That Old Academy Charm

 

AN: This could turn into a series, or something longer, if I get enough time, and you guys are interested. Tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. No profit being made. Song belongs to Switchfoot. Yadda, yadda, yadday.

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Welcome to the fallout,
Welcome to existance,
The tension is here,
The tension is here,
Between who you are and who you could be,
Between how it is and how it should be.

I dare you to move,
I dare you to move,
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor,
I dare you to move,
I dare you to move,
Like today never happened,
Like today never happened before.
-Switchfoot 'I dare you to move'

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The man hardly had time to blink before a hand fastened itself, with cold, deadpan precision, around his neck, a steely grip that threatened to crush his larynx if he pushed his luck.

"Apologise to the lady," Rhade's command was as deadpan as his expression, hardly glancing up from his drink to look at the man he had by the throat. He might have been asking someone to pass the salt.

The man wheezed, clawing haplessly at the hand around his neck, his feet just touching the ground. Rhade sighed, irritably, as if a fly were buzzing round his head. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. Apologise to the lady, or you may find yourself devoid of a windpipe. Do you understand?"

The man nodded vigorously, as much as the Nietzschean's grip would allow, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Though his voice was raspy for lack of air, his face turning an unpleasant shade of puce, the message got across. Rhade dropped him, as abruptly as he'd grabbed the offender in the first place.

The man collapsed to the floor of the bar, rubbing his neck.

Beka, sitting next to Rhade, raised an eyebrow. "And yet, still more charming than Harper."

"I simply find offensive remarks made to women… offensive," Rhade replied, refusing to look at her, still nursing his drink, his expression morose, "particularly women for whom I hold a certain amount of cautious respect."

"Cautious respect, huh?" He could feel her grin, wry and cynical as he felt.

"Extremely cautious."

Beka shook her head, and downed the last of her drink, "I better get going. Shipments to make. People to rip off. Scrawny engineers to beat up until they fix my ship. That sort of thing."

"Uh-hu."

No interest. Beka sighed, inwardly. She had never thought she would wish to have Rhade back. The Rhade she had known. Telemachus, as she had often thrown at his face when he called her Rebecca. The Rhade who had those oh-so-earnest eyes and an innocent sense of humour and an ability to say her name, her full name, in a way that made it seem like he wasn't mocking her.

Whatever he had gone through, it must have been about as close to hell as anyone could get without actually being there.

But hey, this new, jaded warrior, fallen-from-grace look he was sporting was kinda hot.

"Try not to pass out," she advised as she got up, "and if you have to, try to fall on your side. Can't have our resident Nietzschean warrior choking on his own vomit."

"You care?" his words were mumbled, not deliberately, but because he had, once again, lost any enthusiasm for communication with the outside world.

"Hey, if you died, who'd be there to stand around looking jaded and sulky?" Beka poked him.

He rolled his eyes but made no reply.

Beka, probably because she had had her own fare share of what ever passed for spirits that evening, kept talking, "and, if you start puking blood, it's time to get your stomach pumped."

"I'll bare that in mind," he drawled, his words carrying only a hint of the alcohol he had been steadily swilling since that afternoon.

She stood up, leaving him to drink himself into oblivion. Dumb Nietzschean and his rugged-round-the-edges, acting-tough-to-conceal-the-pain look. Honourable warrior gone bad. Drank himself stupid every night, yet grabbed anyone who insulted her by the throat and demanded an apology.

It was almost sweet, in a psychotically depressing kind of way.

On impulse, and alcohol, she leaned down, and pressed her lips to his cheek. He smelled of spirits and sweat, and his skin was scratchy in a way that suggested his hadn't shaved in about two days, which was the case. But he turned his head against her, and the feeling of his fingers gently brushing the skin in front of her ear made her linger for a few seconds, her forehead against his temple, eyes closed, needing the touch, the contact, the confirmation of existence, of humanity, of the past, the present, the future, and some kind of point.

His breath was shaky, though that was probably the drink.

"Thanks, Rhade," her voice, barley more than a murmur, a mumbled thought which somehow found it's way out of her mouth.

"S'okay," deadpan, bored, sheepish, still shaking.

And he jerked away from her, rubbing the skin between his nose, and gulped down some more of his drink, like nothing had happened. "Goodnight."

"'Night."

He waved an arm at her, his words a little disjointed seeming. His eyes were still closed, "and, be careful on the road… out there… lots of people… this time of night. Not great to, uh, hang… around. Goodnight, Rebecca."

Beka smiled. Still with that old Academy charm. Poor bastard. Where had she ever been without him? "Goodnight, Telemachus."

He was still shaking as she walked away.

