his work. But ultimately she commands the station and takes responsibility for everything that happens here.

"Thank you, Constable," she whispers. Her smile is slight, but telling. In it she speaks of love and trust and faith. "Worf said he would review security protocols and intelligence dispatches tonight." Her eyes close as weariness envelops her very being.

"I can go over security...."

She interrupts him before he can offer. "No, Constable." Her eyes are alight with fury, but her voice remains calm, even. "No. You said it yourself, the station is as secure as it can be. This is an open port of call with Romulans, Klingons and the dozens of races of the Federation coming here daily. Your arrest to incident ration is higher now than ever." Her eyes close. "Worf needs to do something. It helps him." She reopens her eyes. They have lost the spark of anger and now show the pale glimmer of grief. "At least for a while."

Odo sketches a nod. Then locks eyes with her to see a pageant of emotions reserved for him. Only him.

"We better go, then," he says, his fingers playing across his console. Shutting down one part of his life. Turning toward another.

Monitors go dark around them. As he locks down his private files, her commbadge chirps impatiently.

"Ops to Colonel Kira."

Her eyes come awake. "Go ahead."

"A Corellian freighter is on route to the station. They have massive damage and casualties."

He listens as she directs engineering and medical teams to meet the ship. Then she rises. "I know Captain Bak'tan. His ship just left the station six hours ago."

The early night is earlier than he expected. But he feels her lips on his, her regret and love combined in this tango. Then she is gone.

Part of her lingers in his memory. For now, that is enough.

Blackened monitors spring back to life. He reviews security procedures, checks records, pulls up data.

He meets Worf on the Promenade just outside the Infirmary. The Klingon interviews the captain of the freighter, his first officer. As chief of security, he directs crews to salvage the cargo. Dr. Bashir retreats inside the surgery to bind up the wounded crew.

In time, Kira joins the investigation begun in the waiting room of the Infirmary. Her uniform and face are smeared with reminders of the freighter's wounds. Ensigns and lieutenants begin to shower her with reports. Before Bashir can say anything about the small crowd around her, Odo suggests they retreat to the security office.

She continues to oversee the aftermath of the attack on Captain Bak'tan's ship. Stealthily Odo places a cup of ginger tea in her hand. Gratitude infuses her very being as she takes a long draught. Her smile, though slight, acknowledges his effort. She sinks into the chair behind his desk, the large seat engulfing her small frame. For several minutes she hears the reports, sips her tea, allows his chair to ease her weariness. For several minutes she is in the eye of activity. She synthesizes information, makes decisions, issues orders.

The wave of bodies ebbs through the doors, but he remains behind.

"You'll have to contact Starfleet." He moves to leave before he remembers then hands her a padd. "Security overview for the past three months," he explains. "I included comparative data on Starfleet Security protocols and accuracy data from Starfleet Intelligence for Garak's work."

Her smile is filled with wonderment and warmth. "Thank you," she whispers. In her kiss is a promise.

He knows how to make love to her.



She has learned to love him.

At first frightened, then fascinated, then finally overwhelmed by the intimate touches, she understands his devotion.

Each night in his arms, she feels safe, impossibly complete. She has had other lovers. She knows that lovemaking goes beyond the mere physical union of two bodies. Minds and paghs must meet as well.

But in friendship they have wound a cord that binds them to each other. Love only tightens the cord, draws them closer. Duty demands the cord be invisible to others. Reality frays the connection. Time stretches the cord. Distance makes it threadbare.

Tonight she draws stares as she alights from the turbolift. The familiar faces on the Promenade turn as she makes her way to Quark's. She wills her hands to remain at her sides and not pull up at the unfamiliar dress. Head held high, facing her destiny in a holosuite, she cannot help but notice the attention directed her way. Her face warms as anticipation gives way to modesty. Yet the reason behind her strange garb gives her strength, propels her forward. He will be waiting for her. Joy infuses her being and she shares it with those who greet her on the Promenade, her smile, she knows, a perfect accessory for the formal dress she now wears.

Quark's is a different matter. The bright red dress draws more than heads. A hush of voices pools around her as she steps into the bar. Quark has stopped polishing glasses. A group of Bajoran technicians eye her as a table lined with Starfleet officers also follows her progress. Even Morn has turned quiet.

She holds her head steady as she negotiates the aisle between the tables. Eyes forward. One foot in front of the other. She practiced walking in her quarters, but the audience and the tables make this trek more difficult. Gathering up the skirt material, she begins the climb up the circular staircase, the high heels sounding like heartbeats against the metal. The wig on top of her own hair remains in place as she checks her footing. The long white trail of cloth behind her begins to feel familiar. She hears the noise in Quark's slowly rise as she disappears from view.

At the top of the stairs she smooths the lines of the dress and takes a deep breath. She expels the meeting with the Bajoran Ministers and the report from Starfleet Security. In that breath, she banishes the weariness of command.

She could have come here via the side door or the second level entrance. Somehow she knows he will be secretly pleased by her entrance. In it she speaks of the connection between them that so often goes unacknowledged because of duty.

Inside the holosuite he waits. She planned this before going to Bajor, booked the holosuite time from the planet, left a message for him to meet her here tonight. The dress has hung in the back of her closet for a week. Vic did not question her as she asked to download the specifications for the dress. But the hologram's eyes danced with a delight that told her he knew why she was doing this. Everyone in the bar must know who she did this for. He, who had given so much to her with his love and devotion and kindness, deserved a present. But what does one get for the Changeling who can be anything?

When the holosuite door whooshes open, she finds herself surrounded by Vic Fontaine's lounge. She does not notice that Vic sings on the stage nor what the band members play. The music swells around her, but her ears hear nothing. The room could be crowded with patrons and dense with candlelight and neon. Yet she sees only him.

He has been dancing his hands across the piano keys in pantomime to Vic's song. His face glows handsomely in the soft spotlight, his eyes lost in this secret passion. For several moments his movements -- fluid and sure -- remind her of their first dance. Somehow he knows that she has arrived and turns toward her. In his face she can see the surprise reserved for early spring flowers.

When the singer and musicians finish the set and he can take her into his arms, their mouths melt together into a kiss. "I wanted to bring you back something from Bajor," she says huskily as he releases her. "I hope this is all right."

He answers with pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her, drawing her into a dance which will last long after the holosuite generators are still. She has learned how to love him.

---

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