PURGATORY 57 {Warning: adult subject matter}

[M&C Francis]

PURGATORY 57

by Christine Francis and Gary Rogers

[WARNING: Some sexual content and bad language]

(Rhiannon)

"Nuh....No!" Zeb thrashed out.

With practiced skill, T'Laera caught his arms and pinned them, holding him
close. She could almost feel his soul straining for consciousness, as he
raged against her. In a calm, unemotional voice, she told him where he was
and who he was with. He calmed, breathing hard.

"OK, you can let go, now." he said, a little annoyed.

"Is that what you really want?"

"Don't get esoteric with me, T. Just leggo, will ya?"

Abruptly, she let go and moved away.

He sat up, leaning his face in his hands.

"You used to trust me." she said, quietly.

"I trust you. I just don't want to talk about it."

"That's not what I mean." She reached out and shoved him, roughly. "You
think I can't watch your back, all of the sudden? Used to be, you slept like
a baby with me. Now, suddenly, you just gotta do it all on your own."

Zeb lifted his face from his hands, and stared at her. "What the hell are
you talking about?"

"Who the hell do you think this is, beside you?" She scooted to the edge of
the bed beside him. "I never shoulda let you see me cry. Now you think I'm
weak and helpless. That's what it is, isn't it?"

"No,-" he sighed. "Shit. Do we *have* to do this? Tonight?"

"Of course not. Go back to sleep."

"Right." He was tempted to take her at her word, but knew she'd hem and
haw and huff and puff all night, making sleep damn near impossible. "Look,
it's not about you."

"Oh, great. Zeb, I hate ta hip ya to the facts of life, but if there's an
*us*, then anything about *you* is about *me*."

He gawked at her. "Do me a favor? Get in touch with your Klingon side,
will ya? I think right now, I'd find it a little easier to deal with."

She glared at him, then suddenly gave him a chilly smile. "Anything you
say, babe." she said quietly, then lashed out with both feet and propelled
him off the bed.

"Bitch!" he managed, before she was on him; nails slashing, teeth biting.
They rolled across the floor, struggling against each other and themselves.
He managed to get her hands behind her back, and pinned them there. Almost
any other position, she could break the hold easily. He had both strength and
leverage, here. Well, he did; until something else started to work against
him.
"Cut that out." he growled, as she began to move against him. "I mean it,
T; I'm not in the mood."

"I feel the evidence points in a different direction." she smiled.

"Cute. Seriously, this has to stop. You can't beat your way through every
problem, any more than you can fuck your way through."

"But you feel better, don't you?"

"What?"

"I can see it in your eyes." she said confidently. "You look like
yourself."

He stared, then shook his head.

"Why not?" she asked, anticipating his thoughts. "Why can't it be just
that simple? Zeb, we're just animals, really. Sometimes the same things that
work for them, can work for us. It doesn't always have to be a brain fuck."
She kept moving, lifting her head and nuzzling his neck. "Don't you know, I
won't let you do the wrong thing? You can rage against me, and I'll just rage
right back. If you wanna go nuts, I'll hold you down. And if you fuck me
over, I'll weep bitter tears by the side of your grave."

He couldn't resist laughing. "Baby, if *I* decide to fuck you over, yer
gonna *stay* fucked!"

"I love it, when you talk butch." she squirmed out of his loosened hold,
squeezing the muscles on his upper arms with her hands. "You have no idea,
how good you feel!" She moved her head, and kissed him into silence.
Reaching down, she kneaded his butt cheeks and pulled him closer.

He moved down; kissing her neck, then letting his tongue explore the arc of
her breast. Opening his mouth, he bit down. He got the reaction he was going
for. A ragged, husky, moan rumbled up from her chest. "You sound like you
feel pretty good, yourself." he teased. She started to react, but he held up
one hand. "Not like that." he said. "I don't think I have the energy, right
now. Could you just... hold still?"

"Hold still?" she echoed, perplexed. "You mean you don't want too...?"

"I could be talked into it," he continued to scoot down. "I'm just not in
the mood for gymnastics. Not *everyone* likes their lovemaking sessions with
an attrition rate."