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Chapter Two: Between Hell and Oblivion

AN: Okay, you guys asked, and I shal deliver! This is the second chapter, told from Rhade's point of view. The format this story is going to take is... well, devoid of real plot. It'll be a series of vignettes centering around Rhade and Beka throughout season five, and will be updated... irregularly. It'll probably deal with their friendship in the current situation, and I may set Beka on a mounting campaign to get Rhade off the aclohol. Or not. Tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: See above chapter.

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Maybe redemption has stories to tell,
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell,
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna go?
Salvation is here.

I dare you to move,
I dare you to move,
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor,
I dare you to move,
I dare you to move,
Like today never happened,
Today never happened before.
-Switchfoot ‘I dare you to move’

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Sometimes, when I’m about halfway between reality and oblivion, things get hyper-real. Over real. I can feel everything, sense everything, see, hear, taste, touch, everything elevated in lurid colours that make me want to shut my eyes and never open them, lock myself away somewhere dark.

That’s when I hear the voices, the whispers, caught somewhere in my head. Like yesterday, or two months ago, or last year; all stuck there, regurgitated for my own personal torture, when I’m halfway between here and oblivion. Usually they come with some kind of tune. Vivaldi’s sonata in C minor, or Beethoven’s ninth, or…

My mind is beyond messed up.

Beka says it’s hardly any wonder, considering the amount of alcohol I consume everyday. And she’s probably right. I might be able to think a little straighter without all the crap currently in my system. I might be able to see a little clearer, feel a little faster, talk a little slicker.

But I’d never hit oblivion again, and I can’t live without the blackness. I can’t live with this constant awareness. This guilt, this loss, all caught and tangled until I want to tear it out of my gut and beg please, please let me be.

The shaking starts not long after that. I can’t lift things, touch them, without my hands trembling to the point where anything I pick up gets dropped. But I don’t mind the shaking, the way my breath catches and skids, juddering out of my lungs in uneven rasps, the way everything goes blurry if I stare too long. I’m closer to the blackness, closer to oblivion, to that easy drifting where the feelings aren’t there anymore.

On the Maru now, and the shaking starts. Odd. It always starts quicker with Beka around. She reminds me too much of Louisa, I think, makes me want to get to oblivion quicker. But everything connected to the past reminds me of Louisa.

Normally it’s an easy progression through the day. In the morning, my mind and head ache until I can’t tell which hurts more, so I take a drink, and let the pain subside. By midmorning to afternoon, things are getting hyper-real, lurid, exciting, intense. By early evening, things are a little fuzzy, warm, suspended, like time has stopped. By dark, the shakes set in, and by midnight, I get to Oblivion, and know nothing until I wake up on the floor of the bar the next morning, and the whole thing starts again.

But the shakes are here early today. Beka’s fault, really, for reminding me so much. Every time I come near her it’s like seeing the past step out of a darkened doorway in my mind and yell at me pay attention. She hasn’t changed that much, really. Any loyalty she once felt for Dylan is gone, certainly, or buried in a place so deep she is unlikely to ever fully recover it. But when we’re on our own together… drinking ourselves under the table in the bar (she’s lost her problem with taking stuff to get away from reality, that’s different too), or waiting for Dylan on the Maru, or meeting on the Andromeda… she seems so much like the Beka I knew so long ago. Full of insults and smart remarks and sarcasm and a vaguely psychotically depressing charm.

What’s changed, I suppose, is the my attitude, rather than hers. I would never have guessed how much like her I am, once you strip away everything, and leave me with the bare bones of what makes me. Just a survivor, after all. Not very different from Beka. I don’t find her insults off putting anymore, or her authority intimidating, or her sarcasm irritating.

She’s like me. Just dealing with the crap the universe has hurled at us.

And if my way of dealing with it is to drink myself into oblivion everyday, I guess that’s just how it’s going to be.

We’re waiting for Harper and Doyle to get back with some spare parts. I’m sitting on a bunk in the Maru. Beka’s clanking around somewhere. Dylan is snoring in a seat in the tiny living area behind the cockpit.

And my hands are shaking something chronic.

Damn it, the world hasn’t even gotten fuzzy yet! Hyper-real and shaking is not a pleasant combination. I want to be sick.

“Hey, slugger,” Beka’s voice, clear as crystal and far too loud for my hyper-sensitive mind, from just off to my left.

I don’t bother to look at her. The shakes will get worse.

Her footsteps, then she sits down next to me, and offers me a mug, “you have to drink something other than moonshine, y’know.”

I can smell it from here. Water, she’s offering me. Just water. Water she’s probably had to steal. Water I’m not interested in. I shake my head. There is no point in me taking that mug. I’ll drop it. My hands wont stop shaking, my mind wont stop vibrating. I want to be sick. I’ll only drop the mug.

