There was a battlefield in her blood. War had existed in her veins for so long that she no longer could separate the fires of passion from those of hatred. The body could live on bread and water but her heart had turned vengeance into gasoline and her soul had fled her fingertips which had been too long stained with violence to remember the patterns of tenderness. How to sew a love song had been buried by the stitches of how to clean a gun and rig an explosive. And like wine after whiskey to the tongue, the scars along her body were numb to sensations of care or comfort, too long only company to the violent sensations of pain and abuse.

When the war had ended, for a long time she only found comfort in that which was reckless. Sporting opponents twice her size who fought too hard and swung too heavy. Spit lips had become soft kisses. Bruised ribs had become a lover's caress. The act of being touched quietly had made her uncomfortable. Her skin would crawl and she'd find herself jerking away from the even strokes of soft fingertips or plush lips.

To fall into bed with a holy man had been a bizarre twist of fate. He had been whispers against her wartorn skin and she soon learned after his passing that it was only the idea of who he was that she'd been in love with. She had found herself more stimulated when they fought than she ever had when he'd taken her to bed.

She took lovers who were once comrades in her resistance cells. Who'd known her in the dirty camps and dying campfires and whom could be trusted to not thrust a rusted blade between your ribcage when your back was turned in desolate sleep. Who'd torn into her skin with the ravenging hunger only other orphans of a holocaust could understand. They were brothers and sisters in arms and little more than accomplices in bed; taking what was needed and giving what was required, nothing more than life monitors ensuring each other were still alive and still knew, even only on the most primal of levels, how to feel. Scraped, bruised, cut. These were the art War made of lovers.

Freedom fighters could not escape the tragedy of their rewritten souls. Softness was a dangerous sensation. Anger was all that could be trusted. Their peace came in their faith and never in their dreams or the moments that followed them to or from sleep. Sex had been a need like any other. In the days of combat and bloodshed, it wasn't pretty. It was stolen under moonless skies and clutched from dreamless nights, torn at with soulless passion and devoured like stale bread and hot water. Lust was rationed like blankets. Love was a language she forgotten how to read, but whose soft whisper and scribbled writings she would still at times trace the letters of and mumble below her breath, catching a memory of the meaning like falling water through thin fingers.

Kira had forgotten how to look at herself in a mirror and see anything other than what could be of use. And her body was not beautiful. Her scars did not upset her. The cause of sensation was only to warn you when danger was near.

She must've seen how much you needed someone. It's a thought that comes to her like a waking dream. Visions in her mind that aren't quite her own. It was an oversight. An error on her part, to let an alien see a weakness.

For a long time that's how she sees these people. Starfleet. Just another name for another occupying force.

Forget that they dress in bright colors and fix your broken world and listen when you speak. Only trust your own blood. Your own kind. Who is this young face with old eyes who walks along the Promenade with you and daydreams of lives she hasn't led, recalling the ease of femininity? The way in which a body can so easily be worshipped. The way in which hers is sought like the ripe vineyards of your world.

She's been a man. She's been a woman. Of course if anyone were to know the physicality of an act and the body's undoing, it was she. And for a long while that makes it hard for you to trust her. Or the way she talks of love. Brushing off the young doctor. But… You respect that. You understand that. To fight off aggressors who want what is not theirs to take.

It came much later, once your defenses had fallen. And that's what made it all the more surprising.

A late night. A dark room. And you're fighting to keep your eyes open. Eyes have glazed over the same page of text so many times and still the words have not found their way inside your mind. The brain has shut off. And she sees it in the way you slump against the chair in her quarters which she'd invited you to when the bar had kicked the two of you out for ordering no more drinks at so late an hour only good for intoxicated thoughts and actions.

You were each sober. That was probably important. It made blame so much harder when the memories were that much more clear and the moments that much more real.

Her lips found the nape of your neck so suddenly that were you more awake you may have jumped clean out of your skin. The touch is soft. Like the delicate petals of a flower brushing against the burning top of a stove. Just the softest brush, and you ignite.

"What are you doing?" It's an accusation. You sound terrified, and it's a tone you do not wear often. You're surprised at the sound of your own voice.

Her laugh is a hot breath on your ear and her words tickle your skin between the sensation of her teeth carefully tugging at the naked earlobe normally adorn with the jewelry of your heritage. (Maybe it had been a subconscious choice. To remove the symbol of who you were as so to never accept responsibility that the actions of the night were your own… She couldn't even recall in her tired stupor having removed it.)

"If you don't know… then it's long overdue."

Her hand turns your chin towards her and tilts your head upward, she sinks into the chair on top of you and you've entered a deep embrace. Amazing how the body takes what it needs. You aren't even aware of how easily your position conforms to hers. You hear from somewhere inside the room a noise of need so unfamiliar and bare that you are shocked and almost horrified to realize it is your own. How much did you need this? How alien were you from yourself that she, an outsider, could see it when you could not?

You dressed and left the next morning without saying a word.

The morning is silent. You are behind glass. Against every pulse of your heart are memories of her touch. Skilled. Compassionate. Empathetic. Intoxicating. Even carefree. It had been clear the moment she had taken the tablet from your hand that she'd every intention of enjoying the night. Plainly meant, this was not a confession of love. It was just… fun. Something many of these Starfleet officers keep reminding you that you needed to reacquaint yourself with.

Had the doctor made such an energized argument for it, originally, maybe you'd have found your way to Jadzia's bed far sooner.

