Perversion
AUTHOR: Zion's Starfish
RATING: R, slash
SCENARIO: too much to drink and nothing to lose.
NOTES: thanks to luz for the beta
SUMMARY: when what you need and what's killing you are the same thing



The bar is so clichéd that you would laugh if you aren't so thoroughly chilled 
that you can't feel your toes. The sour stench of unwashed bodies made more 
pungent by the rain clings to everything. You briefly consider the probable 
bacterial count on the glass the shot you've ordered is served in before tossing 
it back anyway. The liquid burns all the way down.

"Have you seen this man?" you say to the bartender shoving the flexi you've 
carried under his jacket to the bartender. The din of mumbling voices makes your 
head ache.

A tentacle slithers wetly over the counter, twitches the flexi towards one of 
the six filmy eyes. The bartender shakes its head.

It's what you've come to expect after a year of the same bars, the same 
bartenders. You put down another couple of thrones and arch an eyebrow. "How 
about now?"

The flexi skitters back with a sheen of slime on it. Wiping it only makes things 
worse. But the tentacle points.

You take a deep breath and turn around.

It's so strange. You're used to the disappointment. But this? This is completely 
new. Your heart is beating so hard it drowns out the susurration of the voices 
around you.

He sits at a corner table that has five bottles of some watered down alcoholic 
crap sitting on it already. The bartender pushes past you leaving a streak of 
slime on your coat and deposits another bottle on his table.

You stare hard at the fat, shiny scar on his hand.

It's not Dylan, not your Dylan. It can't be. The man in the grey ragged coat 
with scraggly brown hair and hooded eyes must be at least sixty years old.

You get up and drift over and the dread that's stabbed you in the gut twists 
with each step.

When you slide into the chair opposite him and he looks up, you see nothing but 
abject despair.

"Dylan," you whisper, hands clutching your stomach.

"Who are you?" he slurs, one hand fluttering over the empty bottles and knocking 
one onto the floor. It shatters; no one cares.

You reach out but he jerks his hand away. "It's Harper," you say fervently.

Recognition flickers in his eyes. His gaze lifts.

"Black doesn't suit you," he says absently, reaching up to touch your hair but 
pulling his hand back at the last moment.

You tilt your head at the tremor in Dylan's hand that hadn't been there five 
years ago.

"Would it be really redundant if I ask you how you've been?" You breathe deeply 
to settle the growing ache in your stomach.

"You don't want to be here."

"I've been looking for you for five years. And now that I have, where else would 
I be?"

"Five years?"

You sigh. "Four years of pulling in every favor I've ever been owed and 
planning. One year of tracking you down. I took the Maru."

"That bucket of bolts still space-worthy?"

"It's not the same Maru you remember. It's been refitted so many times since you 
left, I think only the fuzzy dice are still original."

You sigh.

"Come home with me."

He stares at you, shocked. His eyes are bloodshot.

"Leave me alone."

"Please...."

"In case you don't remember? I. Killed. Her!"

Half the bar turns to look at you. You wince.

"You're going to ruin my reputation," he grumbles.

"Can we get out of here?"

It only takes a reluctant nod from Dylan to make you throw down enough thrones 
to cover Dylan's tab and half the bar's patrons and drag him out the door. A 
silky rain falls and the chill is oppressive.

"Where are we going?" he says, clutching his coat around himself. You grab his 
hand when he stumbles.

"I have a place."

***

It's small and smells like piss and rats but at least the water runs hot and 
clear and the heating unit works. Dylan takes a long shower while you sit on the 
windowsill drinking burned coffee and watching the rain.

He comes out wrapped in a towel accompanied by a plume of steam and the scent of 
soap. You try not to stare at the scars on his chest that weren't there the last 
time you happened to see him shirtless.

He pours himself a cup of coffee and digs into the rations you carry in your 
pack. He eats like he hasn't seen a crumb of food in weeks and though you can 
see his ribs you fervently hope that's not the case.

Hunger sated, he takes to the coffee much slower and time draws out like a 
blade.

For a while it's just like the week on Infinity Atoll when a rainstorm hit 
during your last shore leave together. Instead of surfing by moonlight and 
sleeping on the beach wrapped in a blanket and each other you and Dylan spent 
most of the week inside your rented cabin hand feeding each other room service 
and watching the rain fall. The memory is so sharp it cuts you and you don't 
know it till the blood wells up and spills over.

"What's her name?" he says, very carefully.

You swallow the last mouthful of coffee, shuddering as it slides down your 
throat. You like the way the water droplets bead together and when they reach a 
certain size they streak down the pane. It seems symbolic of something but 
damned if you know what.

"Harper," Dylan says.

"I didn't think you'd want to know."

"I don't. But I need to."

"Psyche's Salvation."

"Was she one of the ships we rescued back... then?"

"No," you say faintly.

"A ship you rescued after I was gone?"

"The Consensus of Parts helped us salvage what we could from Andromeda. It 
combined those parts with whatever it could find or spare. It's like she's brand 
spanking new and ancient at the same time."

"Does she know what happened?"

You bite your lip. "Flesh has memory."

You feel bare under Dylan's steady gaze. "Does it?"