“You drink it,” I tell her. It’s wasted on me, anyway.
She raises an eyebrow, “generosity from a Nietzschean?”
I shrug, “I’ll only drop it.”

She looks at my hands, still shaking in my lap. Shivering. I can’t hold still. The world is buzzing round my head. If the voices start now I might just go insane.

Then Beka does something totally unexpected.

She reaches forward, and presses the metal cup between in hands, then wraps her hands around mine. The shaking stops. “You have to drink, big guy. Fluids, liquid that wont destroy your liver. Have you any idea how dehydrated you are right now?”
“You care?”
“If you die, who’s going to hang around looking jaded and sulky?” Her voice is overly careless. She does care. Perhaps I’m just that little piece of her past she thinks is worth clinging to. Harper, as well. Even Trance. She’s spent a lot of time sitting with her in hydroponics, just talking to her, trying to get her to remember. Beka cares, about all of us, I think, except maybe Dylan. She was always the mother.

I can’t lift my arms without them beginning to shake too, so she does it for me, keeping her hands firmly over mine to keep them steady, lifting them up, then ordering me to drink.

You don’t disagree with Beka when she uses that kind of tone.

In the end, I downed half of the water, as she held the mug gently up to my mouth, then told her to have the other half or let it go to waste. She didn’t argue. Water is hard to come by, these days, and I think she was thirsty. The mug lay discarded on the floor when all the water was gone, and only the sound of my shaky breathing and Dylan’s quiet snores could be heard.

My hands started shaking the minute Beka let go of them. Strange how she can cause them, then make them leave, then let them come back, probably without even realising.

“You have to do something about the shakes,” she tells me, “it isn’t good for your aim.”
“You care?”
“We’ve been over this.”
“I can’t stop them,” my voice is cold. I can’t seem to make any expression come through it any more.
She tips her head to one side, “I can.”

She grabs my hand, and holds onto it, wraps her fingers tight about it like nothing matters anymore. She pulls my hand against her, runs her other hand down my arm, grips my wrist, then wrests her chin on my knuckles, watching me calmly all the time, raising an eyebrow.

The shaking stops again.

The alcohol has it’s uses, otherwise I would never normally use my other hand to touch her shoulder, just gently brushing the skin of her arm, wanting the contact. It’s easy to forget how much human contact a person needs to keep them sane, until they go without it for nine months, then suddenly find someone willing to hold your hand.

It’s all we need, for now. Two points of contact. A little feeling. All we need. For a second, I feel on the brink of oblivion, without the blackness, because the pain has subsided. Not gone. But easier to bare.

I pull her closer, and for a second she hesitates, then puts her free hand around my neck, and I let myself except the embrace. She smells much cleaner than I do, and I can feel her breathing is as shaky as mine, now she’s pressed against me. I wonder if she’s on the verge of crying, or is just tired. It’s… comforting. The pain is vague, now. This is what comfort means. You don’t have to say anything, or cry. All it takes is a hug, and I feel better. I know I’ll go straight back to feeling how I normally do, the minute she lets go.

It suddenly occurs to me that the last person I held like this was Louisa.

I let go abruptly, and push Beka away, as gently as I can manage.

The shaking has stopped, but the world really is buzzing, and I can hear those voices, lurking somewhere under my subconscious.

Beka doesn’t look hurt. In fact, I think she understands. She does understand, I can see it. But I don’t know what to say. I want to curl up, and lock myself away somewhere dark where I’ll never be found.

Then Harper’s voice, mercy of mercies, echoing through the Maru. He’s back, and can we please get the hell out of this creepy place.

Beka jumps up, perhaps as relieved as I am, and goes to help him with whatever he’s carrying.

I wrest my elbows on my knees, and let my head hang down, knitting my fingers behind my neck. Louisa, Louisa, Louisa…

The shaking has stopped. But the demons wont be going away any time soon

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AN: Kind of a follow up to 'That old Academy Charm', this takes place directly after 'The Eschatology of out President', and has... very little by way of real plot, but most definitely isn't fluff. Beka beats out her frustrations, and Rhade, being too drunk to fight her, patiently waits until she looses steam. Leaves lots of feed back!

The All Consuming Giddy Darkness

And don't ever leave here,
And mope at your leisure,
And straighten out your crease here,
And truth is in a tall beer.

Are you drowning your fears,
In a glass of deception?
When everything is easy,
Then everything will be okay,
When everything is easy,
Than you won't be sad that you stayed.
-Dashboard Confessional ‘Drowning’

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The daylight shone and stung and swung giddily all around. The world was hyper-real, hyper-high, every sense sharpened and tingling and certain senses tingling more than others. Telemachus Rhade revelled in his own glorious stupor, disregarding all past, all future, only the here and the now and this wonderful, wonderful present. What was there to be so depressed about anyway?

