Fic: Altered Trajectory (cont.)
was trying to finish this scene up before posting again, but it's dragging along, so I decided to just put up another chunk.
It hadn’t helped, at all, that Mac’s accusations had the stinging ring of truth behind him. The only reason that Rufus had been assigned to this mission was because Count Lakewalker thought he ought to be, thanks to a very brief experience with the Dominion, which had mostly consisted of being attended by very solicitous khaki skinned nurses aboard the Galapagos cruiser that had borne him back to the edge of Vulpine space. He wasn’t a trained intelligence agent. He wasn’t capable of flying a starfighter anymore. Truth be told he wasn’t even a very effective Farmer Noble, though he was improving on that with practice. Really, the only major accomplishments he’d managed recently were helping everyone escape from Mavra Chan’s ship before it had been blown to bits and revealing the secret of the Dominion and their slaughtered ferin to the Farmer Lord Council. Both of which had ended in major surgery and the replacement of a limb and organ respectively. Well, that and preventing Hazel from committing a very painful form of suicide through gangrene, through that had also resulted in the loss of a limb, though not his that time.
He was still wallowing in this morass of emotion when there was a knock at his cell's door. He lifted the pillow up enough to see Softpaw's half-naked hench-husband standing in front of his cell, holding a tray with a styrofoam plate with a pile of pills and a plastic cup filled with water. “May I come in?” Rolas asked.
“Out of simple curiosity,” Rufus asked, his voice rasping, “was that an honest question or are you coming in regardless?”
“Coming in regardless, but I thought you deserved that much courtesy,” Rolas replied. He nodded to a guard outside of Rufus' view and the cell door slid back just long enough for him to enter. He set the tray down beside Rufus and leaned up against the wall, eyeing his prisoner with looked like mild interest at best.
“What are all these then?” Rufus gestured to the pills on the plate.
“Some tranquilizers. I'm afraid the ship's sickbay can't synthesize all of the prescriptions you friend Hazel old us about. It's oriented more towards combat injuries rather than addiction management, you see, but we did our best.”
Somehow it didn't surprise Rufus that Hazel had gone to the trouble to memorize what medications he took. It was a very vixenly thing to do. “Thank you,” he said. He managed to lever himself up and swallow down the pills, chasing them with a large gulp of water. He set the cup down carefully with both his cuffed hands back on the tray. “I'm a little surprised your wife bothered with that.”
Rolas made a neutral shrug. “She's still your host. That and Hazel is a bit sore still at me for stunning you so badly.
“Quite all right. Waking up and immediately vomiting is a familiar habit for me.” Either he was becoming psychosomatic or the pills were fast acting, for in a couple of minutes the shakes stopped and his senses seemed to calm down. Even the Need was pushed back, though not quite far enough to stop the itch in his belly.
“So I gathered,” Rolas said. “The Council of Farmer Lords must have been quite desperate for aid to send you out in your condition.” His tone was not insulting, or challenging. His words were said as a mere statement of fact, which somehow made them all the more insulting.
“I’m not usually this bad off. Not anymore,” Rufus said. “Having Hazel around helps too… anchor me, I suppose.”
“I can understand that,” Rolas said. He shifted his position against the wall slightly. “So what’s going on between you and that little git of a security officer?”
“He’s…. irritating,” Rufus said, then added, “He pushes.”
“Hard enough to make punching him on the nose a viable option?”
He rubbed his forehead, listening to his chains clank. “If I hadn’t been half-delirious from coming down off my medications I would have controlled myself. I suppose I should apologize to him. Anyway, what do you care?”
A hint of tension seemed to settle across Rolas’s bare shoulders. “That vixen Hazel seems to think the world of you,” he said, seeming to change the subject.
“An inexplicable lapse in an otherwise sensible person,” Rufus declared. Then he realized the question behind Rolas’ statement and felt himself grow angry again. “By the Blessed Mother, I’d never hit her!”
“Punch out a helpless commoner, punch out a vixen, is there that much difference, milord?” Rolas asked.
Belatedly, Rufus seemed to recall some scandal in Rolas’ family, his sister divorcing her husband, son of their liege countess, after a horrid accident. Then their countess had gone crackers and been stripped of her title, which was handed over to Lady Darktail, Rolas’ mother. It had all happened when he was off-world, beginning his cycle of drinking and drugging, so most of it had flown over his head. “The idea of me ever even considering harming Hazel in that manner is too disgusting to even contemplate,” he said firmly.
