NaNo '05 - Shedding Skins (Chapter 4.2)

[nano_fan]

Shedding Skins

Chapter Four (Continued)

- Of Anger and Charity -

He can't shut the pain out as he used to, not for very long. His throat smarts and each gulp is painful, as is contracting his abdominal muscles or moving his jaw. He thinks he might have a broken rib, as breathing in never fails to make a sharp pain erupt in his chest, and he is thankful that at least his lung is not punctured. He would be dead already.

His step is not so light anymore, by the time he reaches Isatis and leans against her bulkhead, at the entrance of the cargo hold. He doesn't know where to look for Serenity, but he knew where the meet for the delivery of the crates of weapons to the rebel network was to take place, and that's what he walks in on. The rebels immediately freeze, hostile and twitchy, but Monty calms them down.

"He's one of us," he says, even though it isn't true.

Kenshin drops one of the crates into their landspeeder and hurries over to Oliver. "Get Amando," he tells Bester over his shoulder.

I don't need him, Oliver wants to assure him, but his throat is soarer than he thought and the words don't come out, only an undignified croak. Kenshin offers him his shoulder for support and Oliver is reminded of helping a redhead - still alive, a small victory - up a flight of stairs. So he leans on Kenshin, because maybe this sort of injury was nothing when he was on the drugs, but now he's no longer an Operative and there is nothing wrong with leaning on someone. Even Wat knows that much, and the man has his fair share of stubborn pride.

"This something we should know about?" one of the rebels asks.

"He's one of us," is Monty's only answer.

"The Operatives?" Kenshin asks as they walk out of the cargo hold, towards the infirmary.

Oliver gulps through the pain, manages to utter the one word in a whisper. "Dead."

He does not miss the look of faint surprise-cum-admiration that sweeps across Kenshin's features, knows he does not deserve it. He had help, and he'll tell him as much as soon as his voice is back. He drops in the examination chair in the middle of the infirmary, leans back and closes his eyes. Focuses on his pain rather than tries to ignore it, as he was taught not to ignore problems but meet them face on.

Fears are a different matter, as fears he's not supposed to have.

"Where does it hurt?" comes Amando's soft question.

Oliver opens his eyes, meets the clear stream of the Companion's, never thought he'd see him again. Brings a hand to his throat, another to his ribs, dismisses the jaw as it is clearly not broken, else he could not move it and the pain would be much worse. Amando blinks, and goes for the ribs first. "Bring something for the pain," he tells Kenshin, who nods and goes.

He feels the ribs, and his delicate touch sends the pain flaring all the way to Oliver's brain. Amando does not apologise; instead, he diagnoses. "A couple of broken ribs. It'll take a few weeks to heal fully. Provided you follow my recommendations, rest and immobilisation." Then his fingertips are gently prodding at his throat, assessing the damage. "A few days will do it. The windpipe took no lasting damage."

The fingers linger over his throat perhaps a few seconds too many, but Monty's arrival cuts the moment short.

"Delivery's done," the captain states, walking over to the chair. "Is there anybody after you, son?"

Oliver shakes his head decidedly, ignoring the ringing in his ears. The Blue Sun Operatives are dead, and Sasha did not follow him. Of course he did not. The only reason he pulled the trigger was because he could not live with himself if he did not take the shot; Oliver knows it, because they are the same. Or rather, Sasha is as he once was, and he has a very good memory of what that is like. Twenty years, the only life he knew, are not so easily wiped out by a couple of months.

And now Sasha's world has been turned upside down, because of Blue Sun. Who could those Operatives be, that they would be after Oliver's previous target and yet on the hunt for Operatives of the Parliament, too? Oliver is not sure what Sasha's exact course of action will be, confronting his COs or following less official channels to gather information, but a course of action there will be, of that he is certain. For a better world.

"Good," Monty approves. "How is he doing?"

"He will be fine, eventually," Amando answers. "Although if we can rendezvous with Serenity, I'm sure he could use the treatment a real doctor could offer. Especially for his ribs."

Kenshin comes back at that moment, lights the cone for Oliver and gives it to him. He looks at Amando before taking a drag, making sure the examination is over and it will not matter if the pain is somewhat dimmed. The smoke fills his lungs and warmth spreads from there on through the rest of his body.

He isn't sure what Monty's answer to Amando is, isn't sure he much cares anymore. All that matters is the softness that's surrounding him.

Right before he closes his eyes he thinks he sees Caden in the hatchway. He dismisses it as a da ma-induced vision and lets sleep take over his exhausted body.