But he left that ground untested, for he knew it would crack and let the demons free.

Present. Present. Focusing on the present. Stumbling forward to racuas laughter – his, or someone else’s? – pulling… what’s her name? Melony… Melody… Melacony… Malana… something beginning with ‘m’, he was sure… after him, and that other one – he wasn’t even going to attempt to remember her name – with him, and he was sure the ground wasn’t supposed to be that close to his nose, but it was suddenly dark and they’d definitely arrived now.

Next problem was to work out where… where were they going? Oh. Right, yes, the Maru. The Maru. Great little ship, the Maru. A lot tougher than she looks. Like her captain. Actually, coming here might not have been the best of ideas. Except that he couldn’t really remember why. That was the joy of this stage. Before the shakes and the voices and fuzziness set in, there’s this bit, where everything is overly real, and completely detached from anything like reality.

He liked this stage, because he could never remember anything else to compare it to.

Stumbling in. Senses, senses, a lot of them travelling south pretty fast. M-someone giggling hysterically. Kind of hurt his ears, actually. But he didn’t care. The present, the present, the real and the now where the demons couldn’t get to him.

“Get out!”

Ah. That’s why this wasn’t the best of ideas. Should have checked Beka wasn’t here… should have… but he forgot. He liked his happy little stupors, but sometimes they had their disadvantages.

“Not in here, Rhade! Not in your wildest dreams! Get out and go get some in the gutter! Not in here, you don’t!”

She was angry, waving her arms in a way that was very, very distracting. He groaned. Trust her to be such a bloody spoil-sport. Trust her to bring the demons rushing back like shadows from the grave, screaming at him. Pig. Pig. Traitorous fool. Pathetic drunken bastard.

He shuddered, moaned, “Beka, come on…”
“You have got to be kidding me!” Hands on hips. That stare was never a good sign.

The girls had already departed. And all signs of the glorious stupor were gone. Depression was gnawing at his bones, snapping at his heals, wolves waiting to pounce now the alcohol had soaked in and softened just enough to make access easy, but not enough to make him too numb to feel it. Any second now… any second…

His hands started to tremble.

Damn.

“You bastard,” her hiss, anger in those cold blue eyes.

He moaned, put his head in his hands, shook it, but only made the darkness come a little closer. He needed her… needs her… “Beka…”

“Out.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
“I mean it! Get out before I start shooting!”

Don’t argue with her. Turn around and leave. There was no point arguing. He moaned again, turned, swayed, saw the floor swimming, and stumbled into daylight again. Stinging sunlight in his eyes. Something hit his back with a dull thud.

“And take this with you!”

A heavy object. Flask. He hit the dusty earth of the landing site, right on the outskirts of the town, with his own dull thud, and wrapped his shaking hands around the solid metal container, sniffing at the contents. Water.

“Sober up, you friggin’ delinquent!”

Then she was gone. She left the door open. But it was open in the first place. It was too hot out here. Too hot in there. The air had to circulate or it got too damn hot everywhere. He could smell the sweat on her, just now, but he wasn’t paying enough attention to notice it.

He lay back, stared at the sky, a lurid shade of sapphire. There were times when he felt like it must be mocking him, so high and mighty up there. Damn, damn, damn. What did he just do? He sat up and attempted to work it out, but his mind was foggy, all hyper-realism lost to a dull darkness that threatened to engulf him. His hands were shaking almost uncontrollably. He could hardly get the flask to his lips, but he managed, just, and swallowed hastily.

Cold water. That was real. That was something to focus on. Sitting in the dirt, dead drunk, shaking, with his back to the open Maru hatch, one seriously pissed off Beka Valentine therein. The shakes were refusing to abate. But the water, while not really cold, was cooler than his surroundings, and he still swallowed, feeling the liquid as it seeped, slow and unforgiving, into his body. Like spirits, but finer, softer, and lacking the taste of Oblivion he craved.

How far out was he?

Rhade attempted to calculate the scale of what had just transpired, get a little perspective, add in variable factors, the extremities of Beka’s mood… Unfortunately, he could produce little more than ‘me Rhade. Rhade done bad. Beka mucho pissed.'

Such was the sacrifice he paid for the blissful release of Oblivion; and it was still a small one by comparison.

