Down Time

Notes: It’s almost all over but the shouting. Two weeks until the end of school. But hey, who’s counting? What can I say? This has been floating around for awhile now, and it seems like a good idea to post it. Beta props and thanks to Eva. A big drive-by review shout-out to Kaz. As always, all mistakes remain mine.

Warnings: Read and heed. Sex: Nope. Not this time. No real stuff, it’s all after the fact. Sorry. Violence: Nope. A little pushing and shoving. Language: Yep. Bad words. Dark, adult themes: Yep. Yep. Yep. If that sort of thing disturbs you, if you are easily or not so easily distressed, please do not read this. This is not a happy story. Consider yourselves warned.
Rating: Hard R
Setting: Future fic
Spoilers: Through TF What can I say?

Disclaimer: Nope. Definitely not mine. They belong to Henson et. al. No copyright infringement intended. No money being made.

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You ignore the muffled sounds coming from behind the closed doors you pass. She comes to a stop in front you, keys a code, enters. It’s not much of a room from what you can see in the spill of light from the corridor as you follow her, but the price is right, and you figure it has what it needs.

“Lights, low,” she murmurs in the semi-darkness.

The door closes with a snick behind you as the lights come up. It’s no better than you thought it would be, and you’ve seen your share of worse. Twice as long as wide, you can cover the length in a dozen strides.

A small cooling unit sits in the corner by the fresher. No window. A bed, a chair, a table.

Old sex and loneliness.

She kicks her shoes to the far corner, turns to face you, eyes flat and cold as she runs them up and down calculating.

“Basic menu prices,” she recites, cocking a hip. “Quarter arn seventy credits. Half arn is one twenty-five. We have a special right now for fifty off the arn. Two fifty not three hundred.”

“I’ve got credits,” you mumble, finishing off your bottle and tossing it into the waste receptacle.

She already knows that and steps forward to cup you through your leathers. “More than basic services start at three hundred for an arn, two arms for five hundred.”

“More?”

“Specialties like fetishes, role play, dominance,” she nods to the restraints in the open closet.

You grab her hand and wrench it off your balls as quick images of being bound flash through your mind. Her eyes open wide. You’re quicker than she thought and you can tell she doesn’t like that.

“Don’t want more,” you growl, shoving her back.

“Fine,” she grumbles, eyeing you and rubbing her wrist. “Whatever. You look like you like to play games.”

“Used to play chess,” you brush past her and in four long strides you turn and drop into the chair.

“Chess?” She hasn’t got a clue, but she’s game. “That’s extra, too.”

You nod toward the cooler. “You got anything to drink in there?”

“Fellip nectar,” she shrugs.

“I know. It’s extra.” You nod again. “I got credits.”

She moves to the cooler, pulls out two bottles and walks over to you, hips swaying. “Buy a girl a drink?”

You bark a laugh, think again how funny it is that some things never change. Just like blow job always translates. You pop the top and tilt your bottle toward a spot on the floor in front of the bed. She looks at you and you nod again. She moves to stand there, waits.

“What’s you’re name?”

“You sure you don’t like to play games?”

“Fine. Let’s pretend I’m a hero. Savior of the universe. What’s your name?”

“Oreme,” she cocks her head and looks at you through slitted eyes. “What’s yours?”

“John,” you shift slightly in your seat, take a long pull.

“Right,” she snorts. “Fine.”

Apparently another thing that never changes, and you feel a band snap tight around your chest, make it hard to breathe, because while it’s been a while since you’ve been any kind of John but it’s…

“Close enough,” you shrug. “Take off your clothes.”

She arches an eyebrow and the band tightens a little more. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, hear it in your ears. Her hands move slowly under your heavy lidded gaze, undoing fasteners that expose pale golden flesh.

Then her shirt is undone and she slips it off her shoulder, lets it drop to the floor. Taut bronze nipples peak in the center of darker areoles as she flicks her head, sends her long, dark hair swaying and raises her arms to stretch leisurely, back arched, breasts high.

You raise the bottle to your lips, your eyes on her. She’s beautiful, no doubt. You tip your head back and down half the bottle.

Her hands move again, thumbs hook in the waistband of her pants and she slides the fabric over her hips, lets them pool at her feet. She stands still in front of you, bare except for a scrap of silk between her thighs. Her eyes rest on you as she takes an easy step forward, sends her pants to the corner with a flick of her small foot.

“Come here.”

