The Border Lines We Drew Between Us (Stargate: Universe)
Pairing: Young/Rush
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3800
Spoilers: through 1.10 'Justice'
Notes: Written for Yuletide for bionic. Prompt was sex pollen, but not cracky.
Summary: Young and Rush. Sex pollen. Post-Justice.
~*~
And, predictably, the blast of pollen catches both Young and Rush full-on in the face.
It looks like pollen, anyway. Smells like pollen. If pollen has a smell.
Rush sneezes, hard. Grimaces, running the back of his hand underneath his nose.
"What was that?" says one of the scientists.
"No idea," says Young, using his sleeve to clean the worst of it off his face. "Everyone, report to TJ after we get back, make sure it isn't anything harmful."
"I think if it's harmful we'll know soon enough," mutters Rush.
He's tense.
He doesn't like being off the ship. Especially with Young.
He'll be sure to go back first, this time.
~*~
When they get back to the ship, most of them are covered in the stuff. A light yellow film visible over dark-colored uniforms, jackets.
"Get cleaned up, everyone," says Young. "That's an order."
It's an order because Young doesn't want contamination, no doubt. But it's unnecessary.
Rush has to get back to work.
He steps around Young, keeping a careful margin of space --
"Rush."
"I'll get cleaned up, Colonel," snaps Rush. "I promise."
Young wins. He always wins.
~*~
The mist is warm, the pollen gently cleansed from his skin. And Rush rests his forehead against his hand, elbow braced on the shower wall.
He feels dizzy. It's beyond the point where he can tell if it's lack of sleep or lack of food.
"Dr. Rush?"
Rush stirs, dropping his hand. "Yes, Eli?"
Eli's voice is nervous, from around the corner. "The colonel says there's something he wants you to take a look at."
"Well, if the colonel wants it."
~*~
"Check on it from the control interface room," says Young, dismissing Volker as Rush gets close.
Volker nods, retreating, and Rush steps up, careful distance between him and Young.
He feels a little lightheaded. Strangely dizzy.
No, he's standing too close to Young.
"They've been finding some power anomalies in this corridor," says Young. "I thought you should take a look at it."
Because I'm the best you have.
Because you never should have left me on that planet and you know it, you --
Things are moving, on this readout. Things are changing that shouldn't be.
Rush has to make an effort to focus properly.
Oh, no. No no no.
He gets on the radio. "Volker, shut down this corridor," he says, "it's about to--"
And a dull THUMP echoes through the metal.
Rush immediately grabs onto the wall, and not a moment too soon, as the air starts whistling around them, venting into space, from a hole torn open in the hull.
A hand closes hard around Rush's bicep and he squirms, trying to pull away for a second or two, until Young's voice: "In here!" and then it's a struggle against the wind and against time and then against gravity to slam his palm against the door close button --
-- and the air calms. Soft hiss of ventilation means that this room is re-pressurizing.
"Colonel!" exclaims the radio. "Doctor Rush! Colonel Young, come in please."
"We're here," says Young, out-of-breath, and Rush realizes where they are. A kind of closet, an enclosed space, Young leaning against the back wall, their arms nearly brushing they're so close.
Rush closes his eyes, but that doesn't help, he can smell Young. The sharp, rolling sort of scent that isn't the uniform, isn't the spare, dusty oil of Destiny's hallways, it's just Young.
"We're in some kind of closet, I think," says Young. "Looks like it's airtight."
"Volker says we can re-pressurize the hallway," says Scott.
"Tell them to," and Rush's thoughts scatter. "Tell them to shut down power and reroute through the level above and below us. That should allow the shields to reactivate."
"Got it," says Scott. "They're working on it."
"All right," says Young. "Young out."
Rush shifts away from Young.
"Rush," says Young.
Young is an inch taller than Rush, at most, but when Rush lifts his eyes to Young, he finds that his gaze is tilted upwards, that he's curled back against the wall. In a way that makes him smaller.
The blood is thrumming through Rush's veins, and his breath is short, too short. His lips part, to breathe, and Young's eyes are drawn there, unerringly, in a way that makes Rush's heartbeat spike in his chest.
"Colonel," says Rush, in return, straightening up. Which is really just another form of defensiveness. "Do you have a problem?"
He regrets it, almost as soon as he says it, but holds steady.
Young is steadier, though. He always is. But -- wait. No. There's something dark about his gaze that Rush has never seen -- he has seen it not he hasn't.
"You have a problem. With my authority," says Young, cold.
Rush's jaw tightens. "And what would give you that idea?" It comes off flippant and sardonic, though Rush can't say for sure if that's what he meant by it.
No, of course it is.
"Like it or not," snaps Young, "I am in command of this ship--"
"Oh, believe me, I know--"
"--and you will respect that--"
"I will do no such thing!"
And Rush isn't so sure when they evolved from arguing to shouting, but it happened seamlessly, and it happened fast and now he's up too close to Young, like what happened the last time they argued, only then it was Rush who backed down, always backed down in public and stood up in secret, where Young couldn't catch him only he did catch him and Rush can't take that kind of danger anymore, he can't live with this fear --
"How is this gonna end, Rush, open rebellion?" asks Young, voice dangerously soft.
