Fic: You Birthed It, Chapter 4
Title: You Birthed It
Chapter Title: Braca: Good Boy
Author: katiemariie
Artist: azuremonkey
Mixer: jactrades
Mixer: pearlstar178
Beta: Renn
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS/Farscape
Word Count: 4993
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Strong language, violence, cissexism, BDSM
“Hey, Braca! You look a little lost. ”
“Does Mommy know you're here? ”
“Does Mommy know he's Scorpius' boy?”
-John Crichton and Aeryn Sun, “We're So Screwed, Pt. 2: Hot to Katratzi”
-
For as long as Braca can remember, there's always been someone telling him what to do.
It's rather brilliant, if you ask him. (And no one ever cares to.)
When he was a child, there were juvenile caregivers assigned to ensuring that he ate, slept, breathed, and attended classes. By the time he reached pre-adolescence and officially entered Peacekeeper training, he had his instructors to assign him the proper tasks to develop his skills as a pilot. After the forging of the Peacekeeper-Federation Alliance, Braca had his social worker and the group home "mother." Now he has the entire Starfleet hierarchy. (And the social worker, whom he hasn't managed to shake loose despite reaching the age of majority and acquiring gainful employment. Braca would prefer her to leave him be, relinquish control to the proper authorities-Starfleet high command.)
Other people he's met-even other Peacekeepers-don't seem to have the same affinity for putting their lives in the hands of others. Aeryn Sun, for example, hates being told what to do and purposefully rebels against orders she considers unwise-often bringing Braca along for the ride. It is not in his nature to rebel against authority. He likes his orders and follows them to the best of his ability, hoping to get to the phase in a superior-inferior relationship where he's able to anticipate orders ahead of time and therefore no longer receive them. That, he supposes, is the most intimate relationship he aspires to have.
This isn't to say that Braca necessarily agrees with every order he receives, but he follows them just the same. And if it happens that a given master issues too many orders that Braca disagrees with, he discreetly replaces that master with a new one. He's also been known to supplement a mediocre master with one who gives more pleasurable orders.
In his group home days, when the social worker would tell him to do something utterly contrary to his nature, he would find another boy (these Human dwellings were always sex-segregated) to beat him with a belt. Apparently, this wasn't normal. There was therapy after that.
There's been a lot therapy.
There's a distinctive pattern to Braca's behavioral health care history. First, he'll do something he believes to be completely normal and reasonable (or caught doing something he's learned isn't). Second, his social worker will send in a referral for a therapist. Third, Braca will see the therapist two or three times. Fourth, the therapist will release him, reassuring his social worker that Braca is completely fine. Repeat as necessary.
Braca peeked at his paperwork once and one therapist even went as far as to write, "Despite childhood trauma, Meeklo Braca might be the single most well-adjusted person I've ever met.” That seems to be the problem; people expect him to be traumatized and when he isn't they become upset or try to excavate his being for some evidence of hidden trauma. Requesting a beating with a leather belt becomes a sign of past childhood abuse rather than a sign of genuine moral depravity (by Human standards, at least).
It is somehow easier for people to believe that Braca was beaten horribly as a child than to believe that Braca likes to be beaten consensually as an adult.
Scorpius can barely understand it at first.
Pressed up against each other in a stalled turbolift, polywater sweat dripping down their foreheads, Braca stares at Scorpius predatorily. "Hit me," he says, low and dangerous.
"What?" Scorpius asks.
"Hit me."
"Why?"
"It..." He takes Scorpius' hand, leading it down his body, letting it settle on his groin.
Scorpius' eyes bulge as he realizes what Braca's physiology is signaling to him. "Oh."
"I want you to."
"The contaminant from the planet..." Scorpius swallows. "Lowers inhibitions."
"Yeah." He rubs Scorpius' hand along his crotch.
“So...” Scorpius is breathing heavily now. “The first you thing you do when relieved of your inhibitions is throw yourself at a colleague. I don't know what that says about you.”
“I suppose it says that I wanted to recreate with you before today but...”
Scorpius takes his hand back. “You were ashamed of being attracted to me.”
He shakes his head. “You're half-Sebacean and...” He runs his hand along Scorpius' deceptively trim bicep. “...very, very strong. You could hurt me.”
“I thought that's what you wanted.”
“There's a difference between the pain you ask for and the pain people leave you with.”
“I'd say I would never do that to you, but I'm not entirely certain I understand the distinction.”
"Hit me and you'll get it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
Scorpius gives him a smack to the face-open-fisted and at probably only a tenth of the strength of Scorpius is capable of, but it's enough. Scorpius bares his teeth. "Again?"
"Yeah."
He gives Braca another to the opposite cheek. It's good, better this time. Braca can feel the flush rising where Scorpius made contact. "What do we do now?" Scorpius asks.
"Whatever you want."
Scorpius lunges forward, circling an arm around Braca, grabbing his arse, and hoisting him up in the air. Braca reflexively wraps his legs around Scorpius' waist. Scorpius licks a long stripe from Braca's collarbone to his forehead-an extremely foreign sensation-before pressing their foreheads together. "I..." Scorpius hips twitch against Braca's. "I've never..."
"Ever?"
"No."
"Do you want to?"
Scorpius seems to lose his balance somewhat, sending them both falling into the turbolift's aft wall. "Yes, but there's... I'm not..."
Braca then registers a certain lack of something pressing against him. "It's okay. You don't have to get an-"
"No." Scorpius whirls them around, shoving Braca into the turbolift door. "Anatomically, I'm..."
"Unique?"
"Yes. I can't... It's not like yours."
“But can you still...” He releases his hands from their hold on the back of Scorpius' neck, sliding them down his back before grabbing at his arse, crushing Scorpius' groin against his body. “...feel?” Scorpius fist pounding against the door answers the question of sensation.
Scorpius pants, “Yeah,” grinding their bodies together.
Braca is quickly losing his mind to feeling, but before he does... “There's a camera.”
“What?” Scorpius asks, but he doesn't slow.
“There's a-a-” Scorpius bites down on Braca's shoulder, the sharp teeth dulled by his uniform shirts. “Ah, good, good. There's a security camera in the ceiling.”
Scorpius pulls away, looking up. He growls before smashing his fist through the camera, taking it offline.
“Oh, god,” Braca gasps. “Frell me dead.” He tugs hard, bringing Scorpius down on top of him with the the suggestion. His head nearly smacks the the floor of the lift, but Scorpius' gloved hand catches it, settling it down gently.
Scorpius is an oddly gentle sort.
He pauses, staring down at Braca, his breaths coming hard and fast. Braca rubs his hands over the curve of Scorpius' uniform trousers as they rest on his waist, slipping his thumbs under his shirts, feeling the smoothness of the leather suit beneath.
Scorpius ducks his head. “I can't remove it. The suit.”
“I know. I read your patent.”
“Really?”