TBC
* * *
Author's Note: Rolas has... issues... with beating up helpless people. Not to mention anger management.
It hadn’t helped, at all, that Mac’s accusations had the stinging ring of truth behind him. The only reason that Rufus had been assigned to this mission was because Count Lakewalker thought he ought to be, thanks to a very brief experience with the Dominion, which had mostly consisted of being attended by very solicitous khaki skinned nurses aboard the Galapagos cruiser that had borne him back to the edge of Vulpine space. He wasn’t a trained intelligence agent. He wasn’t capable of flying a starfighter anymore. Truth be told he wasn’t even a very effective Farmer Noble, though he was improving on that with practice. Really, the only major accomplishments he’d managed recently were helping everyone escape from Mavra Chan’s ship before it had been blown to bits and revealing the secret of the Dominion and their slaughtered ferin to the Farmer Lord Council. Both of which had ended in major surgery and the replacement of a limb and organ respectively. Well, that and preventing Hazel from committing a very painful form of suicide through gangrene, through that had also resulted in the loss of a limb, though not his that time.
He was still wallowing in this morass of emotion when there was a knock at his cell's door. He lifted the pillow up enough to see Softpaw's half-naked hench-husband standing in front of his cell, holding a tray with a styrofoam plate with a pile of pills and a plastic cup filled with water. “May I come in?” Rolas asked.
“Out of simple curiosity,” Rufus asked, his voice rasping, “was that an honest question or are you coming in regardless?”
“Coming in regardless, but I thought you deserved that much courtesy,” Rolas replied. He nodded to a guard outside of Rufus' view and the cell door slid back just long enough for him to enter. He set the tray down beside Rufus and leaned up against the wall, eyeing his prisoner with looked like mild interest at best.
“What are all these then?” Rufus gestured to the pills on the plate.
“Some tranquilizers. I'm afraid the ship's sickbay can't synthesize all of the prescriptions you friend Hazel old us about. It's oriented more towards combat injuries rather than addiction management, you see, but we did our best.”
Somehow it didn't surprise Rufus that Hazel had gone to the trouble to memorize what medications he took. It was a very vixenly thing to do. “Thank you,” he said. He managed to lever himself up and swallow down the pills, chasing them with a large gulp of water. He set the cup down carefully with both his cuffed hands back on the tray. “I'm a little surprised your wife bothered with that.”
Rolas made a neutral shrug. “She's still your host. That and Hazel is a bit sore still at me for stunning you so badly.
“Quite all right. Waking up and immediately vomiting is a familiar habit for me.” Either he was becoming psychosomatic or the pills were fast acting, for in a couple of minutes the shakes stopped and his senses seemed to calm down. Even the Need was pushed back, though not quite far enough to stop the itch in his belly.
“So I gathered,” Rolas said. “The Council of Farmer Lords must have been quite desperate for aid to send you out in your condition.” His tone was not insulting, or challenging. His words were said as a mere statement of fact, which somehow made them all the more insulting.
“I’m not usually this bad off. Not anymore,” Rufus said. “Having Hazel around helps too… anchor me, I suppose.”
“I can understand that,” Rolas said. He shifted his position against the wall slightly. “So what’s going on between you and that little git of a security officer?”
“He’s…. irritating,” Rufus said, then added, “He pushes.”
“Hard enough to make punching him on the nose a viable option?”
He rubbed his forehead, listening to his chains clank. “If I hadn’t been half-delirious from coming down off my medications I would have controlled myself. I suppose I should apologize to him. Anyway, what do you care?”
A hint of tension seemed to settle across Rolas’s bare shoulders. “That vixen Hazel seems to think the world of you,” he said, seeming to change the subject.
“An inexplicable lapse in an otherwise sensible person,” Rufus declared. Then he realized the question behind Rolas’ statement and felt himself grow angry again. “By the Blessed Mother, I’d never hit her!”
“Punch out a helpless commoner, punch out a vixen, is there that much difference, milord?” Rolas asked.
Belatedly, Rufus seemed to recall some scandal in Rolas’ family, his sister divorcing her husband, son of their liege countess, after a horrid accident. Then their countess had gone crackers and been stripped of her title, which was handed over to Lady Darktail, Rolas’ mother. It had all happened when he was off-world, beginning his cycle of drinking and drugging, so most of it had flown over his head. “The idea of me ever even considering harming Hazel in that manner is too disgusting to even contemplate,” he said firmly.
TBC
* * *
Author's Note: Rolas has... issues... with beating up helpless people. Not to mention anger management.