"Colonel--"
Rush expects Young to interrupt him again, but Young doesn't. Just waits. Holds Rush's gaze, and Rush is clinging to that, clinging to it like a lifeline.
Rush struggles.
He has things to say, he's sure of it --
But his breath is stolen, ruthlessly stolen, by the unexpected brush of Young's fingertips against his throat. A moment of panic, yes (strangulation this time?) but also want, want like Rush has never felt it before.
"This isn't," he manages. "We should," and he closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, as Young's fingers flatten, curl in hypnotic whirls along the side of Rush's neck. "We should radio Lieutenant Johansen."
"And say what?"
Rush's back comes into startling contact with the wall. He hadn't realized he was retreating, but oh, yes, he obviously was, because Young is hardly inches away now, and Rush has nowhere to go.
"On the planet." Rush's thoughts are scattering, but he knows, this has to be some substance acquired on the planet, perhaps the pollen, oh, Young's hand is pushing his shirt up, wrinkling the fabric, hand skimming over Rush's ribs, and Rush can't breathe. "We must have--"
"Shut up, Rush."
Rush gives a light moan, and turns his head up, meeting Young in a rough kiss, a drag of lips and tongue that makes Rush twist against hands that are now holding him, holding him very secure against the wall. Pinning him, one might say, and, perversely, that turns Rush on even more. Young slips in between Rush's thighs, nudging them apart, and Rush's hips give a helpless jerk, a little involuntary hitch.
Young's mouth moves to Rush's jaw, with a murmur of, "Want to hear that again," even though Rush wasn't even aware he'd made a sound.
"No," breathes Rush, hand flat against Young's shoulder.
And then the world spins around him, Young's hand tight on his waist, and Rush realizes that Young physically twisted them around, practically threw Rush to the ground, only -- despite the alacrity of the movement -- the actual placement itself is soft, gentle. Young destroyed Rush's balance, took him down, and laid him out on the floor, all in one move.
And now Young urges Rush's leg to wrap around his waist, still clothed, but heated skin, heated everything, so-very-tactile.
Rush drags Young down into a kiss, and they can't seriously be about to do this. They can't. This is completely -- it's completely -- and was that a crackle from the radio --
And Young's hips roll against Rush's, leaving his breath stuttering in his throat. He's clinging, clinging as Young's efficient hands undo Rush's borrowed trousers, slip inside to press a warm palm against his erection.
Rush whines, soft, and Young stifles it with another kiss. Arches up against Young.
"Yes," Young breathes, against Rush's mouth, and he tugs down Rush's trousers, spit-slick fingers teasing, pressing inside, one by one; Rush tightens fingers on the back of Young's neck, gasping against his mouth, rolling his hips in turns forward to the hand on his erection and down on the fingers stretching inside him, deeper and tighter every time Rush's body gives in, even a little.
His legs tighten around Young's waist, breath shallow and fast, and he twists his face in towards Young's neck. Goes still, vibrating with the tension of it, straining for more and straining to stay still all at once.
Young's hand slows, and Rush's hand slides up Young's arm, whispers like pleading escaping, muffled secure into Young's skin. Where no one can hear them.
"God, I want you," Young's voice broken into pieces, and Rush's hips snap up, white-hot pleasure almost painful and too sudden to take.
"Fuck, Rush," and Young's hands go, for a moment, brief scramble, sound of a zipper and he's pushing into Rush, hot and hard and thick, seizing the shreds of Rush's spent climax and twisting them into something rough and aching and heated.
Just a few thrusts and Young jerks, face twisted like he's in pain, and Rush experiences another low surge of pleasure, aftershock maybe, or something else completely.
For a moment it's just Rush, Rush underneath the man who just brutally fucked him, just them, caught in a moment apart from the world.
And then the radio crackles and Young startles, twitching away.
Rush slams his hand down on the radio, with a snarled, "What."
A short pause --
"Dr. Rush, Colonel Young might be under the influence of some substance found on the planet," says -- it's TJ, he can hear her now, her voice a little hurried, a little distorted through the radio. "We've had a few cases of attempted assault--"
"You don't say," mutters Rush, wondering if he sounds as breathless as he feels.
TJ pauses, and Rush realizes the radio is still transmitting.
Well, isn't that just wonderful.
"What happened?" she asks, sounding concerned.
"He got a mite aggressive," deflects Rush, "nothing to worry about." And he adds, "It's under control."
Rush suspects that the tone of his voice isn't quite as under control as he hopes to convince TJ that the situation is. Considering Rush's naked leg is still curled around Young's hip, considering the sweat from the brief encounter is still visible on Young's skin --
Young takes the radio, fingers brushing against Rush's knuckles, and Rush's eyes track across the man's frustratingly unreadable face.
"I think the effects were mild," Young lies, to TJ. "We're both fine."