Braca smiles. “If there were more than one of you, you'd make a fortune.”
Scorpius leans down, kisses him sloppily with his thin lips, as Braca's hands ride up, taking Scorpius' shirts along with them. They break apart long enough to pull them up and over Scorpius' head, then Scorpius is back down on Braca, licking at his hairline with a taut tongue. Braca works on Scorpius' fly, fumbling for what seems like an eternity before Scorpius is fed up enough to roll off and undress himself, kicking off his boots and divesting himself of his trousers. It's nothing Braca hasn't seen before, but in this context... He tears off his shirts, trousers, pants, boots, everything, until he's sitting bare-eema on the turbolift floor. Scorpius traces his body first with his eyes then his nose then his tongue. He isn't so virginal as to not know what to do with that.
From base to tip and back down again. He paws at Braca's thighs, his Scarran-sharp nails scraping with every squeeze. It's quite nice-rather good for someone whose never done anything like this before-but not enough for starburst. Inhibitions or no, he doesn't quite trust those teeth to circle such a sensitive and irreplaceable part of his anatomy. He tips Scorpius' head up.
“Come up here.” He isn't used to giving orders-during recreation or otherwise-it isn't as fun as others make it seem, but he thinks dimly that given a few more rounds Scorpius might be ready to give orders of his own.
Scorpius slides up so that they're eye to eye, scrunched up against each other in the lift. Even with his legs bent, Scorpius barely fits. His head hangs over Braca's shoulder, he whispers hotly in his ear, “I like the way you smell.”
“I'm sweating like a Luxan.”
“It's nice.” He licks the sweat from Braca's sideburn.
There's more kissing and they quickly fall into a rhythm of bumping and grinding and rutting. It's nice-almost sentimentally so, reminding Braca of a youth he never spent in the backseat of hoversedans necking and rubbing up against the neighbor kid. The slickness of the leather, the sharpness of the fingernails poking at him through gloves, the inSebacean heat of the breath against his ear prevent that illusion from ever truly taking hold.
“Are you-” Braca wraps a leg around Scorpius, drawing even closer contact. “Are you-are you close?”
He feels Scorpius nod, the slickness of his leather hood sliding against Braca's cheek. Then there's a tongue doing circles on that cheek, then teeth scraping along carefully-and it's over for Braca. Starburst. “Scorpius... sir...”
No longer holding back out of courtesy (or pride), Scorpius ruts with abandon, surely planting the seeds of bruises that will bloom on Braca's hip overnight. (If Braca hadn't already finished, the thought of that would've done him in.) Braca feels the weight resting on top of him go taut, hears a hiss and an odd whirring noise, and then-
“Ow.” Blinded by pain, Braca grabs his nose, blood pooling quickly in his palm.
The weight of Scorpius is gone, across the lift by the sounds of it. “Shit, shit, shit,” he murmurs.
“What... Did you punch me?” If so, Scorpius is as bold as Braca took him.
He presses something cold into Braca's free hand. “I need you to...”
Braca slowly opens his eyes, feeling the two shiners that will be there soon. Scorpius is crouched in front of him, looking as frantic as that Banik of his. The metal device Braca recognizes from the patent-the intracranial canister-sticks out out of Scorpius' left temple, steaming and dripping at the end with a red liquid that has to be Braca's own blood. The rod in the canister is even redder than the blood, bringing to mind more immediacy and body horror.
“Insert the rod,” Scorpius finishes.
“Right. Of course.” Braca plucks out the spent rod, replacing it with the cold, blue one in his hand. He wipes the blood off the canister's end in order to press the button that sends the canister spinning back into Scorpius' head.
Scorpius looks relieved, properly post-orgasmic for a microt before stricken with panic at the sight of Braca's bloodied face. “I broke your nose.”
Braca rubs two fingers carefully along the bridge of his nose, wincing. “Yes, probably.”
“I apologize. I should've warned you.”
“That happens every time?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I have to have to Stark waiting in the wings whenever I want to have a wank.”
“Does it hurt?”
“The sensation is, well, more complicated than pain.”
“You do understand, then.”
“Maybe I do... Will you be alright? Do you need me to climb and get help?”
“I'll be fine. Just next time make sure you're clear of my face before you come.”
“Next time?”
“If you want to. This turbolift doesn't seem to be going anywhere.”
Scorpius smiles, holding up a thin metal box about the size of his hand. “You're in luck; I have three more.”
As the Enterprise hurtles into a dying planet, Scorpius frells Braca in the turbolift no less than three times.
It seems somehow appropriate.
-
Braca strides into Aeryn's quarters, not bothering ringing, his arms in the air in triumph. “I have deflowered the Starchild,” he announces. “I just thought you'd want to know.” He winks and swaggers out the door.
“Have you received the antidote yet?” she calls.
“Nope!”
-
After presenting Scorpius with his Terms of Service, things go along rather swimmingly between the two of them. (Not literally swimmingly. The cooling suit doesn't do well in chlorinated water.) Braca thinks they might have a good thing going on until Scorpius throws him out of his quarters halfway through aftercare.
It's all so sudden. One microt, he's getting the sweat licked off his eyelids. The next, he's in the corridor begging to get his clothes back.
“Scorpius...” he whines to a closed door.
“Here!” The door swishes open and a ball of clothes flies into Braca's face.
“Thank-” But the door is closed. Braca rifles through the clothing, locating and donning his pants, trousers, and... “This isn't even my shirt,” he yells at the door. “This is a pillowcase.”
More clothes aren't forthcoming, so Braca walks down the hall barefoot and bare chested, carrying a frelling pillowcase, before chiming at Aeryn's door.
“What the hell happened to you?” she asks, letting him inside.
“Scorpius kicked me out.”
“While you were...?” She lifts her eyebrows.
“After, when we were-”
“I don't need to know.”
Braca sighs. “Can I borrow a shirt?”
“Sure. I think I have one that'll fit.” She starts poking about in her dresser. “What happened? Why'd he toss you out?”
“I honestly don't know. I thought we were having a good time. He told a joke, I laughed, and then I'm out on my arse.”
“Are you certain it was a joke and not another comment on the plight of the Boolite people?”
“That was once, Aeryn, and it was a very ambiguous remark. That part about the famine seemed like a punchline at the time.”
“Here.” Aeryn throws him a baggy t-shirt. “What exactly did Scorpius say?”
He holds the shirt out in front of himself. “He said...” He stifles a chuckle at the memory. “'I love you.'”
Aeryn's smile falls. “And you laughed at this?”
“Yes.” He pulls the shirt on. “Thanks.”
“For how long?”
“What?”
“How long did you laugh? Was it just 'ha' or did you...?”
“More than 'ha.' Probably no more than two minutes.”
“Two minutes? I'm surprised he didn't clock you.”
“Why?”
“You took the man's virginity and when he told you that he loved you, you laughed in his face. For two minutes.”
