"I told you not to touch my Prowler."
The fingers wrapped around her throat were cold and sure, a physical manifestation of the voice. Minus the sharp edges. Chiana would have laughed, but the crushing fingers didn't allow space to draw breath, just a few gasps, enough to keep her this side of consciousness. She managed a smile, knowing Aeryn would see it. The fingers didn't stop the constant pressure, so she surged, choked, against those constricting bands. Her vision blurred, colours bleeding into red-tinged black.
"Hey, Sunshine! Back off!"
Not even a tremor through that pincer grip at the whipcrack words. No guilty slackening or surprise. Chiana fought for breath, lungs shrieking, throat burning.
"She brought it back damaged, Crichton." The voice was no longer directed at her, but shot down the corridor.
"Look, one nick across the wing's surface isn't damage. You don't normally fly atmosphere anyway." He was close, even if Chiana couldn't see him from where she was pinned.
"That's not the point. This isn't the first time."
Varla. The name echoed in the darkness of her thoughts, clear and something to hold on to while consciousness slipped away. The last time was Varla.
"Let her go, Aeryn. How can she say she's sorry if you don't let her breathe?"
"She can show me she's sorry."
Chiana smiled even wider, feeling the ridges of Moya's walls press into her spine, her buttocks. Blunted edges pushing into her flesh, the pressure enough to grind painfully against her bones. Between that and Aeryn's fingers wrapped around her throat, Chiana would be lucky if she were only merely bruised.
"I'll fix your Prowler, Aeryn, just let her go."
"Of course you'll fix it, John." The fingers let her go -- simply dropped away, and there was nothing to hold her against Moya's side, she slipped into the absence, blood leaving her head and rushing to her feet and the ridges cutting in to her, all the way down, measured little bites of love and self-location.
"You're usually cleaning up after her." Words thrown down in the space Aeryn left as she turned to go. The snick of boots a cadenced tread.
Chiana reached up to feel her throat, almost expecting to feel fingers wrapped there, pressing inward, because there was still that burning pain.
He knelt down beside her, reaching for her. Hands hot after those last, touch soft after that last. "You didn't have to face her alone."
Only gasps, at first, and the tendons in her throat quivered with the strain of movement. Her voice was quavery when it finally worked, and it rasped from the inside out, and there were echoes in her head of breaths and gasps and words. "Everyone needs a l-little fun and excitement in their life."
"Yeah, well, what you call excitement, I call fear." He helped her stand up, the shadows underneath his eyes purpled in the half-light. "What did you say to send her off the deep end?"
"Why do you think I had to do anything?" She smiled, and muscles groaned. "Maybe I was just my usual charming self."
"That's what I'm afraid of. It's that thing you do. Push people. I know you. And I know her." He reached out, traced her throat, and his fingers made her crotch tingle, coming so close to the hurt. Pleasure overlapping pain. She leaned in to his touch.
He sighed. "Just don't push her too far."
His fingers were gentle, and she ached all over. She looked up at him, knowing the dim light would show the blooming bruises, the shadows growing on her grey skin. "Why not? I had her exactly where I wanted her."
"Yeah, a little more of that bonding moment and it would have been like old times with Varla, right?"
--like old times because that's how she knows. Like all the times before, a Responsible Adult caught them and now they're done for this time. Like last time and the last and the last because it's always bad when they're caught and when are you going to learn you children? You can't always do this and words words words beating at them and Nerri's fingers dig into hers and now she's sure. Had to be fun because these cascading sensations are the same as before, the last time when Nerri named it, this is fun isn't it Chi? This is fun. There is always pain mixed in with pleasure, the pounding of her heart this tight constriction of Nerri's fingers around hers and the pressure against her small bones.
"--lucky for you I came along."
She blinked hair out of her eyes. "I haven't gotten lucky yet." He didn't react, and she pushed harder. "What are you up to, anyway? Or were you just hoping to catch a glimpse of a little girl-on-girl action?" She purred and stretched into close proximity. "You could have joined us, you know. You didn't even have to ask . . . nicely."
He shook his head and rolled his eyes, frustration and amusement, and something stretched his mouth into a smile. "Chi, you're a trip, you know that?"