Because Caden looked angry, and not at Oliver.

They do rendezvous with Serenity, for Simon Tam to come aboard and tend to him. Oliver knows that, but sleeps anyway, because he feels as if the exhaustion of the past twenty years has caught up with him at last, and with such exhaustion comes a dreamless sleep, or at least no dreams that stick around long enough for him to remember losing them. And that is all that matters, what he remembers, what he knows. His sense of self is developing with the pain, it seems.

He is awoken by a gruff voice, speaking with stubborn outrage. Through the windows of the infirmary he can see Serenity's mercenary, Simon Tam, Kenshin, and Caden. "Man got some of ours killed, cap'n did him a favor not to shoot him on sight!"

"He's changed!" Caden's voice, and he sees his lips move, but Oliver wonders whether he isn't dreaming after all. Caden would speak for him? "He's run away, and fought with Independents, and he was ready to fight those Blue Gloves of yours! How could your precious captain leave him there to fend off for himself?"

"He survived, didn't he," comes the defiant answer of the mercenary.

"In what state! You ought to see him."

"Actually, that's what I'm here for," pipes up the no-nonsense voice of Simon Tam. "Unless you'd rather keep preventing me from seeing my patient with pointless arguments."

There is a silence, and then Simon Tam, Jayne Cobb and Kenshin walk into the infirmary. Caden glances inside through the window, just long enough to meet Oliver's gaze for the briefest instant, and then he turns and leaves. Oliver looks back at his visitors, wonders idly whether the mercenary is here to ensure the doctor's protection, in case he tries anything. Mal knows better than this; he probably sent Cobb to make a point, nothing else.

Simon Tam tends to him, but all Oliver can think of is Caden.

Mal comes to see him before Serenity and Isatis part. He's been moved back to his room, now that nothing can be done and all he needs is to lie still hour after hour after tama de hour. It seems that his predicament is teaching him to swear. The captain strides into the room without asking for permission, thumbs hooked into his belt.

"You survived."

"You're very observant, captain," Oliver answers, although there is no mockery in his tone. "What will you do, now? They will send more, they always do."

"We gonna keep flyin'. They're bound to get tired, give up after a while."

"You know better than that."

Mal does not deny it, but he has no better plan than that. Oliver can only imagine what it feels like. He knows what they went through to get the word out about Miranda - him, among other things - and now they're back to square one, with more popular discontent but if the rebel networks do not make a move soon things might just settle back down. Mal's a realist, and a pragmatist. Keep flying is all he has, and Oliver respects that.

"We'll be off now. There's crime to be done and we want our share. I really hope I won't be seein' you 'gain."

He almost asks him to tell River something, but he doesn't know what that something would be. Besides, whatever it is, she knows already. She's bound to. He can picture her, crouched on some piece of furniture, long arms circling her longer legs, head tilted to the side and listening to him and everything he doesn't realise. She knows more about him than he himself does, he's sure; what could he possibly tell her?

"I hope I won't need to look you up again," he simply answers. "They're truly quite dangerous, you know."

"I gathered."

And on that the captain leaves, and Oliver is alone again.

For another two days he sees nobody but Amando and Kenshin, and Bester once for the whole of two minutes. If he weren't immobilised he'd think himself back to the time before his encounter with Sasha and the Blue Sun Operatives. He could think it was all a nightmare, and they haven't met Serenity yet, and River never asked after his name. He never defeated the Blue Gloves, and Caden never got angry on his behalf. It would be a simpler world, but he finds that he likes the present better, much better, and not only because they have left him in possession of his sword this time. He doesn't balk from complications, he welcomes them.

And so for two days he thinks, reminisces, and reflects, and lets Amando entertain him in his unassuming Companion manner. Not sexually, of course, but as a friend. The word seems odd just to think it, especially when he recalls their first interactions, the resentment and the hostility. That was before they found common ground, for the time it took Amando to get his feelings in check. And now they smoke cones together, him for the pain and Amando for relaxation, and sometimes Kenshin joins them and keeps surprising Oliver with his rare smiles and rarer jokes.

Oliver wonders whether there isn't something new in Amando's eyes and the way he looks at him, but he can't really pinpoint it. They never speak of Caden, so he thinks maybe it has to do with him.