"So you're challenging me to stay still?"

"No, I'm-" he paused, then smiled. "Right. That's exactly it."

T'Laera lay back down. "I can do that." she said, obviously resolved.

"We'll see." he answered, finding his goal. After some moments of relative
silence (with the exception of muffles sounds of exuberance and appreciation
on both parts), he muttered "Georgia O'Keefe".

"Huh?" she said, a little befuddled.

"Hmm? Oh. I just finally remembered what this reminds me of."

T'Laera snapped her thighs together, just missing crushing Zeb's head. "I
remind you of another woman?!"

"No, her art."

"What?!" T'Laera sat up, apparently not up to the challenge of being still.

"Paintings!" Zeb explained hastily. "The...*view* reminded me of one of
her paintings."

Her eyebrow went up. "This woman paints women's...?"

"Painted. Late twentieth century. And no, they were flowers. They only
*looked* like women's..."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "Are you trying to say, you think I look
like... a flower?"

He frowned. "Well,..."

The smile broadened. "Zeb." she sighed. "I'm surprised. That's almost...
poetic."

He smiled back; or rather, grimaced. He wasn't trying to be poetic.
Actually, he was thinking what reminded him of the paintings was her Klingon
inherited lavender coloring, in certain places. This made the folds of her
skin look like the petals of a flower; a comparison that *could* technically
be construed as poetic. He couldn't argue with the mellowed look on her face,
though. "Come on, T; you know marines don't recite poetry."

"And Klingons don't kiss." she answered. "But since we're breaking
stereotypes..."

<Zebra, you are even more of a dog than Brutus ever was.> he thought; but he
still moved up and took her in his arms.
...........
(Purgatory)

"Come back to bed." Bok called.

"Seems like we spend too damn much time in bed, lately." Jazz groused,
rummaging through a drawer.

"What are you looking for, anyway?"

"Huh? Er... nothing."

Bok knew this particular brand of evasiveness. Sitting up, she rubbed her
round belly. "After all this time, you still can't let her go."

"What are you talking about?"

"Marcella." Bok made herself say the name. Long ago, when she and Jazz
were still learning each other, she'd pumped Jazz for details. After a while,
though, she began to hate bringing up that name, and the reactions it caused.
"I was afraid having T'Laera here might remind you too much of her, but that
wasn't it. What's changed?"

Caught, Jazz gave up her search and sat on the edge of the bed. "The kid
and her mother aren't getting along too well, these days. I'm sorta acting as
a referee."

Bok stared at her for a while. "It's very selfish of them, to expect this
of you."

"No, it's very stupid of *me*, to *let* them." Scooting over, she put her
arms around her wife. "I love you, Bok. This stuff about Marcella's just
reflex. There never was anything solid, and there never could be."

Bok nodded, trying to understand. "So what were you looking for?"

Jazz looked away, ashamed. "I used to keep a little holo-portrait..."

Pulling away, Bok slid off the side of the bed and trundled over to the
closet. Reaching up, she felt around on a shelf and found the little
pedestal. "This one?" she asked, bringing it over. She activated the
switch, and the image of a woman in chain mail appeared. Her hair was long
and black, her eyes dark, and she carried a sword. "Who was she supposed to
be, Joan of Arc?"

Jazz smiled, taking the pedestal. "You did some homework. No, we were part
of a bunch running Crusades programs on the holo-deck. When it was over, I
just had to get a recording of her in that get-up. She... she was something
else."

"Not a short, fat, weepy green chick."

"Hey, I happen to *like* little green chicks."

"Don't humor me, Jazz. She always was your ideal of a woman."

Jazz clicked off the holo-image. "I won't deny she looked good, but I never
could have made her happy. Besides;" she set the pedestal down. "when I
first clapped eyes on you, all thoughts of her just ran right outta my head.
I didn't just *settle* for you, either. I busted my ass, and swallowed a
whole lotta pride to get you."

Bok smiled, blushing a little. "And I'm glad I put you through it, too.
You deserve a hard time, after all you've put me through."

"Hard time? You fuckin' *shot* me!"