Lay back. Stare at the sky. Hope for something more than the darkness in his head. He needed to get back in there, talk to Beka. She was upset. Very upset. That whole thing… with the old man... – what was his name? Damn, today was not a good day for names! –Avineri, wasn’t it? Right. That whole thing with him and the whole ‘Vox’s Secret’ thing, it hasn’t been good for her. The whole thing just felt freaky and out of sink to him, disjointed and unclear, even more so than most things, these days. But it had definitely screwed Beka over a little, and it clearly did something to her… seeing that guy… thinking about her past…

God knew, he understood what thinking about the past could do to a person.

What did he do again?

Oh. Right. Crap. He’s screwed.

He downed the last of his water and attempted the long and arduous journey back onto his feet. It took a few attempts. The ground was rocking in a way that couldn’t be natural, even on Seefra. And the air was sticking to him, grasping the oxygen away from his lungs until he knew he wasn’t anywhere near sober yet.

But it’d have to do.

The Maru was cool, and dark. The sunlight filtered through a little, but petered around the shadows and dimmed away until there was only a comforting gloom left to blanket himself in. Beka… Beka… where was she? Hiding somewhere, crouched in her own misery, moaning to herself. That’s what he’d be doing.

But she isn’t like him.

“Beka?” His voice was loud, off-putting, even to himself, in that dull, aching emptiness. “Where are you?”

But he’d already seen her. She was sitting on a bed, her bed… no, Trance’s bed… a strange place to sit, behind a trellis with some God-awful creeper still somehow managing to climb all over it. She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, like a child caught up after bed time, like a grown woman caught crying when she shouldn’t have been. Except she should have been, if she wanted to. Freedom of expression, and all that crap Dylan liked to spout.

He remembered, suddenly, that she was younger than he was. A fact he felt oddly surprised by when he found out whilst curiously flicking through the crew’s records on first joining the Andromeda, over a year and a lifetime ago. She looked younger, now, and tired, and worn. She’d been wearing herself out, running herself round and round in circles inside her own head. He knew the signs.

It was as if she was a piece of paper that someone had written the first line of a story on, then crumpled up and forgot about. She had been left to write the wrest of the page herself, but she had no pen, and no idea what to put.

Or maybe the alcohol just liked to bring out the vaguely depressing poetic charm in his soul.

“I thought I told you to get lost, Rhade.”

But there was no energy, this time round. If she didn’t want him to stay, she wasn’t exactly telling him to go, either, and he knew he needed to sit down, because the shaking had started in his legs, and pretty soon he wouldn’t be able to move at all. So he didn’t say anything, grabbed the trellis to steady himself, and considered where the best place to fall was. The floor wasn’t looking like much an option. Too hard. And he didn’t want to end up next to Beka. She’d probably try to dislocate his jaw.

That left him… a dead shrub, and a slightly mouldy, flee bitten mattress on the floor opposite the bed Beka was huddled on.

He took the mattress, and collapsed.

This was not an unusual occurrence for Rhade. His knees often decided to pack up and head for fairer shores when he was in this state, especially when the shakes got good and going. A lot of the time, he wasn’t fortunate enough to have the opportunity to pick his landing spot, either. Mostly, it was the floor of the bar, or the pavement, or occasionally the floor of someone else’s… well, whatever they thought passed as a bed room.

But Beka wasn’t as used to him falling flat as he was, and jumped, shuddering in surprise.

“Rhade?”

He waved a hand at her from the flee-bitten mattress. It was lumpy, and smelled distinctly… wrong. But, better than the floor. “I’m okay.”

“You really have to lay off that… whatever that stuff you drink is.” She shook her head, still clutching her doll. It made her look even more like a child, all scrunched up like a little rag doll herself. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, and that weird angel doll trapped up against her. She looked so small and insecure… not the normal image for Beka Valentine.

He shrugged, “whaddaya gonna do?”

She looked away, fiddling with her angel doll, straightening out it’s hair and clothes and tugging it’s wings to the right angle. “You ever… think about your parents, Rhade?”
“I try not to.” I try not to think about any of it.

But she wasn’t listening. She was thinking out loud, fiddling, tugging, niggling at those irritating little dilemmas that haunted the dark and dusty corners of her mind. “You ever… wonder what… goes on, up there, in their heads, when they’re raising you? You ever wonder what they really think of who you are?”

Rhade didn’t bother answering. She was rambling, and he was incapacitated. However you looked at it, he was going to have to play the verbal sponge until she dried up and realised that the last week had just been another bucket load of crap that the universe, in it’s infinite wisdom, had decided to hurl at them.

“Sometimes, it’s just like… you get the feeling that… there’s so much going on around you that… you can’t possibly be aware of it all…”
“Isn’t this a conversation you would rather be having with Trance?” He enquired, diplomatically trying to stave off the head ache he could already feel encroaching on his sinuses.
She shook her head, “Trance gives me a head ache. Especially these days. I don’t think she even knows whether she’s coming or going anymore.”