And then, after two days, Caden himself stops in the hatchway of his room. He pauses there for an instant, dark eyes looking unwaveringly at Oliver, and yet there is weakness there. Oliver does not hold his gaze, instead he lets himself drink in his sight. He isn't dressed in his usual casual wear, earthy tones mixed with bright colours that agree with his skin tone; instead he's in black formal slacks and a cream-coloured shirt, with a few buttons undone at the top, letting a small patch of skin show.

It rings a faint bell, but it takes Oliver a few seconds to realise why. Those are the clothes Caden wore when they first met, him and Jeziah, albeit missing a vest, jacket and scarf.

Caden lets him look as much as he wants, and for that he is grateful. He reacquaints himself with the planes of his face, the line of his nose, the arches of his eyebrows, the thick lustre of his hair, the faint mist of a stubble that remains despite having shaved, the well-formed thinness of his lips, the smoothness of his forehead, the golden hue of his skin, the intense quality of his eyes.

"I'm fine," he says, because he can see the flood of emotion in those very eyes, the concern and the fears, and scared though he might be to let himself see them, he cannot deny their truth.

A tear rolls down Caden's cheek, and the Companion lets it. A wet track down his face, and Oliver wishes he could stand up and go collect it. Instead he has to watch it hang on his jaw for a moment, then drop to the ground. "Good," is all that Caden says, in a whisper, as if being any louder would betray too much. He is likely right.

And Oliver wishes he could stand up and embrace him, but instead he has to watch Caden turn around and walk away.

There is a tugging at his heart, and he knows it isn't family.

It hurts more than the cracked ribs, and he isn't sure it will ever get better.

Three weeks pass, and Caden visits him now and then. It's always with Amando, and he remains in the background at first, a silent shadow that distracts Oliver more than it should. But day after day Amando manages to nudge him a little more into the conversation, until they have regained some form of casual interaction. It becomes routine, even when Oliver manages to stand and walk again and doesn't need for people to visit him as much. It still hurts, like a sore that will never truly go away, but he rejoices in the limited freedom he is reacquiring.

And then one morning, Caden comes by alone. Oliver's fairly recovered by then, except for the pain, and can move around without help or hindrance. He's learned to work through pain long ago, and that much they can't take away from him.

"Hi," he says, and feels stupid. Bester would roll his eyes at him, no doubt. And add some snide remark.

"Hi," Caden replies, and crosses the threshold.

He is dressed in his usual clothes today, a long saffron tunic over fawn-coloured slacks, and simple threaded sandals. His hair is loose, instead of pulled back into a ponytail or braid, but it's still pushed back behind his shoulders, apart from a single strand that runs down to the middle of his chest. It makes Oliver want to reach forward and weave his fingers through it, and he gets up from the bed before he even realises what he's doing.

Operatives have perfect self-control. It's seeping out of him, little by little, drop after drop of perfected cold blood that's being replaced by untamed live emotions.

Caden is only slightly taller than him, but the difference is more than obvious when the Companion steps forward and they are standing toe to toe, almost. Oliver has to look up at him, and he feels his heart hammering against his ribcage. Those eyes, he remembers how terrified of them he was at the worst of his withdrawal. Those eyes. Their noses brush against each other, and after a few more seconds of expectant silence their lips follow their example.

It's only a brush, a feather's touch, a sigh made sensation, and yet it's enough to make his stomach do a small flip, or so it feels.

He darts his tongue out, gently opens Caden's mouth, and suddenly it is more than that, it is everything. It's heat and wetness and fluidity, it's tongue on tongue, it's a hand that comes to rest on his shoulder, it's his own hand that presses at the small of Caden's back, it's two bodies that press together as the kiss deepens, strengthens, and this is truly everything.

When they pull back Oliver realises he's backed Caden into the bulkhead and his other hand is entangled in the long black hair, and Caden's is bunched in his top, and they're both slightly breathless and Caden has never looked so beautiful, with his lips parted and reddened by the kiss, a slight glaze in his eyes and the hint of pink in his usually golden cheeks. A vision, a true beauty, and Oliver is transfixed, the hand that was on Caden's back dropping to his side.

Caden's hand gradually relaxes, and smoothes his top over his chest to erase any trace of its passing. His other hand slides down Oliver's arm to clutch his fingers briefly, like an assurance, but he is not sure what he's being assured of. He strokes Caden's skull with his fingertips, then draws his hand out of the hair, a regret that is not as its mere existence is cause for erratic heartbeats and knots in his stomach.

"How are you feeling?" Caden asks softly, and his hand grazes over Oliver's fixed ribs.

"Good," Oliver answers, and feels every word he is saying. "The pain's still there, but it was to be expected."