A strange look washed over Bok's face. "Let me catch you mooning over
another woman, and I may just shoot you again. It's not just me, anymore. We
have the baby. I won't stand for any nonsense."

"No nonsense, I swear." Jazz promised, solemnly.

"Then do you mind telling me why you're rummaging around in the middle of
the night, looking for Marcella's portrait?"

"For this." Jazz pulled a mini degauser from her pocket. Without another
word, she picked up the pedestal and attached the device. In seconds, all the
data in the portrait program was wiped away. "Dunno why I kept it around, so
long."

Bok smiled, holding her arms open. "Funny; I was just thinking the same
thing about you."

"You keep me around for laughs." Jazz answered, returning to bed.
"*Somebody* should be gettin' a few yucks outta the shit I go through."

Bok-Tal tactfully kept her opinions to herself.
.........
(Rhiannon)

"Cut it out, damnit!" Zeb scooted away from a goosing. "Geez, woman! All
you ever wanna do is fuck and fight!"

"Me?! I'm not the one so obsessed I forgot to take a hair growth
inhibitor!" T'Laera snatched a pillow off the sofa and threw it at him.

"What the hell does *that* have to do with anything?"

"You gave me whisker burn!"

"Whisker burn? Where?"

T'Laera simply lifted one eyebrow.

"Oh." Zeb concluded, sheepishly. "Sorry. I'm... just a little off my
routine."

"I guess." She flopped down into a chair. "So what do you *want* to do? I
mean, since we won't be fucking or fighting."

He thought about it. "I don't know. What do normal people do?"

"*Talk* about fucking or fighting."

"Come on, really."

"OK, really." She sat up, and put a pillow in her lap. "We could..." she
snapped her fingers. "have dinner. And maybe rent a holo-vid, or take a
walk- or we could go dancing."

"No dancing!" he protested.

"OK, no dancing." she conceded, with a hint of a smile. "It's Karaoke
night, at the Crazy Eight."

"No dancing, and no singing!" he insisted. "And no Dabo. I hate that
shit."

"Dinner, then. Where?"

"I'm not up for anything fru-fru."

"I hear there's a new barbecue place."

"Barbecue? Like *meat*?" he mulled it over. "I might be up for that."

"You should love it." she sniped. "They *smoke* their meat."

"Did I say I wanted stand-up comedy? OK; barbecue, it is. Now put some
fucking clothes on!"

Tossing another pillow at him, she went to her bag and pulled out tights and
a thigh-length blouse. "What?" she answered his disparaging look. "How many
outfits did you think I could fit in that bag?"

"I didn't say a word." he stood.

"Didn't have to." she grumped, and pushed her fingers through her hair.
Looking in the mirror, she made a few more passes at it. "Ugh. I hate this."

"Hair's gettin' long." he commented, coming up behind her.

"I know. I can't do anything with it. I swear, if I had a knife right
now-!"

"Shhh." he pulled up a stool. "Sit down. Let me."

"Let you what?" she scoffed, but sat down.

"See; if you brush it out a little," he took a brush from the vanity, and
began pulling it through her hair. Over and over, he gently tugged against
the snarls and tangles, until her hair passed through his fingers like silk.

"But look how static-y it gets." she protested.

"Will you calm down and let me finish?" He went to the sink and wet his
hands, then stroked her hair back from her face. Most of it stayed slicked
back, except for a few rebel strands that broke free and fell over her left
eye. He stared at the mirror image for a while.

"What's wrong?" she turned to face him.

"Nothing." he answered quietly. "Come on, let's do this dinner thing,
before I change my mind." Tossing the brush back on to the vanity, he headed
for the door.

.......

The barbecue was a success; and not just because they got to watch each
other suck sauce off their fingers. Zeb had stories stocked up for years,
never having anyone appreciative to tell them to. It was a tremendous ego
boost when she laughed in all the right places, and the fact that she didn't
run screaming into the night was a plus.

"No way!" she giggled. "Frozen?"

"Solid." he affirmed. "Had to pour coffee on it, to get it loose."

"Damn." she ran a hand through her hair. "I'll bet he'll be careful about
where he shakes out the last drops, *now*."

