#VERSE. ( pcuexpvtbd. )

[factiousfcrged]

@draconisa / continued from [x]

It has never been said that Daenerys Targaryen is a good patient, and the reason for that is twofold: harm rarely comes to her person, and when it does, she handles it poorly. Like a wounded hunting cat, she seeks to hide herself away — analyzing the damage, licking her wounds, none the wiser to her misery. This isn’t going to be one of those times. For one thing, her erstwhile savior won’t let her; more importantly, she physically can’t. “I’m not — moving, it just—” hurts, she thinks, catching the word behind clenched teeth ( far be it for her to acknowledge weakness ). But it was only fair, given that the skin of her thigh’s opened up: it had caught on some bit of metal she hadn’t seen, tearing like so much tissue paper as it shredded through the skin. Dany isn’t afraid of blood. She isn’t even very squeamish, but there’s something decidedly different about it when it’s your flesh ripped apart, scarlet staining everything. Altogether, she’s not feeling very well. Leans back, exhaling through her nose in a meditative attempt at stillness. Her goddamn head is reeling. “Had my mag boots turned on.” Almost delirious, she’s half joking, but the truth lingers beneath. If the shoes hadn’t kept her on her feet, she would’ve hit something far more delicate as she inevitably toppled forward — like her heart, for instance.

"Yeah, you did," Amos agrees, which is about the closest he gets in this particular scenario to 'I told you so'. His tone is just this side of annoyed, though maybe it's more at himself than her -- he should've known better than to give the diminutive woman hard liquor, especially when she'd seemed so intent on trying to keep up with him ... and that was a feat that even Bobbie had a time doing. He'd figured here on the ship, the worst that might happen was she woke up with a killer hangover or upchucked in his machine shop which, while unpleasant, would've hardly been the worst mess he'd had to deal with on the Roci.

Clearly, though, he'd miscalculated her ability to get herself into trouble. He ripped open one of the pressure packs from the first aid kit that he'd recovered from under his work bench, pressing it onto either side of the gash and giving it the seconds it needed to clench into place - it would serve as a temporary measure to make sure she didn't bleed out before he could get her to the medbay. He took the time to toss the wrapping into the recycler and cork, and shove the bottle and the glasses they'd been drinking out of into one of the cabinets. Habit, hard to break, stow the loose items, then and there.

"Come on, Princess, release those mag locks," he instructed, waiting just long enough for her to do so before he scooped her up, pretty effortlessly, at knee and shoulders to carry her towards the medbay and the waiting auto doc. He'd have to come deal with the blood later. "Get you patched up and who knows, you might even have your first battle scar to show for it."

[fidelityfcrged]

It almost feels like time has rewound. It almost feels like nothing has changed. But she know it has. His hands are familiar, in hers, but she can feel callouses that she doesn't remember. His face, is the same, but she can see the hint of lines, and creases, where there were none, before. She was not as graceful, on her feet, several shots of alcohol in, as she had been, either. She knew it was different -- and she needed it to be, she needed those subtle reminders, to keep herself in check -- to try to. She wasn't young, and dumb, anymore. She didn't have the excuse of ignorance, or naivety.

Still, that smile -- it made her heart flutter, and her breath catch, and for a moment, all she could think of is what it would feel like, against her lips. Against her skin. "I -- " She wasn't Annie, though. And it wasn't just herself, she had to think about, anymore. There were lines she couldn't cross, anymore. Her head was spinning, just enough to make her lag, her fingers catching and tightening against his, her other hand catching on the edge of his shoulder to keep herself upright, steps drawn up short as she skidded to a stop. His eyes meet hers, again, and she can feel the tension in her spine, and shoulders, can feel the ghost of the electricity from his touch on her skin. "I want you to kiss me."

He’s gotta get some air. Gotta get some distance from her, but it’s not gonna happen tonight, is it? Great fuckin’ plan, Cash. Take her out when she’s wasted, to do bad shit, when she just admitted that he’s the only reason she kept doing it. He’s the problem. But the other problem is this: he’s a selfish bastard, so he doesn’t give a shit.

They’re just gonna have a little harmless fun.

“Don’t know yet.” And he’s not being coy — he really doesn’t. “That’s part of the fun though, yeah?” He glances sidelong at her, and it's then that he realizes he's still holding her hand. Doesn't know whether or not to drop it, now, or if that's gonna make it more wierd -- shit. Whatever. She looked like she needs a little help walking, and that's the excuse he's gonna stick with.