She bumped a little closer, feeling the heat come off of him. "So wanna go with me, see where we end up?"
"Love to, babe, but got work to do. Cabling, remember? The boring stuff? We're stuck here, dead and drifting, the reason why you felt like taking a joyride in Aeryn's Prowler?" He pointed behind him, and she looked. There on the floor was a box of wires and connectors and backshells.
He had things to do, things only he could do. He was someone, and she wanted to be with him, be someone too. Not remembering how to be alone, because right now she couldn't stand to be alone. Not even the Prowler helped. She could still feel Aeryn's hands but the pain was fading fast.
"I can help."
"You should probably go get some rest." His fingers traced the edges of her bruises again, and her skin tingled with the memory of the pain and the need to have him slide his hands around her throat, cover those tender areas and burn her too.
"Why don't you make sure I do that?"
His eyes flicked up, looked through her. "You certainly shouldn't be talking."
"Well, you know talking isn't what I do best." She pressed against him, sliding against slick leather, pushing against his fingers so they knuckled into her bruised flesh.
He flinched, withdrew. "Help or scram."
She saw the change knifing into him, the edge that forced its way between them and kept him from her. She pouted, smiled. "Help." The edge receded, slightly, but didn't go away entirely. Like a shield, it protected him from her. Or maybe it protected her from him and what she wanted him to do to her.
Only once had it slipped. Once, only once. When T'raltixx was on board and she'd managed to hurt John once already. Her knee between his thighs: her hard, his soft. It delighted her to crush him like that, grind herself up into that delicate flesh and see him double over. If she couldn't get it she'd give it.
--Then the change, his hard -- muzzle of pulse pistol and cock and hips and body -- against her soft. Slamming her into the wall. Showing her just how hard he is, can be, and she feels that jolt, that gush of moisture as her body clenches and her mind flat-lines. This is him and not-him, because he would never do this, talk like this, act like this. Never be this for her.
Then it hits her, the gun again and his breath and the way he presses against her, the gun oh frell his words him and there is a moment -- heart stops breath stops thoughts stop -- he really is dangerous, you pushed too far, the gun his hands the gun his fists the gun his body he could kill you, like this, like you have never seen him before.
But he stops himself, he strikes out at her and the world sparks into stars and darkness. She knows, when she wakes up, what he hasn't done. Only her head is aching, only her neck bruised and sore. Not even any blood; the only wetness the damp reminder in her trousers.
When she takes off her clothes, takes a bath, she touches that spot, brings wet fingers to her nose. Smells herself, and only herself, in that moment of fearing him.
Smells like desire to her.
"--Pip?"
She flinched, blinked. They were standing together in one of the clustered chambers, a neural node for Moya's systems. His hand touched her arm.
His hand dropped the microt she flinched.
"I w-was just -- you know, thinking."
"That would be a new habit for you." His words didn't sting, not the way he said them, not with the worry in his eyes. "Hey, Pip, you don't have to be here." He stood close, promising nothing other than his presence. "I can do this on my own, you know."
"That's n-not why I came."
She didn't have to say more; he nodded. "Then hold these." He gave her a few connectors, first piling them in her cupped hands, then sorting through the pieces, fingers picking delicately among the parts. His bared skin touched her, the sound a gentle scraping against the leather of her gloves. Her own breathing seemed harsh in the stillness, forced against swelling tissue.
His head was bent, focused, and she stared at his hair and wondered, if her hands hadn't been filled, would she hesitate? He was so much bigger than she, taller and stronger. He protected her from so much, even tried to protect her from herself.
Protected her.
Not the same way that Nerri had, Nerri who still and even now kept her away, protecting himself with space, light-cycles of space, between them. John held on, took her with him even when he ran. His protection demonstrated by the bodies he left behind. The only space was that between them, the space of whispers and breaths and words.
She remembered the little figure of Nerri that Varla showed her, the only time her brother was ever so small in her memory. The holo showed him running and fighting. Just a few microts, but enough to see that he was still alive, still moving, a lie to her burning pain of nearly a cycle ago.