"We *all* were." he grinned. "That shit ain't funny. And it *sure* as
hell ain't funny in a fuckin' blizzard."

"Yeah? Try havin' ta expose yer entire *ass*, ta get the job done."

"Hmmm. Hold it, I'm getting a mental picture..."

She smacked his head, laughing. "Nice dinner conversation!"

"You were the one who brought up yer *ass*!"

T'Laera knew any response would only degrade the conversation further. "I'm
done, here." she said, looking at the pile of bones on her plate. "You?"

"Yeah." he looked at his own equally impressive pile. "I done about as
much damage as I'm gonna. Wanna go walk this off?"

She lifted her chin, and got a snooty look. "Why yes, Zebediah. That would
be lovely."

"Cut the crap." he grinned, getting up.

"Just trying to be *normal*."

"We already blew that shit. Normal people don't chat over dinner about
taking a whiz outside in the cold."

"How would you know?" she joined him, and they headed for the door;
ignoring the strange looks they got. "Maybe instead of trying for everyone
*else's* version of normal, we should just go for what's normal for *us*."

"No thanks." he answered, serious. "Normal for me, would mean blowing this
whole thing and kicking myself about it for the rest of my life."

"You know, you shoulda been Klingon; as fuckin' dramatic as you are." She
stepped into the turbo lift before them. "Where to?"

"Arboretum." he pronounced, and the lift began to move. "Think we can walk
through woods, without picking out good cover?"

"No." she answered, serious.

She was right, but it wasn't so dire. Like a young couple dreaming of an
ivy-covered cottage with a white picket fence, they found a clearing and built
an imaginary fortified position; complete with trip-wires and mines. As they
walked, they approved or disapproved spots not by virtue of their beauty, but
their worthiness for various sundry missions; siting cover, smoke
disbursement, and possible flooding. It was sick, twisted, and an utter
parody of everything normal and peaceful and socially acceptable- and they had
a ball. By the time they decided to leave, Zeb felt really good. They were
relaxed, and unaccountably happy. They had the good sense not to question it,
which helped it last.

Back at T'Laera's room, they called up a film on her console and crowded
around the small screen to watch "The Big Sleep". As Lauren Bacall and
Humphry Bogart tried to out-tough each other, they kept stealing glances at
each other. By the time Lauren was lighting cigarettes for Bogey and tending
his wounds, no one was watching. Shades of silver and gray flickered in the
dark room, as soft voices were punctuated by the rustle of sheets.

Suddenly, Zeb sat up.

"What is it?" T'Laera asked, sitting up. The salt taste of his skin was
still on her tongue.

He looked over at her, then away. "Do you think, just once, we could be a
little more *human* about this?" He expected this would set off an argument,
or maybe even a knock-down drag-out fight, but it had been such a perfect
evening... When no response came, he looked back at her.

T'Laera was just staring at him, her eyes wide. She didn't look angry, she
looked hurt.

"Aw, shit, T!" He swore, angry with himself. "I didn't mean- Geez; I don't
know why I have to open my big-"

"It's OK." she said quietly, lowering her eyes.

"No, it's not. I'm a pig."

"True, but it's still OK." she smiled weakly. "I... just wish you'd said
something sooner."

"I been dropping hints."

"Zeb, you know I'm almost as dense as you are about stuff like that."

"Gee, thanks." he griped, then looked at her hopefully. "So, you mean you
can...?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. Never tried. I'm not sure I even know how. But
it seems to me only fair that we should do things *your* way, at least once in
a while."

"Still makes me sound like a pig."

"Is that part of the foreplay?" she teased, then lay back down. "Teach
me."

"Teach you?" he scoffed. "It's not really all that different."

"Apparently it's different *enough*. Tell me what it's like."

"Well," he mentally put on his *tactful* thinking cap. "There's no biting.
No, wait, sometimes there is; but no blood. Well, sometimes. But definitely
no injuries needing medical attention. OK, sometimes someone might..."

She smiled up at him. "You're just gonna hafta *show* me."

"Show you." he repeated, quietly.