Rhade smirked, but had to agree.

“It’s just that… sometimes… I just… is it possible? One life in two universes? Two… realities?”

The headache was getting worse. Rhade grimaced and closed his eyes.
“Beka,” against his better judgement, he interrupted her, because he could see where this was going, “you don’t really think that guy was your father, do you?”

She threw up her hands, “I don’t know, okay? I just… this whole thing… it’s just… beyond screwed up!”
“Tell me about it,” Rhade muttered, covering his face with his hands.

Silence for a few, blissful minutes. Rhade cautiously opened one eye, to see that Beka had slumped over on the bed, still curled into that tight, fetal position, her face buried in the back of her doll.

“Beka?”
“Didn’t I tell you get the hell out of my ship?” Her voice was slightly muffled.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, get the hell out of my ship.”
“And are you going to make me?”
She peered out from behind her doll, “You really wanna go there, Rhade?”

No. Not really. He didn’t want to go there at all. He was completely incapacitated, the world was buzzing a little unpleasantly, and Beka was still on the wrong side of confused anger to dismiss her as a threat.

Unfortunately, something forgot to communicate the part of him that controlled his ego, because he smirked, which was precisely the wrong thing to do.

Beka leapt off the bed and jumped on him. He yelped and struggled, uselessly, as she straddled his stomach and preceded to beat his chest a bloody pulp. It reminded him horribly of the time she’d been possessed by that bio-armour, except that this time her eyes weren’t glowing red and she wasn’t attempting to excavate his heart from the inside out. She was just taking out her frustrations on his poor, helpless chest.

“Beka, for God’s sake! Stop it! Stop it! What are you, on flash?!”

He grabbed one her wrists, managing to partially stem the flow of blows, but she her other hand was still good. In desperation, Rhade twisted from his back onto his side, just about throwing her off, but she had still got her legs tangled through his, and was clearly just a little past caring whether or not he was feeling any pain.

Which he wasn’t. Thankfully, he wasn’t quite sober enough to really register any of the bruises he should have been feeling.

“Beka!” He grappled with her hands, just about managing to fend off one or two of the hits, then kicked out with his left leg to roll them off the mattress completely, and dumping him on top of Beka.

She yelped as her head cracked of the metal floor, and swiped at him, but Rhade had a temporary advantage, managing to pin both her wrists over her head. “Now,” he began, “we can sit like this for the next few hours, or, you can promise not to do that again.”

Beka made a face. “Screw that.”

With a surprisingly strong jerk, she wrenched herself free of his grasp and shoved him over. In the swift and rather painful struggle that followed, Rhade found the world once again blurred into an inseparable sickening mix, ceiling, floor, flesh and hair, a heady mix of sweat and soap and engine grease; and then he was on his back, with Beka sitting smugly on his chest.

He sighed, “I’m drunk, Beka.”
“And I’m exhausted,” she told him, “but I can still get any Nietzschean I want on his back.”

Rhade groaned and covered his eyes, then began to laugh, softly.

“What?”
He shook his head, “you just look… very Nietzschean.”
“Which is more than I can say for you,” she folded her arms, staring him down.

“Aw, get over it, Beka!” Rhade cried, attempting a half hearted swipe at her head, but missing, because he was actually seeing around three Bekas swimming over his chest.
“Get over what?” Beka demanded, glaring at him.
Rhade rolled her eyes, “I’m not your knight in shining armour anymore, okay? I’m not the academy golden boy I was last year! I’m not a fighter pilot, I’m not an officer of the high guard, I’m not even… God, half the time I’m not sure if I’m even human anymore! And I don’t care! So why the hell do you?”

She looked a little taken aback at that, her head on one side. Rhade took a few deep breaths (a little difficult considering she was still sitting on him, but he got there) and managed to clear his swirling vision a little. A pounding headache was setting in. He wished he could get to his hip flask.

“Okay,” Beka carefully settled herself back into a position in which she was more comfortable and began to score off his points on her fingers, “firstly, you were never my knight in shining armour, got that big guy? I don’t even wanna know where you got that idea from. And secondly… secondly… someone’s got to.”
“Got to what?” That insolent grin. She wouldn’t have minded punching it right off his stupid, Nietzschean-drunkard-wounded-warrior face. Idiot. God damn hot idiot.
“Someone’s got to stop the resident village idiot drinking himself further into the gutter than he already has,” Beka told him, poking his already bruised chest, “if your liver collapses, who’s going to stand around looking jaded and sulky for Harper tell pointless jokes to?”

Rhade only snorted and closed his eyes, “are you gonna get off me any time soon?”
“Are you gonna get the hell out of my ship?”
“Are you gonna get off me?”