You made me think you were dead. You let me mourn you let me burn inside--
--and there is so much burning inside her, she twists and moans and the shudders rack her body, echoes of the illness roiling through her flesh.
"Nerri," she whispers. "Nerri?"
But he stands just outside her reach, staring at her, his mouth is moving but the words take so long to reach her and nothing makes sense because he will not come to her, he only gives her his words. She will live, he tells her that, he is proof of that, but right now it just hurts and she wants him to come to her and replace this pain with one more familiar.
But he doesn't, he stands outside, just out of arm's length, with space between them.
"--so be careful," John said from across the room.
"Get on with it," she snapped, and he shrugged and turned away. Giving her enough space to figure it out.
She was angry at him, for trusting, for turning away at the last microt, for always giving her space to grow into. She did better when there were boxes she could crawl out of, walls she could break down and doors she could break open. Space was something naked.
She wasn't paying attention and knew it and maybe even wanted it. But as the cables touched, the arc of power dancing across her hands, blue-white corona around pale grey hands, she writhed--
--she writhes against him as he clenches, her body arcing up to push at him, batter him away. She won't let him come, not yet. He is taking and he does not have her permission.
She knows the game, knows how to play it and win. This pain is personal. Hers. He gives, she takes, not the other way around. Stupid frellnik Cantik, she's the one taking, she's the one winning. She tears at him with her hands and fists and her body beats underneath his so he has to struggle even when he wants to come, she won't give him even that until she wants him.
The Cantik groans and he spills into her, trapped by his own body. She is pressed against him full-length when she feels the thud, the ripple of shock through his body into hers. Her eyes are open and so she sees Nerri rear up and stab the Cantik, again and again and again. Each thrust pierces the Cantik and is echoed through her. She is still impaled by him, he stabs her even as Nerri stabs him; he goes limp inside and outside her and drains himself all over under in her.
She tastes the tang of Cantik blood and the smell coats her. Wet everywhere, blood on her and urine and his seed in her and now there is the stink of offal and the dribble of dren between her legs. There is burning, and she cannot breathe under all this heavy weight on her chest.
Nerri's eyes are wide. "I killed him so you wouldn't have to," he says, "I love you," and she clings to the words, the only real things in this room.
--Something grabbed her and pushed, and she snapped from the contact and stumbled against the wall, a heavy thud, and she fell to the floor, crushed and bruised.
"Chiana! You okay? Pip, talk to me!"
Blood on her lips; she tasted the familiar tang -- tastes like her self -- and breathed and everything hurt inside out and she smiled. "J-John?"
"Pip." His arms enfolded her, she smelled him in leather and lube with the heady bouquet of her blood swirled into her nose.
"I had to get you away from the conduit," he murmured into her hair, his arms around her. She closed her eyes, thinking of the contusions that would purple her skin, the pain of movement and the knowledge that everything will hurt come the morning.
"I'm so sorry," he told her, and in her mind she heard I love you, and because they were said in this small dark room she can catch the words, trap them against her skin--
--they are trapped together in this small room, they have been punished again, cut off from everyone else because that is the worst punishment for disobedience. Nerri is restless and pacing, and she watches him because she doesn't know what he will do next. His face is mottled underneath the thin light; it is already dusk and this will mark the first night.
"Supposed to be an object lesson," he says, and his voice growls through the room and stalks her in her corner. "You know what I'm learning, sister?"
"What?" she says, and smiles, she doesn't want him to know the effect of his words.
"The true lesson here is . . . don't get caught." He turns and smiles back at her, and his white teeth fracture the growing darkness. "You can do whatever you want, just don't get caught." His voice is silky-smooth and edged, like him. She nods slowly. It's about power. She understands that. It's always about power, and to disobey is a sort of power that she can wield now, she is beginning to understand that.
"Yeah," she says, so he knows she knows.
He comes close and reaches down to run his fingers through her hair, and she looks up at him, her leader, her brother, her mentor. Only fourteen cycles but he knows so much, he sees so much, and she likes it when he looks at her and sees her. She feels like she is someone, more than something.
"Scared?"
She shakes her head, she does not want him thinking she is less than someone. She is strong enough for him. She will follow him, because he teaches her about power.