"Pretend it doesn't matter. Pretend nothin' matters, don't think about any of it. What would you wanna do?" Maybe it's not helpful, but it's how he thinks. And frankly? She could take a lesson from him, in this one instance. Mouth kicks up at a corner. "What would Annie wanna do?"

[factiousfcrged]

@aeternals gets a s4 finale based starter. (desi or halston)

There's a ringing in his head that won't stop. There's blood on his hands. On his teeth. In his throat. He can feel the low, dull throb of pain. His ribs. His hands. A shoulder, a knee. He watches the blood drip, splash, pool between his feet.

The thing that lives in the hollow in his chest is quiet. The roaring pressure that had been building in the weeks, months, since they first set foot on Ilus has dissipated. He can't decide if the silence is better, or worse.

He can hear the commotion in the Roci's med bay, can hear the familiar timbre of Holden's voice and Naomi's, can hear the intermittent beeps and chirps of the autodoc. Murtry was still breathing, or had been when they'd finally pulled the two of them apart. They were both as tough as they were mean, Amos guessed. Holden would be upset if Murtry didn't make it back to Earth to stand trial. He guessed they'd cross that bridge if they had to.

He knows there's words. Closer to him, where he sits in the galley, watching dispassionately as his blood pools on the floor. He'd have to make sure that got cleaned up before long or it'd get everywhere, gum up the works. He knows that there's words. A voice that he knows. A voice that makes the hollow in his chest ache, but it's just. One more pain on the pile and all he can feel right now is nothing.

[factiousfcrged]

"Doesn't matter to me much one way or the other," Amos replied, honestly, thought it might seem more blunt than necessary. But that's just who he was. "And in my experience, wanting to help is a lot different than figuring out what actually can help." That's not meant to be rude either, but whether she'll take is as advice or an insult? Remains to be seen.

"You're what -- a size six?" He runs a thumb across a storage locker's control pad, popping it open and rummaging through a few of the pairs of mag boots that are stacked along the bottom. It takes a minute for him to find what he estimated for her size, setting them and a still sealed new pair of boot socks next to them on the bench in front of the lockers. "Mag boots. Anytime you're on this ship, these are on your feet. They're the only things that are going to keep you in place if something goes haywire, and we lose gravity, or something takes us for an unexpected ride. A few bumps and bruises, or even a busted leg, that's better than the alternative of you being flung like a rag doll at high g burn." He gestures to the indicator lights on the back of the heels. "Lights off, you can walk around like normal. Lights on, means they're magnetized. Click your heels together to power them up or off."

Has she worn them? No, and she admits as much, though she’s certainly read of them, in her extensive ( albeit unhelpful ) studies. At the time, she hadn’t assumed to ever step foot on a ship where she wasn’t merely a passenger, catered to her every whim. The Rocinante isn’t that, and she feels supremely out of her element even without Amos calling attention to it.

Amos, who thinks her little neck is pretty.

“I realize that now.” She hadn’t, not always. How easy it was, living on Earth, to forget the plights of anyone else? From their position of safety, their luxury, it was all too easy to judge the desperate lives of someone else, and she can see why anyone here might be bitter. And despite what they may think about her, she shares their rage. Their indignation. “And you may not believe me, but I want to help.”

[fidelityfcrged]

"I ...." There's a lingering hesitation, her nose scrunching up just a little as she weighed the pros and cons, and the risk versus reward. "I -- Normally, I would ... probably take the wiser course of action and decline?" Teeth pinched the corner of her lower lip as she eyed the coffee bulb one more time. "But I'm not going to lie to you, it's been over a week since I've had anything resembling actual coffee made from actual coffee beans, and ... I might be willing to risk following a stranger into a strange place for a cup right now."

"Does that make me a horrible person, or a really gullible one, or --?" She was already pushing her way up to her feet, her thermos cup slid back onto the thermos, tucked into the sling bag draped over her shoulder. Even if he didn't actually intend to follow through on the offer, she felt more than a little awkward trying to carry on a conversation with him from the ground. "I'm Hannah, by the way," she said, shoving her hand terminal into the same bag to free up her hand to offer out to him. She would blame it on the lack of caffeine, later, that she didn't immediately recognize him - to be fair, she had been listening to stories about him and his ship, without paying any attention to any of the attached video clips.

desi had been combative for a few days. not that there was anything new on that front. the only time that seemed to change was for a few days after they'd slept together then right back to business as usual. only, business as usual was how accompanied by the occasional stutter and or blush. better than a full blown shouting match, he supposed.