Rush pulls back, straightening his clothes. Getting dressed again. It's a defensive move, but he -- can't -- help it.
"All right," says TJ. "Brody says we can have you out in half an hour or less."
"We'll be all right until then."
The radio goes off.
Young pulls back. "Rush," he says, softly --
And Rush hits him. A snap of knuckles against Young's cheek, bursts of pain in the bones of his hand, but he doesn't care. It shoves Young back, and Rush pursues, tackling Young to the floor, violence tearing out of him in desperate, awful hits. It's not the sex, he doesn't care about the sex (he does care), it's the loneliness and the fear and the abandonment and the violation, and --
"Rush!"
Young has one of Rush's wrists, then the other, and that's all he does. Just stops him.
"You bastard," accuses Rush, low and slurred, the words too difficult to form properly. "You bastard," and he's trembling, now, muscles disobeying the ever-so-tenuous control of his mind.
Rush isn't a violent man. It's a method of last resort. He hates it. He grew up with it, and he hates it, but he understands it.
"Rush, I'll do whatever you want," says Young, "I'll step down, go under charges for sexual assault--"
Of course he would. Of course he would.
"How about murder?"
Young's hands loosen, around Rush's wrists, and Rush fists his hands into the fabric of Young's shirt. Clenched tight, ready to shove Young down against the floor, ready to pull back and beat him, beat him until he's as afraid as Rush is. Until he's as broken.
Funny, now, that his wife's absence isn't suffocating. It isn't what tightens around his chest, what freezes him low and cold. Nearly being murdered is the only thing that has ever soothed Rush's grief.
And he laughs, at that. Laughs bitter, at something that feels like irony but isn't at all, until the laughter turns into hiccups and then sobs, tears rising in his eyes, spilling out, running down cheek and jaw and around the edge of his nostrils. Tears so rough he's choking on them.
He doesn't remember moving, but he notices when the tears are soaked up in Young's shirt, notices that his face is buried in Young's shoulder, that he can feel Young's fingers threading through his hair, stroking down his back.
The torrent of pain slows to a trickle, to almost nothing at all, and Rush is just left empty, shivering with the too-complex crush of emotion inside him.
The radio crackles. "Colonel, we're ready to get you out of there."
It's Scott. Rush cringes.
"Can it wait, Lieutenant?" says Young, voice tight. With irritation?
A pause. "I'm sorry, sir?"
"Go do something else, Lieutenant," says Young. "I'll call you when I want you to get us out of here."
Rush pulls back.
"All right, sir," says Scott, dubiously, and the radio goes silent.
Rush shoves Young, pushing him back against the wall, hands tight and angry in Young's jacket.
Young's hand moves to cover Rush's. Not stopping him, but not exactly relenting, either.
"You were wrong," says Rush, flatly. "I may have been a little bit wrong, you -- you rat bastard, you left me alive. You didn't even kill me." And with this he tenses again, struggling, struggling to hit Young again or to stop himself from hitting Young again, he can't tell, he doesn't know.
"I know," says Young. "Rush," and Rush is this close to breaking, he's on the verge of collapsing entirely, "I know."
That's --
"Is that an apology?"
This doesn't seem real. Rush is trapped inside his own body, his own skin. He's trapped inside a life that should have been lost down on a planet, but wasn't, because he fought too hard. And he can't decide if that was a virtue or not.
His hand loosens, hesitant, tracing light along the lines, the lines between damp and dry on Young's shoulder. His eyes are red and sore, but that's not proof enough. This is proof, real physical proof, of what's inside him.
"Do you want an apology?" And Young's usually-soft voice is even quieter than usual.
"You wouldn't give it if I asked for it."
Young's fingers skim along Rush's neck. Under his chin. And Rush's hand moves to cover them, hold them there, even though he doesn't know why.
"I'm sorry, Rush."
Not asked for. Before Rush could ask for it.
The effort to hide his emotions is too much for him. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, clenches on his own shoulder. Eyes dropped, so that they didn't have to meet Young's. Struggle to stay silent, struggle to stay intact.
And then Young's fingers, as gentle, as sure as his voice, peel Rush's hand away from his shoulder. Slide warm and easy around Rush's fingers. And Rush settles, over Young, straddling him. Kneeling in a way that could have been supplication, only Young is the one beneath Rush, not the other way around.
"Prove it," says Rush, surprisingly steady. "Tell -- everyone on this ship what you did."
"I can't do that."
"That's what it's going to take," says Rush. For me to forgive you, the unsaid end of that sentence.
Young holds Rush's gaze, for a moment, and then reaches for the radio.
"Young to Scott," he says. "We're ready to get out. And call a meeting in the gate room, I want everyone there."
Rush retreats. Back against the wall, sliding to the floor. Is this really happening? Did he really win this argument?
"You know this will, most likely, cost you your leadership position," says Rush.
"You trying to talk me out of it?" asks Young.
"And why would I do that?" counters Rush.
Young turns away.
And before Young can respond, the door in front of them slides open.