It’s not quite a request or a suggestion. It’s not quite an order. Her eyes narrow as she saunters toward you, and you see unease written there.

Apparently she decides your credit’s good by the time she reaches you, because she slides a leg over your hips, settles lightly, straddling you. Her hand comes to rest on Winona.

“Don’t touch,” you growl, grabbing her hand, wrenching her wrist.

She hisses with pain. “Frelling bastard.”

“She stays.”

“What are you? Some kind of freak?”

“I know. That’s extra.”

That calms her and the mask slips into place again, plastic smile, mirrored eyes. She cants her hips and grinds hard against your leathers as her hands slide around your neck.

“You Peacekeepers are all the same. Reducing levels.” She gyrates, cunt to cock through cloth as she reaches one hand back to stroke your balls. “Best you ever had.”

You know this dance. You should be feeling her. Hard, hot, and heavy, wanting her.

You’re not. You don’t.

“Not hardly.” Instead you feel the bottle sweating in your hand, take another pull.

You’d tried to find her.

You’d tried to drink her off your mind only to find yourself passed out or puking or beaten to shit in places you’d rather not have been. And there was always somebody there to pick you up, dust you off, and send you on your way.

It took you awhile, but you’d finally admitted that fate was still amused enough by you that you couldn’t drink enough hootch, bought, bargained for, or homemade, to let her go.

You’d tried to find her.

You tried to fuck her off your mind. You’d gone back to blondes. All bought and paid for. You hadn’t cared about much else. Orange, red, yellow, gold, green, blue.

Just never grey. For reasons you didn’t think too deeply about, you didn’t do grey.

You hadn’t fucked one of them without thinking about her. So here you sit, lap dance in the offing. And all you want is to hear the sound of her voice.

You buck your hips hard, bring your hands up fast to push her off.

She stumbles and straightens, eyes furious and lips pulled back to bare teeth as she hisses in your face, “What the frell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” you grunt as you push out of the chair. You hand digs deep in your pocket, comes out with credits carelessly tossed on the table. “Keep the change.”

You cover the distance of half the room in three long strides when her voice stops you.

“Wait.”

“What?” You turn slowly to see her standing where you left her.

“Sometimes…a lot of times…they just talk.”

“So I’ve heard.” Your laugh is as hard and cold and unpleasant as you feel. “Just never thought of myself as one of them.”

She jerks her head toward the table. “You already paid.”

She doesn’t know how right she is. You’ve paid and paid and paid, and now you think, what the hell?

“Put those on.” You jerk your own head toward her clothes on the floor.

She moves cautiously, eyes never leaving you as you make your way back to the chair, giving her space and snagging two bottles from the cooling unit. You sit down heavily. She’s dressed before you drop. You reach out your hand to her and she takes the bottle, goes to sit on the bed.

“Your credits.”

She pops the top off her bottle. You lean over to tap it with yours. The clink sounds small and tinny in your ears, but you figure it’ll have to do.

“It’s about a…girl.” You choke a little on the word and take a swig.

“It’s always about a girl,” she nods wisely, taking a pull on her own bottle.

“Boy meets girl,” you agree. “Girl kicks boy’s ass. Boy falls in love. Boy loses girl. Girl comes back. Boy’s an ass hat. Boy loses girl again.”

She tilts her head to look at you as you sag a little into yourself.

“It’s my…anniversary.”

“What kind of…anniversary?” Confusion colors her narrowed eyes as they focus on yours.

“The day she left.” The word burns in your gut, churns in your stomach as the walls of the room close in on you. “The day I finally made her go.”

The dam breaks and you begin to talk. About a girl with a waterfall of ebony hair you’d loved to play in. A girl who had taken your breath and your heart away the first microt you’d seen her.

A girl who’d sometimes stumbled on her way to more, but who’d had the guts to never give up trying to get there. A girl who’d defined love and honor and courage to you.

A girl you’d given your soul to.

You talk about death and dying, good and evil, fate and free will, transitions and making mistakes.

You talk about second chances.

You lose count of the bottles you’ve downed, but suddenly you can’t talk anymore. So you stand up, a little unsteady, but still good to go.

You only need to get the pod close to Moya for Pilot to deploy the docking web. Maybe you’ll find your way to her quarters and crawl into her bed. You’ve kept it for her all this time.

Maybe you’ll fall asleep.

You’re at the door when her voice reaches you.

“I hope you find her.”

You don’t answer as the door snicks shut behind you.