life was easier back on the canterbury in that regard. well, even before that. his younger days were a little promiscuous to say the least. holden enjoyed his body and what it could do. space allowed him to explore ways to amplify that. no gravity was terrible for certain help problems but sexual escapes? amazing. zero g allowed him to do things he never would've considered down on earth.

stress and trauma took care of that, though. he didn't mind being alone. the crew of the rocinante filled a hole in his heart he never realized was there. they were more family to him than anything else he'd known and he wouldn't trade it for the world. but sometimes, just sometimes, watching desi and amos together made him yearn for something more. a different kind of family, so to speak.

shaking his head, holden shakes the thoughts free. no need to take those back on the roci, where he tended to sleep despite the rooms offered by fred johnson. too much tied into those. without drummer there being in them just felt plain weird.

the mug barely has time to touch his lips before he's stopped in his tracks by a beautiful young woman curled up like she's waiting for a long haul freighter to take her anywhere else. eyebrows pinch together and his head tilts to the side. " uh, yeah. " he leans down to take a whiff of his mug. had it been that strong? he's so used to using the bulbs on the roci the smell is second nature to him now. " i've already taken a sip of this or i'd offer it to you. wanna come on board? brewing you a cup wouldn't take but a minute. "

[factionfcrged]

She supposed it was fortunate for all involved that Hale had been unconscious for the majority of the transport from their rendezvous, back to the Dewalt. It had given Arthur's doctor friend time to look him over without them having to fight him down, or put him out. Mikkah's expression had been less than comforting, but Drummer had done her best to keep her lips sealed and let the woman work without asking questions that would only distract her.

The small shuttle that she'd borrowed from Arthur to get Hale home - which she'd promised to return - had allowed her to not have to fight him into a vac suit for the final leg to the medical bay on board their ship. She'd been too thoroughly occupied with getting him transitioned, and changing the dressings according to Mikkah's directions, to give herself much time to think. Which she was grateful for.

"If you think I can keep her out of here, once she learns you are back home, I think you do not know her as well as you think you do," she replied. "But - I will see what I can do." His last words garnish a half snort, and a shake of her head. "Yes -- I was a little bit disappointed you could not come up with something more ... original, but I suppose I will let it slide," Camina replies, a tight lipped smile offered as she placed the last of the bandages, stepping back to the head of the medical bay bed to let it lift him into a slightly reclined position. "This time." She adds, before pressing a bottle of water into his hand. "Drink. Slowly."

@factionfcrged sent, ( help ) - for the sender’s muse to patch the receiver’s muse up .

marco had done a number on him. well, technically, hale had sarcastically and methodically done all this damage to himself. he refused to give up anything on the family even if he knew more than just seeing camina on tycho for a few minutes. not even that passed through his lips, though. hale didn't give a shit about his own safety and he meant it. as long as the free navy didn't know where the dewalt or it's inhabitants were? he'd die a happy man.

except, by some miracle, hale hadn't died at all.

the how is a little fuzzy in his head. all he knows is he woke up to drummer's face. a face that he, admittedly, told to fuck right off because he'd thought it was either a fever dream or a joke. she wasn't.

and hale slept.

he slept for the first time since finding himself in marco's less than hospitable care.

hale hissed at the injection of something into his system. " hey, " he forced through the taste of copper on his tongue. " mich can't see me like this, okay? whatever you do... ah fuck, " hale hissed again. all that damage to his body and he couldn't handle the sting of antiseptic? or whatever happened to be sliding across his skin just then? he realized he actually had no idea how anything medical worked in space proper. the extent of his experience thus far had been mikkah yelling at him after every bar fight bad enough to send him into her care.

oh, and that lack of gravity was very bad for blood flow.

" i'm also really, really sorry for calling you a fuckhead. " there's a heavy weight in his chest like whenever he was sick with a cold. only, he wasn't sick and he didn't want to entertain thoughts of what was stuck in there. " i was a lot more creative in the beginning, i swear. just...lost a little steam on my name-calling. "

[fidelityfcrged]

Her breath catches in her throat, whatever other words that had been ready to tumble out swallowed back as he pushes himself up. There's a pain, a pang in her chest. She'd said too much, or the wrong thing. He was leaving. That was -- fine, that was -- she'd said her apologies, she'd told him everything and more that she'd ever even considered saying to him in the hundred different ways she'd imagined this conversation going, he would go, and he would be angry, and she would be sad, and it would be over. That was -- fine.