Whatever Young was about to say, he bites back. Doesn't look at Rush, as Rush picks himself up, gets back to his feet. Just stalks off through the people gathered just outside.
Angry. It's easy to make him angry. Rush knows that well enough. Young can never quite make the mental leaps necessary to follow Rush. He's always a step or two short, and it must frustrate him.
Rush steps out more slowly.
"Uh," says Eli, "what was that about?"
"I suppose you'll see," says Rush.
~*~
Young ascends the steps in front of the assembled in the gate room, and Rush notes how calm he is. He isn't sure what he expected, but he thought that relating this, to so many people, would get to Young. But, as ever, it doesn't seem that the man feels anything but --
-- of course.
Rush is falling into the same trap that Young has. Young may not have the brainpower to follow Rush's silences, but Rush doesn't have the affinity with Young to read his impenetrable calm.
No. Not impenetrable.
"Is everyone here?" Young asks Scott.
"Yes, sir," says Scott. He sounds a little worried.
Rush steps back, towards the gate. Behind the crowd.
"I think there's something that needs to be said," begins Young --
-- he's really going to --
"Excuse me, Colonel," says Rush, interrupting him. Very neatly cutting off what he was about to say. "I believe I'd rather say myself."
He's put Young in a difficult position, by that request -- and he thinks he knows what Young is thinking. Rush telling the story, not Young, means that the people in this room are going to have a hard time believing it. Means that there's going to be doubt, again. Means that Rush stole away, from Young, the chance at redemption.
Young's mouth thins. But he holds out a hand, to Rush, indicating that Rush should go ahead.
Rush takes another few steps back, so that he's visible to more of the crowd.
"I heard Sergeant Spencer commit suicide," he says, loudly and clearly. "I went in, saw the gun, took it, and planted it in Colonel Young's quarters." The murmurs are already starting, but Rush powers through. "My reasons were my own, I know my actions were wrong, and Colonel Young and I have come to an understanding."
There's a reason Rush had them all turn away from Young. Young has a lot of control, but Rush isn't sure how well he could face that kind of sudden shock.
And yes, Rush has opened up a can of worms, he's opened up a lot of trouble for himself, but he's already reviled. He was the one who brought them here, they'll hate him regardless.
"We have, Colonel," says Rush. "Have we not?"
Young is silent for maybe a fraction too long. "We have," he says.
For the first time, Rush has faith that Young understands. That they've actually communicated.
~*~
"I demand that Rush be removed from his position as lead scientist immediately," says Camille Wray.
Rush halts, just around the corner.
"No," says Young, flatly.
The stab of anxiety doesn't show itself on Rush's face. But he feels it, all the same. He can't be removed. He's the best qualified. He --
He brought this on himself.
By protecting Young.
"We already knew he was unstable," says Wray. "This just--"
"He's not gonna do it again."
"Forgive me for not trusting your word, Colonel, but how do you know?"
"I know."
"That's not good enough."
"It's gonna have to be."
"Colonel." Wray is really irritated, now; Rush leans back against the wall. "The people on this ship won't stand for it."
"Is that a threat?"
"A fact."
Young exhales.
Don't give in, don't give in.
"If he's no longer the head of the scientific team, then he's not subject to the science team's authority," says Young. "Just mine."
"He'll be working on independent assignments?"
"Yes."
"I think that's acceptable."
"Good."
Wray's footsteps retreat, and Rush can hear Young sigh. "You gonna come out of there," says Young, "or do I have to wait for you to hide before I leave?"
No use in hiding.
Rush emerges, arms crossed. "You're defending me?"
"Why did you do that, Rush?" asks Young.
Rush rolls his eyes heavenward. "You wanted us to be done?" he asks. Down on the planet, that was what snapped him, that was what snapped Young. Is that what he wants?
Well.
"We're done," says Rush, firmly.
And he turns away.
Young's hand catches Rush's arm, and -- well, he doesn't freeze. He doesn't go still. He turns back, quick and violent, heart fluttering in his chest. Doesn't pull away, because -- and it hits him viscerally, low and brutal -- because Young still smells like sex.
"That wasn't what I meant," says Young, soft. "When I asked that question." He pause, then, "Let's fix this, Rush."
A dozen, a hundred retorts slip past Rush's thoughts. Foremost: what if it can't be fixed. And that's easy for you to say, you weren't the one who was nearly murdered.
"How?" is what comes out of his mouth, tragically shaky, wavering, from a soul crippled.
Young's hand shifts to the small of Rush's back, and Rush's breath feels whispery in his lungs. Like it's slipping away from him.
"Medical attention first," says Young. "For the pollen."
~*~
He wakes up on a planet, alone, sand and dust stirring in a gentle, cold breeze
~*~
He wakes up on a planet, alone, the sky stretching like a painting overhead
~*~
He wakes up on a planet, alone, the sting from the first punch, the low throb from the headbutt still echoing
~*~
He wakes up on a planet, alone
~*~
He wakes up on a planet
~*~
He
~*~
He wakes up.