“I still don't see what the problem is.”
“You are such a... I can't... Okay, now I'm kicking you out.”
-
Scorpius isn't at their table for breakfast, but Stark shows up anyhow. “Here are your boots.”
“Thanks.” Braca feels the splash of ice water on his face before he can see the glass in Stark's hand.
“You're a dick,” Stark says, taking a seat at the table.
Braca wipes off his face. “I cannot believe you did that. You're the chaplain.”
“Consider it a baptism.”
“Why is everyone angry at me all of the sudden?”
“Because you're being a dick,” Aeryn says.
“You have gravely wounded Scorpius' pride,” Stark says. “He went out on a limb for you, and you-you cut done the tree and-and burned down the forest, orphaning hundreds of small woodland animals!”
“I laughed at what I thought was a joke.”
“How could you think that was a joke?” Aeryn asks.
“What else would it be?”
“Is it so laughable that someone would love you?” Stark asks.
“Yes.” Aeryn and Stark share a funny look over Braca's head. “No one has ever said that to me before. No one has ever loved me before.”
Stark lays a hand on Braca's arm. “I love you.”
“You love everyone. You don't count.”
“I know I don't,” Stark murmurs.
“Why would Scorpius love me? He's Sebacean. We don't do that.”
“My parents are Sebacean and they love each other,” Aeryn says. “And I love them.”
“Your family is an aberration. Most Sebaceans-”
“Scorpius isn't 'most Sebaceans.' He's half-Scarran and presently operating under the delusion that he's 'culturally Human,' whatever that means.”
“That would explain why he was so offended.”
“Exactly. If you want to get him back, or at least get him talking to you again, I suggest you treat him as you would a Human.”
-
Braca doesn't know much about the courtship habits of the modern Human. True, he has recreated with Humans upon numerous occasions, but none of that could be considered "courtship." The breadth of the social negotiation he's had with Human sexual partners doesn't extend beyond the walls of the various BDSM clubs he frequents. Reflecting on his inexperience in such matters, Braca is forced to consider if he even truly wants to relate to Scorpius on a Human level-as a Human would court another Human. He doesn't want a Human; he wants Scorpius. Scorpius, unfortunately, appears to have mixed up those two things.
He must again reflect upon whether or not he is truly willing to go through such an effort in such a foreign manner to re-acquire Scorpius' domination and sexual attention. Is he willing to go the distance to get Scorpius back? If so, what does that even mean? If by attempting regain Scorpius' affections through Human means, is Braca not signaling the beginning of a more Human association? With all of the requisite emotive qualities?
Braca doesn't think himself capable of such a commitment. In his own estimation, he is rather talented at committing himself to things-and people, especially-mostly because he is highly aware of his own abilities. Braca isn't the type to try and fail; he does not make an attempt unless he is reasonably sure he will succeed.
Does Scorpius have sufficient staying power to justify the type of commitment indicated by a Human gesture of reconciliation? Scorpius is quite unlike any Sebacean-any person-Braca has ever known. Scorpius is intelligent-like a tech-but with the ruthless determination of a commanding officer. He understands how people, particularly Humans work, to a degree that Braca could never achieve. He is also infinitely powerful, not just in body and mind, but in influence. Watching Scorpius get an admiral over subspace effortlessly, Braca had to recite multiplication tables to avoid presenting a physiological reaction that would be all too obvious in their naked protest in the brig.
Braca likes power and he likes people who know how to wield it. And Scorpius wields power like no other. He's also learning to play Braca like a Vulcan lyre. In a few months-in a few cycles-imagine how far Scorpius could go? Then, perhaps, the Human rituals would be worth it.
How to perform such rituals and which rituals to perform remain beyond Braca's understanding.
There are numerous "how-to" texts contained within the ship's database, but the answers Braca needs are not there. He decides to go directly to the source, prevailing upon the knowledge of his Human crew mates as a valuable resource.
"Lieutenant Uhura, may I have a word?"
"Sure," she says questioningly. "Is this about the communications software?"
"No. This is of a personal nature."
"Oh.”
“Is this all right?”
“Yes. I just didn't expect you to be the type to have a personal nature."
“Typically, I am not, but at present I require advice regarding relationships-of the romantic variety.”
“Wouldn't you rather go to Aeryn about this-unless...” She lowers her voice. “Is this about Aeryn?”
“No, Aeryn and I are merely friends.” He adds with pride, “Best friends. And while I would normally approach Aeryn for advice on social interaction, in this instance, I require the advisement of a Human.”
Uhura smiles, dimples blooming on her cheeks. “You've got yourself a Human sweetheart.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“You sly dog.” She punches him lightly on the shoulder. “What do you want to know?”
“I have angered my 'sweetheart' to the point that I was bodily ejected from their quarters. I want to know how I can best signify to them that I regret my actions and wish to resume our romantic association.”
“Well, flowers are classic. You can't go wrong with some nice flowers.”
“I can't go wrong? Honestly?”
“Yeah. I'm sure they would love some flowers.”
“What kind of flowers?”
“Whatever's their favorite. If you don't know their favorite, you can always-”
“No, no. I'm quite positive I know what flower is their favorite.”
-
“Mr. Sulu, I require a most rare and exquisite flower and I need it as soon as possible.”
“I'm sorry, who are you?”
“Ah, yes. Introductions. I am Lieutenant Meeklo Braca. Helmsman. You are Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, head of the botany bay.”
“I know who I am.”
“Of course. I hear you are the man on the Enterprise to approach for plants.”
“That'd be me. What do you need?”
“Crystherium utila.”
“Wow, you weren't kidding when you said rare and exquisite.”
“I'm willing to pay any price.” He licks his lips. “Any price.”
“Oh, my... Mr. Braca, I don't charge anything. This is my job.”
“Suit yourself. When can you have it ready?”
“With the fertilizer we've been synthesizing? Two weeks.”
“Is there anything I can do to make that happen sooner? Anythi-”
“If you leave right now, I can have your order ready five minutes sooner.”
“Excellent.”
-
The flower doesn't go over as well as Braca had anticipated. Apparently, expecting that a half-Scarran's favorite flower is a crystherium is “offensive.” Scorpius tells him as much, delivering another smack to his backside.
“I only wanted to please you.” He turns his head, looking up at Scorpius. “That's all I ever want.”
“My personal frelltoy.”
“For as long as you'll keep me.”
Scorpius growls low in his throat like a Scarran, surging up to bite the back of Braca's neck. Holding a fold of Braca's skin between his teeth, he moans, “Oh, Mister Braca.”
“Sir.”
-
Scorpius licks a long stripe from Braca's clavicle to his hairline. Braca gives a soft moan. “Let's not break up again.” Still a little intoxicated on pleasure-pain, he doesn't know exactly what he's implying.