His touch is soft, silky, like his voice, and as he stands in front of her, as she sits at his feet, she sees the growing bulge in his trousers, feels that gentle touch begin to smooth from her hair onto her face, and she tilts her head into his caress. She is someone, more than something, to him.
His fingers crawl around to the back of her neck, and he presses, gently, and she comes, willingly. Her cheek is pillowed against his crotch, she feels the warmth and the pressure and the throbbing through her thin skin.
He pushes her again, and now she is rubbing herself there, smelling him. Musk permeating the cloth, scratchy against her face. His hands are tight against her neck, the tips of his fingers pressing into the sides of her vertebrae. She feels him growing against her, he does this because of her.
"You see what you do, Chiana? What we do, together?"
She nods, but the movement is lost in the rhythm he sets for her. Then it's not pull, it's push, and he drags her, presses her up against the wall, he holds her there while he begins to pick at her lacings. She stares at his face, the dapples of shadows, and she can smell him on her, he is everywhere. When her clothing falls away his hand comes to hold her chin and he angles himself to tongue her.
"This is how you do it," he says, and then he shows her, his tongue inside her mouth while one hand holds her, between his hard hand and the hard wall, the other hand explores her. She is quiet, she stands still, when he pinches her nipple and she gasps.
"You like that, do you?" And he smiles against her mouth and presses her even harder against the flat wall, the ceramacrete scraping circular patterns into her buttocks.
She is quiet until he slips a finger inside her, he is rough and his nails catch and shred her, she does not expect it and she whimpers against his mouth. He laughs and licks her lips. She bites at his tongue and tastes blood, and he pulls back for just a moment.
And she gains a moment, a space, and she understands power.
Then he is back, tongue and fingers and he slams into her and she would shriek but he fills her, she can only rock back and taste and feel the blood the throbbing the burning and suddenly he is smooth inside her in the mixture of her blood and her insides. "I love you," he says, words now where fingers filled her where she had not been empty before.
This is how she learns, pain and pleasure intermingling, blood and come lingering on fingertips, blossoming on tongues. This is pleasure, these are the habits of the heart. This is where it starts, this is how she learns.
"--for the help, Pip," and the words drew her back into herself. Words, the only connection he ever offered her, but they worked just as well because she came for him, for them.
She watched him walk beside her in the corridor, his hands full. He didn't ask her if she could carry some of the tools, he never asked her for more than she could give. She tried before, offered everything, but he wiped away her tears and kept that space between them. She could not offer any more because she knew the answer -- not before the big game -- and the big game doesn't stop but she can't just leave him and he won't let her close the space -- so she remained, caught in his orbit.
Besides, there was Aeryn, and he thought that meant something even if the Peacekeeper knew better.
He smiled at her like it was meant only for her. "How you doin'?"
"Ay-okay," she said, as she heard him say before.
He smiled, and it reached his eyes, it warmed her that she could affect him like this, it made her liquid inside. He found pleasure in the oddest places and the simplest things. It was strange to have words fill her, instead of fingers. Looks that curled her toes, instead of tongues. When she reached across to grab at a connector that teetered, threatened to fall, she felt pleasure at how he leaned towards her, felt her insides seep out. Her hands were within him, the circle of his arms, and this brought pleasure too, and her nerves prickled, waiting for the pain.
That pain came when he pulled away, grinned at her, walked beside her. Always that space, and she shivered, she hated this pain and how this man made her learn his ways and keep his space. She wanted him to put his marks on her, imprint himself on her, give her a memory she understood. Not the words and the soft touches; they were too nebulous, tantalizing gestures too open to misinterpretation.
His scent on her skin, his weight covering her, arms pinning her down. The dealing of the pain in the here-and-now and the pleasure that came with her orgasm. The power and the taking and the giving as they traded flesh and blood. This she could understand.
Nothing felt real, without that; she didn't feel touched, explored, loved. She wanted a litany of love-notes on her skin, but John only left words and feelings and an aching emptiness when he left. No other sign. Nothing of him written on her skin, muscled tightly in her flesh, mapped onto her heart.
Nothing but that space between them, filled with whispers and words and looks.