Safe.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3800
Spoilers: through 1.10 'Justice'
Notes: Written for Yuletide for bionic. Prompt was sex pollen, but not cracky.
Summary: Young and Rush. Sex pollen. Post-Justice.
~*~
And, predictably, the blast of pollen catches both Young and Rush full-on in the face.
It looks like pollen, anyway. Smells like pollen. If pollen has a smell.
Rush sneezes, hard. Grimaces, running the back of his hand underneath his nose.
"What was that?" says one of the scientists.
"No idea," says Young, using his sleeve to clean the worst of it off his face. "Everyone, report to TJ after we get back, make sure it isn't anything harmful."
"I think if it's harmful we'll know soon enough," mutters Rush.
He's tense.
He doesn't like being off the ship. Especially with Young.
He'll be sure to go back first, this time.
~*~
When they get back to the ship, most of them are covered in the stuff. A light yellow film visible over dark-colored uniforms, jackets.
"Get cleaned up, everyone," says Young. "That's an order."
It's an order because Young doesn't want contamination, no doubt. But it's unnecessary.
Rush has to get back to work.
He steps around Young, keeping a careful margin of space --
"Rush."
"I'll get cleaned up, Colonel," snaps Rush. "I promise."
Young wins. He always wins.
~*~
The mist is warm, the pollen gently cleansed from his skin. And Rush rests his forehead against his hand, elbow braced on the shower wall.
He feels dizzy. It's beyond the point where he can tell if it's lack of sleep or lack of food.
"Dr. Rush?"
Rush stirs, dropping his hand. "Yes, Eli?"
Eli's voice is nervous, from around the corner. "The colonel says there's something he wants you to take a look at."
"Well, if the colonel wants it."
~*~
"Check on it from the control interface room," says Young, dismissing Volker as Rush gets close.
Volker nods, retreating, and Rush steps up, careful distance between him and Young.
He feels a little lightheaded. Strangely dizzy.
No, he's standing too close to Young.
"They've been finding some power anomalies in this corridor," says Young. "I thought you should take a look at it."
Because I'm the best you have.
Because you never should have left me on that planet and you know it, you --
Things are moving, on this readout. Things are changing that shouldn't be.
Rush has to make an effort to focus properly.
Oh, no. No no no.
He gets on the radio. "Volker, shut down this corridor," he says, "it's about to--"
And a dull THUMP echoes through the metal.
Rush immediately grabs onto the wall, and not a moment too soon, as the air starts whistling around them, venting into space, from a hole torn open in the hull.
A hand closes hard around Rush's bicep and he squirms, trying to pull away for a second or two, until Young's voice: "In here!" and then it's a struggle against the wind and against time and then against gravity to slam his palm against the door close button --
-- and the air calms. Soft hiss of ventilation means that this room is re-pressurizing.
"Colonel!" exclaims the radio. "Doctor Rush! Colonel Young, come in please."
"We're here," says Young, out-of-breath, and Rush realizes where they are. A kind of closet, an enclosed space, Young leaning against the back wall, their arms nearly brushing they're so close.
Rush closes his eyes, but that doesn't help, he can smell Young. The sharp, rolling sort of scent that isn't the uniform, isn't the spare, dusty oil of Destiny's hallways, it's just Young.
"We're in some kind of closet, I think," says Young. "Looks like it's airtight."
"Volker says we can re-pressurize the hallway," says Scott.
"Tell them to," and Rush's thoughts scatter. "Tell them to shut down power and reroute through the level above and below us. That should allow the shields to reactivate."
"Got it," says Scott. "They're working on it."
"All right," says Young. "Young out."
Rush shifts away from Young.
"Rush," says Young.
Young is an inch taller than Rush, at most, but when Rush lifts his eyes to Young, he finds that his gaze is tilted upwards, that he's curled back against the wall. In a way that makes him smaller.
The blood is thrumming through Rush's veins, and his breath is short, too short. His lips part, to breathe, and Young's eyes are drawn there, unerringly, in a way that makes Rush's heartbeat spike in his chest.
"Colonel," says Rush, in return, straightening up. Which is really just another form of defensiveness. "Do you have a problem?"
He regrets it, almost as soon as he says it, but holds steady.
Young is steadier, though. He always is. But -- wait. No. There's something dark about his gaze that Rush has never seen -- he has seen it not he hasn't.
"You have a problem. With my authority," says Young, cold.
Rush's jaw tightens. "And what would give you that idea?" It comes off flippant and sardonic, though Rush can't say for sure if that's what he meant by it.
No, of course it is.
"Like it or not," snaps Young, "I am in command of this ship--"
"Oh, believe me, I know--"
"--and you will respect that--"
"I will do no such thing!"
And Rush isn't so sure when they evolved from arguing to shouting, but it happened seamlessly, and it happened fast and now he's up too close to Young, like what happened the last time they argued, only then it was Rush who backed down, always backed down in public and stood up in secret, where Young couldn't catch him only he did catch him and Rush can't take that kind of danger anymore, he can't live with this fear --
"How is this gonna end, Rush, open rebellion?" asks Young, voice dangerously soft.