Dylan's hand burns your thigh but you don't move. You feel desperately close to 
being ignited but you hang there, staring into Dylan's eyes like a hawk moth 
flying completely aware straight into a light and not caring.

"We told her what happened. And... she understands. But when I go inside the VR 
matrix she seems to remember me from before. I'm not sure how to explain it."

Dylan's hand moves perilously high and you shoot off the couch like you've been 
electrocuted. You're all wide-eyed and prickling and you clamp down on the 
tremor in your voice.

"Coffee. More coffee."

You nearly run to the burner. You deny that your hand is shaking as you pour the 
coffee and nearly drop the pot when Dylan breathes gently on the nape of your 
neck and slides one hand under your shirt from behind. He puts a hand on yours 
and guides the coffee pot back to the burner.

You tremble. Your eyes shut and your head tips back against Dylan's chest as 
Dylan traces one finger along the grooves and planes of your belly.

"You've changed," Dylan whispers, his voice skittering across your skin like 
snowflakes. "Stronger now. I'm sorry I missed it."

He strokes your arched throat.

"Are you?"

"More than anything." Dylan's mouth moves wetly down your neck.

"Liar," you gasp, and twist away.

Your back meets the wall and you're not scared, you're not, but your heart 
pounds in your throat and a wash of sparks creep up your spine igniting nerve 
endings along the way.

Dylan looms in front of you, expression unreadable, but his gaze burns.

You draw in a shuddering breath. "You've made a lot of promises you couldn't 
keep. But I never thought that saying you'd be with us till the end was a 
pretentious platitude."

"I couldn't stay. I didn't deserve to. I killed her."

"You let guilt ride you like a bitch," you whisper, caught between the rip tides 
of blind pain and the desire to inflict it. "You should have been with us when 
we went to Tarn Vedra to bury what wasn't salvageable. God, Dylan, you don't 
know, you don't even know. We said goodbye and you weren't there."

"I'm—"

"Don't even say it. You're not sorry."

You shove Dylan, hard, but Dylan grabs your wrists and slams them against the 
wall. You struggle, lash out viciously but he doesn't seem to care.

"Listen. to. me. I'm sorry. But I can't go back. Can you say, honestly, that 
they'd want the guy that blew up his own ship even near the new flagship for the 
Commonwealth?"

"We need you," you say desperately.

Dylan leans over so you're eye to eye. "Now who's lying?"

You kiss him savagely because you have no other recourse. He lets go of your 
hands. There's no going back.

Everything dissolves into butter-soft touches pierced by gasps and bites. Colors 
and broken moans swirl together. Pleasure comes razor-edged and crackling.

***

You open your eyes. Somehow you've made it to the bed; you're eternally 
grateful. You ache all over and the headache is back, pounding dully. Dylan is 
still sleeping beside you. You bite your lip and reach for the cuffs you'd 
stashed underneath the bed when Dylan had been in the shower.

He's coming with you whether he wants to or not.

You don't hear Dylan moving behind you until it's too late. He grabs you around 
the neck and crushes you to the mattress with his body before wrenching the 
cuffs away.

You fight because you know where this is headed and you can't let it happen. But 
he squeezes your throat until you see fuzzy floating spots and he puts his knee 
onto your chest and leans his weight onto it. The mattress gives enough that you 
don't asphyxiate but you can't breathe all the same.

It's only when the cuffs click around your wrists that he rolls off you.

It hurts to breathe but you do it anyway until the urge to throw up passes.

"Dylan..." Your voice scrapes the inside of your throat.

He throws on his clothes and doesn't look at you.

You twist around so you can drag yourself to your knees.

"We're going to war," you say desperately. "I don't know when exactly, but 
soon."

"Then go." His voice is so cold.

"Dylan, I need you."

"You keep saying that like it means something," he says, almost thoughtfully. He 
rifles through your clothes and pack.

You sigh. "There's two hundred thrones in my pants pocket."

He finds it and tucks it away. He heads to the door.

"You're just going to leave me like this?" You don't know why he can still 
surprise you after so much hurt and so many years.

"You'll find a way. You were always... resourceful."

"And maybe I won't and I'll die here." The venom in your voice surprises even 
you.

He kicks your pack closer and when he hesitates there's a split second when you 
think he might actually uncuff you. "What was it anyway? Psyche's salvation?"

You bite your lip till it bleeds. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Dylan slams the door in response.

You allow yourself one scream of frustration and let the tears come before 
exhaling hard and wiping your face on your shoulder.

It takes half an hour of full-blown cursing, wriggling and straining to maneuver 
your pack close enough to open it and get the laser cutter into your hands. When 
the cuffs drop to the floor you have first degree burns on your wrists and 
you've run out of swear words. 

But at least you're free.

You pack quickly but you know it's no use. Dylan is far gone.

You retrieve your messages as you check out of the hotel. It's the same old 
stuff: Beka wants you and her ship back, now. You want Dylan. There's no 
contest.

You wonder what it is about love that's so addicting that you'd follow someone 
to the end of the universe at any cost. Maybe this isn't love anymore but 
something mutilated and angry; maybe time warps what it can't heal.

When you step out into the rain, the cold pierces your body like despair.

You don't care.


End