Caden nods, and it seems that he understands. Oliver realises that he is still blocking him against the bulkhead, and steps back to give him some space. Caden's reaction is immediate, as his hand shoots out to take hold of Oliver's again. It makes him feel stronger, those fingers clasping his.

"What hurt you?" he can't help but ask with this borrowed strength, because he still doesn't understand what changed, before and after his confession.

Caden does not answer for a few moments, seconds that seem an eternity of uncertainty, like a bird about to take flight or a swimmer about to take the plunge. "The gratuity. I expected a better reason."

Of course. The moment has haunted him, still haunts him if he is truthful. He was so very tempted to end Caden's life, and considered it coldly, for no better reason than his own comfort. Selfish, mean, low. Acts such as these make the world a worst place, he has no doubt about this. He understands all too well, now, as he feels exactly the same way.

He tries to slide his fingers out of Caden's grasp, but the Companion won't let him.

They are both about to speak - or hold silent, maybe - when Kenshin appears in the hatchway. Oliver manages to get his fingers back at last and the Dytonian misses a beat, blinking at them. His face shows no surprise, but Oliver can't imagine anything in this 'verse would achieve that much.

"There's a wave for ye," Kenshin tells him, and even after all this time his accent is a surprising contrast to his monolithic expression. "You wasn't takin' it."

Oliver frowns, and looks at the Cortex screen. A light in the corner is blinking, indicating an incoming wave. He nods his thanks, turns to it. Figures that if Kenshin is not retreating, both he and Caden might as well stay, and checks the ID of the waver. It is hidden, predictably, but he knows the protocol used to cover the tracks. When he takes the wave he isn't surprised to see Sasha's pretty face, and the youth is letting a bit of irritation show. He supposes he's kept him waiting.

"Thirty-six. I need to talk to you," he says immediately, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

Please, Sasha, call me Oli, he wants to tell him.

Instead he nods and listens, and accepts the meet.

When Kenshin shows up with a sharpening stone two hours later, Oliver does not try to hide his surprise. "I have a blade of my own," the Dytonian states, and Oliver wonders how come he never saw it. Twenty minutes later and they're still talking blades, and Bushido. It isn't that much of a surprise that Kenshin would know about the old Samurai philosophy, but more of one that he would follow it. His blade is twice as long as Oliver's and slightly curved, perfectly balanced, with small copper dragons adorning the handle in between and partly under wraps of brown cloth. It is a proper katana, and Kenshin does not answer Oliver's enquiries after its origin, only smiles cryptically and changes the subject.

They find themselves in the cargo hold, both itching for a sparring session with someone else that can hold his own. Oliver has smoked a cone for the pain, and hopes to be as good as he used to be. He might end up needing all his prowess for the upcoming meeting with Sasha, after all.

Kenshin handles his blade skilfully, the way only a true swordsman does, an extension of his body that slashes through the air without hesitation but unspeakable grace. The tall Dytonian goes through the moves of a complicated kata and Oliver can only stare, at the blade and the play of muscles of his wide arms, and he feels that yes, Kenshin can undoubtedly hold his own.

It makes him wonder how much he's lost, in all this time when he has stopped practicing, through the withdrawal, the wounds and the idleness. No time like the present to figure it out, and he goes through his own kata. He's vaguely wary of his ribcage, but mostly he finds it surprisingly easy to lose himself in the familiar moves, almost second nature. No matter how long he goes without practice, he thinks that he will never truly lose it all. When you do something so often, the very moves become apart of you; or maybe it is the other way around, and he is part of the kata.

When he comes to the end Kenshin is watching him thoughtfully, and they face each other off without a word, switching into fighting stances.

It feels more like a dance than a fight, and when their blades meet they slide off harmlessly. Oliver should feel at a disadvantage that his sword is shorter, but he knows how to wield it too well for that. It's a different kind of fighting, where he has to go in for the strike more, whereas Kenshin can afford to stand back and see him coming.

They don't put all of themselves into it, as it's no fight but really just a game, and it feels good. Movement for movement's sake, and nothing at stake but simple... fun. Yes, Oliver is having fun, as he hasn't since Domo, all different shades of red and eyes of blue and brown and specks of gold and smirks and smiles and grins of white and family.

They finally stop, both shining with sweat but not out of breath, they know better than that. They smile at each other, relieved and happy and more than they usually show through facial expressions.

"Thanks, mate," Kenshin greets him. "Haven't found nobody worth sparrin' with in..."