"Colonel--"
Rush expects Young to interrupt him again, but Young doesn't. Just waits. Holds Rush's gaze, and Rush is clinging to that, clinging to it like a lifeline.
Rush struggles.
He has things to say, he's sure of it --
But his breath is stolen, ruthlessly stolen, by the unexpected brush of Young's fingertips against his throat. A moment of panic, yes (strangulation this time?) but also want, want like Rush has never felt it before.
"This isn't," he manages. "We should," and he closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, as Young's fingers flatten, curl in hypnotic whirls along the side of Rush's neck. "We should radio Lieutenant Johansen."
"And say what?"
Rush's back comes into startling contact with the wall. He hadn't realized he was retreating, but oh, yes, he obviously was, because Young is hardly inches away now, and Rush has nowhere to go.
"On the planet." Rush's thoughts are scattering, but he knows, this has to be some substance acquired on the planet, perhaps the pollen, oh, Young's hand is pushing his shirt up, wrinkling the fabric, hand skimming over Rush's ribs, and Rush can't breathe. "We must have--"
"Shut up, Rush."
Rush gives a light moan, and turns his head up, meeting Young in a rough kiss, a drag of lips and tongue that makes Rush twist against hands that are now holding him, holding him very secure against the wall. Pinning him, one might say, and, perversely, that turns Rush on even more. Young slips in between Rush's thighs, nudging them apart, and Rush's hips give a helpless jerk, a little involuntary hitch.
Young's mouth moves to Rush's jaw, with a murmur of, "Want to hear that again," even though Rush wasn't even aware he'd made a sound.
"No," breathes Rush, hand flat against Young's shoulder.
And then the world spins around him, Young's hand tight on his waist, and Rush realizes that Young physically twisted them around, practically threw Rush to the ground, only -- despite the alacrity of the movement -- the actual placement itself is soft, gentle. Young destroyed Rush's balance, took him down, and laid him out on the floor, all in one move.
And now Young urges Rush's leg to wrap around his waist, still clothed, but heated skin, heated everything, so-very-tactile.
Rush drags Young down into a kiss, and they can't seriously be about to do this. They can't. This is completely -- it's completely -- and was that a crackle from the radio --
And Young's hips roll against Rush's, leaving his breath stuttering in his throat. He's clinging, clinging as Young's efficient hands undo Rush's borrowed trousers, slip inside to press a warm palm against his erection.
Rush whines, soft, and Young stifles it with another kiss. Arches up against Young.
"Yes," Young breathes, against Rush's mouth, and he tugs down Rush's trousers, spit-slick fingers teasing, pressing inside, one by one; Rush tightens fingers on the back of Young's neck, gasping against his mouth, rolling his hips in turns forward to the hand on his erection and down on the fingers stretching inside him, deeper and tighter every time Rush's body gives in, even a little.
His legs tighten around Young's waist, breath shallow and fast, and he twists his face in towards Young's neck. Goes still, vibrating with the tension of it, straining for more and straining to stay still all at once.
Young's hand slows, and Rush's hand slides up Young's arm, whispers like pleading escaping, muffled secure into Young's skin. Where no one can hear them.
"God, I want you," Young's voice broken into pieces, and Rush's hips snap up, white-hot pleasure almost painful and too sudden to take.
"Fuck, Rush," and Young's hands go, for a moment, brief scramble, sound of a zipper and he's pushing into Rush, hot and hard and thick, seizing the shreds of Rush's spent climax and twisting them into something rough and aching and heated.
Just a few thrusts and Young jerks, face twisted like he's in pain, and Rush experiences another low surge of pleasure, aftershock maybe, or something else completely.
For a moment it's just Rush, Rush underneath the man who just brutally fucked him, just them, caught in a moment apart from the world.
And then the radio crackles and Young startles, twitching away.
Rush slams his hand down on the radio, with a snarled, "What."
A short pause --
"Dr. Rush, Colonel Young might be under the influence of some substance found on the planet," says -- it's TJ, he can hear her now, her voice a little hurried, a little distorted through the radio. "We've had a few cases of attempted assault--"
"You don't say," mutters Rush, wondering if he sounds as breathless as he feels.
TJ pauses, and Rush realizes the radio is still transmitting.
Well, isn't that just wonderful.
"What happened?" she asks, sounding concerned.
"He got a mite aggressive," deflects Rush, "nothing to worry about." And he adds, "It's under control."
Rush suspects that the tone of his voice isn't quite as under control as he hopes to convince TJ that the situation is. Considering Rush's naked leg is still curled around Young's hip, considering the sweat from the brief encounter is still visible on Young's skin --
Young takes the radio, fingers brushing against Rush's knuckles, and Rush's eyes track across the man's frustratingly unreadable face.
"I think the effects were mild," Young lies, to TJ. "We're both fine."
