(no subject)
Title: Anchored Alone In A Lake Of Stars.
Author: hypatia_82
Word count: ~ 1900
Rating: PG-13? Nothing graphic.
Feedback: Encouraged and appreciated.
Warnings: Angstiness and introspection.
Disclaimer: I wish for them every year for Christmas, but I haven't gotten them yet. Which makes me sad. Anything you recognize isn't mine. The plot, however, is.
Notes: Title shamelessly snagged from Raised by Swans’ “There Is Hope Yet”.
Summary: There’s something missing in the eyes he’s looking into, a spark, a vivaciousness that used to be there. The eyes in the mirror are much too serious, too calm and calculating for him to be able to identify with them.
The water is cold when it hits his face, and while it’s refreshing and sobers him up some, it’s not quite enough to shock him out of his maudlin stupor. With both hands braced on the edges of the sink, he looks assessingly at the the face in the mirror, studies it and holds it up against the image he has in his head. There are fine lines that didn’t use to be there, crinkles at the corners of his eyes from laughing, a deep crease in his forehead from thinking and worrying and strategizing. A droplet of cold water falls from his lashes to roll swiftly down his cheek, his lips curling upwards in a sardonic sneer at how nauseatingly poetic it is. Here he is, in the bathroom of O’Grady’s, crying fake tears that are really just icy tap water while the loud thump and throb of the music from the bar provides an absurdly up-beat requiem for his youth. For the man he used to be, the man he thought he still was.
There’s a whole piece of wall in the restroom next to this one, he knows, covered in different scribbles, listing names and acts, half of which he either can remember anymore, or never did in the first place. An epitaph for his sexual prowess and the young man who spontaneously boarded a shuttle to San Francisco one day and would become a legend, a lauded hero, less than three years later.
That was fifteen years ago, eighteen if you count from the time he tossed the keys to his old bike to a stranger and left it all behind in search of bigger and better things. Almost two decades since his appetite for life could no longer be sated by drunken brawls and random women to warm his bed, or he theirs. Now, he feels almost too full. As he dabs the water from his face with a coarse paper towel, he snorts sarcastically at himself for labeling it the spiritual equivalent of a food coma. But if the shoe fits, it fits, and trying to change it will only give him blisters. And God, when did he start using awful metaphors like that?!
Someone tries the door, but he learned how to bypass the lock on it a long time ago. About a fourth of the inscriptions in the ladies room will tell you that. Still, his eyes fly to the doorknob reflexively, his body tensing and straightening up, ready to spring into action, his heart doing a double beat at the theoretical hint of a threat. It’s too ingrained in him to prevent, it’s not something he even thinks about, really. The list of things capable of taking him by surprise has grown so short over the years that he sometimes wonders if there’s anything left to see out there. If there’s anything left to experience, or if he’s already seen and done it all. It makes him feel jaded and old beyond his years, the small aches and pains when he gets up in the morning and stretches reminding him that his body has been the recipient of several lifetimes worth of punishment and abuse.
It doesn’t really show at first glance, but it’s there in the blue eyes that stare back at him from the mirror. They’re slightly bleary with the effects of the alcohol he’s consumed, too bleary, really, for the amount he’s had, but he supposes his tolerance is going down the drain along with his eyesight, his agility, his thirst for adventure… There’s something missing in the eyes he’s looking into, a spark, a vivaciousness that used to be there. The eyes in the mirror are much too serious, too calm and calculating for him to be able to identify with them. They’ve seen far more than they should, and it shows in the ways the healed over injuries don’t show when he moves.
He leans closer to the mirror, tries to see if he can still see traces in there of the reckless, spirited young man who came to this city on a wing and a prayer, but all that looks back at him is a wizened old cynic who is rapidly growing weary of the world. He wonders absently if they leave this part out on purpose when they tell bright-eyed young cadets about life in the service, then drops the thought along with his gaze and looks down at where his hands are gripping the sink again.