-
While he shares with Scorpius his suspicions about his feelings for him beforehand, Braca doesn't understand the depth of those feeling until he watches the tape.
Scorpius says they shouldn't watch it, but Braca can't stand not knowing what the rest of the galaxy has seen. After their meeting with Kirk, Braca goes back to his quarters alone and views the copy of the recording sent to him by the shore leave planet's police force.
Afterwards, he wishes he hadn't.
It is bad enough knowing that every Sebacean on Earth and half of Starfleet has watched his and Scorpius' typical recreative activities. Braca isn't adverse to being watched or watching-when it has been agreed upon by all the parties. But this video intrudes upon activities meant to be shared only between Braca and Scorpius, witnessing the almost-sacred trust they hold in one another.
No more is that trust more evident in the moment the newswires will spend hours picking to pieces.
“Are you sure?” Braca asks, lying on top of Scorpius. The microphones pick up every word they say.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He slides down Scorpius, stopping when his head has reached Scorpius' crotch. His fingers trace the seam running along Scorpius' hip, searching for the zipper. When he finds it, he pulls carefully, drawing down the leather flap, revealing Scorpius' prick. Braca has never seen it before, but he's caressed it through the suit often enough to have a pretty good idea of what it might look like. He rubs two fingers along the well-trod path, eliciting a soft moan from Scorpius. Braca replaces fingers with tongue, lips, and a little teeth and doesn't pull away until Scorpius lets him, letting go of the hair on the back of his head. Touch starved there and having more skin exposed than usual, Scorpius finishes quickly (too quickly for Braca's liking, but he doesn't say anything), the cooling rod shooting out of his head with a satisfied sizzle. Braca shimmies up the bed to change it, leaving the flap open and Scorpius' genitals exposed to the camera mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed.
It is at this point the film abandons its fairly naturalistic style of shooting Braca and Scorpius like an uncut wildlife documentary, beginning to utilize several editing techniques, particularly replay and the extreme close-up.
Braca can't stomach the knowledge that millions (if not billions) of people have seen a part of Scorpius that he keeps so intensely private. He forgets momentarily that everyone has seen a part of him that he keeps intensely private.
Unpacking his clothes, Braca's face is directly in front of the camera. “I think I might...” He closes his eyes. “...love you.” His lips twitch into a smile. “But I'm not certain.”
Braca can't understand the anger he feels at their exposure, can't put it into words, so he lets it stew until hears Loren snicker, “I wonder if he still loves him after seeing his boypussy.”
He responds as a Peacekeeper would to such a slight; he efficiently beats Loren until the man is curled in a ball on the deck and Aeryn is dragging Braca away, spitting, “You are a frelling idiot, Meeklo Braca.”
-
Somehow they get away with it mostly unpunished. Braca shoulders most of that burden-fair considering he started the fight without Scorpius' permission-in the form of weekly sessions with Dr. McCoy. They are... unpleasant.
Particularly when Dr. McCoy attempts “recreation therapy,” which is nowhere near what Braca expected when he first heard the term.
“I finished my drawing,” Braca says, putting down the ridiculous tiny writing implement Dr. McCoy had provided him with. Apparently, they are called crayons and the paper that encases them is not supposed to be removed. Braca found this out after unwrapping the entire package in an attempt to be helpful. Dr. McCoy was not pleased. Braca must admit he quite enjoys the little sharpener on the back of the box.
“Okay.” McCoy walks over from his desk. “Let's see.” He takes the drawing and sighs almost immediately. “I think I mighta found your problem. You're obsessed with Scorpius.” He shakes the paper.
“Doctor?”
“I asked you to draw something you love besides Scorpius and you give me another drawing of Scorpius. My god, is he naked in this one? Can he even do that?”
“Doctor, that is my cat.”
“What?”
“That is a drawing of my cat.”
“Really?” McCoy holds the drawing away from himself, peering at it from afar. “Huh. Since when do you have a cat?”
“Two months ago. We bought him from a reputable breeder on starbase 9.”
“You really ought've adopted instead. Though I suppose you couldn't've gotten one of them funny hairless cats from a shelter.” McCoy shivers. “Why'd you go for that breed? Neither of you are allergic.”
“Stark is.”
“Right... Uh, now that you and Scorpius are living together, is Stark still helping with...?”
“Yes, not as much as he used to. He does showers and suit cleanings and, obviously, changes cooling rods when I'm on-duty or otherwise occupied.”
“Does it wear on you? The responsibility?”
“No. I was bred for responsibility. Duty. Commitment.”
“Well, that's marriage for you.”
“Truly?”
“In my experience, yes. Of course, in my experience, I've found that a willingness to completely surrender yourself to your spouse's every whim is necessary for a happy marriage, so don't take my word for it.”
-
When Braca returns to their shared cabin, Scorpius is at his desk reading with the cat (whom they have named Harvey after Aeryn's insistences that referring to him as The Cat would be meta and obnoxious) on his lap, leeching heat. (Having no fur, the cat is nearly as particular about temperature as Scorpius.)
“How was Dr. McCoy?” he asks, not looking away from his console.
“Helpful.” Braca removes his gold uniform shirt, draping it carefully over a chair.
“Really?”
“Yes. I believe he is the first therapist I have ever seen who has provided insight into my life.”
“And what would that be?”
“Under certain Human definitions, I am uniquely suited to be married-” (They'd given up saying “pretend-married” a month prior after Stark's insistences that being the last Scarran, Scorpius could make their pretend Scarran blood vow mean whatever he wishes, and that most marriages were illusions anyway.) “-to you.”
Scorpius looks up. “Come here.”
“Yes, sir.” Braca cross over to the desk and stands at attention-there's more heat in his gaze at this superior than there ever is at Kirk.
Scorpius picks up the black leather collar from its spot on the shelf, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “On your knees.”
Braca ducks his head, hiding a smile, as he lowers himself to the deck.
The cool leather, warmed in spots by Scorpius' fingers, slides around Braca's neck, buckling easily from repeated use. “Good boy. You can sit.”
Braca finds a comfortable position, resting his head up against the side of Scorpius' chair. In a moment, there's a tongue cleaning a tuft of his hair. Harvey hasn't lived with them long enough for Braca to be able to determine by sensation alone if it is the cat on Scorpius' lap or Scorpius himself giving him a bath.
“I don't know how well you've studied Human history,” Scorpius says. The cat it is then. “But in the past, one spouse, the female usually, was considered the property of the other.”
That's one aspect of Scorpius' Human cultural identity Braca would not want to educate away.
-
Coda:
"Here," McCoy says, setting a box on the table. "Maybe you'll like these better than the crayons."
Braca opens the thin box, letting the contents slide out into his hand. "Wood?"
"That's the casing. There's pigment on the inside. It comes out of the ends."
Braca flips the little sticks over. "Ah. Of course." He looks up at McCoy. "What am I to draw?"