Rush pulls back, straightening his clothes. Getting dressed again. It's a defensive move, but he -- can't -- help it.
"All right," says TJ. "Brody says we can have you out in half an hour or less."
"We'll be all right until then."
The radio goes off.
Young pulls back. "Rush," he says, softly --
And Rush hits him. A snap of knuckles against Young's cheek, bursts of pain in the bones of his hand, but he doesn't care. It shoves Young back, and Rush pursues, tackling Young to the floor, violence tearing out of him in desperate, awful hits. It's not the sex, he doesn't care about the sex (he does care), it's the loneliness and the fear and the abandonment and the violation, and --
"Rush!"
Young has one of Rush's wrists, then the other, and that's all he does. Just stops him.
"You bastard," accuses Rush, low and slurred, the words too difficult to form properly. "You bastard," and he's trembling, now, muscles disobeying the ever-so-tenuous control of his mind.
Rush isn't a violent man. It's a method of last resort. He hates it. He grew up with it, and he hates it, but he understands it.
"Rush, I'll do whatever you want," says Young, "I'll step down, go under charges for sexual assault--"
Of course he would. Of course he would.
"How about murder?"
Young's hands loosen, around Rush's wrists, and Rush fists his hands into the fabric of Young's shirt. Clenched tight, ready to shove Young down against the floor, ready to pull back and beat him, beat him until he's as afraid as Rush is. Until he's as broken.
Funny, now, that his wife's absence isn't suffocating. It isn't what tightens around his chest, what freezes him low and cold. Nearly being murdered is the only thing that has ever soothed Rush's grief.
And he laughs, at that. Laughs bitter, at something that feels like irony but isn't at all, until the laughter turns into hiccups and then sobs, tears rising in his eyes, spilling out, running down cheek and jaw and around the edge of his nostrils. Tears so rough he's choking on them.
He doesn't remember moving, but he notices when the tears are soaked up in Young's shirt, notices that his face is buried in Young's shoulder, that he can feel Young's fingers threading through his hair, stroking down his back.
The torrent of pain slows to a trickle, to almost nothing at all, and Rush is just left empty, shivering with the too-complex crush of emotion inside him.
The radio crackles. "Colonel, we're ready to get you out of there."
It's Scott. Rush cringes.
"Can it wait, Lieutenant?" says Young, voice tight. With irritation?
A pause. "I'm sorry, sir?"
"Go do something else, Lieutenant," says Young. "I'll call you when I want you to get us out of here."
Rush pulls back.
"All right, sir," says Scott, dubiously, and the radio goes silent.
Rush shoves Young, pushing him back against the wall, hands tight and angry in Young's jacket.
Young's hand moves to cover Rush's. Not stopping him, but not exactly relenting, either.
"You were wrong," says Rush, flatly. "I may have been a little bit wrong, you -- you rat bastard, you left me alive. You didn't even kill me." And with this he tenses again, struggling, struggling to hit Young again or to stop himself from hitting Young again, he can't tell, he doesn't know.
"I know," says Young. "Rush," and Rush is this close to breaking, he's on the verge of collapsing entirely, "I know."
That's --
"Is that an apology?"
This doesn't seem real. Rush is trapped inside his own body, his own skin. He's trapped inside a life that should have been lost down on a planet, but wasn't, because he fought too hard. And he can't decide if that was a virtue or not.
His hand loosens, hesitant, tracing light along the lines, the lines between damp and dry on Young's shoulder. His eyes are red and sore, but that's not proof enough. This is proof, real physical proof, of what's inside him.
"Do you want an apology?" And Young's usually-soft voice is even quieter than usual.
"You wouldn't give it if I asked for it."
Young's fingers skim along Rush's neck. Under his chin. And Rush's hand moves to cover them, hold them there, even though he doesn't know why.
"I'm sorry, Rush."
Not asked for. Before Rush could ask for it.
The effort to hide his emotions is too much for him. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, clenches on his own shoulder. Eyes dropped, so that they didn't have to meet Young's. Struggle to stay silent, struggle to stay intact.
And then Young's fingers, as gentle, as sure as his voice, peel Rush's hand away from his shoulder. Slide warm and easy around Rush's fingers. And Rush settles, over Young, straddling him. Kneeling in a way that could have been supplication, only Young is the one beneath Rush, not the other way around.
"Prove it," says Rush, surprisingly steady. "Tell -- everyone on this ship what you did."
"I can't do that."
"That's what it's going to take," says Rush. For me to forgive you, the unsaid end of that sentence.
Young holds Rush's gaze, for a moment, and then reaches for the radio.
"Young to Scott," he says. "We're ready to get out. And call a meeting in the gate room, I want everyone there."
Rush retreats. Back against the wall, sliding to the floor. Is this really happening? Did he really win this argument?
"You know this will, most likely, cost you your leadership position," says Rush.
"You trying to talk me out of it?" asks Young.
"And why would I do that?" counters Rush.
Young turns away.
And before Young can respond, the door in front of them slides open.