Beka sighed and rolled off him, lying next to him to stare blankly up into the dull gloom of the Maru’s rafters. “Screw this.”
“I… concur…” Rhade muttered, closing his eyes.

A short, soft silence, filled only with alcohol-heavy breathing and whispers of the darkness hanging coldly over head. Beka twisted a little, memories coiling and pressing themselves to the inside of her skull, confused and loud and threatening in their density. Some deeply buried issue hummed in the back of her mind, one she couldn’t even begin to think of, fathom out, because it was too big, and she was too small and too tired and this was so… so… not what she had expected anything to turn out like ever.

“Rhade… Rhade, just to be clear,” she began, quietly, “if… I start crying into your shoulder, it’s because I’ve had one of the most screwed up… suckiest… days of my life, not because… of… well, anything else your alcohol addled, twisted little mind can come up with.”
“Do I… have to… move… anywhere… at all…?” Rhade asked, turning his head a little to blink at her.
Beka shrugged, “guess not…”
“Then sure, whatever.” Rhade raved a hand, distractedly, “if it’s any help, I’m probably not gonna remember… most of this.”
“Hmm…”

Beka closed her eyes, in the all consuming, giddy darkness, and, in the company of her bruised, jaded, drunk Nietzschean knight in shining armour, wished for oblivion.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Psychotically Depressing

Intervention

I miss you,
Miss you so bad,
I don't forget you,
Oh, it's so sad,
I hope you can hear me,
I remember it clearly,

The day,
You slipped away,
Was the day,
I found it wont be the same.

I've had my wake up,
Wont you wake up,
I keep asking why,
And I can't take it,
It wasn't faking,
It happened,
You passed by.

Avril Lavigne - 'Slipped Away'
***********************************************************

"Beka!"

Damn.

Beka froze in the hallway, cursing her heart for beating faster. How the hell had he realised so quickly?

Well, okay, that was probably a dumb question. He was an alcoholic. He took a swig every thirty seconds or so. Of course it wouldn't take long for him to catch onto the fact that a certain pilot might have snuck into his old quarters while he was taking a shower and taken his travelling spirits supply.

The real question was. well. what the hell did she do now? She had kinda hoped to be on the Maru and away before he'd realised. At least if there was a nice open vacuum between them, he might have sobered up enough not to throttle her by the time he tracked her down.

Unfortunately, there was now less than ten meters of corridor between her and said alcoholic Nietzschean, and it was going to be very difficult to get back to the Maru without being caught.

Things to remember when curing friends of substance dependence, that cool little voice in the back of Beka's head snapped, never come between a Nietzschean and his poison of choice.

"Beka!"

Rhade, barely dressed, hair dripping, erupted out of his quarters looking like the most terrifying thing to come down them since the Magog invasion way back. ages ago.

Beka yelped, and ran.

"What have you done?" Andromeda's voice echoed through the corridors, still managing to sound cool and vaguely smug, despite the slight metallic stutter that accompanied it.

"Nothing!" Beka cried, indignantly, as she leapt down a ladder and bolted blindly down the next corridor.
"Beka, there is an intoxicated, dripping, very, very angry Nietzschean pursuing you through my halls," Andromeda stated, "I find it very difficult to believe that you haven't done something to provoke him."
"And it couldn't just be my. animal magnetism?" Beka suggested, somehow maintaining her flippancy as she tore round a corner and into a machine shop.

Silence, relaying Andromeda's scepticism.

Beka didn't bother pushing her point. Explanations could come later, if she hadn't been decapitated.

Darting under one of Harper's endless old gizmos, left there since long before they had entered the Seefra system, Beka saw the other exit and made for it, hearing an ominous thudding of heavy footsteps coming down the corridors.

"Beka! If you don't get back here."

"You'll what? Kill me? Gee, that's original," Beka shook her head, muttering to herself as she exited the machine shop and headed for hydroponics. With any luck the plants would provide her with enough cover to out manoeuvre him, then double back on herself and get to the Maru.

His footsteps were getting closer, even as she tumbled into hydroponics and desperately cast about for somewhere to hide. Even drunk Nietzscheans could move faster than humans, it seemed. He appeared in the doorway at almost exactly the same time she dived beneath a particularly overgrown shrub, praying he hadn't caught the movement.

Rhade paused, his head swimming. The sudden movement hadn't been good for him. His stomach turned over and he instinctively bent double, desperately trying to keep his breakfast down. Horrible nausea crashed down upon him in wave after relentless wave. This only ever happened after running when he was making that transitory jump from hyper-reality to vague fuzziness.

He wasn't going to puke. He wasn't going to puke. Not here. Not in front of Beka.