Fifteen years and three tours of the galaxy and beyond with the Enterprise… There can be no doubt that he’s done his duty, that he’s paid his dues and given his all to the service. It feels like he’s given too much and not nearly enough, like he’s tapped dry and yet still wants to give everything he has and doesn’t have to the ship that’s his life, his love, that feels like part of his very soul. How can he possibly walk away from her and live the life that there’s never been time or space for because she demanded and took everything he had to give and more. She’s being decommissioned now, along with him, but where she will be given a complete refit, time won’t stop for him, he’ll grow older and keep growing older, and by the time she’s ready to fly again, he might not have what it takes to command her anymore. Come to think of it, he’s not sure he has what it takes now. He’s too tired, too worn out, too sore and jaded to give his lady what she not only deserves, but would demand of him.
And yet, the idea of one last romp among the stars is almost irresistible in its appeal. One last show of strength, a terrifyingly awesome tour de force through the galaxy. Just the thought of it makes his breath catch, his hands tremble, a rush of excitement sweeping through him with all the tremendous force of her warp engines, more beautiful and powerful than anything else he’s ever seen.
Something snaps inside him, or maybe clicks into place, and he leaves the restroom with a determined stride, going straight to the bar to order another shot, then another, his right hand ceaselessly moving a pen over a stained cocktail napkin. A soft hand slides into his left one, and he smiles, not needing to turn his head to see who it is. Maybe he won’t ever sit in the command chair of the Enterprise again, but this night will be his last stand, his last taste of the brazen recklessness of his youth.
He lays down the pen, done with his design and his planning, then turns to her and runs his thumb over her soft, plush lips. The way she parts them, the question in her warm, gray eyes, the acceptance he finds there is all the invitation he needs to lean closer and mutter hoarsely in her ear, “Ever been fucked by a Rear Admiral?” She sucks in a sharp breath, and for a moment, he thinks she’s about to pull away, but then he feels her fingertips at the nape of his neck, her breath titillating when she brushes her lips over the shell of his ear and whispers, ”I think the Rear Admiral is going to need someone to fix him when he gets into trouble. Good thing I have the training for that…”
A very good thing, he thinks as he’s leading her out of the bar, ignoring the looks they’re getting. The fallout from this, he knows, is going to be spectacular and it’s quite possibly both the stupidest and the smartest thing he’s ever done. But the familiar rush of adrenaline, the thrill that trickles down his spine, tell him that it’s the best thing he’s done for himself since he set foot on that shuttle eighteen long, laborious years ago.
-------------------------------------------------------
He wakes up to the feeling of soft lips on his skin that are lightly peppering his hip with kisses, then a tongue slipping out to trail over ink and the faded, silvery ridge of an ancient scar. A contented sigh parts his lips as they slowly turn upwards in a smile, and when he looks down, there’s a similar smile on her face. It turns deviously coy when her hand moves to give him a slow stroke, the sigh on his lips turning into a quiet moan as she wakes up every nerve in his body, as she breathes new life into him via the design that’s now irrevocably placed on his hip above the scar. Her mouth moves and her fingers take over her tracing the elegant lines of nacelles, hull, deflector dish and impulse engines, his breath stuttering as she takes him to the stars, as she rejuvenates him and draws him back from the abyss he was teetering on the edge of and guides him back to what it means to be alive.
”I’ve missed that look,” she says after, her chin resting on his chest, his fingers carding slowly through her hair as his pulse evens out again. ”That little twinkle in your eyes. You’re not really you without it. It’s worth all the trouble if I can put it there.”
He thinks it’s worth a lot more than the consequences loving her has, but he keeps those thoughts to himself and keeps toying idly with her hair as he replies, ”I guess you really do know how to fix me, even when I don’t think I need fixing. I’d better keep you around to make sure it stays that way.”
Being grounded doesn’t sound so bad anymore, his new rank doesn’t leave the same bitter taste in his mouth as it did before, not when she’s warm and soft against him, so vibrant and alive that he feels like he has a little piece of the magic of space, the thing that’s always drawn him out into the infinite black, right here in bed with him. That he thinks he can see every star in the universe in her eyes isn’t something he’s going to voice either, but it helps him not long to be amongst them when he can explore them just by looking at her. With her in his arms and the Enterprise on his hip, he feels more complete than he can remember ever being before. He doesn’t feel old anymore, he just feels like the experienced and currently very happy, sated, and ridiculously love-struck man he is.