Whatever Young was about to say, he bites back. Doesn't look at Rush, as Rush picks himself up, gets back to his feet. Just stalks off through the people gathered just outside.
Angry. It's easy to make him angry. Rush knows that well enough. Young can never quite make the mental leaps necessary to follow Rush. He's always a step or two short, and it must frustrate him.
Rush steps out more slowly.
"Uh," says Eli, "what was that about?"
"I suppose you'll see," says Rush.
~*~
Young ascends the steps in front of the assembled in the gate room, and Rush notes how calm he is. He isn't sure what he expected, but he thought that relating this, to so many people, would get to Young. But, as ever, it doesn't seem that the man feels anything but --
-- of course.
Rush is falling into the same trap that Young has. Young may not have the brainpower to follow Rush's silences, but Rush doesn't have the affinity with Young to read his impenetrable calm.
No. Not impenetrable.
"Is everyone here?" Young asks Scott.
"Yes, sir," says Scott. He sounds a little worried.
Rush steps back, towards the gate. Behind the crowd.
"I think there's something that needs to be said," begins Young --
-- he's really going to --
"Excuse me, Colonel," says Rush, interrupting him. Very neatly cutting off what he was about to say. "I believe I'd rather say myself."
He's put Young in a difficult position, by that request -- and he thinks he knows what Young is thinking. Rush telling the story, not Young, means that the people in this room are going to have a hard time believing it. Means that there's going to be doubt, again. Means that Rush stole away, from Young, the chance at redemption.
Young's mouth thins. But he holds out a hand, to Rush, indicating that Rush should go ahead.
Rush takes another few steps back, so that he's visible to more of the crowd.
"I heard Sergeant Spencer commit suicide," he says, loudly and clearly. "I went in, saw the gun, took it, and planted it in Colonel Young's quarters." The murmurs are already starting, but Rush powers through. "My reasons were my own, I know my actions were wrong, and Colonel Young and I have come to an understanding."
There's a reason Rush had them all turn away from Young. Young has a lot of control, but Rush isn't sure how well he could face that kind of sudden shock.
And yes, Rush has opened up a can of worms, he's opened up a lot of trouble for himself, but he's already reviled. He was the one who brought them here, they'll hate him regardless.
"We have, Colonel," says Rush. "Have we not?"
Young is silent for maybe a fraction too long. "We have," he says.
For the first time, Rush has faith that Young understands. That they've actually communicated.
~*~
"I demand that Rush be removed from his position as lead scientist immediately," says Camille Wray.
Rush halts, just around the corner.
"No," says Young, flatly.
The stab of anxiety doesn't show itself on Rush's face. But he feels it, all the same. He can't be removed. He's the best qualified. He --
He brought this on himself.
By protecting Young.
"We already knew he was unstable," says Wray. "This just--"
"He's not gonna do it again."
"Forgive me for not trusting your word, Colonel, but how do you know?"
"I know."
"That's not good enough."
"It's gonna have to be."
"Colonel." Wray is really irritated, now; Rush leans back against the wall. "The people on this ship won't stand for it."
"Is that a threat?"
"A fact."
Young exhales.
Don't give in, don't give in.
"If he's no longer the head of the scientific team, then he's not subject to the science team's authority," says Young. "Just mine."
"He'll be working on independent assignments?"
"Yes."
"I think that's acceptable."
"Good."
Wray's footsteps retreat, and Rush can hear Young sigh. "You gonna come out of there," says Young, "or do I have to wait for you to hide before I leave?"
No use in hiding.
Rush emerges, arms crossed. "You're defending me?"
"Why did you do that, Rush?" asks Young.
Rush rolls his eyes heavenward. "You wanted us to be done?" he asks. Down on the planet, that was what snapped him, that was what snapped Young. Is that what he wants?
Well.
"We're done," says Rush, firmly.
And he turns away.
Young's hand catches Rush's arm, and -- well, he doesn't freeze. He doesn't go still. He turns back, quick and violent, heart fluttering in his chest. Doesn't pull away, because -- and it hits him viscerally, low and brutal -- because Young still smells like sex.
"That wasn't what I meant," says Young, soft. "When I asked that question." He pause, then, "Let's fix this, Rush."
A dozen, a hundred retorts slip past Rush's thoughts. Foremost: what if it can't be fixed. And that's easy for you to say, you weren't the one who was nearly murdered.
"How?" is what comes out of his mouth, tragically shaky, wavering, from a soul crippled.
Young's hand shifts to the small of Rush's back, and Rush's breath feels whispery in his lungs. Like it's slipping away from him.
"Medical attention first," says Young. "For the pollen."
~*~
He wakes up on a planet, alone, sand and dust stirring in a gentle, cold breeze
~*~
He wakes up on a planet, alone, the sky stretching like a painting overhead
~*~
He wakes up on a planet, alone, the sting from the first punch, the low throb from the headbutt still echoing
~*~
He wakes up on a planet, alone
~*~
He wakes up on a planet
~*~
He
~*~
He wakes up.
Safe.