Her heart skips, head tilting up as he pushes closer to her, her hand warm in his, and the room only spins a little when she finds herself on her feet. "Cash..." His touch is like lightning against her skin, and she's burning with it, and she tries to hold herself steady, tries to form a protest, but his eyes are on hers and she can feel the tickle of his breath on her skin. This was a mistake. Wasn't that the definition of insanity?

It's the gentleness that undoes her. The lightness of his touch. Like he's afraid she would shatter. She hated it. She craved it. "Cash... I --" His hand is on hers, and she's barely finding the time to drag a small fold of hard currency, dropping it hastily on the table, catching the edge of her sling bag from the back of the chair. "Where -- Where are we going?"

His drugs. His gun. His fake papers. Anyone should've gotten thrown in prison for it, it would be him. She was just along for the ride. Trying to lose herself in what she thought was harmless enough -- didn't he make it seem that way? And of course she didn't think of the repercussions. Why would she? Hadn't felt the grit of the real world, not until the night it threw her on her ass.

But any guilt he's got goes right out the window with every other thought in his head. That's what I loved most about you. For a guy who's been fighting almost his whole life, it's the best sucker punch she could throw. Knocks the fuckin' wind out of him, just that easy. It was you. He's pretty sure she doesn't know what she's saying. Not that it's a lie -- and he's not gonna think too hard about this -- but that she doesn't mean to say it out loud, just can't seem to stop spewing out thoughts. Later, he's gonna have plenty of time to dissect every little goddamn thing she's said, but right now? He's pushing all that shit aside. Right now, he's gotta get her to stop spiralling.

"Alright. That's it." The chair shrieks its protest against the floor as he pushes back, standing before reaching down for her. It's just as easy as he remembers -- or else, she's just never put up any resistance. Always just moved against his touch. "Enough bullshit. You're still her. You just gotta remember it."

She's still trying to avoid his eyes, but it's more difficult; toe to toe, standing a breath apart, it's easy enough to put a hand under her chin, lifting her gaze with gentle fingers. God, he forgot how warm a color her eyes were when he's standing this close. Fuck. He's so fucked. He lets her go, only to grab her by the hand. "C'mon. I'll show you."

[fidelityfcrged]

That name sound odd on his lips, unfamiliar, but she can't ignore the way her heart stops its beating, just for a moment. She's grateful for the distraction of the bottle arriving, and it takes no time at all for her to down the shot he pours. It barely stings, now. The knot still coils in her stomach, but the heat has spread, now, and she can feel the hints of pin prickles in her fingers. His question elicits a sound, a sharp, almost burst of a laugh, and her hand flies to her mouth in an attempt to contain it, the blush rising again as she tries not to look to see if anyone noticed.

"I ..." A small shake of her head. "I ... i have a life? I - have a job, an apartment, a cat. I wake up, I ... go to work, I do my job, I come home, I eat, I sleep. I wake up tomorrow and I do it again because it's safe, that way, it's easy that way." She's talking too much, now. Saying too much. He doesn't want to know these things. She can't stop, though. "I ... I don't know who I am, though, any more than I ever did. I'm not -- the Hannah I used to be. I'm not -- I'm not Annie. I'm.. not my father's daughter, or my brother's keeper, I'm nothing to anyone else, I'm just -- " Me.

"I'm -- sorry." It tumbles out. The words won't stop, now. "That I never ..." Teeth pinch, and scrape against the inside of her cheek, already raw from the tension of the last week. "Reached out. I couldn't, at first, it was -- a condition of my parole, and I didn't have access to comms when I was .. in rehab, and after ... after everything, I - I didn't trust myself to, I suppose. Seeing you, hearing your voice, I -- I didn't think I could ... and not go back." The knot in her stomach has risen to her throat, or maybe there's two of them now.

“Hannah.” Should’ve figured. Not like he uses his real name, is it? Most people didn’t, for one reason or another. He can guess hers pretty easily now: didn’t want word to get back to whoever she had home, who probably didn’t want her runnin’ around glitzed out of her mind, getting fucked by criminals in a dirty bathroom. But he’d known that, right? Even while he was doing it. A better man would’ve tried to send her home, but he’s not good. Hardly even a man. Most days, he’s no more than a monster.

“Could’ve told you that wouldn’t work.” Not an admonishment, not with the wry twist of his mouth. It’s not as easy to be pissed at her now, skittish and trembling like a deer before him. Like he might devour her. The drink comes, and he grabs it before she can. Pours a measure out for himself, knocks it back, before returning the cup again, filled to the top for her.