"Friendship. Whatever that means to you."
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Chapter Title: Braca: Good Boy
Author: katiemariie
Artist: azuremonkey
Mixer: jactrades
Mixer: pearlstar178
Beta: Renn
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS/Farscape
Word Count: 4993
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Strong language, violence, cissexism, BDSM
“Hey, Braca! You look a little lost. ”
“Does Mommy know you're here? ”
“Does Mommy know he's Scorpius' boy?”
-John Crichton and Aeryn Sun, “We're So Screwed, Pt. 2: Hot to Katratzi”
-
For as long as Braca can remember, there's always been someone telling him what to do.
It's rather brilliant, if you ask him. (And no one ever cares to.)
When he was a child, there were juvenile caregivers assigned to ensuring that he ate, slept, breathed, and attended classes. By the time he reached pre-adolescence and officially entered Peacekeeper training, he had his instructors to assign him the proper tasks to develop his skills as a pilot. After the forging of the Peacekeeper-Federation Alliance, Braca had his social worker and the group home "mother." Now he has the entire Starfleet hierarchy. (And the social worker, whom he hasn't managed to shake loose despite reaching the age of majority and acquiring gainful employment. Braca would prefer her to leave him be, relinquish control to the proper authorities-Starfleet high command.)
Other people he's met-even other Peacekeepers-don't seem to have the same affinity for putting their lives in the hands of others. Aeryn Sun, for example, hates being told what to do and purposefully rebels against orders she considers unwise-often bringing Braca along for the ride. It is not in his nature to rebel against authority. He likes his orders and follows them to the best of his ability, hoping to get to the phase in a superior-inferior relationship where he's able to anticipate orders ahead of time and therefore no longer receive them. That, he supposes, is the most intimate relationship he aspires to have.
This isn't to say that Braca necessarily agrees with every order he receives, but he follows them just the same. And if it happens that a given master issues too many orders that Braca disagrees with, he discreetly replaces that master with a new one. He's also been known to supplement a mediocre master with one who gives more pleasurable orders.
In his group home days, when the social worker would tell him to do something utterly contrary to his nature, he would find another boy (these Human dwellings were always sex-segregated) to beat him with a belt. Apparently, this wasn't normal. There was therapy after that.
There's been a lot therapy.
There's a distinctive pattern to Braca's behavioral health care history. First, he'll do something he believes to be completely normal and reasonable (or caught doing something he's learned isn't). Second, his social worker will send in a referral for a therapist. Third, Braca will see the therapist two or three times. Fourth, the therapist will release him, reassuring his social worker that Braca is completely fine. Repeat as necessary.
Braca peeked at his paperwork once and one therapist even went as far as to write, "Despite childhood trauma, Meeklo Braca might be the single most well-adjusted person I've ever met.” That seems to be the problem; people expect him to be traumatized and when he isn't they become upset or try to excavate his being for some evidence of hidden trauma. Requesting a beating with a leather belt becomes a sign of past childhood abuse rather than a sign of genuine moral depravity (by Human standards, at least).
It is somehow easier for people to believe that Braca was beaten horribly as a child than to believe that Braca likes to be beaten consensually as an adult.
Scorpius can barely understand it at first.
Pressed up against each other in a stalled turbolift, polywater sweat dripping down their foreheads, Braca stares at Scorpius predatorily. "Hit me," he says, low and dangerous.
"What?" Scorpius asks.
"Hit me."
"Why?"
"It..." He takes Scorpius' hand, leading it down his body, letting it settle on his groin.
Scorpius' eyes bulge as he realizes what Braca's physiology is signaling to him. "Oh."
"I want you to."
"The contaminant from the planet..." Scorpius swallows. "Lowers inhibitions."
"Yeah." He rubs Scorpius' hand along his crotch.
“So...” Scorpius is breathing heavily now. “The first you thing you do when relieved of your inhibitions is throw yourself at a colleague. I don't know what that says about you.”
“I suppose it says that I wanted to recreate with you before today but...”
Scorpius takes his hand back. “You were ashamed of being attracted to me.”
He shakes his head. “You're half-Sebacean and...” He runs his hand along Scorpius' deceptively trim bicep. “...very, very strong. You could hurt me.”
“I thought that's what you wanted.”
“There's a difference between the pain you ask for and the pain people leave you with.”
“I'd say I would never do that to you, but I'm not entirely certain I understand the distinction.”
"Hit me and you'll get it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
Scorpius gives him a smack to the face-open-fisted and at probably only a tenth of the strength of Scorpius is capable of, but it's enough. Scorpius bares his teeth. "Again?"
"Yeah."
He gives Braca another to the opposite cheek. It's good, better this time. Braca can feel the flush rising where Scorpius made contact. "What do we do now?" Scorpius asks.
"Whatever you want."
Scorpius lunges forward, circling an arm around Braca, grabbing his arse, and hoisting him up in the air. Braca reflexively wraps his legs around Scorpius' waist. Scorpius licks a long stripe from Braca's collarbone to his forehead-an extremely foreign sensation-before pressing their foreheads together. "I..." Scorpius hips twitch against Braca's. "I've never..."
"Ever?"
"No."
"Do you want to?"
Scorpius seems to lose his balance somewhat, sending them both falling into the turbolift's aft wall. "Yes, but there's... I'm not..."
Braca then registers a certain lack of something pressing against him. "It's okay. You don't have to get an-"
"No." Scorpius whirls them around, shoving Braca into the turbolift door. "Anatomically, I'm..."
"Unique?"
"Yes. I can't... It's not like yours."
“But can you still...” He releases his hands from their hold on the back of Scorpius' neck, sliding them down his back before grabbing at his arse, crushing Scorpius' groin against his body. “...feel?” Scorpius fist pounding against the door answers the question of sensation.
Scorpius pants, “Yeah,” grinding their bodies together.
Braca is quickly losing his mind to feeling, but before he does... “There's a camera.”
“What?” Scorpius asks, but he doesn't slow.
“There's a-a-” Scorpius bites down on Braca's shoulder, the sharp teeth dulled by his uniform shirts. “Ah, good, good. There's a security camera in the ceiling.”
Scorpius pulls away, looking up. He growls before smashing his fist through the camera, taking it offline.
“Oh, god,” Braca gasps. “Frell me dead.” He tugs hard, bringing Scorpius down on top of him with the the suggestion. His head nearly smacks the the floor of the lift, but Scorpius' gloved hand catches it, settling it down gently.
Scorpius is an oddly gentle sort.
He pauses, staring down at Braca, his breaths coming hard and fast. Braca rubs his hands over the curve of Scorpius' uniform trousers as they rest on his waist, slipping his thumbs under his shirts, feeling the smoothness of the leather suit beneath.
Scorpius ducks his head. “I can't remove it. The suit.”
“I know. I read your patent.”
“Really?”