Author: hypatia_82
Word count: ~ 1900
Rating: PG-13? Nothing graphic.
Feedback: Encouraged and appreciated.
Warnings: Angstiness and introspection.
Disclaimer: I wish for them every year for Christmas, but I haven't gotten them yet. Which makes me sad. Anything you recognize isn't mine. The plot, however, is.
Notes: Title shamelessly snagged from Raised by Swans’ “There Is Hope Yet”.
Summary: There’s something missing in the eyes he’s looking into, a spark, a vivaciousness that used to be there. The eyes in the mirror are much too serious, too calm and calculating for him to be able to identify with them.
The water is cold when it hits his face, and while it’s refreshing and sobers him up some, it’s not quite enough to shock him out of his maudlin stupor. With both hands braced on the edges of the sink, he looks assessingly at the the face in the mirror, studies it and holds it up against the image he has in his head. There are fine lines that didn’t use to be there, crinkles at the corners of his eyes from laughing, a deep crease in his forehead from thinking and worrying and strategizing. A droplet of cold water falls from his lashes to roll swiftly down his cheek, his lips curling upwards in a sardonic sneer at how nauseatingly poetic it is. Here he is, in the bathroom of O’Grady’s, crying fake tears that are really just icy tap water while the loud thump and throb of the music from the bar provides an absurdly up-beat requiem for his youth. For the man he used to be, the man he thought he still was.
There’s a whole piece of wall in the restroom next to this one, he knows, covered in different scribbles, listing names and acts, half of which he either can remember anymore, or never did in the first place. An epitaph for his sexual prowess and the young man who spontaneously boarded a shuttle to San Francisco one day and would become a legend, a lauded hero, less than three years later.
That was fifteen years ago, eighteen if you count from the time he tossed the keys to his old bike to a stranger and left it all behind in search of bigger and better things. Almost two decades since his appetite for life could no longer be sated by drunken brawls and random women to warm his bed, or he theirs. Now, he feels almost too full. As he dabs the water from his face with a coarse paper towel, he snorts sarcastically at himself for labeling it the spiritual equivalent of a food coma. But if the shoe fits, it fits, and trying to change it will only give him blisters. And God, when did he start using awful metaphors like that?!
Someone tries the door, but he learned how to bypass the lock on it a long time ago. About a fourth of the inscriptions in the ladies room will tell you that. Still, his eyes fly to the doorknob reflexively, his body tensing and straightening up, ready to spring into action, his heart doing a double beat at the theoretical hint of a threat. It’s too ingrained in him to prevent, it’s not something he even thinks about, really. The list of things capable of taking him by surprise has grown so short over the years that he sometimes wonders if there’s anything left to see out there. If there’s anything left to experience, or if he’s already seen and done it all. It makes him feel jaded and old beyond his years, the small aches and pains when he gets up in the morning and stretches reminding him that his body has been the recipient of several lifetimes worth of punishment and abuse.
It doesn’t really show at first glance, but it’s there in the blue eyes that stare back at him from the mirror. They’re slightly bleary with the effects of the alcohol he’s consumed, too bleary, really, for the amount he’s had, but he supposes his tolerance is going down the drain along with his eyesight, his agility, his thirst for adventure… There’s something missing in the eyes he’s looking into, a spark, a vivaciousness that used to be there. The eyes in the mirror are much too serious, too calm and calculating for him to be able to identify with them. They’ve seen far more than they should, and it shows in the ways the healed over injuries don’t show when he moves.
He leans closer to the mirror, tries to see if he can still see traces in there of the reckless, spirited young man who came to this city on a wing and a prayer, but all that looks back at him is a wizened old cynic who is rapidly growing weary of the world. He wonders absently if they leave this part out on purpose when they tell bright-eyed young cadets about life in the service, then drops the thought along with his gaze and looks down at where his hands are gripping the sink again.
