Ramble!Mirrorverse fic wherein Pike is interrupted while recuperating (595 words, PG)
For her birthday, Thrice wanted "mirror!Pike siblings- concerning the Narada."
This is set in the same Mirrorverse as this gross thing, several years later.
595 words, PG, Pike!Sibs and Jim, mention of cannibalism
"Where the hell were you?" she says. Maybe she said something before this. Maybe she stared at his body and the bandages for an hour before speaking. Chris doesn't know. He is newly awake and Elena is standing in the middle of the hospital room, russet and wavery and lean as if she has brought the ranch in with her. She is yelling at the boy with blood on his uniform.
"I was ordered to stay with the ship," the boy says. His back is straight like he's been taught and his insignia catches the light, shining where the metal is clean and where the blood is still wet.
"I gave you orders before you even left the planet," Elena snaps. "Those orders were to supersede all others."
Chris didn't know that. He'll interrogate the boy later.
"You don't understand," says the boy. "It's different in the Fleet--"
She slaps him, open-palmed.
The boy doesn't move, but he glares. He'd rather be hit like a man, tackled and thrown into walls, pinned with the agonizer, pinned with a spear, made to bleed.
Maybe Elena knows that. Maybe she doesn't.
"Get out," she says.
The boy goes. He'll find something to do; a repair or bribe or intimidation, something to strengthen the ship and his place aboard it. He won't huddle on the door-stoop, listening to the noises from inside and waiting to be let back in.
Elena doesn't watch where the boy goes. She stalks over and swings a sharp knee onto the bed.
"Don't," Chris grunts.
She clambers on top of him anyway and says "Quiet," when he whines. The jostling triggers waves of pain, flushing outward with the weightlessness of the agonizer. Just nerves sending out sparks, not the honest torture of a cut or a broken bone. Her knees jab into his hips and her ass is heavy across his thighs and he can't see her face because of the damn overhead light and the drugs and his watery eyes.
She draws her left foot farther up than the other, so that her heel tucks neatly against whole skin and not the shrapnel gash.
"Did you kill him?" she asks. She strokes his belly, all fingernails and sharky tenderness.
"I have slain mine enemy," he mumbles.
Elena leans forward. Maybe he blacks out because she is leaning forward and then suddenly she is slotted against him. Her elbows divot the bed next to his slack, spread-out arms and the fabric of her shirt whispers something snide to his skin there. She cups her palms over the balls of his worn-out shoulders.
"What if you hadn't?" Her voice is hard and her eyebrows are probably drawn in like the wings of a harrier mid-flight. Chris is guessing; he closed his eyes because she's too close to focus on and he could count her freckles in the dark anyway.
She huffs like a horse to get his attention. "I'd have to manage the ranch all by myself, and the boy is becoming such a handful. Or maybe he'd be better without your influence."
Chris smirks, but she doesn't bite. She must not have been looking.
"Are these painkillers?" Her voice cuts through his brain, suddenly loud, and there's a follow-up clack from the bedstand. The shoulder on that side is cold now. "Look at all these chemicals. If you died right now I couldn't even use the meat, you selfish asshole."
So kill the boy and eat him instead, Chris thinks, but he's passing out again and that's not a decent answer anyway.
This is set in the same Mirrorverse as this gross thing, several years later.
595 words, PG, Pike!Sibs and Jim, mention of cannibalism
"Where the hell were you?" she says. Maybe she said something before this. Maybe she stared at his body and the bandages for an hour before speaking. Chris doesn't know. He is newly awake and Elena is standing in the middle of the hospital room, russet and wavery and lean as if she has brought the ranch in with her. She is yelling at the boy with blood on his uniform.
"I was ordered to stay with the ship," the boy says. His back is straight like he's been taught and his insignia catches the light, shining where the metal is clean and where the blood is still wet.
"I gave you orders before you even left the planet," Elena snaps. "Those orders were to supersede all others."
Chris didn't know that. He'll interrogate the boy later.
"You don't understand," says the boy. "It's different in the Fleet--"
She slaps him, open-palmed.
The boy doesn't move, but he glares. He'd rather be hit like a man, tackled and thrown into walls, pinned with the agonizer, pinned with a spear, made to bleed.
Maybe Elena knows that. Maybe she doesn't.
"Get out," she says.
The boy goes. He'll find something to do; a repair or bribe or intimidation, something to strengthen the ship and his place aboard it. He won't huddle on the door-stoop, listening to the noises from inside and waiting to be let back in.
Elena doesn't watch where the boy goes. She stalks over and swings a sharp knee onto the bed.
"Don't," Chris grunts.
She clambers on top of him anyway and says "Quiet," when he whines. The jostling triggers waves of pain, flushing outward with the weightlessness of the agonizer. Just nerves sending out sparks, not the honest torture of a cut or a broken bone. Her knees jab into his hips and her ass is heavy across his thighs and he can't see her face because of the damn overhead light and the drugs and his watery eyes.
She draws her left foot farther up than the other, so that her heel tucks neatly against whole skin and not the shrapnel gash.
"Did you kill him?" she asks. She strokes his belly, all fingernails and sharky tenderness.
"I have slain mine enemy," he mumbles.
Elena leans forward. Maybe he blacks out because she is leaning forward and then suddenly she is slotted against him. Her elbows divot the bed next to his slack, spread-out arms and the fabric of her shirt whispers something snide to his skin there. She cups her palms over the balls of his worn-out shoulders.
"What if you hadn't?" Her voice is hard and her eyebrows are probably drawn in like the wings of a harrier mid-flight. Chris is guessing; he closed his eyes because she's too close to focus on and he could count her freckles in the dark anyway.
She huffs like a horse to get his attention. "I'd have to manage the ranch all by myself, and the boy is becoming such a handful. Or maybe he'd be better without your influence."
Chris smirks, but she doesn't bite. She must not have been looking.
"Are these painkillers?" Her voice cuts through his brain, suddenly loud, and there's a follow-up clack from the bedstand. The shoulder on that side is cold now. "Look at all these chemicals. If you died right now I couldn't even use the meat, you selfish asshole."
So kill the boy and eat him instead, Chris thinks, but he's passing out again and that's not a decent answer anyway.