Braca smiles. “If there were more than one of you, you'd make a fortune.”
Scorpius leans down, kisses him sloppily with his thin lips, as Braca's hands ride up, taking Scorpius' shirts along with them. They break apart long enough to pull them up and over Scorpius' head, then Scorpius is back down on Braca, licking at his hairline with a taut tongue. Braca works on Scorpius' fly, fumbling for what seems like an eternity before Scorpius is fed up enough to roll off and undress himself, kicking off his boots and divesting himself of his trousers. It's nothing Braca hasn't seen before, but in this context... He tears off his shirts, trousers, pants, boots, everything, until he's sitting bare-eema on the turbolift floor. Scorpius traces his body first with his eyes then his nose then his tongue. He isn't so virginal as to not know what to do with that.
From base to tip and back down again. He paws at Braca's thighs, his Scarran-sharp nails scraping with every squeeze. It's quite nice-rather good for someone whose never done anything like this before-but not enough for starburst. Inhibitions or no, he doesn't quite trust those teeth to circle such a sensitive and irreplaceable part of his anatomy. He tips Scorpius' head up.
“Come up here.” He isn't used to giving orders-during recreation or otherwise-it isn't as fun as others make it seem, but he thinks dimly that given a few more rounds Scorpius might be ready to give orders of his own.
Scorpius slides up so that they're eye to eye, scrunched up against each other in the lift. Even with his legs bent, Scorpius barely fits. His head hangs over Braca's shoulder, he whispers hotly in his ear, “I like the way you smell.”
“I'm sweating like a Luxan.”
“It's nice.” He licks the sweat from Braca's sideburn.
There's more kissing and they quickly fall into a rhythm of bumping and grinding and rutting. It's nice-almost sentimentally so, reminding Braca of a youth he never spent in the backseat of hoversedans necking and rubbing up against the neighbor kid. The slickness of the leather, the sharpness of the fingernails poking at him through gloves, the inSebacean heat of the breath against his ear prevent that illusion from ever truly taking hold.
“Are you-” Braca wraps a leg around Scorpius, drawing even closer contact. “Are you-are you close?”
He feels Scorpius nod, the slickness of his leather hood sliding against Braca's cheek. Then there's a tongue doing circles on that cheek, then teeth scraping along carefully-and it's over for Braca. Starburst. “Scorpius... sir...”
No longer holding back out of courtesy (or pride), Scorpius ruts with abandon, surely planting the seeds of bruises that will bloom on Braca's hip overnight. (If Braca hadn't already finished, the thought of that would've done him in.) Braca feels the weight resting on top of him go taut, hears a hiss and an odd whirring noise, and then-
“Ow.” Blinded by pain, Braca grabs his nose, blood pooling quickly in his palm.
The weight of Scorpius is gone, across the lift by the sounds of it. “Shit, shit, shit,” he murmurs.
“What... Did you punch me?” If so, Scorpius is as bold as Braca took him.
He presses something cold into Braca's free hand. “I need you to...”
Braca slowly opens his eyes, feeling the two shiners that will be there soon. Scorpius is crouched in front of him, looking as frantic as that Banik of his. The metal device Braca recognizes from the patent-the intracranial canister-sticks out out of Scorpius' left temple, steaming and dripping at the end with a red liquid that has to be Braca's own blood. The rod in the canister is even redder than the blood, bringing to mind more immediacy and body horror.
“Insert the rod,” Scorpius finishes.
“Right. Of course.” Braca plucks out the spent rod, replacing it with the cold, blue one in his hand. He wipes the blood off the canister's end in order to press the button that sends the canister spinning back into Scorpius' head.
Scorpius looks relieved, properly post-orgasmic for a microt before stricken with panic at the sight of Braca's bloodied face. “I broke your nose.”
Braca rubs two fingers carefully along the bridge of his nose, wincing. “Yes, probably.”
“I apologize. I should've warned you.”
“That happens every time?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I have to have to Stark waiting in the wings whenever I want to have a wank.”
“Does it hurt?”
“The sensation is, well, more complicated than pain.”
“You do understand, then.”
“Maybe I do... Will you be alright? Do you need me to climb and get help?”
“I'll be fine. Just next time make sure you're clear of my face before you come.”
“Next time?”
“If you want to. This turbolift doesn't seem to be going anywhere.”
Scorpius smiles, holding up a thin metal box about the size of his hand. “You're in luck; I have three more.”
As the Enterprise hurtles into a dying planet, Scorpius frells Braca in the turbolift no less than three times.
It seems somehow appropriate.
-
Braca strides into Aeryn's quarters, not bothering ringing, his arms in the air in triumph. “I have deflowered the Starchild,” he announces. “I just thought you'd want to know.” He winks and swaggers out the door.
“Have you received the antidote yet?” she calls.
“Nope!”
-
After presenting Scorpius with his Terms of Service, things go along rather swimmingly between the two of them. (Not literally swimmingly. The cooling suit doesn't do well in chlorinated water.) Braca thinks they might have a good thing going on until Scorpius throws him out of his quarters halfway through aftercare.
It's all so sudden. One microt, he's getting the sweat licked off his eyelids. The next, he's in the corridor begging to get his clothes back.
“Scorpius...” he whines to a closed door.
“Here!” The door swishes open and a ball of clothes flies into Braca's face.
“Thank-” But the door is closed. Braca rifles through the clothing, locating and donning his pants, trousers, and... “This isn't even my shirt,” he yells at the door. “This is a pillowcase.”
More clothes aren't forthcoming, so Braca walks down the hall barefoot and bare chested, carrying a frelling pillowcase, before chiming at Aeryn's door.
“What the hell happened to you?” she asks, letting him inside.
“Scorpius kicked me out.”
“While you were...?” She lifts her eyebrows.
“After, when we were-”
“I don't need to know.”
Braca sighs. “Can I borrow a shirt?”
“Sure. I think I have one that'll fit.” She starts poking about in her dresser. “What happened? Why'd he toss you out?”
“I honestly don't know. I thought we were having a good time. He told a joke, I laughed, and then I'm out on my arse.”
“Are you certain it was a joke and not another comment on the plight of the Boolite people?”
“That was once, Aeryn, and it was a very ambiguous remark. That part about the famine seemed like a punchline at the time.”
“Here.” Aeryn throws him a baggy t-shirt. “What exactly did Scorpius say?”
He holds the shirt out in front of himself. “He said...” He stifles a chuckle at the memory. “'I love you.'”
Aeryn's smile falls. “And you laughed at this?”
“Yes.” He pulls the shirt on. “Thanks.”
“For how long?”
“What?”
“How long did you laugh? Was it just 'ha' or did you...?”
“More than 'ha.' Probably no more than two minutes.”
“Two minutes? I'm surprised he didn't clock you.”
“Why?”
“You took the man's virginity and when he told you that he loved you, you laughed in his face. For two minutes.”