Fifteen years and three tours of the galaxy and beyond with the Enterprise… There can be no doubt that he’s done his duty, that he’s paid his dues and given his all to the service. It feels like he’s given too much and not nearly enough, like he’s tapped dry and yet still wants to give everything he has and doesn’t have to the ship that’s his life, his love, that feels like part of his very soul. How can he possibly walk away from her and live the life that there’s never been time or space for because she demanded and took everything he had to give and more. She’s being decommissioned now, along with him, but where she will be given a complete refit, time won’t stop for him, he’ll grow older and keep growing older, and by the time she’s ready to fly again, he might not have what it takes to command her anymore. Come to think of it, he’s not sure he has what it takes now. He’s too tired, too worn out, too sore and jaded to give his lady what she not only deserves, but would demand of him.
And yet, the idea of one last romp among the stars is almost irresistible in its appeal. One last show of strength, a terrifyingly awesome tour de force through the galaxy. Just the thought of it makes his breath catch, his hands tremble, a rush of excitement sweeping through him with all the tremendous force of her warp engines, more beautiful and powerful than anything else he’s ever seen.
Something snaps inside him, or maybe clicks into place, and he leaves the restroom with a determined stride, going straight to the bar to order another shot, then another, his right hand ceaselessly moving a pen over a stained cocktail napkin. A soft hand slides into his left one, and he smiles, not needing to turn his head to see who it is. Maybe he won’t ever sit in the command chair of the Enterprise again, but this night will be his last stand, his last taste of the brazen recklessness of his youth.
He lays down the pen, done with his design and his planning, then turns to her and runs his thumb over her soft, plush lips. The way she parts them, the question in her warm, gray eyes, the acceptance he finds there is all the invitation he needs to lean closer and mutter hoarsely in her ear, “Ever been fucked by a Rear Admiral?” She sucks in a sharp breath, and for a moment, he thinks she’s about to pull away, but then he feels her fingertips at the nape of his neck, her breath titillating when she brushes her lips over the shell of his ear and whispers, ”I think the Rear Admiral is going to need someone to fix him when he gets into trouble. Good thing I have the training for that…”
A very good thing, he thinks as he’s leading her out of the bar, ignoring the looks they’re getting. The fallout from this, he knows, is going to be spectacular and it’s quite possibly both the stupidest and the smartest thing he’s ever done. But the familiar rush of adrenaline, the thrill that trickles down his spine, tell him that it’s the best thing he’s done for himself since he set foot on that shuttle eighteen long, laborious years ago.
-------------------------------------------------------
He wakes up to the feeling of soft lips on his skin that are lightly peppering his hip with kisses, then a tongue slipping out to trail over ink and the faded, silvery ridge of an ancient scar. A contented sigh parts his lips as they slowly turn upwards in a smile, and when he looks down, there’s a similar smile on her face. It turns deviously coy when her hand moves to give him a slow stroke, the sigh on his lips turning into a quiet moan as she wakes up every nerve in his body, as she breathes new life into him via the design that’s now irrevocably placed on his hip above the scar. Her mouth moves and her fingers take over her tracing the elegant lines of nacelles, hull, deflector dish and impulse engines, his breath stuttering as she takes him to the stars, as she rejuvenates him and draws him back from the abyss he was teetering on the edge of and guides him back to what it means to be alive.
”I’ve missed that look,” she says after, her chin resting on his chest, his fingers carding slowly through her hair as his pulse evens out again. ”That little twinkle in your eyes. You’re not really you without it. It’s worth all the trouble if I can put it there.”
He thinks it’s worth a lot more than the consequences loving her has, but he keeps those thoughts to himself and keeps toying idly with her hair as he replies, ”I guess you really do know how to fix me, even when I don’t think I need fixing. I’d better keep you around to make sure it stays that way.”
Being grounded doesn’t sound so bad anymore, his new rank doesn’t leave the same bitter taste in his mouth as it did before, not when she’s warm and soft against him, so vibrant and alive that he feels like he has a little piece of the magic of space, the thing that’s always drawn him out into the infinite black, right here in bed with him. That he thinks he can see every star in the universe in her eyes isn’t something he’s going to voice either, but it helps him not long to be amongst them when he can explore them just by looking at her. With her in his arms and the Enterprise on his hip, he feels more complete than he can remember ever being before. He doesn’t feel old anymore, he just feels like the experienced and currently very happy, sated, and ridiculously love-struck man he is.