"Yup. Just pretend I'm a virgin."

He didn't mean to guffaw, but he figured she didn't mean to kick him on the
chest; so they were even. As he recovered, though, he had an inspiration.
"Just keep this in mind: " he began, slowly pulling down the bedsheet that
covered her. "It's not a contest. Nobody's *challenging* you."

She looked at him strangely, then nodded. "No challenging."

"And-" he ran his fingers up her leg and tickled the back of her knee.
"it's not a race. There's no time limit, here."

"Not a race." she repeated, moving to better accommodate his journey up her
body.

"Just try to relax." he added, sliding up until his face was near hers.
"And kiss me. A lot. You're a pretty good kisser, you know?"

"Yeah?" she smiled. "Well, you're pretty good to kiss." She instantly
began to back up her words with actions. "Just..." she whispered between
kisses, "tell me what to do."

"Oh, damn." he whispered back. Slowly, he began to rub against her.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, hooking her legs around him. "Did I do
something wrong, already?" Using her hands on his hips and her heels on the
backs of his thighs, she pulled him closer.

"No. I... Oh, yeah."

"Was that right?"

"That... Uh-huh..." He moved around a bit, finding just the right spot.

"Do we- oh!" She threw her head back, closing her eyes.

"Sorry."

"No, not that kind of oh. A *good* oh." Concentrating, she responded to
his movements.

"Geez; already?" he teased.

"Do it again." She arched her back, trying to find the right-

"Damn, T; you're all red!"

"Shut up and keep-....oooooh!"
........

T'Laera woke suddenly with a quick jab to the ribs. She almost struck out
blindly, but stopped before she had moved too much. He'd done this before;
jolted awake, and smacked her around a bit to some extent. She'd nearly choked
him to death the first night, but things had gotten better since then.

She watched silently as he swung his feet out from under the covers, and
placed them on the floor trembling. A quiet, shaky, "shit." emerged from his
mouth. She could barely see him rub his forehead and tremble in the pale
starlight that shone through the small porthole in her room. She'd wanted to
help, but she knew he wouldn't talk about it; always going off, and walking
the concourse alone. Some nights it was only half an hour, others he hadn't
come back. She'd stay awake waiting for him, either out of worry or because
she wanted to cuss him out for waking her. Of course, she *didn't* cuss him
out. She usually pretended to be asleep, leaving him some privacy.

Part of her wanted to know what it was *this* time, what made him tremble so.
She knew that in his own time he'd tell her, though; he'd let her go where he
was scared to.

She wasn't expecting him to return to bed, wasn't expecting him to wrap his
trembling arms around her and try to go back to sleep. It was an overwhelming
feeling, as she kissed the top of his head, and lay there waiting for the
shakes to stop. It made her feel strong; made her feel like part of the "us"
that stood on the opposite side from "them".

<...resting in the languid arms of love...> In a half drowse, the words
drifted through T'Laera's mind, and she marveled at them. Was this, or rather
the lack of it, what they shared? Hurak had tried to teach her meditation,
but she'd never been able to manage more than a brief few minutes; and they
were agony. She simply could not be still for long. The only exceptions,
were when she was stalking or guarding. In pursuit of prey or defense of
honor, she could become stone. In pursuit of inner peace, her limbs twitched
and her mind itched. Besides; she always suspected people who claimed inner
peace and meditated for hours, were pretentious and full of shit. And,
somehow, she instinctively knew Zeb felt the same way. Was it merely demons
from the past? Or maybe they subconsciously feared if they stayed still too
long, something would "get" them. A third possibility presented itself.
Perhaps some kind of constant anticipation would not *let* them rest, for fear
of missing "it"; whatever "it" was.
Most likely, though, it was a bit of all three. Not, of course, that she
ever planned to bring it up.

His breathing had become more even, and the trembling had completely
stopped. His body no longer felt coiled against her, and his face had gone
slack. She decided to keep watch; to stalk the things that threatened his
sleep, and protect him. She stroked his hair and kissed his brow, and
whispered that he was safe now. He responded by sinking into a deeper sleep,
murmuring about people and places and things long past.

*********