“I still don't see what the problem is.”
“You are such a... I can't... Okay, now I'm kicking you out.”
-
Scorpius isn't at their table for breakfast, but Stark shows up anyhow. “Here are your boots.”
“Thanks.” Braca feels the splash of ice water on his face before he can see the glass in Stark's hand.
“You're a dick,” Stark says, taking a seat at the table.
Braca wipes off his face. “I cannot believe you did that. You're the chaplain.”
“Consider it a baptism.”
“Why is everyone angry at me all of the sudden?”
“Because you're being a dick,” Aeryn says.
“You have gravely wounded Scorpius' pride,” Stark says. “He went out on a limb for you, and you-you cut done the tree and-and burned down the forest, orphaning hundreds of small woodland animals!”
“I laughed at what I thought was a joke.”
“How could you think that was a joke?” Aeryn asks.
“What else would it be?”
“Is it so laughable that someone would love you?” Stark asks.
“Yes.” Aeryn and Stark share a funny look over Braca's head. “No one has ever said that to me before. No one has ever loved me before.”
Stark lays a hand on Braca's arm. “I love you.”
“You love everyone. You don't count.”
“I know I don't,” Stark murmurs.
“Why would Scorpius love me? He's Sebacean. We don't do that.”
“My parents are Sebacean and they love each other,” Aeryn says. “And I love them.”
“Your family is an aberration. Most Sebaceans-”
“Scorpius isn't 'most Sebaceans.' He's half-Scarran and presently operating under the delusion that he's 'culturally Human,' whatever that means.”
“That would explain why he was so offended.”
“Exactly. If you want to get him back, or at least get him talking to you again, I suggest you treat him as you would a Human.”
-
Braca doesn't know much about the courtship habits of the modern Human. True, he has recreated with Humans upon numerous occasions, but none of that could be considered "courtship." The breadth of the social negotiation he's had with Human sexual partners doesn't extend beyond the walls of the various BDSM clubs he frequents. Reflecting on his inexperience in such matters, Braca is forced to consider if he even truly wants to relate to Scorpius on a Human level-as a Human would court another Human. He doesn't want a Human; he wants Scorpius. Scorpius, unfortunately, appears to have mixed up those two things.
He must again reflect upon whether or not he is truly willing to go through such an effort in such a foreign manner to re-acquire Scorpius' domination and sexual attention. Is he willing to go the distance to get Scorpius back? If so, what does that even mean? If by attempting regain Scorpius' affections through Human means, is Braca not signaling the beginning of a more Human association? With all of the requisite emotive qualities?
Braca doesn't think himself capable of such a commitment. In his own estimation, he is rather talented at committing himself to things-and people, especially-mostly because he is highly aware of his own abilities. Braca isn't the type to try and fail; he does not make an attempt unless he is reasonably sure he will succeed.
Does Scorpius have sufficient staying power to justify the type of commitment indicated by a Human gesture of reconciliation? Scorpius is quite unlike any Sebacean-any person-Braca has ever known. Scorpius is intelligent-like a tech-but with the ruthless determination of a commanding officer. He understands how people, particularly Humans work, to a degree that Braca could never achieve. He is also infinitely powerful, not just in body and mind, but in influence. Watching Scorpius get an admiral over subspace effortlessly, Braca had to recite multiplication tables to avoid presenting a physiological reaction that would be all too obvious in their naked protest in the brig.
Braca likes power and he likes people who know how to wield it. And Scorpius wields power like no other. He's also learning to play Braca like a Vulcan lyre. In a few months-in a few cycles-imagine how far Scorpius could go? Then, perhaps, the Human rituals would be worth it.
How to perform such rituals and which rituals to perform remain beyond Braca's understanding.
There are numerous "how-to" texts contained within the ship's database, but the answers Braca needs are not there. He decides to go directly to the source, prevailing upon the knowledge of his Human crew mates as a valuable resource.
"Lieutenant Uhura, may I have a word?"
"Sure," she says questioningly. "Is this about the communications software?"
"No. This is of a personal nature."
"Oh.”
“Is this all right?”
“Yes. I just didn't expect you to be the type to have a personal nature."
“Typically, I am not, but at present I require advice regarding relationships-of the romantic variety.”
“Wouldn't you rather go to Aeryn about this-unless...” She lowers her voice. “Is this about Aeryn?”
“No, Aeryn and I are merely friends.” He adds with pride, “Best friends. And while I would normally approach Aeryn for advice on social interaction, in this instance, I require the advisement of a Human.”
Uhura smiles, dimples blooming on her cheeks. “You've got yourself a Human sweetheart.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“You sly dog.” She punches him lightly on the shoulder. “What do you want to know?”
“I have angered my 'sweetheart' to the point that I was bodily ejected from their quarters. I want to know how I can best signify to them that I regret my actions and wish to resume our romantic association.”
“Well, flowers are classic. You can't go wrong with some nice flowers.”
“I can't go wrong? Honestly?”
“Yeah. I'm sure they would love some flowers.”
“What kind of flowers?”
“Whatever's their favorite. If you don't know their favorite, you can always-”
“No, no. I'm quite positive I know what flower is their favorite.”
-
“Mr. Sulu, I require a most rare and exquisite flower and I need it as soon as possible.”
“I'm sorry, who are you?”
“Ah, yes. Introductions. I am Lieutenant Meeklo Braca. Helmsman. You are Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, head of the botany bay.”
“I know who I am.”
“Of course. I hear you are the man on the Enterprise to approach for plants.”
“That'd be me. What do you need?”
“Crystherium utila.”
“Wow, you weren't kidding when you said rare and exquisite.”
“I'm willing to pay any price.” He licks his lips. “Any price.”
“Oh, my... Mr. Braca, I don't charge anything. This is my job.”
“Suit yourself. When can you have it ready?”
“With the fertilizer we've been synthesizing? Two weeks.”
“Is there anything I can do to make that happen sooner? Anythi-”
“If you leave right now, I can have your order ready five minutes sooner.”
“Excellent.”
-
The flower doesn't go over as well as Braca had anticipated. Apparently, expecting that a half-Scarran's favorite flower is a crystherium is “offensive.” Scorpius tells him as much, delivering another smack to his backside.
“I only wanted to please you.” He turns his head, looking up at Scorpius. “That's all I ever want.”
“My personal frelltoy.”
“For as long as you'll keep me.”
Scorpius growls low in his throat like a Scarran, surging up to bite the back of Braca's neck. Holding a fold of Braca's skin between his teeth, he moans, “Oh, Mister Braca.”
“Sir.”
-
Scorpius licks a long stripe from Braca's clavicle to his hairline. Braca gives a soft moan. “Let's not break up again.” Still a little intoxicated on pleasure-pain, he doesn't know exactly what he's implying.
-
While he shares with Scorpius his suspicions about his feelings for him beforehand, Braca doesn't understand the depth of those feeling until he watches the tape.