Oliver nods slightly, tries to bite back his smile. "I return the compliment. You're good."

Caden's voice rings out in the cargo hold, coming from the walkway above their heads, and the angry words are aimed at Oliver. "You're feng de."

The Companion is glaring down at Oliver, ignoring Amando, Alix and Bester by his side who have clearly all been enjoying the show. The world seems to shrink down to Caden and Oliver, and the emotions flaring between them. There is a touch on Oliver's shoulder, Kenshin letting him know that he is leaving, and Amando is ushering mechanic and businessman away.

So it's not an illusion, the world really is just Caden and him right now.

"I'm not," he says in a sigh.

"So it's not crazy to want to meet the man whose job it is to kill you?"

You don't know anything about us, Caden, he wants to tell him. It's not a job, it's our lives, it's who we are, and maybe he keeps quiet because that would not reassure the Companion that Oliver is, in fact, as sound of mind as can be expected.

He looks up at Caden, who's leaning forward with his hands gripping the banister tight, and expecting so much from him that he isn't sure he can give. His neck will start hurting soon, from being craned so, but he won't look away. Nor will he walk up the stairs to join him; if anyone ought to come to the other it is Caden. Oliver does not want to lie to him, he is the type of person to drag him down, not pull him up.

"I know him," he finally settles on for an answer. "He will not kill me."

"But you don't!" Caden retorts, sharp and ringing with fears he hides under anger. "You've read his file, so what? You don't know that he isn't tricking you!"

"His file's irrelevant," he answers calmly. "I know him, because I am him. An Operative. I know how he works. I know that he wouldn't trick me like this. He wouldn't need to, if all he wanted was to kill me."

"You've escaped him twice."

"He let me go, last time."

"He was injured. The fight with those Operatives..."

"He did not even try. We always try."

"Why didn't he, then?"

"Because his world had just opened up. Things are more complicated than they look."

In a whisper, "They usually are." The dark eyes that glinted with irritation just a few seconds ago now dart away, soft and vulnerable, and Oliver is tempted to climb up to join him. "Don't go," Caden asks.

"Come down here," Oliver asks in return, face open, eyes pleading.

For a few seconds he isn't sure whether Caden will do it, and then the Companion nods, and Oliver waits for him with his sword in hand. He hasn't taken his sheath with him, anyway. When Caden gets close enough Oliver offers him the sword, blade lining his arm, hilt towards him.

"Take it," he softly bids him.

So Caden does, although wariness is stamped all over him. Oliver walks to his back, stretches his arm alongside Caden's, grips the hand that is holding the hilt. Makes him feel the handle, how it fits just so in his grasp, then makes him raise his arm to look at the blade, the way it glints in the artificial light, its sharpness, its deadliness. His other hand comes to rest on Caden's hip, and his lips brush against the shell of his ear.

"This is me," he whispers.

Caden is out of his arms in a second, and the sword clatters to the ground with a jarring sound. It seems like it cuts into Oliver's heart on the way down, the same way Caden's uncomprehending, furious look does with each pulse of blood through his veins, a bit more painful, a bit more arduous.

"Don't play games with me, thirty-six," he snaps. "You're wasting your time."

"I'm not playing," and he is surprised at the intensity of his voice, isn't sure whether it is meant to hurt Caden or himself most. "This blade is who I am. Sharp, graceful, efficient, deadly. It's all I was taught to be, and I was made to kill. Nothing. Else."

"No," Caden retorts, and the refusal sounds loud and strong while the dark eyes are welled with tears, tears that lace into his next words. "It's a lie. It's what they made you into, but you're more than that. You broke free."

And because he doesn't know what is coming, but he can hope and guess and there are very few scenarios in which he makes it, he makes the difficult decision and hardens his gaze. "I will never be free."

"Liar," Caden spits out with venom, but does not move closer to him, or after him when he goes.

He picks up the sword and makes for his room, and each step away from Caden feels like dragging masses of lead behind him. So he clings to the only thing he can still cling to, his sword, and tries to convince himself of what he has just told the Companion. He is thirty-six, always will be, and maybe that is what he should have answered River when she asked for his name.

Even after all this, an Operative is all that he knows how to be with any measure of success.

So he walks back to his room and sharpens his blade, just in case, because an Operative is always ready. And when Isatis drops him off for his meet in an Alliance-friendly bar, Kenshin is the only one there to say goodbye, and good luck.

Neither one of them believes in luck, and both are hoping he won't need any.