But that doesn't change the fact that you are numb following the experience. And, above all, confused. But she takes your distance as affirmation that the evening had been only about as meaningless to you as it was to her. Just a way to pass the time. A good memory to add to countless more she had inside her. The playfulness of her tone as she'd talked you through the act would return to you when you were alone for the next several nights. She'd sounded almost like an amused tutor would. Someone who just wasn't quite understanding relatively simple source material. "Don't be so harsh… Here, like this… Relax… I won't hurt you…"

And she hadn't.

You may have preferred it had she lied.

Lies you were used to. Gentleness, however, was a stranger. And it was hard to invite strange company into your bed.

Because the truth was, she'd forgotten how to be tender. Mostly with herself. Bareil had helped, but he was wartorn, himself, and the occupation had scarred him in its own ways. His pain was not hers. His touch had never been confident. Never possessed the same energy. He was a good man. He'd cared for her, he'd been more than willing to follow where she had led, and at the time it had been what she'd needed. Looking back on what they had meant to each other, Kira believes that were it not first for a man whose faith and kindness were so transparent, to have loved reckless another would have been impossible.

But it wasn't love. Not to Dax. You know this.

Maybe that's why the second time she touches you, your reaction is more volatile.

"What's wrong?" she asks you, and her hand lingers in the air where you cheek had rested a moment prior. She looks confused, even hurt.

"It's… nothing."

"Kira…" she takes a step towards you, and you hurry the other way.

"I have to go."

The next day, the distance bothers her unlike it had before. Kira catches the way Jadzia's eyes linger on her at her post, and she feels a burning embarrassment run the back of her neck blood red. She should have stopped this before it started. Why had she let her have her the first time? Had she really been so desperate for a touch? Now, months later, at this second, although just as nonchalant of advances, the response was so much the opposite.

Maybe once was a freak accident. But if you let it happen twice, what does that make you?

Days go by.

"Let's talk."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"I think you know what."

"There's a convoy coming through in the morning. Did we finish the repairs to the upper decks of the station?"

"Kira-"

"And we need to rework the crew rotations to make up for the added work for the engineering crews. I have to get the new schedules posted."

"... Alright." There was age in her voice, for the first time you've heard it. Three hundred years, and she sounds tired. Maybe about as tired as you are. But her weariness had crept into her bones where yours had made feeble your heart. You couldn't do this. Not now. And your eyes must say it, because after a brief stare, she just nods and looks back to the work and sits down beside you to help you complete it.

"I didn't mean anything, you know," she says when you're nearly finished. When you don't have your work to hide behind anymore. Was that her plan? You're paranoid to think so, but suddenly every act of kindness seems like a strategic move. Don't be ridiculous, you tell yourself, She could have anyone she wants. It didn't make sense, and you know you're just being distrustful. It was so easy to fall back to old habits.

"I just thought…" she shrugs, "You looked tense. And maybe… "

"I'm more tense now than I was then."

"I've noticed. Half the station has noticed."

You begin collecting your things to leave. She stays your hand, catching it in hers and you stare. Stare at the delicate fingers that had been so bold and confident and pleasing. You feel something creeping up your spine but you can't name the sensation.

"I didn't mean to overstep my bounds."

"I know… You didn't."

"You're shaking."

You pull your hand out from under hers.

"I'm fine."

It's not her fault. Kira wants to explain this, but blames her pride because even days later she still can't quite look Dax in the eyes. I just don't know what I want. What I need. And after awhile, things go back to normal. And Kira is thankful for having a friend like Dax who knows when not to push things. She understands that life is messy and sometimes ties are left loose. These strings of who she is hang from her like the strings of an old doll, and she's afraid to let anyone get too strong a grip on anyone. She's terrified someone might start yanking her around. Or worse, find one string and pull too tight and watch her all unravel.

It's easy, she comes to realize. To be afraid. And to let that fear stop you from feeling anything else. Or from engaging in small pleasures. This shouldn't be complicated. It shouldn't have to be. Hadn't that been clear from the beginning? Anything that Dax had wanted from Kira, it had always been casual. Why should something as simple as sex come between a good friendship? Why couldn't it just be a fun night for them each to remember?

And ultimately, once she'd had enough time to think and rethink and overthink and overanalyze everything that she had felt, she was able to see the good in that. And, really, again, it had been what she needed then. To have a relationship with a senior staff member and a friend whom she had to see everyday was not something she could have handled. To be so vulnerable would have torn her apart. And Dax had seen that. Ironically, it had just been the fact that she'd seen it without ever once having to ask Kira about it herself that had made the experience so rattling. She had to accept that these people were her friends and that this station was her home. She was no longer a gypsy terrorist on the run.

She couldn't remember the exact moment the realization had dawned on her. But when it did she felt like a weight was lifted from her. And her mood lightened. She was elated. Overjoyed to once again know herself.

"Kira to Dax."

"Dax here. It's late. Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Lieutenant. I… do you mind if I stop by?"

"Sure."

At the door chime, Jadzia's voice carries across the barrier. "It's open, Kira, come in."

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, not at all." She raises for you to see that she's reading something. She puts the tablet back on the vanity and continues to brush her hair, assumably getting ready for bed. "Is there something I can do for you, Major?"

"...Major?"

"Well, you called me Lieutenant. Turnabout's fair play."

"Yes… Yes it is."

She meets your gaze through the mirror and holds it, briefly. Her expression, while curious, is wry. She looks playful again, and this time you recognize the looks and are not scared by it. You step up behind her in the mirror and place your hands on her shoulders, against the braille scripture that trails along her collarbone and begs to be read by fervent fingertips, and reach down to press your lips against her skin.

AN: Open to suggestions, critique, comments, etc. All feedback appreciated.