Scorpius says they shouldn't watch it, but Braca can't stand not knowing what the rest of the galaxy has seen. After their meeting with Kirk, Braca goes back to his quarters alone and views the copy of the recording sent to him by the shore leave planet's police force.
Afterwards, he wishes he hadn't.
It is bad enough knowing that every Sebacean on Earth and half of Starfleet has watched his and Scorpius' typical recreative activities. Braca isn't adverse to being watched or watching-when it has been agreed upon by all the parties. But this video intrudes upon activities meant to be shared only between Braca and Scorpius, witnessing the almost-sacred trust they hold in one another.
No more is that trust more evident in the moment the newswires will spend hours picking to pieces.
“Are you sure?” Braca asks, lying on top of Scorpius. The microphones pick up every word they say.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He slides down Scorpius, stopping when his head has reached Scorpius' crotch. His fingers trace the seam running along Scorpius' hip, searching for the zipper. When he finds it, he pulls carefully, drawing down the leather flap, revealing Scorpius' prick. Braca has never seen it before, but he's caressed it through the suit often enough to have a pretty good idea of what it might look like. He rubs two fingers along the well-trod path, eliciting a soft moan from Scorpius. Braca replaces fingers with tongue, lips, and a little teeth and doesn't pull away until Scorpius lets him, letting go of the hair on the back of his head. Touch starved there and having more skin exposed than usual, Scorpius finishes quickly (too quickly for Braca's liking, but he doesn't say anything), the cooling rod shooting out of his head with a satisfied sizzle. Braca shimmies up the bed to change it, leaving the flap open and Scorpius' genitals exposed to the camera mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed.
It is at this point the film abandons its fairly naturalistic style of shooting Braca and Scorpius like an uncut wildlife documentary, beginning to utilize several editing techniques, particularly replay and the extreme close-up.
Braca can't stomach the knowledge that millions (if not billions) of people have seen a part of Scorpius that he keeps so intensely private. He forgets momentarily that everyone has seen a part of him that he keeps intensely private.
Unpacking his clothes, Braca's face is directly in front of the camera. “I think I might...” He closes his eyes. “...love you.” His lips twitch into a smile. “But I'm not certain.”
Braca can't understand the anger he feels at their exposure, can't put it into words, so he lets it stew until hears Loren snicker, “I wonder if he still loves him after seeing his boypussy.”
He responds as a Peacekeeper would to such a slight; he efficiently beats Loren until the man is curled in a ball on the deck and Aeryn is dragging Braca away, spitting, “You are a frelling idiot, Meeklo Braca.”
-
Somehow they get away with it mostly unpunished. Braca shoulders most of that burden-fair considering he started the fight without Scorpius' permission-in the form of weekly sessions with Dr. McCoy. They are... unpleasant.
Particularly when Dr. McCoy attempts “recreation therapy,” which is nowhere near what Braca expected when he first heard the term.
“I finished my drawing,” Braca says, putting down the ridiculous tiny writing implement Dr. McCoy had provided him with. Apparently, they are called crayons and the paper that encases them is not supposed to be removed. Braca found this out after unwrapping the entire package in an attempt to be helpful. Dr. McCoy was not pleased. Braca must admit he quite enjoys the little sharpener on the back of the box.
“Okay.” McCoy walks over from his desk. “Let's see.” He takes the drawing and sighs almost immediately. “I think I mighta found your problem. You're obsessed with Scorpius.” He shakes the paper.
“Doctor?”
“I asked you to draw something you love besides Scorpius and you give me another drawing of Scorpius. My god, is he naked in this one? Can he even do that?”
“Doctor, that is my cat.”
“What?”
“That is a drawing of my cat.”
“Really?” McCoy holds the drawing away from himself, peering at it from afar. “Huh. Since when do you have a cat?”
“Two months ago. We bought him from a reputable breeder on starbase 9.”
“You really ought've adopted instead. Though I suppose you couldn't've gotten one of them funny hairless cats from a shelter.” McCoy shivers. “Why'd you go for that breed? Neither of you are allergic.”
“Stark is.”
“Right... Uh, now that you and Scorpius are living together, is Stark still helping with...?”
“Yes, not as much as he used to. He does showers and suit cleanings and, obviously, changes cooling rods when I'm on-duty or otherwise occupied.”
“Does it wear on you? The responsibility?”
“No. I was bred for responsibility. Duty. Commitment.”
“Well, that's marriage for you.”
“Truly?”
“In my experience, yes. Of course, in my experience, I've found that a willingness to completely surrender yourself to your spouse's every whim is necessary for a happy marriage, so don't take my word for it.”
-
When Braca returns to their shared cabin, Scorpius is at his desk reading with the cat (whom they have named Harvey after Aeryn's insistences that referring to him as The Cat would be meta and obnoxious) on his lap, leeching heat. (Having no fur, the cat is nearly as particular about temperature as Scorpius.)
“How was Dr. McCoy?” he asks, not looking away from his console.
“Helpful.” Braca removes his gold uniform shirt, draping it carefully over a chair.
“Really?”
“Yes. I believe he is the first therapist I have ever seen who has provided insight into my life.”
“And what would that be?”
“Under certain Human definitions, I am uniquely suited to be married-” (They'd given up saying “pretend-married” a month prior after Stark's insistences that being the last Scarran, Scorpius could make their pretend Scarran blood vow mean whatever he wishes, and that most marriages were illusions anyway.) “-to you.”
Scorpius looks up. “Come here.”
“Yes, sir.” Braca cross over to the desk and stands at attention-there's more heat in his gaze at this superior than there ever is at Kirk.
Scorpius picks up the black leather collar from its spot on the shelf, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “On your knees.”
Braca ducks his head, hiding a smile, as he lowers himself to the deck.
The cool leather, warmed in spots by Scorpius' fingers, slides around Braca's neck, buckling easily from repeated use. “Good boy. You can sit.”
Braca finds a comfortable position, resting his head up against the side of Scorpius' chair. In a moment, there's a tongue cleaning a tuft of his hair. Harvey hasn't lived with them long enough for Braca to be able to determine by sensation alone if it is the cat on Scorpius' lap or Scorpius himself giving him a bath.
“I don't know how well you've studied Human history,” Scorpius says. The cat it is then. “But in the past, one spouse, the female usually, was considered the property of the other.”
That's one aspect of Scorpius' Human cultural identity Braca would not want to educate away.
-
Coda:
"Here," McCoy says, setting a box on the table. "Maybe you'll like these better than the crayons."
Braca opens the thin box, letting the contents slide out into his hand. "Wood?"
"That's the casing. There's pigment on the inside. It comes out of the ends."
Braca flips the little sticks over. "Ah. Of course." He looks up at McCoy. "What am I to draw?"
"Friendship. Whatever that means to you."
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