“So, you figure it out?” He’s watching her, noting the places she’s grown softer. Her admission sits between them, but he’s never been good with it: tender things, that needed careful words and gentle hands. His were better suited to break. But she doesn’t need his pity, either. What’s the point in it? Past was untouchable, anyway. Best thing he knows how to do is help her stand up again. “What you really want? ‘Cause it sounds to me like you got no reason not to go after it now.”

[factiousfcrged]

He hopes that her momentary loss of consciousness has more to do with the alcohol than the blood loss, but either way he's pretty sure he's going to be getting (what might be a well deserved) chewing out for this one either way. He considered whether or not he needed to call Naomi, or Holden or .... he still wasn't a hundred percent clear on why they hadn't looked into finding an actual medic for the ship, as often as somebody or the other was ending up bloody.

"Easy, now," he cautioned, carefully pulling her fingers loose from their near death grip on his shirt, sliding one of her arms into the autodoc once he'd got her set down. He was familiar enough with the process that he could get the lines connected, to run in fluids, plasma, and whatever else the ship's med system decided she needed. A quick glance confirmed there weren't any critical alerts, though the blood alcohol level section of the screen seemed pretty angry. "Mmm." He doesn't interrupt her, even if he's pretty sure she's wrong.

"I'm about the least qualified person you'll ever meet to tell somebody else where they do or don't belong, as a general rule." Unless it was somebody up in his personal space or hurting the ship or the crew, and he wasn't sure she was clear headed enough to remember anything nuanced. "If it helps, first time I stepped on board this ship I was carried, mostly unconscious, with my leg bones poking a hole in my leg, so."

Absently, she thinks it’s a very good thing that he’s carrying her, all things considered. Protest as she might on any ordinary day, Dany’s pretty sure she can see her bone through the bloodied gash that once was skin. It may be that — or it may be the drink —but her head feels curiously light, cotton stuffed and insignificant. It’s solely the idea that she might faint ( and nothing would mortify her further, even after all of this ) that keeps her from doing it, willfully grasping her consciousness and refusing to let go.

Even when it might have been a relief. She’s clenched her teeth so hard that her jaw’s started to ache. How did most people handle such pain? How would he? She takes advantage of her proximity to glance up at Amos’ face; it’s as unreadable and calm as it’s been the whole evening, and Daenerys is certain that he handles pain with that same stoicism. It’s a comfort, currently. Surely, if she was that bad off, his face would give something away. His face. Always so serious. She wonders what he looks like, smiling…

A shift of his arms startles her awake. She’d nearly tipped off the precipice into a dark, blissful peace. Unaware, her fingers had tightened in his shirt, gripping the fabric within her fists. It takes a conscious effort to relax them. He moves to set her down.

“I know… what you’re thinking.” She doesn’t, really. Just knows what she’d be thinking, if she were him, and the whisky is loosening her tongue, “You don’t think that — that I belong here.” Teeth grit, eyes avoiding her leg. “And now I’ve proved it.”

[factiousfcrged]

"You got any particular reason I should?" The half smirk with the question doesn't keep him from offering a hand to her to keep her from wobbling her way down any worse than she already was. "This way first, Princess," he said, nodding her over towards the weapons and armor storage section near the main airlock. "Those ain't gonna cut it on the Roci and I don't need Chrissie tearing me a new asshole cause you broke your pretty little neck if shit hits the fan. You ever worn mag boots before?" He doubted it, but he'd been known to be wrong plenty of times in his life.

"Earth ain't been home in a long time, but at least I know if I had to, I could go back. Even if I didn't have a way to earn script, I'd have ground under my feet, air in my lungs. Most folks out here, they don't got that. Not on Earth, not on Mars, nowhere. Their whole lives they've had to trade blood, sweat and tears for the shit we get for free just because we had the dumb luck to be born on a big rock instead of inside one. It makes 'em tough, but it also makes 'em hard, and angry."

"Machine shop it is." That was where the whiskey was tucked away, and then, at least he could be doing something productive that wasn't just babysitting the babysitter. He couldn't, and didn't try to, stop the laugh at her last words, a shake of his head as he side stepped around her to head to the ladder that would take them down to the rest of the ship. "Yeah, you're definitely new around here."

He still couldn't figure out what exactly Chrissie had hoped to accomplish by sending this one all the way out to Tycho station that they couldn't finagle on their own but. "This place doesn't give a shit about polite, and neither do I, Princess. Just - for the record."

A half shrug. "Maybe Cap does. More than most. But out here? Half these folks would just as soon kill you as look at you, most likely."