Louisa, Louisa, Louisa... the voices were hissing, spiteful in his ears, you let her die. you let them all die.All their sweet little faces calling you daddy, daddy, daddy.

Bile boiled in his throat, followed by a mouthful of something distinctly unpleasant. He coughed, spat and wretched dryly into a plant, but nothing worse came up.

The world swirled black and gold and bloody scarlet. The last thing he needed was to have his life line taken away from him at a time like this. when they were all so close. when he could hear them in the back of his mind, screaming accusations as he left them to drown in their own blood.

Why had he mentioned his children? Why? Didn't he have enough ghosts flying around his brain already?

"Beka!" He called her again, her voice racketing around the room full of force and fear, "Rebecca! Come out!"

She was here. He could smell her.

"Don't call me that!"

He whirled round, but Beka's voice bounced and travelled and the voices suddenly became a roaring whirl in his head, drowning her out. Rhade hit the floor, forcing his head down onto his knees, desperately struggling to regain control. This was totally, totally insane.

One sip. one sip, that was it. That was all he needed. Just enough. to dull the pain.

"Beka!"

A hand suddenly found his shoulder, the world snapped into startling clarity and he blinked as he felt her standing, suddenly right next to him, "Rhade?"

Without a thought, without a care, Rhade spun round as fast as he could, proving his reflexes had not quite been as damaged as he had once thought them, at least, not when he wanted his drink this badly.

He was up off his knees and had Beka by the throat before she could quite comprehend what was happening, bending her right arm behind her back. "What have you done with it?"

His voice was dripping silent menace, his eyes suddenly cold in a way that Beka had never seen before. Suddenly, with a chill feeling of dread in her stomach, she realised she couldn't see Rhade in there. She couldn't see even a hint of the man she had once known, not even just beneath the surface. Whoever this was she had unleashed, it wasn't the man who had grabbed someone by the throat in the bar for her on a matter of honour a few weeks ago.

Now he had her by the throat.

Time froze. For a few seconds, Rhade could have sworn it simply stopped. He was aware of everything, everything down the most minimal detail, everything about that moment. He could hear it, taste, smell it. There was a fly buzzing two feet away, water dripping from a tank full of lilies, an air filterer humming, chemicals spilling into their atmosphere to purify the oxygen, fluorescent light flickering over head, and Beka, Beka staring at him with an expression he had never once seen on her face before.

Fear.

Shit.

With a start, he dropped her.

Beka hit the floor like a rag doll, coughing, one hand at her throat, instinctively checking for damage, then scrambling to get as far away from his as possible. Her feet and hands found the floor and she was clambering up, stumbling away, feeling nauseous, unsteady, collapsing again a few feat away, shuddering.

Rhade slumped onto his knees where he was, wishing nothing but blackness.

Something hit the side of his skull, sending the world spinning, crashing into something beyond sight, beyond feeling as he blinked, struggled drew breath, drew stock, attempted to place what had happened into perspective.

The something slipped into his hands; metal, cool, solid beneath his fingers. His flask. His hip flask. She'd thrown it at him.

"Take it then," her voice sounded harsh, fierce, cold in the echoing twilight, "if it means that much to you."

Her eyes, burning topaz, were alight with defiance. The fear had gone, as fast as it had appeared, buried beneath a brick-pile of separate emotions that she need to feel, needed to have, to forget that single frozen moment when he could have hurt her.

Rhade struggled again, felt the air, so full of chemicals, purifiers, acids, alkalis, pressed into his mouth, against the back of his throat suddenly solid in his lungs; he wanted to choke, he wanted to curl up somewhere dark and pretend himself into oblivion.

It hadn't happened. it hadn't. he hadn't hurt her.

Beka was up and walking away, her feat echoing heavily in his head as he continued to breathe, thinking desperately, struggling for clarity, clarity, something close to order. It came to Rhade, suddenly, that he needed to do something. For the first time in. what felt like a life time, he knew in all certainty that something needed to be done, and he needed to, had to, do it.

"Rebecca!" The world lurched alarmingly as he rocked onto his feet, "come back!"

Nothing. She was gone. For a moment she'd been afraid, and he never, never wanted to see that look on her face again, especially not directed at him.

Bastard! Screamed the demons, drunken fool; fool! Pathetic filthy scum-bag! What have you become?!

Darkness roared in the back of his mind, words leaped and blackened and merged and he was struggling to breathe, struggling to think, needed to think had to understand, somehow, someway, had to do something, now, now very quickly, had to make something right, had to fix this.

Daddy, daddy, daddy.

With an inward howl of rage, Rhade hurled his hip flask away from him.

....to be continued!

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